The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel

Glenister shook her head and said sadly, ‘You’re so right, Peter. We should have known that. But you’re completely wrong if you think I’m here to offload blame. Wrists will be slapped at CAT, have no fear. If your Mr Dalziel got it wrong, then we got it wrong just as much, and he’s paid a far higher price. I hope he comes through but the signs aren’t good. So the only person I’ve got who can give me a close-up account of what took place is you. All I want is to be absolutely sure about everything you saw during your time outside Number 3 Mill Street.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Pascoe. ‘From my arrival to the explosion, I saw absolutely no sign of life in the house, or anywhere else in the terrace. Full stop.’

‘Fine, that’s good enough for me,’ said Glenister, standing up and offering her hand. ‘We’ll talk again when you’re back on your feet. I hope that will be very soon.’

‘But can’t you tell me what you think happened in there?’ demanded Pascoe, holding on to the hand.

Glenister hesitated, then said, ‘Why not? I hear you’re a discreet man. In fact you might turn vain if you knew how highly you’re rated. Quite the blue Smartie yourself.’

She smiled at her joke. Pascoe gave her a token flicker and said, ‘So?’

‘We had the shop flagged as a meeting place, at best a casual message centre, for a group who showed little inclination to move from dialectic to destruction. At some time in the past few days a decision must have been taken to upgrade it to a storehouse for explosive in preparation for an event. We had some non-specific intelligence that something big was being planned in the north.’

‘Like blowing up Mill Street?’ said Pascoe incredulously. ‘Not exactly the Houses of Parliament, is it?’

‘I said Number 3 was just the storehouse,’ said Glenister. ‘Though it won’t have escaped your notice that the terrace backs on to the embankment carrying the main London line, and your fair city is being honoured with a royal visit the week after next. Be that as it may, suddenly there is a large quantity of explosive on site, harmless enough when being handled by experts. But, as I say, the group who had hitherto made use of the shop were anything but experts. Your Constable Hector disturbed them, your Mr Dalziel made them panic. Perhaps they were simply trying to conceal the explosive more thoroughly and something went wrong. Or perhaps when they saw you and Mr Dalziel moving forward, they weighed a long night in an interview room with you against an eternity in Paradise with a martyr’s promised houris. Either way, boom!’

She gently disengaged her hand, which Pascoe now realized he’d been clinging on to like an ancient mariner eager for a chat.

‘You take care of yourself now, Peter,’ said Glenister. ‘The Force can’t spare its blue Smarties in these troubled times. I hope you’re back at work really soon.’

She went out of the room. Pascoe stared at the closed door for a while, then shoved back the sheet and swung his legs on to the floor. He was surprised to find how weak this simple movement left him and he was still sitting on the bed, nerving himself to test his knee, when Wield came in.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ demanded the sergeant.

‘I’m going to see Andy.’

‘Not now you’re not,’ said Wield.

Something in his tone alerted Pascoe that the sergeant wasn’t just coming the nurse-substitute.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ he demanded.

‘I asked the ward sister to check how Andy was doing in Intensive Care,’ said Wield. ‘She was talking to someone there when all hell broke loose at the other end of the phone. Pete, his heart stopped. They’ve got the crash team working on him now, but from what the sister said, it’s not looking good. Pete, we need to face it. This could be the end for Fat Andy.’

7 dancing with death

Andy Dalziel is in the Mecca Ballroom, locked in a tango with Tottie Truman from Donny.

He feels as light as a feather. His feet hardly seem to be in contact with the floor, his muscles responding to every modulation of the music as if the notes were vibrating along his arteries rather than through his ears. And he can feel the blood pulsing through Tottie’s veins in a perfect counterpoint to his own rhythms as they move inexorably towards that blissfully explosive moment of complete fusion…

But not on the dance floor! It’s all a question of timing. In search of delay, he makes his mind step back and take in his surroundings.

The Mirely Mecca has changed a lot since his last visit which was…he can’t recall when. Never mind. The ceiling’s higher now and the soaring windows, spring-bright with coloured glass, wouldn’t disgrace a cathedral. The walls are lined with long tables, covered in white linen cloths on which rest a royal banquet of everything he loves—on one table crowns of lamb, barons of beef, loins of pork ridged with crackling, honey-glazed hams; on another roasted geese, Christmas turkeys, duck with cherries, pheasant adorned with their own feathers; on a third whole salmon, pickled herring, mountain ranges of oysters and mussels. Yet another is crowded with desserts: bread-and-butter pudding, rhubarb crumble, Spotted Dick, and his childhood favourite, Eve’s Pudding.

