The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill
shit on Hector, in fact, shit on Mid-Yorkshire policework generally. He thought he was getting the message.
He stood up and said, ‘Thanks, Dave,’ to Freeman.
‘Any time, Pete.’
Pete. Was this kid his own rank? Or just a cheeky sergeant?
Neither, the answer came to him. The C in CAT stood for combined. Freeman was a spook. Did Trimble know that Glenister had imported non-police personnel into the Station? Of course he did! Pascoe answered himself angrily. He was getting as paranoid as Andy Dalziel about the security services.
Glenister was observing him as if his reactions were scrolling across his forehead.
He went up to her and said brusquely, ‘So what’s the state of play now?’
‘Complex. We’re working backwards and forwards at the same time, trying to trace where all this explosive we didn’t know about came from, and what it was they planned to do with it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Peter. I’ll get your PC linked to our network here so you’ll have everything at your fingertips and not need to wear a hole in the corridor running along here every time you need an update. But do drop in any time you need to. For obvious reasons we need to have a bit of a firewall between us and the rest of the Station. But as far as you’re concerned, you’re fireproof. And I’m hoping it will be two-way traffic. Anything you think may help, don’t hesitate. You’re the man on the spot. Your input could be invaluable.’
It was an exit-cue if ever he’d heard one.
But for all her vibrantly sincere assurances, as Pascoe returned to his own office he felt less like a protagonist with big speeches still to come than an attendant lord, fit to swell a progress or start a scene or two.
In fact it occurred to him as his ribs twinged and his knee began to ache that at the moment he didn’t actually feel fit enough even for those walk-on roles.
And when Edgar Wield looked in twenty minutes later and found him half slumped across his desk, he made no protest as the sergeant escorted him down the stairs to the car park and drove him home.
Archambaud de St Agnan said, ‘Aren’t we too close?’
‘For what?’ said Andre de Montbard. ‘He’s used to being followed. That’s what makes it so easy.’
Ahead of them, the silver Saab turned right into a long street of tall Edwardian houses and came to a halt after about fifty yards. Andre pulled the black Jaguar into the kerb some three car lengths behind.
The driver of the Saab got out. He was a tall, athletically built man with shoulder-length hair and a lean intelligent face with a neat black moustache beneath an aquiline nose. Pausing beneath a street lamp to look back at the Jaguar, he put his hands together and made a small perfunctory bow before running lightly up the steps, inserting a key and vanishing through the door.
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Andre. ‘Thinks he’s bullet proof. He’s due a reality check.’
He got out, opened the back door and took out a sports bag.
‘You OK?’ he said to Archambaud who hadn’t moved.
‘Yeah. Fine.’
Andre said, ‘Listen, it’s OK to be scared. Really. Ones I always looked for were the ones who didn’t look scared first time out. Remember what they did to your uncle, OK? All you’ve got to do is give him a tap, I’ll be taking care of the serious stuff. Crap yourself if you must, so long as you don’t freeze, OK?’
Managing a smile, Archambaud said, ‘I’ll try to avoid both.’
‘So let’s do it.’
They walked quickly along the pavement and climbed the steps of the house. Andre glanced down the list of names by the bell-pushes, selected the one marked Mazraani and pressed.
After a short delay a voice came over the intercom.
‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’
‘Just like a quick word, sir,’ said Andre.
‘By all means. Won’t you come up?’
They heard the wards of the door lock click open.
‘See? Easy.’
They went inside. There was a lift but Andre ignored it and set off up the stairs.
The flat they wanted was on the second floor. They rang the bell. When the door opened, they went in. There were two men in the room, which was conventionally furnished with a sofa and easy chair, a hi-fi system from which, turned well down, came the voice of a woman singing in Arabic, and heavy oak dining table with four matching chairs. The tall man from the Saab was standing in front of the table, facing them. The other man, in his twenties with a wispy beard, sat in the easy chair. He was smoking a richly scented cigarette and avoided eye contact with the newcomers.
‘Evening, Mr Mazraani,’ said Andre to the tall man. ‘And this is…?’
‘My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.’
‘That’s nice. Anyone else in the flat?’
‘No. Just the two of us,’ he replied.
‘Mind if we check that? Arch.’
Archambaud went out of a door to the left. After a few moments he came back into the living room and said, ‘Clear.’
‘So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves? For the tape?’
Mazraani’s voice was bland and urbane. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation, by contrast with the other man who looked resentful and apprehensive.
Andre said, ‘Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard, Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr Archambaud de St Agnan. He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa? Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice, and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.’
He moved to the hi-fi and turned up the volume, using his index knuckle.
Then he set his sports bag on the table, unzipped it, reached inside and took out an automatic pistol with a silencer attached.
A look of disbelief touched Mazraani’s features but the seated man did not even have time to register fear before Andre shot him between the eyes from short range.
‘Sorry about that, sir, but we wanted to talk to you privately,’ said Andre. ‘So why don’t you just relax and we’ll have that drink.’
Horror at what he’d just seen had paralysed Mazraani. He stood there looking down at the body, blinking now and then as if trying to clear the image from his vision, his mouth open but no words coming out.
Andre nodded at his companion, who looked almost as shocked as Mazraani.
‘Wake up, Arch!’ snapped Andre.
The man called de St Agnan gave a twitch, then reached into his pocket, took out a leaden cosh and swung it against Mazraani’s neck with tremendous force. He gave a choking groan and sank to his knees.
‘There, that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ said Andre. ‘And unless my nose has got stuffed up, you’ve not even crapped yourself yet. Now it’s show time.’
He went back to the sports bag and took out a video camera which he passed to Archambaud. Next came a black hood with eye-holes which he pulled over his head, then a pair of long latex gloves which he put on.
Now he took out a length of polished wood, about two and half feet long, like the extension butt of a snooker cue. And finally he drew forth a bin-liner from