The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel

‘Brilliant!’ said Dalziel. ‘Makes me glad I paid for your education. HECTOR!’

‘For God’s sake, I was joking!’ exclaimed Pascoe as the lanky constable disentangled himself from the car wheel and began to crawl towards them.

‘I could do with a laugh,’ said Dalziel, smiling like a rusty radiator grill. ‘Hector, lad, what fettle? I’ve got a job for you if you feel up to it.’

‘Sir?’ said Hector hesitantly.

Pascoe wished he could feel that the hesitation demonstrated suspicion of the Fat Man’s intent, but he knew from experience it was the constable’s natural response to most forms of address from ‘Hello’ to ‘Help! I’m drowning!’ Prime it as much as you liked, the mighty engine of Hector’s mind always started cold, even when as now his hatless head was clearly very hot. A few weeks ago, he’d appeared with his skull cropped so close he made Bruce Willis look like Esau, prompting Dalziel to say, ‘I always thought tha’d be the death of me, Hec, but there’s no need to go around looking like the bugger!’

Now he looked at the smooth white skull, polished with sweat beneath the sun’s bright duster, shook his head sadly, and said, ‘Here’s what I want you to do, lad. All this hanging around’s fair clemmed me. You know Pat’s Pantry in Station Square? Never closes, doesn’t Pat. Pop round there and get me two mutton pasties and an almond slice. And a custard tart for Mr Pascoe. It’s his favourite. Can you remember all that?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hector, but showed no sign of moving off.

‘What are you waiting for?’ asked Dalziel. ‘Money up front, is that it? What happened to trust? All right, Mr Pascoe’ll pay you. I can’t be standing tret every time.’

Every tenth time would be nice, thought Pascoe as he put two one-pound coins on to Hector’s sweaty palms, where they lay like a dead man’s eyes.

‘If it’s more, Mr Dalziel will settle up,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir…but what about…him?’ muttered Hector, his gaze flicking to Number 3.

Poor sod’s terrified of being shot at, thought Pascoe.

‘Him?’ said Dalziel. ‘That’s what I like about you, Hector. Always thinking about other people.’

He stood up once more with the bullhorn.

‘You in the house. We’re just sending off to Pat’s Pantry for some grub and my lad wants to know if there’s owt you’d fancy. Pastie, mebbe? Or they do grand Eccles cakes.’

He paused, listened, then sat down again.

‘Don’t think he wants owt. But a nice thought. Does you credit. It’ll be noted.’

‘No sir,’ said Hector, fear making him bold. ‘What I meant was, if he sees me moving and thinks I’m a danger…’

‘Eh? Oh, I get you. He might take a shot at you. If he thinks you’re a danger.’

Dalziel scratched his nose thoughtfully. Pascoe avoided catching his eye.

‘Best thing,’ said the Fat Man finally, ‘is not to look dangerous. Stand up straight, chest out, shoulders back, and walk nice and slow, like you’ve got somewhere definite to go. That way, even if the bugger does shoot, chances are the bullet will pass clean through you without doing much harm. Off you go then.’

Up to this point, Pascoe had been convinced that the blind obedience to lunatic orders which had made the dreadful slaughter of the Great War possible had died with those millions. Now, watching Hector move slowly down the street like a man wading through water, he had his doubts.

Once Hector was out of sight, he relaxed against the side of the car and said, ‘OK, sir. Now either you tell me exactly what’s going on or I’m off back to my hammock.’

‘You mean you’d like to hear Hector’s tale? Why not? Once upon a time…’

Hector is that rarity in a modern police force, a permanent foot patrol, providing a useful statistic when anxious community groups press for the return of the old beat bobby. The truth is, whether behind the wheel or driving the driver to distraction from the passenger seat, a motorized Hector is lethal. On a bike he never reaches a speed to be dangerous, but his resemblance to a drunken giraffe, though contributing much to the mirth of Mid-Yorkshire, does little for the constabulary image.

So Hector plods; and, plodding along Mill Street that day, he’d heard a sound as he passed Number 3. ‘Like a cough,’ he said. ‘Or a rotten stick breaking. Or a tennis ball bouncing off a wall. Or a shot.’