And there, by a table laden with bottles of every kind of malt whisky he’d ever tasted, stands Peter Pascoe, an open bottle of Highland Park in one hand and in the other a king-size crystal tumbler full to the brim which he is holding out in smiling invitation…

Later, lad, he mouths. Later. First things first. Dance till the music reaches its climax, then straight out of the door into that dark alcove at the end of the corridor to reach his and hers…

After which, being a gentleman, he’ll wait a decent interval of mebbe a minute and a half before heading back inside for another helping of Eve’s Pudding…

But just as he begins to wonder if he can hold out any longer, the music changes, accelerating from the sensuous pulse of the tango into the mad whirl of a Viennese waltz. His muscles obey the new commands effortlessly though his mind wonders what the fuck the band leader’s playing at. Round and round and round he spins, till the high walls and coloured windows and laden tables retreat to a blur of Arctic whiteness and Tottie’s body, which during the tango had been a comfortable armful of warm softness moulding itself ever closer to his, begins to feel like a sackful of old bones.

Now he too is beginning to feel tired, as if age and exertion and all the excesses of a life spent in mad pursuit of God knows what are at last catching up with him. He wants to rest. Surely Tottie would want to sit this one out too? He nuzzles his lips against her ear to whisper the suggestion, but he can’t find it. The cheek pressed against his no longer feels soft and warm but cold and hard and smooth.

He moves his head back to look into his partner’s face. Instead of the lustrous brown bedroom eyes of Tottie Truman, he finds himself peering into the deep shadowy sockets of a skull whose toothy leer and vacant gaze have something familiar about them.

Then recognition dawns.

Dalziel laughs.

‘Hector, lad,’ he cries. ‘I always said tha’d be the death of me, but I never meant it so literal!’

The skeletal figure does not reply but its grip tightens round the Fat Man’s broad frame and he finds his weary legs being urged into an even wilder dance which feels as if it will only end when those bony arms have squeezed out of him everything that makes up the life force—sun and wind and air and rain, good grub and mellow whisky, light and laughter—and whirled what little remains away into some icy eternity.

For a moment he is lost. He, the great Dalziel, who on his day has danced from dusk to dawn and then washed down the Full British Breakfast with a tumbler of whisky, has no strength to resist as Death, or Hector, bears him off to oblivion.

Then at the very point of submission, something happens.

New resolve seems to course through his weary limbs like an electric shock. Then another, even stronger. A third…a fourth…a fifth…

Sod this for a lark! he thinks. I’ll give this bugger a run for his money afore I let him dance me off my feet!

Pressing Death or Hector even closer to his chest, he rises on to his toes and goes whirling round the room, once more the leader not the led, faster and faster, till he leaves the wild music trailing in his wake. And this time, instead of blurring out his surroundings, the speed of the dance seems to bring them back into focus. First the high windows with their multi-coloured lights, and then white-clothed tables laden with provender, and finally he becomes aware that the brittle bones in his arms are once more clothed in the warm and yielding flesh of Tottie Truman from Donny.

8 blame

‘He’s stable now, but it was a close-run thing,’ said Dr John Sowden. ‘With anyone else I’d have called it after the fifth shock. But I looked down at the fat old bastard lying there and I thought, I’m not going to risk being haunted by you! And I gave him one more go.’

Dr Sowden was an old acquaintance of the Pascoes, a relationship which had started way back in a close encounter with Andy Dalziel under suspicion of causing death by drunk driving.

‘And that did the trick?’ said Ellie Pascoe.

‘It started his heart beating again. Which is something, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s only back to where he was. Still showing no sign of regaining consciousness. And we’ve no idea what state he’ll be in if and when that happens. You, Peter, on the other hand are looking remarkably spry, considering.’

‘So when can I go home?’ said Pascoe. ‘I feel fine.’

It was almost true. The anxiety caused by the news about Fat Andy, the relief at hearing they’d got him back, and the pleasure of having Ellie sitting on his bed, had seemed to combine as a sort of tonic. John Sowden ought to be showering praise on him for his resilience rather than pursing his lips.

‘Let’s see how you are in a couple of days,’ said the doctor dismissively. ‘Ellie, nice to see you again. Make sure he behaves himself.’

He went out.

‘John ought to brush up his bedside manner, don’t you reckon?’ said Pascoe.

