The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill
urge to come over regimental and insist on his rank.
‘Just out for a stroll, Dave. With my daughter’s dog.’
On cue, Tig, having retrieved his bit of plastic melt-down, returned to wag his tail at the newcomer. Pascoe was childishly pleased to see some of the ash thus redistributed drift on to Freeman’s immaculate shoes.
‘And you’re out for a stroll too, Sergeant?’ the CAT man said to Wield, who Pascoe noted had slipped the plastic folder under his shirt.
‘Sir,’ said the sergeant.
Wield’s sir coming from a face as expressionless as a quarry wall was so neutral it could have been Swiss.
‘How about you, Dave? What brings you here?’ enquired Pascoe.
‘Just here to see the site clearance people get a start. Sometimes a JCB can uncover something a finger search has missed.’
‘You think you might have missed something?’ said Pascoe with ironic incredulity.
‘It happens. We can only try to be less fallible than the opposition,’ said Freeman.
‘What’s that,’ said Pascoe, ‘CAT calendar quote for July?’
Even Wield looked slightly surprised at this heavy-handed mockery.
‘One thing you did miss, sir,’ he came in quickly. ‘Or mebbe it’s me that’s missed it. But looking through the file I didn’t see any mention of the keyholder at Number 6.’
‘Number 6?’ said Freeman.
‘Yes, sir. The only other premises in the terrace still occupied. Crofts & Wills, patent agents.’
They all looked towards Number 6. The blast from Number 3 had ripped Numbers 4 and 5 apart but hadn’t been quite strong enough to bring down the gable of the end house, which was presumably made of sterner stuff than the internal separating walls. The fire which followed the blast had done its best but there was still a good fifteen feet or so of blackened brickwork standing.
‘Someone checked them out,’ said Freeman off-handedly. ‘Seems they were going out of business and had cleared their office that weekend. Lucky break. For them, I mean.’
‘Funny place for a Patents Agency, Mill Street,’ observed Pascoe.
‘Indeed. Could be that’s why they went out of business,’ said Freeman.
Pascoe didn’t reply but set out towards the end of the terrace.
‘Shouldn’t get too close to that wall,’ called Wield. ‘Doesn’t look very safe.’
Pascoe ignored him. Like a child determined to demonstrate its independence, he went right up to the derelict wall and peered through the gap where a door had been blown out, its aluminium frame still hanging drunkenly from its hinges. Here he had a view down the whole length of the terrace to the matching wall of Number 1 which, having only one intervening house to cushion the blast, had taken a harder hit and at its highest point rose no more than five feet from the ground.
What the fuck am I doing here? Pascoe asked himself. What is it I expect? That those little swirls of dust and ash raised by Tig will shape themselves into the wraith of one of the poor bastards who blew himself up here? And even if that did happen, what would I want to ask him?
He turned away and rejoined the other two. As he did so, two trucks, one of them carrying a JCB, came rolling up to the barrier.
‘Here come the horny-handed sons of toil,’ said Freeman. ‘No rush though, Peter. First thing they’ll do is erect a canvas hut and get a brew going, so plenty of time to complete your examination of the site.’
He’s taking the piss, thought Pascoe.
He said, ‘Right, Wieldy. Let’s be off,’ and with a curt nod, he set off to the car.
‘Seems a nice enough guy,’ said the sergeant falling into step.
‘You reckon? Your type, is he, Wieldy?’
‘Could be he’s a bi-guy,’ said Wield equably. ‘But if you mean, do I fancy him, then no. All I meant was, he’s polite and helpful. You don’t agree?’
‘He’s a spook,’ said Pascoe. ‘Probably a prick too. It’s a condition of service.’
He got into the car. Tig followed dustily, dropping his lump of melted plastic on to the floor and taking his place at the open window.
‘Where now?’ said Wield. ‘Back home?’
‘Not with Tig in this state. He needs a swim in the river, so drop me by the park.’
He reached down to pick up Tig’s trophy, intending to drop it out of the window, but as he retrieved it, he felt something move inside. He raised it to his ear and gave it a shake. It rattled. Wield glanced at him.
‘Thinking of taking up the maracas?’ he asked.
‘Only if I can hold a rose between my teeth,’ said Pascoe, pocketing the piece of plastic. ‘Wieldy, sorry about what I said. About you and Freeman and Glenister, I mean.’
‘No problem, long as you let me take a picture of you with the rose.’
‘You’ll be the first, I promise you that!’
The two men smiled at each other. Wield removed the file from under his shirt and passed it over to Pascoe. Tig barked joyously at a passing starling.
Behind them, in Mill Street, Dave Freeman talked into his mobile phone.
Andy Dalziel is floating uneasily above Mid-Yorkshire.
His unease derives not from his ability to defy gravity, which seems quite natural, but his fear that someone below might mistake him for a zeppelin and shoot him down.
Not that England is currently at war with anyone likely to use zeppelins.
On the other hand what lies directly beneath him does look a bit like a bomb site.
It occurs to him that this might be exactly what it is. Hard to identify even the familiar from above, but isn’t that the old wool mill…and over there the railway line with a no-man’s land of desolation between…?
And don’t the spirits of the dead come back to haunt the place where they passed away?
But he’d shaken off Death, hadn’t he?
A starling circles him twice, then settles on his shoulder.
‘Watch what you’re doing up there,’ says Dalziel, squinting at it. ‘I’m not a fucking statue.’
The bird’s beady eyes fix on his. With its smooth gleaming head hunched down between its folded wings, it reminds him of…Hector!
‘Sod off!’ commands Dalziel. ‘I’m not dead!’
The bird’s gaze communicates an indifference worse than mockery.
The Fat Man feels his gut twist and tauten.
The pressure becomes intolerable.
He breaks wind.
The relief is huge and more than physical.
‘Dead men don’t fart!’ he cries triumphantly.
The starling rises from off his shoulder and flutters before his face as though contemplating sinking its arrowhead beak into his eyes.
Dalziel breaks wind again, this time with such force he gets lift-off and accelerates into the bright blue yonder like a Cape Canaveral rocket. Soon the startled starling is nothing more than a distant mote, high above which an overweight,