Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22 Read online

  Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22

  Book Jacket

  Series: Dalziel & Pascoe [22]

  Tags: Mystery, Crime

  SUMMARY:

  The highly anticipated return of Dalziel and Pascoe, the hugely popular police duo and stars of the long-running BBC TV series, in a new psychological thriller.Can it be true? Has the Fat Man really sung?Caught in a huge Semtex explosion, it seems the only thing preventing Superintendent Andy Dalziel from stepping through Death's door is his size ' and sheer bloody-mindedness.While Andy lies in a coma, an injured DCI Pascoe works to uncover what he feels sure is a conspiracy, despite the security services believing the blast was an accident in which the terrorists blew themselves up.Who, then, are the mysterious Knights Templar, bringing the war in Iraq back home with their gruesome acts of vengeance? What have they got to do with a best-selling novelist, a beautiful temptress and a hit-and run on Yorkshire CID's most inept officer? And, most importantly, will Dalziel ever wake up to hear the truth..?

  Reginald Hill

  Reginald Hill is a native of Cumbria and a former resident of Yorkshire, the setting for his outstanding crime novels, featuring Dalziel and Pascoe, 'the best detective duo on the scene bar none' (Daily Telegraph). His writing career began with the publication of A Clubbable Woman (1970), which introduced Chief Superintendent Andy Dalziel and DS Peter Pascoe. Their subsequent appearances have confirmed Hill's position as 'the best living male crime writer in the English-speaking world' (Independent) and won numerous awards, including the Crime Writers' Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for his lifetime contribution to the genre.

  The Dalziel and Pascoe novels have now been adapted into a hugely successful BBC television series, starring Warren Clarke and Colin Buchanan.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.co.uk

  for exclusive information on Reginald Hill

  Acclaim for The Death of Dalziel

  'Hill at his best is a masterly storyteller, and he is at his best here. His strength lies not only in a lively, even extravagant imagination, but in his ability to modulate pace, to move from rapid action to domestic scenes ... he always handles the big action scenes with authority and perfect timing but one reason for the addictive quality of his novels is that he is every bit as interested in his characters' off-duty lives . . . brilliant'

  Spectator

  'Hill has kept the series fresh - with innovations that take the reader to surprising areas . . . the series' longevity owes much to Hill's readiness to engage with important social issues and that readiness is apparent in the elements that set the violence in The Death of Dalziel in motion ... as usual. Hill is unputdownable' Daily Express

  'Fans will not feel cheated ... Hill should continue to enjoy himself in the company of Dalziel and Pascoe because their 21st adventure is hugely enjoyable to read. God - and Allah - forbid he should think of killing off Pascoe' Evening Standard

  'Hill is always clever and funny ... he demands intense concentration - because he's worth it'

  Literary Review

  'The plot, however clever, is not the main attraction. Hill is a masterful writer, quirky and intelligent and his characters - not just the principal duo - are drawn with a depth rare in crime fiction. And, astonishingly, 21 books into the Dalziel and Pascoe saga, I have yet to feel he's repeating himself

  The Times

  'Hill is one of England's finest crime writers and this is one of his best novels. A fitting send-off (if, indeed, a send-off it is) for Andy Dalziel'

  Glasgow Herald

  'His energy, wit and erudition are astonishing . . . he can still see off most of his rivals' Daily Telegraph

  By the same author Dalziel and Pascoe novels

  A CLUBBABLE WOMAN AN ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING RULING PASSION AN APRIL SHROUD A PINCH OF SNUFF A KILLING KINDNESS DEADHEADS EXIT UNES CHILD'S PLAY UNDERWORLD BONES AND SILENCE ONE SMALL STEP RECALLED TO LIFE PICTURES OF PERFECTION ASKING FOR THE MOON THE WOOD BEYOND ON BEULAH HEIGHT ARMS AND THE WOMEN DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD DEATH'S JEST-BOOK GOOD MORNING, MIDNIGHT

  Joe Sixsmith novels

  BLOOD SYMPATHY BORN GUILTY KILLING THE LAWYERS SINGING THE SADNESS

  FELL OF DARK THE LONG KILL DEATH OF A DORMOUSE DREAM OF DARKNESS

  THE ONLY GAME THE COLLABORATORS

  THE STRANGER HOUSE

  REGINALD HILL

  THE DEATH OF DALZIEL

  HARPER

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  For the peacemakers whichever god's children they

  What, old acquaintance? Could not all this flesh

  Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell . . .

  Death hath not struck so fat a deer today.

  Shakespeare Henry IV Part 1, Act V scene iv

  A Knight of the Temple who kills an evil man should not be condemned for killing the man but praised for killing the evil.

  St Bernard of Clairvaux, Liber ad milites Templi

  Part One

  Some talk of ALEXANDER And some of HERCULES; Of HECTOR . . ,

  Anon, 'The British Grenadiers'

  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 searc
h 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 Pascoc 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 ail 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.

  * * *

  I'm off duty today. Bank Holiday, remember? And Andy drew the short straw. Not his idea you rang, is it?'

  'Definitely not. It's just that Number 3's a video rental, Oroc Video, Asian and Arab stuff mainly

  A faint bell began to ring in Pascoe's mind.

  'Hang on. Isn't it CAT flagged?'

  'Hooray. There is someone in CID who actually reads directives,' said Ireland with heavy sarcasm.

  CAT was the Combined Anti-Terrorism unit in which Special Branch officers worked alongside MI5 operatives. They flagged people and places on a sliding scale, the lowest level being premises not meriting formal surveillance but around which any unusual activity should be noted and notified.

  Number 3 Mill Street was at this bottom level.

  Pascoe, not liking to feel reproved, said, 'Are you trying to tell me there's some kind of Intifada brewing in Mill Street?'

  'Well, no,' said Ireland. 'It's just that when I passed on the report to Andy

  '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.

  '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.'

  '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.'