Death Comes for the Fat Man (44 page)

Which would explain Kentmore’s interest in maintaining contact with Ellie and through her getting information about the progress of both the injured cops.

Also, how worried might he have been when tabloid speculation about the alarms last Sunday in the Central Hospital made him suspect an attempt had been made to take out Hector? Meeting Ellie for lunch could have seemed a good way to get confirmation or contradiction of this.

And finally, his own theory about Youngman’s reason for backing away from
Fidler’s Three
could be just as valid if it were Kentmore not Kalim he wanted to avoid.

It all fit together very nicely.

“Like Patrick Fitzwilliam and William Fitzpatrick, the Irish queers,”

he heard Dalziel say. “They fit together very nicely but they’re not going to give birth, are they?”

In other words, don’t believe in coincidence, but don’t jump to conclusions either!

He finished his drink and climbed back into bed. If he didn’t get some sleep he’d be a wreck in the morning. When sleep didn’t come, he picked up the Gideon Bible and opened it at random.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 331

Hear my voice, O God, in my prayer; preserve my life from fear of the
enemy. Hide me from the secret counsel of the wicked; from the insurrection of the workers of iniquity. Who whet their tongue like a sword; and
bend their bows to shoot their arrows, even bitter words: That they may
shoot in secret at the perfect: suddenly do they shoot at him, and fear not.

But who is the enemy? And who is the perfect? he found himself asking.

And still pondering these questions, he’d fallen into a fi tful sleep.

The phone was ringing as he stepped out of the shower.

“Hello,” he said.

“Pete, it’s Dave Freeman. Sandy and I are downstairs. Can we talk?”

“Why not? Stay for breakfast. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Order for me, will you? The full English. Might as well fill my belly before my credit’s canceled.”

As he dried himself, he tried to work out why they were here. Not, he guessed, to tell him all was forgiven and invite him back into the fold. Anyway, he’d had enough of the fold.

He picked up his mobile and rang home.

“Hi,” said Ellie. “I was getting worried. I tried to ring last night but you were switched off.”

“Sorry. I was otherwise engaged.”

“Not running around playing at Action Man again, I hope?”

“No. In fact I was very sedentary. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

“Home?” Her voice filled with a hope which touched his heart.

“You’re definitely getting back for the weekend?”

“No,” he said. Paused. Then went on, “Bit longer than that. I’m finished here. We can get back to normal.”

“Peter, that’s marvelous! When shall I expect you?”

“Well, you weren’t planning to go out for lunch, were you? I mean, no unexpected summons to appear on television to accept the Nobel Prize for literature or something like that?”

“No! And if there were, I’d cancel it. Talking of which, I’ll give Maurice Kentmore a ring and tell him tomorrow’s off, shall I?”

He said, “Kentmore? I’d forgotten that. No, it’s a bit late to can-332 r e g i n a l d h i l l

cel, isn’t it? And now I’m going to be back permanently, not just for a couple of days, it doesn’t matter so much. Let him come.”

In his own ears his words rang as false as a TV soap star upgrading to
Hamlet
.

“You mean, let
them
come. It’s not the prospect of seeing lean and hungry Kilda again that’s made you change your tune, is it?” mocked Ellie.

“Could be. You’ll just have to make sure I’m too exhausted to take an interest. Now I’m off to eat my last all-expenses-paid breakfast.

Love to Rosie. ’Bye.”

He felt guilty at deceiving her, but the knowledge of how very much he was looking forward to getting home salved his conscience.

And the deceit element wasn’t so significant, was it? All he wanted to do was have another close-up look at Kentmore for himself. Nothing wrong in that. Probably his suspicions would evaporate in a cloud of conversation about Yorkshire cricket and prize pigs.

He went down to the oak-paneled breakfast room where he found Freeman and Glenister sitting at a table, drinking coffee.

Freeman greeted him with a smile. Glenister looked more serious.

She said “Peter, I didn’t want you to go without speaking to you.”

“So I’m definitely going?” he said.