‘I think he’s a bit worried there may be some delayed emotional reaction,’ said Ellie carefully.

‘He’s been talking to you, has he? Don’t tell me he actually used those tired old words posttraumatic stress disorder!’ Pascoe laughed harshly. ‘Listen, if ever I start feeling sorry for myself, I just have to think of Andy lying up there in a coma.’

Ellie took his hand and squeezed it.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘I often wished the earth would open up and swallow the fat bastard, but it’s almost impossible to imagine a world without Andy, isn’t it?’

‘Not almost,’ said Pascoe. ‘You said you’d seen Cap. How’s she taking it?’

‘Hard to say. She once told me that the only worthwhile thing she learned at St Dot’s Academy was to deal with crisis and catastrophe by not letting it mark your upper crust. While us plebs scream and shout and run about, people of Cap’s class maintain an even keel and look to the practicalities.’

Pascoe smiled at ‘us plebs’. Ellie’s family were irremediably petit bourgeois despite all her efforts to downgrade them to acquire street cred in the class war. By contrast Cap Marvell, while making no effort to deny her upper-class background and education, had been much more successful in her efforts to disoblige her old connections. Having a secret weapon like Andy Dalziel you could produce at will can’t have been a disadvantage either.

Pascoe liked her in a cautious kind of way. She was good for Dalziel emotionally and intellectually and, one presumed, physically, but her readiness to strain the law in pursuit of her animal rights causes was a ticking bomb for a working cop. On the other hand it struck him as one of God’s better jokes that after many years of heavy-handed jesting about Ellie’s unbecoming behaviour as a political activist, Dalziel should find himself hoist with the same petard.

‘What are you grinning at?’ demanded Ellie.

‘Just smiling with pleasure at having you here,’ he said.

‘I hope so. I can’t stay long. Rosie’s rehearsal finishes at seven.’

Pascoe shuddered. Public performances by the school orchestra in which his daughter played the clarinet were bad enough. He couldn’t bear to think what a rehearsal must sound like.

‘Didn’t she want to visit me?’ he asked plaintively.

‘Of course she did. But no point in traumatizing the kid. I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be too much of a shock to the system, so I told her the hospital had banned child visits till tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be coming home tomorrow,’ protested Pascoe. ‘I really do feel fine, no matter what the amateur psychiatrists say.’

‘Let’s wait and see what John says,’ said Ellie. ‘They may need to do more tests.’

‘You know me,’ said Pascoe confidently. ‘Show me a test, I sail through it.’

‘Yeah? Well let’s try this one,’ said Ellie.

She leaned forward and kissed him long and hard, at the same time slipping her hand beneath the bed sheet.

After about thirty seconds she pulled back and said, ‘Yes, you seem to be making firm progress.’

‘Better than you imagine,’ said Pascoe rather hoarsely. ‘Test me again.’

‘I think once is enough at this stage in your convalescence,’ she said primly.

‘You reckon? Do you think the NHS trains its nurses in this technique?’

‘Yes, but you need BUPA for that. By the way, that nice matronly woman with the Scottish accent, who is she exactly?’

‘Sandy Glenister? She’s a Chief Super from the anti-terrorist unit.’

‘I thought that’s what she said, but I wasn’t paying too much attention.’

‘So what did you talk about?’

‘I don’t know. You, I suppose.’

‘Me?’ said Pascoe, alarmed. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘What do you think I told her?’ retorted Ellie indignantly. ‘Where you’ve stashed all that drug money you’ve stolen? I was upset, believe it or not, and she was kind.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe placatingly. ‘She does seem very kind. All the same, better check your purse and change your PINs.’

Ellie smiled the smile of a woman confident that no one of either sex could sweet-talk her out of anything she didn’t want to give.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Last time I was late picking Rosie up from rehearsal, I found her sitting on the school wall, playing her clarinet. There was some change on the ground in front of her, but I suspect she’d put it there herself.’

‘Pity,’ said Pascoe. ‘Nice if she could be self-supporting. Give her my love. And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.’

‘Yeah. Pete, what shall I tell her about Andy? I think she needs to know how bad things are, just in case…’

‘In case what?’ snapped Pascoe. ‘Sorry. Tell her the truth; that’s what we’ve always tried, isn’t it? But keep it cool, yes?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘By the way, they gave me what was left of your clothes. I went through your trouser pockets before I dumped them. Found a dental plate.’

‘It’s Andy’s,’ he said. ‘Clean it up, will you? He’ll want it when…’

His voice creaked into silence.

