Death of Dalziel - Dalziel & Pascoe 22 Read online

  He rolled him over on to his back. It wasn't easy but he did it. He brushed the dust away from his mouth and nose. He definitely wasn't breathing. He checked the carotid pulse, thought he detected a flutter, but a combination of his dull fingers and Dalziel's monolithic neck left him in doubt. He opened the mouth and saw there was a lot of debris in there. Carefully he cleared it away, discovering in the process what he hadn't known before, that Dalziel had a dental plate. This he tucked carefully into his pocket. He checked that the tongue hadn't been swallowed. Then he cleared the nostrils, undid the shirt collar, and put his ear to the mighty chest.

  There was no movement, no sound.

  He placed his hands on top of each other on the chest and pressed down hard, five times, counting a second interval between.

  Then he tilted the head back with his right hand under the chin so that the mouth opened wide. With the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, he pinched Dalziel's nose. Then he took a deep breath, thought, I'm never going to hear the end of this, pressed his mouth down on to those great lips and blew.

  Five times he did this. Then he repeated the heart massage and went through the whole process again. And again.

  Once more he tried the pulse. This time he was sure there was something. And the next time he blew into the mouth, the chest began to rise and fall of its own volition.

  Now he began to arrange Dalziel in the recovery position. This was a task to daunt a fit navvy with a block and tackle, but finally he managed it and sank back exhausted.

  All this seemed to take hours but must have consumed only a few minutes. He was vaguely aware of figures moving through the miasma. Presumably there were sounds too, but at first they were simply absorbed by the white noise which the blast had filled his ears with. Another hour passed. Or a few seconds. He felt something touch his shoulder. It hurt. He looked up. PC Maycock was standing over him, mouthing nothings, like a fish in a glass tank. He tried to lip read and got, 'Are you all right?' which hardly seemed worth the effort. He pointed at Dalziel and said, 'Get help,' without any assurance that the words were coming out. Maycock tried to assist him to his feet but he shook his head and pointed again at the Fat Man. He stuck his little fingers in his ears and started to prise out the debris which seemed to have lodged there. This, or perhaps the simple passage of time, improved things a little, and he began to pick out a higher line of sound which he tentatively identified as approaching sirens.

  Time was still doing a quickstep. Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow. In the slow periods he felt as

  if sitting here in the post-blast smog watching over Fat Andy was all he'd ever done and all he was ever likely to do. Then he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and when he opened them the smog had thinned and paramedics were stooping over Dalziel's body and firemen were going about the business before the ruined terrace. Where Number 3 had been there was nothing but a flame-filled cavity, like hell-mouth in a morality play. The Victorian entrepreneurs' shoddy building materials had offered little resistance to the blast. This was perhaps one of those instances of a Bad Thing eventually turning out to be a Good Thing, which divines through the ages had educed as evidence of God's Mysterious Purpose. If the walls of Number 3 had shared any of the massive solidity of the viaduct wall against which the terrace rested, the blast would have been directed straight out. As it was, Numbers 2 and 4 were in a state of complete collapse, and the rest of the terrace looked seriously shell shocked.

  They were attaching all kinds of bits and pieces to the Fat Man. But not, so far as Pascoe could see, a crane. They'd need a crane. And a sling. This was a beached whale they were dealing with and it would take more than the puny efforts of half a dozen men to bear him back to the life-supporting sea. He tried to say this but couldn't get the words out. Didn't matter. Somehow these supermen were proving him wrong and managing to get Dalziel on to a stretcher. Pascoe closed his eyes in relief. When he opened them again he found he was looking up at the sky and moving. For a second he thought he was back on his hammock in his garden. Then he realized he too was on a stretcher.

  He raised his head to protest that this was unnecessary. The effort made him realize it probably was. Ahead he could see an ambulance. Beside it stood an all too familiar figure.

  Hector, the author of all their woes, his face a cartoonist's dream of uncomprehending consternation.

  As the medics slid the stretcher into the vehicle, he held out both his hands towards Pascoe. In them were two paper bags, partially open to reveal a pair of mutton pasties and an almond slice.