“The Commander says he has no choice. Believe me, as a cop he understands the value of playing it by ear now and then. He says he’d have been surprised if someone who’d flourished under Superintendent Dalziel didn’t take a strong independent line from time to time. But our work is such a web of complexities, there are some rules you can’t break. Shoot off by yourself and you never know what damage you may be doing.”

“You’re a cop,” he said.

“Yes, and I learned the hard way.”

“But you don’t think I can?”

“Peter, I’m sure you could. But you were never going to be anything but a temporary attachment,” she said gently. “So what’s the point of prolonging things? You’ve trod on sensitive toes, that’s all.”

“So whose sensitive toe is it I feel up my backside?” he asked, looking at Freeman. “Sounds as if it’s definitely spooky. You, Dave? Lukasz?

Were Tim and Rod asked for their assessment?”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 333

Before Freeman could reply, Glenister said, “It was a unanimous decision. There are no sides here, Peter. We all have the greatest respect for you. At a personal level, I haven’t encountered anyone at the Lube who hasn’t liked you.”

“I can second that,” said Freeman.

“Well, I’m touched,” said Pascoe. “So is this what you’ve come to tell me, that I’m a nice guy, much loved by little children everywhere?

Or are you going to hang around to see me safely off the premises?”

His sarcasms seemed to bounce off them.

A waiter approached and set a huge plateful of breakfast down before Pascoe.

“You two not joining me then?” he said.

“I’m a muesli man myself,” said Freeman. “Just looking at that clogs my arteries.”

“So we’ll leave you to enjoy it,” said Glenister. “Peter, my main reason for coming this morning was I wanted you to know, nothing that’s happened over here will leave the slightest mark on your record.

I understand your deep personal interest in parts of this investigation and I’ll make sure you are kept in the loop. Mainly though, I didn’t want to miss the chance of saying good-bye to you personally. I hope we get the chance to work together again. You’re my kind of cop. A real blue Smartie. Thanks for everything.”

“I’ll second that, Pete,” said Freeman. “It’s been really good working with you. You’d have made a great spook. Any time you think of changing careers, be sure to let me know. In the meantime, the very best of luck to you.”

The two of them pushed their chairs back from the table as though preparing to rise, and regarded him with warm smiles.

They’re waiting for me to say something, thought Pascoe.

Despite himself he felt quite flattered by their unsolicited testi-monial. The courteous and the sensible response would be to accept their praise modestly, then confirm its accuracy by telling them about his discovery of the possible link between Kentmore and Youngman.

Unless there were a broad conspiracy in CAT to support the Templars, the fact that there were two of them should ensure his suspicions got acted on. So, let it be someone else’s job to check out the connection.

334 r e g i n a l d h i l l

He could then ring Ellie again, tell her he was on his way, and say he’d changed his mind about having the Kentmores to lunch. That way he could really get his life back.

That would be the sensible and the courteous thing to do, the natural response one would look for from the famous silver-tongued, blue-Smartie rope-dancer, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe.

His blunt and brutish ringmaster, Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, on the other hand, would probably have ruined the friendly almost sentimental moment by saying something totally inap-propriate like, “Get fucked.”

He looked down with patriotic pride at the Full English before him, picked up the sauce bottle, gave it a St. George’s cross of ketchup, stabbed a sausage, and began to eat.

Now they rose from their seats, still smiling, though a trifl e uneasily.

He looked up at them, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Get fucked.”

17

O N E L A S T D E C I S I O N

It’s crisis time for Andy Dalziel.

Despite all his efforts of will and attempts at distraction he is back in the deep darkness, pressing against the fragile membrane between himself and white-light Elsewhere.

Into his mind drifts a zephyrean greeting.

Welcome back.

“You don’t fool me.”

Don’t I?

“Nay. I’ve been thinking about thee and I know what you are.”

Indeed? May I presume that knowing that means you are ready to
come through?

“No, it bloody well doesn’t! ’Cos what I know is you’re nowt but summat I’ve invented. You’re a figment, that’s what.”

You mean you are talking to yourself?

