The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel

‘What’s up with thee? Wind, is it?’ said Dalziel in response to Pascoe’s groan. ‘Any road, the prat finished by saying the important thing was to keep a low profile, not risk alerting anyone inside, set up blocks out of sight at the street end, maintain observation till their man turned up to assess the situation. Why’re you grinding your teeth like that?’

‘Maybe because I don’t see any sign of any road-blocks, just Maycock smoking a fag at one end of the street and Jennison scratching his balls at the other. Also I’m crouched down behind your car with the patrol car next to it, right opposite Number 3.’

‘Who need road-blocks when you’ve got a pair of fatties like Maycock and Jennison? And why move the cars when anyone in there knows we’re on to them already? Any road, you and me know this is likely just another load of Hector bollocks.’

He shook his head in mock despair.

‘In that case,’ said Pascoe, tiring of the game, ‘all you need do is stroll over there, check every-thing’s OK, then leave a note for the CAT man on the shop door saying you’ve got it sorted and would he like a cup of tea back at the Station? Meanwhile…’

It was his intention to follow his heavy irony by taking his leave and heading for home and hammock, but the Fat Man was struggling to his feet.

‘You’re dead right,’ he said. ‘You tend to fumble around a bit, but in the end you put your white stick right on it, as the actress said to the shortsighted cabinet minister. Time for action. We’ll be a laughing stock if it gets out we spent the holiday hiding behind a car because of Hector. Where’s yon bugger got with my mutton pasties, by the way? We were mad to trust him with our money.’

‘My money,’ corrected Pascoe. ‘And you misunderstand me, I’m not actually suggesting we do anything…’

‘Nay, lad. Don’t be modest,’ said Dalziel, upright now. ‘When you’ve got a good idea, flaunt it.’

‘Sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is this wise? I know Hector’s not entirely reliable, but surely he knows a gun when he sees one…’

As a plea for caution this proved counter-productive.

‘Don’t be daft,’ laughed Dalziel. ‘We’re talking about a man who can’t pick his nose unless someone paints a cross on it and gives him a mirror. If he heard owt, it were likely his own fart, and the bugger inside were probably holding a take-away kebab. Come on, Pete. Let’s get this sorted, then you can buy me a pint.’

He dusted down his suit, straightened his tie, and set off across the street with the confident step of a man who could walk with kings, talk with presidents, dispute with philosophers, portend with prophets, and never have the slightest doubt that he was right.

Interestingly, despite the fact that little in their long relationship had given Pascoe any real reason to question this presumption of rightness, the thought crossed his mind as he rose and set off in the footsteps of his great master that there had to be a first time for everything, and how ironic it would be if it were Ellie’s tender heart that caused him to be present on the occasion when the myth of Dalziel’s infallibility was exploded…

At this same moment, as if his mind had developed powers of telekinesis, Mill Street blew up.

3 intimations (#ulink_c7be2948-05f8-5439-bf91-505d3bcaf55c)

Ellie Pascoe was asleep in the garden hammock so reluctantly vacated by her husband when the explosion occurred.

The Pascoe house in the northern suburbs was too far from Mill Street for anything but the faintest rumour of the bang to reach there. What woke Ellie was a prolonged volley of barking from her daughter’s mongrel terrier.

‘What’s up with Tig?’ Ellie asked yawning.

‘Don’t know,’ said Rosie. ‘We were playing ball and he just started.’

A sudden suspicion made Ellie examine the tall apple tree in next-door’s garden. Puberty was working its rough changes on her neighbour’s son and a couple of times recently when the summer heat had lured her outside in her bikini, she’d spotted him staring down at her out of the foliage. But there was no sign, and in any case Tig’s nose pointed south towards the centre of town. As she followed his fixed gaze she saw a long way away a faint smudge of smoke soiling the perfect blue of the summer sky.

Who would light a fire on a day like this?

Tig was still barking.

‘Can’t you make him shut up?’ snapped Ellie.

Her daughter looked at her in surprise, then took a biscuit off a plate and threw it across the lawn. Tig gave a farewell yap, then went in search of his reward with the complacent mien of one who has done his duty.

Ellie felt guilty at snapping. Her irritation wasn’t with the dog, there was some other cause less definable.

She rolled out of the hammock and said, ‘I’m too hot. Think I’ll cool down in the shower. You OK by yourself?’

Rosie gave her a look which said without words that she hadn’t been much company anyway, so what was going to be different?

Ellie went inside, turned on the shower and stepped under it.

The cool water washed away her sweat but did nothing for her sense of unease.

Still nothing definable. Or nothing that she wanted to define. Pointless thinking about it. Pointless because, if she did think about it, she might come up with the silly conclusion that the real reason she was taking this shower was that she didn’t want to be wearing her bikini if bad news came…

Andy Dalziel’s partner, Amanda Marvell, known to her friends as Cap, was even further away when Mill Street blew up.

With her man on duty, she had followed the crowds on the traditional migration to the coast, not, however, to join the mass bake-in on a crowded beach but to visit the sick.

The sick in this instance took the form of her old headmistress, Dame Kitty Bagnold who for nearly forty years had ruled the famous St Dorothy’s Academy for Catholic Girls near Bakewell in Derbyshire. Cap Marvell had ultimately made life choices which ran counter to everything St Dot’s stood for. In particular, she had abandoned her religion, divorced her husband, and got herself involved in various animal rights groups whose activities teetered on the edge of legality.

Yet throughout all this, she and Dame Kitty had remained in touch and eventually, rather to their surprise, realized they were friends. Not that the friendship made Cap feel able to address her old head by her St Dot’s sobriquet of Kitbag, and Dame Kitty would rather have blasphemed than call her ex-pupil anything but Amanda.

A long and very active retirement had ground Dame Kitty down till ill health had finally obliged her to admit the inevitable, and two years earlier she had moved into a private nursing home that was part of the Avalon Clinic complex at Sandy-town on the Yorkshire coast.

At her best, Dame Kitty was as bright and sharp as ever, but she tired easily and usually Cap was alert for the first signs of fatigue so that she could start ending her visit without making her friend’s condition the cause.

This time it was the older woman who said, ‘Is everything all right, Amanda?’

‘What?’

‘You seemed to drift off. Perhaps you should sit in this absurd wheelchair while I go inside and order some more tea.’

‘No, no, I’m fine. Sorry. What were we saying…?’

‘We were discussing the merits of the govern-ment’s somewhat inchoate education policy, an argument I hoped your sudden silence indicated I had won. But I fear my victory owes more to your distraction than my reasoning. Are you sure all is well with you? No problems with this police officer of yours, whom I hope one day to meet?’

‘No, things are fine there, really…’

Suddenly Cap Marvell took her mobile out.

‘Sorry, do you mind?’

She was speed-dialling before Kitty could answer.

The phone rang twice then there was an invitation to leave a message.

She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, disconnected, and stood up.

‘I’m sorry, Kitty, I’ve got to go. Before the mobs start moving off the beaches…’

This effort to offer a rational explanation produced the same sad sigh and slight upward roll of the eyes brought by feeble excuses for bad behaviour in their St Dot days.