  'Sir, I'm sorry, but they were out of custards . . .' he stuttered.

  'Not my lucky day then,' whispered Peter Pascoe. 'Not my lucky day.

  '

  5

  the two Geoffreys

  Andre de Montbard, Knight of the Temple and right-hand man to Hugh de Payens, the Order's Grand Master, was fishing in the dull canal at the far end of Charter Parker. He sat on a canvas stool, his back against a plane tree, his rod resting on a fork made from a wire coat-hanger. The sun had vanished behind the warehouses on the opposite bank but the air was still warm and the sky still blue, though darkening towards indigo from the azure of the afternoon. His float bobbed in the wake of a passing narrow boat and the helmsman gave a half apologetic wave.

  A man walking his dog paused and said, 'Anything biting?'

  'I think I felt a midge.'

  'Oh aye? Just wait half an hour and you'll need a mask. Cheers.' 'Cheers.'

  As the man moved away, he passed the two Geoffreys strolling slowly along the tow path.

  Geoffrey O stooped to pat the dog but Geoffrey B didn't look in the mood for chit-chat. As well as the shared name, they both wore black pants, trainers and ‘I-shirts. But there any claims to being a matching pair ended, thought Andre. Odd relationship. Shrinks would have a field day with it. Useless twats. What do you call a shrink treading on a land mine? A step in the right direction. Himself, he'd always been an effects man, bugger causes. And the effect here had been to make them ripe for knighthood.

  Performance was another thing. Soon as he'd heard things had gone a bit pear-shaped, he'd started anticipating how they'd react.

  His guess was, Geoff B headless chicken, Geoff O heartless wolf.

  He knew he'd got it right even before Geoff B opened his mouth.

  When they reached him, they paused as if to ask how the fish were biting. At least that was the impression Geoff O gave, smiling down at him pleasantly. But Geoff B couldn't manage a smile. He unslung the small rucksack he was carrying over his shoulder and dropped it by the empty catch basket. As he did so, he brought his face close to Andre's and hissed with barely controlled anger, 'What the hell was all that about? A communications post, you said, a bit of gear maybe, but not a fucking powder magazine.'

  Andre looked at him steadily till he straightened up.

  Then he said, 'Bad intelligence. It happens. Hugh says sorry. But look on the bright side. It certainly made a bang!'

  'Jesus Christ!' exclaimed Geoff B. 'It put two cops in hospital. One of them critical, the news says.'

  Andre shrugged and said, 'My info is the stupid sods were grandstanding. If they'd followed instructions and stood off. . .'

  'Is that supposed to make me feel better? I'm giving notice, if one of them dies, that's me finished, understand?'

  You're finished anyway, son, thought Andre. One strike and out. Returned to unit.

  Geoff O spoke before he could respond.

  'Was the cop who came into the shop one of those injured?'

  Andre flickered an approving smile. No bother there. First rule of combat: be prepared for collateral damage. Can't get your head round that, might as well stay home.

  He said, 'That would have been tidy, but no, he wasn't. Seems he hasn't come up with much of a description, though, so I don't think we need worry too much about him.'

  'For God's sake!' exclaimed Geoff B, determined not to let go of his anger. 'Is that all you're concer
ned about? Whether there was a witness?'

  Andre looked at him coldly.

  'Mebbe you'd be more concerned if you'd been the one he clocked,' he said.

  That shut the bugger up. He pressed on, 'Anyway, the cop showing up didn't stop you from opting to go ahead, did it?'

  In the planning the bugger had needed to act like he was in charge, so now let's see if he could carry the can.

  Geoff O rescued him, saying, ‘I made sure he didn't get a good look at me.'

  'Course you did. Clever thinking. But sometimes being clever's not enough. You've got to be lucky too. Word is that Constable Hector who wandered into the shop is half a loaf short of a picnic and would have trouble giving a good description of himself. So no problem there. In fact, things could be a lot worse. Mission accomplished, so let's keep our fingers crossed and hope the cops don't die.'

  Geoff O said, ‘I presume you're holding back the press release.'

  Andre nodded approval of the move from personal feelings to practicalities.