The nearest Hector ever comes to precision is multiple-choice answers.

He tried the door. It opened. He stepped into the cool shade of the video shop. Behind the counter he saw two men. Asked for a description, he thought a while then said it was hard to see things clearly, coming as he had from bright sunlight into shadow, but it was his fairly firm opinion that one of them was ‘a sort of darkie’.

To the politically correct, this might have resonated as racist and been educed as evidence of Hector’s unsuitability for the job. To those who’d heard him describe a Christmas shoplifter wearing a Santa Claus outfit as ‘a little bloke, I think he had a moustache’, ‘a sort of darkie’ came close to being eidetic.

The second man (‘looked funny but probably not a darkie’ was Hector’s best shot here) seemed to be holding something in his right hand which might have been a gun, but it was hard to be sure because he was standing in the deepest shadow and the man lowered his hands out of sight behind the counter when he saw Hector.

Feeling the situation needed to be clarified, Hector said, ‘All right then?’

There had been a pause during which the two inmates looked at each other.

Then the sort-of-darkie replied, ‘Yes. We are all right.’

And Hector brought this illuminating exchange to a close by saying with an economy and symmetry that were almost beautiful, ‘All right then,’ and leaving.

Now he had a philosophical problem. Had there been an incident and should he report it? It didn’t take eternity to tease Hector out of thought; the space between now and tea-time could do the trick. So he was more than usually oblivious to his surroundings as he crossed to the opposite pavement with the result that he was almost knocked over by a passing patrol car. The driver, PC Joker Jennison, did an emergency stop then leaned out of his open window to express his doubts about Hector’s sanity.

Hector listened politely—he had after all heard it all before—then, when Jennison paused for breath, off-loaded his problem on to the constable’s very broad shoulders.

Jennison’s first reaction was that such a story from such a source was almost certainly a load of crap. Also there were only five minutes till the end of his shift, which was why he was speeding down Mill Street in the first place.

‘Best call it in,’ he said. ‘But wait till we’re out of sight, eh?’

‘I think me battery’s flat,’ said Hector.

‘What’s new?’ said Jennison, and restarted the car.

Unfortunately his partner, PC Alan Maycock, came from Hebden Bridge which is close enough to the Lancastrian border for its natives to be by Mid-Yorkshire standards a bit soft in every sense of the term, and he was moved by Hector’s plight.

‘I’ll get you through on the car radio,’ he said.

And when Jennison dug him viciously in his belly, he murmured, ‘Nay, it’ll not take but a minute, and when they hear it’s Hec, they’ll likely just have a laugh.’

As a policeman, he should have known that the rewards of virtue are sparse and long delayed. If you’re looking for quick profit, opt for vice.

Instead of the expected fellow constable responding from Control, it was duty inspector Paddy Ireland who took the call. As soon as he heard Number 3 Mill Street mentioned, he gave commands for the car to remain in place and await instructions.

‘And then the bugger bursts in on me like he’s just heard the first bombs dropping on Pearl Harbour,’ concluded Dalziel. ‘Got me excited, till he mentioned Hector. That took the edge off! And when he said he’d already called it in, I could have wrung his neck!’

‘And then…?’ enquired Pascoe.

‘I finished me pie. Few minutes later the phone rang. It were some motor-mouth from CAT. I tried to explain it were likely all a mistake, but he said mebbe I should let the experts decide that. I said would this be the same experts who’d spent so much public money breaking up the Carradice gang?’

Pascoe, the diplomat, groaned.

Six months ago CAT had claimed a huge success when they arrested fifteen terrorist suspects in Nottingham on suspicion of plotting to poison the local water supply with ricin. Since then, however, the CPS had been forced to drop the case against first one then another of the group till finally the trial got under way with only the alleged ringleader, Michael Carradice, in the dock. Pascoe had his own private reasons for hoping the case against him failed too—a hope nourished by Home Office statements made on CAT’s behalf which were sounding increasingly irritated and defensive.