‘I’ll clean it,’ said Ellie, stooping to kiss him. ‘Now I’ve got to dash. But you won’t be lonely. I think I spotted another visitor lurking.’

She grinned as she spoke and a few moments later Pascoe realized why. The door slowly opened and a dolorous visage appeared, its brow puckered with uncertainty, like a sheep contemplating a gap in the hedge which separated its field from a busy motorway.

‘Hector,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to visit. Or are you just looking for the lavatory?’

He was surprised to hear himself make the joke. Usually he made a conscious effort not to join in the friendly piss-taking which Hector provoked among his colleagues.

Maybe somewhere deep inside, or not so deep, I blame him, he thought. If it hadn’t been for Hector, none of this would have started. Or if someone else had started it, then perhaps Dalziel would have taken it more seriously. Or…

He pushed the thoughts aside and forced a smile.

‘Come in then,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

Slowly Hector advanced. Like many lanky men, he walked with his head held low and thrust forward, as if to distract attention from his height. At moments of maximum uncertainty, which were many, the posture was so exaggerated that he put Pascoe in mind of those men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders that Desdemona seemed to find a turn-on. Dalziel, less literary but in his own way just as poetic, had once said to him, ‘For God’s sake, straighten thyself up, lad. You look like someone’s hung your tunic on a coat hanger with you still in it!’

Perched on the edge of the chair, he stared fixedly at Pascoe.

‘So,’ said Pascoe heartily. ‘And how are things down at the factory? I mean, the Station. The Police Station.’

It was as well to be precise in your intercourse with Hector.

‘OK,’ said Hector. ‘I mean, everyone’s dead worried about you and Mr Dalziel, but.’

‘Are they? Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine. And the Super, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

There followed a long silence and Pascoe was thinking about bringing the visit to an end with a plea of fatigue when Hector burst out, ‘Is it true he’s going to die, sir?’

‘I hope not,’ said Pascoe, touched by the degree of concern shown. ‘But I’m afraid he is very ill. Look, Hector, you shouldn’t blame yourself…’

‘Blame who, sir?’ said Hector, screwing up his eyes in the effort of concentration.

Whoops, thought Pascoe. Got that wrong, didn’t I. Whatever’s bothering Hector, it’s not a sense of guilt.

‘Blame anyone,’ he said. ‘It’s no one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen to anyone.’

Hector nodded vigorously, very much at home with the concept of awful things that could happen to anyone but which for some reason were more likely to happen to him.

‘I gather you’ve been talking to Mrs Glenister,’ Pascoe went on; then, observing a familiar blankness spreading across Hector’s face, he added, ‘Chief Superintendent Glenister from the anti-terrorism unit.’

‘Glenister?’ said Hector. ‘Joker said her name were Sinister. Her who speaks funny?’

Deafness clearly hadn’t affected Constable Jennison’s love of a laugh, thought Pascoe, for which I suppose we ought to be grateful.

‘Yes, she does. It’s called a Scottish accent. That’s Mrs Glenister all right. I hope you were able to help her.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Hector, very positive. ‘Kept on asking about the men I saw in the shop. Asking and asking. I started getting a bit confused but Mrs Sinister—sorry, Mrs Glenister—said not to worry as the men I saw must have got blown up anyway. Then she helped me with my report.’

‘That was nice of her,’ said Pascoe. ‘And it’s nice of you to come visiting. But I’m a bit tired now, Hector…’

He paused and started counting to fifty. Dropping a hint to Hector was like turning on an old-fashioned wireless. You had to wait for the valves to warm up.

At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, ‘I’d best be going.’

He took a step towards the door. then turned back.

‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Brought you this—’

Out of the depths of his tunic jacket he took a paper bag which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. Then he set off again, this time reaching the door before he halted once more.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I hope Mr Dalziel doesn’t die. He’s been very good to me.’

Then he was gone, leaving Pascoe only a little less amazed than he would have been if the angel Gabriel had popped in to tell him he’d been chosen to have a baby.

He settled back into his pillows to contemplate the nature of the Fat Man’s goodness towards Hector, noticed the paper bag on his locker, reached out and picked it up.

It contained, rather squashed but not beyond recognition, a custard tart.

‘Oh shit,’ said Pascoe.

And suddenly for some reason beyond reason, the barrier he’d been erecting both consciously and unconsciously between himself and the events in Mill Street crumbled like the walls of Number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.