  'Yes. Hugh agrees that a cop on the critical list isn't what we want associated with our opening statement. Shame. Really starting with a bang that would have been. Still, what me and Archambaud have got planned should to make 'em sit up and take notice.'

  'Need any help?' asked Geoff O.

  Definitely getting a taste for it, thought Andre. Enthusiasm was good. Impatience might be a problem. Needs watching?

  He said, 'No, it's sorted. Don't worry. We're just starting. Lots of work for an energetic youngster. Just be patient. Good intelligence, careful planning, that's what makes for successful ops.'

  Geoff B snorted incredulously, but that was to be expected. It was Geoff O's disappointed frown that Andre focused on.

  He said, 'War's like fishing. Hours of empty fucking tedium punctuated by moments so crowded they burst at the seams. Learn to enjoy the emptiness. Now, I'm going to pack up before these fucking midges chew my face off. I'll be in touch.'

  He rose and began to reel in his line.

  Geoff B said, 'Tell Hugh, if that cop dies, I'm out. I'm serious.'

  'Let's hope the poor sod makes it then,' said Andre indifferently. 'See you.'

  The couple started to walk away. Geoffrey O glanced back. Andre gave a conspiratorial wink but got nothing in return.

  Didn't bother him.

  What did bother him was the weight of the discarded backpack.

  He checked no one was close then opened it.

  Like he'd thought, one weapon missing.

  He looked after the two Geoffreys. No prize for guessing which one had hung on.

  He recalled a training sergeant once saying to him, 'You've earned yourself a big kiss for keenness, a big bollocking for stupidity. Which do you want first, son?'

  He smiled, dropped the backpack into his basket, slung it over his shoulder, gathered up the rest of his gear and set off along the tow path.

  6

  blue smartie

  Peter Pascoe was still having trouble with time. He opened his eyes and Ellie was there. 'Hi,' he said.

  'Hi/ she said. 'Pete, how are you?' 'Fine, fine,' he said.

  He blinked once and her hair turned gingery as she aged ten years and put on a Scottish accent.

  'Mr Pascoe. Sandy Glenister. Feel up to a wee chat?'

  'Not with you,' said Pascoe. 'Sod off.'

  He blinked again and the face rearranged itself into something like a Toby jug whose glaze had gone wrong.

  'Wieldy,' said Pascoe. 'Where's Ellie?'

  'At home making Rosie's tea, I expect. She'll be back later. How are you doing?'

  'I'm fine. What am I doing here? Oh shit.'

  Wield saw Pascoe's face spasm with remembered pain as he answered his own question.

  'Andy, how's Andy?' he demanded, trying to push himself upright.

  Wield pressed the button which raised the back of the bed by thirty degrees.

  'Intensive Care,' he said. 'He's not come round yet.'

  'Well, what do they expect?' demanded Pascoe. 'It's only been . . a couple of hours?'

  His assertion turned to interrogation as he realized he'd no idea of the time.

  'Twenty-four,' said Wield. 'A bit more. It's four o'clock, Tuesday afternoon.'

  'As long as that? What's the damage?'

  'With Andy? Broken leg, broken arm, several cracked ribs, some second-degree burns, multiple contusions and lacerations from the blast, loss of blood, ruptured spleen, other internal damage whose extent isn't yet apparent -'

  'So, nothing really serious then,' interrupted Pascoe.

  Wield smiled faintly and said, 'No, not for Andy. But till he wakes up . . .'

  He left the sentence unfinished.

  'Twenty-four hours is nothing,' said Pascoe. 'Look at me.'

  'You've been back with us a lot longer than that,' said Wield. 'Bit woozu maybe with all the shit they pumped into you, but making sense mostly. You don't think Ellie would have taken off if you'd still been comatose?'

  'I've spoken with Ellie then?'

  'Aye. Don't you remember?'

  ‘I think I recall saying hi.'

  'Is that all? You'd best hope you didn't make a deathbed confession,' said Wield.

  'And there was someone else - ginger hair, Scots accent, maybe the matron. Or did I dream that?'

  'No. That would be Chief Superintendent Glenister from CAT. I was there when she turned up.'