“That’s it, sunshine.”

Sunshine . . . I remember sunshine. One of my better ideas. But this is
very interesting. So how would you describe yourself? As an existentialist,
perhaps? Or merely a Pyrrhonist?

“Eh?”

Oh dear. That’s a bit of problem, isn’t it? If you are talking to yourself,
surely you should be able to understand what you are saying to yourself?

“Not necessarily, clever clogs. I’m forever surprising myself.”

That must be very disconcerting. But if you do not believe in me, why
would you take the trouble of inventing me?

“’Cos I like a chat and there’s no other bugger to talk to here.”

And where do you think here is?

“Not there.”

336 r e g i n a l d h i l l

And where is
there?

Dalziel tries to think but finds he has nothing to think about. The weight of darkness presses heavy upon him. There’s no familiar voice, no big-band brass, no ceilidh skirl, not even an irritating skein of prayer to lead him back to that universe of sound and color and smell and texture which he can no longer imagine let alone recall.

The darkness is on him, soon it will be in him. The only way out is to exert that drachm of extra pressure which will explode him through the gossamer membrane into the glory of light that waits beyond.

Better to make the decision yourself than have it made for you.

Was that me or it? he wonders.

But there is no
it
, he reminds himself. Just me. Which is likely why
it
sometimes makes a bit of sense.

One last decision and then we’re done.

He’d never been afraid of making decisions so why was he hesitating now?

One last decision . . .

He made it and burst through the membrane into the light.

QPART SIX

And that dismal cry rose slowly

And sank slowly through the air,

Full of spirit’s melancholy

And eternity’s despair!

And they heard the words it said—

Pan is dead! Great Pan is dead!

Pan, Pan is dead!

— E . B . B R O W N I N G ,

“ T H E D E A D PA N ”

1

T H E V E R Y W O R S T

Ellie, I’m late and I’m alone and I’m devastated,” said Maurice Kentmore. “Kilda’s had to pull out. A migraine. She’s been getting them ever since . . . you know. They come on like lightning and lay her low. The doctors have tried everything, but in the end there’s nothing for the poor girl to do but lie in a darkened room for six or seven hours. I thought of ringing you but what was the point?

Nothing you could change at such short notice, so better to hurry on here and offer apologies face-to-face. Which I do. Sorry.”

He finished, out of breath and out of words. If, thought Ellie, he’d spiked everything after
you know,
it might have been more convincing.

“Poor Kilda,” she said. “Maurice, don’t just stand there, come on in.”

Kentmore stepped into the hall. Pascoe was standing in the living room doorway.

“Peter, Kilda can’t make it. A migraine,” said Ellie.

“I heard. Poor woman. Maurice, nice to see you again. Let me get you a drink. White wine OK?”

“Fine.”

Pascoe stood aside to let his guest pass through the door. Ellie made a wry face at her husband and headed for the kitchen. Kentmore accepted the glass poured for him, tasted it, and said, “This is nice.

Where do you get it?”

“Sainsbury’s, I expect,” said Pascoe. “How goes it with the piglets?”

“What? Oh yes. Fine, they’re fi ne.”

“Good. Must be hard when the time comes to kill them, though.”

340 r e g i n a l d h i l l

“No. Not hard. I’m a farmer. You breed animals for meat, it’s part of the job.”

“And you don’t actually slaughter them yourself, of course.”

“Only in extremis, to put them out of pain.”

Ellie came back in and poured herself a glass of wine.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Pigs,” said Pascoe. “And whether you can have a relationship with them before you kill them.”

“Ugh. Luckily we’re having trout and it’s hard to get attached to a fi sh.”

“I don’t know. Remember Goldie? Goldie was our daughter’s gold-fish,” he explained to Kentmore. “When it went belly-up, Ellie would have given it a nautical send off down the loo but Rosie insisted on the full C of E service and she still puts flowers on the grave when she remembers.”

“On the site of the grave,” corrected Ellie. “Tig dug the box up a few days later when Rosie was at school. Didn’t seem worth putting it back and it was bin day.”