The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel

‘Oh good. You have told him. So, apart from not feeling it necessary to bother me, what action has he taken?’

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but not very hard.

Ireland said in a hurt tone, ‘He said he’d go along and take a look soon as he finished his meat pie. I reminded him that 3 Mill Street was flagged, in case he’d missed it. He yawned, not a pretty sight when he’s eating a meat pie. But when I told him I’d already followed procedure and called it in, he got abusive. So I left him to it.’

‘Very wise,’ said Pascoe, also yawning audibly. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that he’s just passed my office, yelling that he’s on his way to Mill Street so maybe I’ll be satisfied now that I’ve ruined his day.’

‘But you’re not?’

A deep intake of breath; then in a quietly controlled voice, ‘What I’m not satisfied is that the super is taking what could be a serious situation seriously. But of course I’m happy to leave it in the expert hands of CID. Sorry to have bothered you.’

The phone went down hard.

Pompous prat, thought Pascoe, setting off back to the garden to share his irritation with his wife. To his surprise she’d said thoughtfully, ‘Last time I saw Andy, he was going on about how bored he’s getting with the useless bastards running things. He sounded ripe for a bit of mischief. Maybe you ought to check this out, love, before he starts the next Gulf War single-handed. Half an hour wouldn’t harm.’

None of this did he care to reveal to Dalziel.

‘Not a lot,’ he repeated. ‘So perhaps you’d like to fill me in.’

‘Why not? Then you can shog off home. Being a clever bugger, you’ll likely know Number 3’s CAT flagged? Or did Ireland have to tell you too?’

‘No, but he did give me a shove,’ admitted Pascoe.

‘There you go,’ said Dalziel triumphantly. ‘Since the London bombings, them silly sods have put out more flags than we did on Coronation Day. Faintest sniff of a Middle East connection and they’re cocking their legs to lay down a marker.’

‘Yes, I did hear they wanted to flag the old Mecca Ballroom at Mirely!’

A reminiscent smile lit up Dalziel’s face, like moonlight on a mountain.

‘The Mirely Mecca,’ he said dreamily. ‘Had some good times there in the old days. There were this lass from Donny. Tottie Truman. Her tango could get you done for indecent behaviour—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘I’m sure she was a charming girl vertically or horizontally—’

‘Nay, ho’d on!’ interrupted the Fat Man in his turn. ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to put folk in boxes. It’s a bad habit of yours, that. Tottie weren’t just a bit of squashy flesh, tha knows. She had muscle too. By God, if they’d let women throw the hammer she’d have been a gold medallist! I once saw her chuck a wellie from halfway at a rugby club barbecue and it were still rising as it went over the posts. I thought of wedding her, but she got religion. Just think of the front row we could have bred!’

It was time to stop this trip down memory lane.

Pascoe said, ‘Very interesting. But perhaps we should concentrate on the situation in hand. Which is…?’

‘That’s the trouble with you youngsters,’ said Dalziel sadly. ‘No time to smell the flowers along the way. All right. Sit rep. Foot-patrol officer reported seeing a man in Number 3 with a gun. Passed on the info to a patrol car who called in for instructions. So here we are. What do you make of it so far?’

The Fat Man had moved into playful mode. It’s guessing-game time, thought Pascoe. Robbery in process? Hardly worth it in Mill Street, unless you were a particularly thick villain. This wasn’t the commercial hub of the city, just the far end of a very rusty spoke. The mill itself had a preservation order on it and there’d been talk of refurbishing it as an industrial Heritage Centre, but not even the Victorian Society had objected to the proposed demolition of the jerry-built terrace to make space for a car park.

The mill project, however, had run into difficulties over Lottery funding.

Right wingers said this was because it didn’t advantage handicapped lesbian asylum seekers; left wingers because it failed to subsidize the Treasury.

Whatever, plans to demolish the terrace had gone on hold.

The remaining residents had long been rehoused and, rather than have a decaying slum on their hands, the council encouraged small businesses in search of an address and office space to move in and give the buildings an occupied look. Most of these businesses proved as short-lived as the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, and the only survivors at present were Crofts & Wills, patent agents, at Number 6 and Oroc Video at Number 3.

All of which interesting historical analysis brought Pascoe no nearer to understanding what they were doing here.

Losing patience, he said, ‘OK, so there might be a man with a gun in there. I presume you’ve some strategy planned. Or are you going to rush him single-handed?’

‘Not now there’s two of us. But you always were a bugger for the subtle approach, so let’s start with that.’

So saying, the Fat Man rose to his feet, picked up a bullhorn from the bonnet of his car, put it to his lips and bellowed, ‘All right, we know you’re in there. We’ve got you surrounded. Come out with your hands up and no one will get hurt.’

He scratched himself under the armpit, then sat down again.

After a moment’s silence Pascoe said, ‘I can’t really believe you said that, sir.’

‘Why not? Used to say it all the time way back before all this negotiation crap.’

‘Did anyone ever come out?’

‘Not as I recall.’

Pascoe digested this then said, ‘You forgot the bit about throwing his gun out before he comes out with his hands up.’

‘No I didn’t,’ said Dalziel. ‘He might not have a gun and if he hasn’t, I don’t want him thinking we think he has, do I?’

‘I thought the foot patrol reported seeing a weapon? What was it? Shotgun? Handgun? And what was this putative gunman actually doing? Come on, Andy. I left a jug of home-made lemonade and a hammock to come here. What’s the sodding problem?’

Even diplomatic reticence had its limits.

‘The sodding problem?’ said the Fat Man. ‘Yon’s the sodding problem.’

He pointed toward the police patrol car parked a little way along from his own vehicle. Pascoe followed the finger.

And all became clear.

Almost out of sight, coiled around the rear wheel with all the latent menace of a piece of bacon rind, lay a familiar lanky figure.

‘Oh God. You don’t mean…?’

‘That’s right. Only contact with this gunman so far has been Constable Hector.’

Police Constable Hector is the albatross round Mid-Yorkshire Constabulary’s neck, the long-legged fly in its soup, the Wollemi pine in its outback, the coelacanth in its ocean depths. But his saving lack of grace is he never plumbs bottom. Beneath the lowest deep there’s always a lower deep, and he survives because, in that perverse way in which True Brits often manage to find triumph in disaster, Mid-Yorkshire Police Force have become proud of him. If ever talk flags in the Black Bull, someone just has to say, ‘Remember when Hector…’ and a couple of hours of happy reminiscence are guaranteed.

So, when Dalziel said, ‘Yon’s the sodding problem’, much was explained. But not all. Not by a long chalk.

‘So,’ continued Dalziel. ‘Question is, how to find out if Hector really saw a gun or not.’

‘Well,’ mused Pascoe. ‘I suppose we could expose him and see if he got shot.’