  'You were? Did I say much to her?'

  'Apart from "sod off", you mean? No. That was

  it.'

  'Oh hell,' said Pascoe.

  'Not to worry. She didn't take offence. In fact, she's sitting outside in the waiting room. You've not asked what's wrong with you.'

  'With me?' said Pascoe. 'Good point. Why am I in here? I feel fine.'

  'Just wait till the shit wears off,' said Wield. 'But they reckon you were lucky. Contusions, abrasions, few muscle tears, twisted knee, couple of cracked ribs, concussion. Could have been a lot worse.'

  'Would have been if I hadn't had Andy in front of me,' said Pascoe grimly. 'What about Jennison and Maycock?'

  'Joker reckons he's gone deaf but his mates say he were always a bit hard of hearing when it came to his round. Their cars are a write-off though. Andy's too.'

  'What about Number 3? Was there anyone in there?'

  'I'm afraid so. Three bodies, they reckon. At least. They're still trying to put them together. No more detail. The CAT lads are going over the wreckage with a fine-tooth comb, and they're not saying much to anyone - and that includes us. Of course, they've got a key witness.'

  'Have they? Oh God. You mean Hector?'

  'Right. Glenister spent an hour or so with him. Came out looking punch-drunk.'

  'Hector did?'

  'No. He always looks punch drunk. I mean Glenister. I'd best let her know you're sitting up and taking notice.'

  'Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what they're like in these places, getting good info's harder than getting your dinner wine properly chambre.'

  'I'll see what I can do,' said Wield. 'Take care.'

  He left and Pascoe eased himself properly upright in the bed, trying to assess what he really felt like. There didn't seem to be many parts of his body which didn't give a retaliatory twinge when provoked, but, ribs apart, nothing that threatened much beyond discomfort. He wondered if he could get out of bed without assistance. He had got himself sitting upright and was pushing the bed sheet off his legs preparatory to swinging them round when the door opened and the ginger woman came in.

  'Glad to see you're feeling better, Peter,' she said, 'but I think you should stay put a wee while longer. Or was it a bed pan you wanted?'

  'No, I'm fine,' said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.

  'That's OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Anti-Terrorism unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably don't remember.'

  'Vaguely, ma'am,' said Pascoe. 'In fact I seem to recall being a bit rude . . .'

&n
bsp; Glenister said, 'Think nothing of it. Rudeness is good, it needs a working mind to be rude. I'd just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldn't believe the first, but it didn't get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?'

  'Expressing himself isn't his strongest point,' said Pascoe.

  'So you're saying that what I've got out of him is probably as much as I'm likely to get?' said Glenister. 'His descriptions of the men he saw are, to say the least, sketchy.'

  'He does his best,' said Pascoe defensively. 'Anyway, surely it'll be DNA, fingerprints, dental records, that are going to identify the poor devils in there?'

  'Aye, we should be able to find enough of them for that,' said Glenister.

  She was mid to late forties, Pascoe guessed, full figured to the point where she fitted her tweed suit comfortably but if she didn't cut down on the deep-fried Mars Bars, she'd soon have to upsize. She had a pleasant friendly smile which lit up her round slightly weather-beaten face and put a sparkle into her soft brown eyes. If she'd been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.

  Pascoe said, 'You'll want to debrief me, ma'am.'

  Glenister smiled.

  'Debrief? I see you're very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, I'm too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when you're up to it. All I want now is a wee preliminary chat.'

  She pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, produced a mini-cassette recorder from the shoulder bag she was carrying, and switched it on.

  ‘In your own words, Peter. All right to call you Peter? My friends call me Sandy.'

  Trying to work out if this were an invitation or a warning, Pascoe launched into an account of his part in the incident, with some judicious editing, in the interest of clarity and brevity he told himself.

  'That's good,' said Glenister, nodding approval. 'Succinct, to the point. Just what I need for the record.'

  She pressed the off button on the recorder, sat back in her chair and took a tube of Smarties out of her shoulder bag.

  'Help yourself,' she said. 'So long as it's not blue.'

  'No thanks,' said Pascoe.