The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill
Glenister gave a little frown. Maybe she objected to Freeman’s rather peremptory tone in the presence of a native. Who was it held the whip hand in this weird twilight zone the CAT people inhabited? Pascoe wondered.
She said, ‘Can it wait a moment, Dave?’
‘No.’
Well, that was certainly the sound of a whip-crack, thought Pascoe.
Glenister said, ‘Peter, let’s continue this later, all right?’
‘Why not? I’ll see if I can fit you in,’ he said. ‘Dave, good to see you again.’
He left, closing the door firmly behind him and resisting a strong temptation to press his ear to the woodwork.
Instead he went to see Wield and put him in the picture about the bullet.
His reaction was familiar.
‘So Hector could’ve been right. Had to happen! What’s Sandy going to do?’
‘Fuck knows,’ said Pascoe. ‘Get her own examination done, then probably kick the whole thing into touch if it doesn’t fit her agenda.’
‘Pete, you’ve got to wait and see,’ protested Wield. ‘Like I told you yesterday, she really seems to be treading eggshells to make sure we don’t feel sidelined.’
‘You reckon? Well, I think pretty soon you’re going to hear a great deal of crunching underfoot. Something’s happened, and us being on the need-to-know list is even less likely than Hector getting things right. And if you’d care to bet on that, I’ll just run home and get the deeds of the house!’
A man who had left a garden hammock to get blown up on an English Bank Holiday should have learned to distrust certainties.
Fortunately Wield didn’t take the bet. Fifteen minutes later Pascoe got a summons to the CAT Ops Room. When he arrived he was met by men coming out carrying computer equipment. Inside he found Glenister talking animatedly into the scrambler phone. As he approached she finished speaking and handed the receiver to one of her men who unplugged the phone and put it into a box.
‘You’re moving out?’ said Pascoe.
‘Yes, we’re on our way. Wouldn’t have been long anyway, we were just about done here, but something’s happened. What do you know about Said Mazraani?’
‘Just what I’ve seen and read. Lebanese academic, teaches at Manchester, good looking, talks well, dresses smart, claims high-level contacts throughout the Middle East. In other words, all the right qualifications for getting on the talking-head shows whenever they want an apparently rational Muslim extremist viewpoint. What the papers called the acceptable face of terrorism until he blotted his copybook with Paxman.’
This had been the previous month, after the kidnapping and videoed execution of an English businessman called Stanley Coker. Mazraani had been trotted out to give an insight into the motives and mindset of the kidnappers, a group calling themselves the Sword of the Prophet. He prefaced his remarks with a fulsome expression of sympathy for the dead man’s family, which he repeated when asked if he unreservedly condemned the killing. ‘Very nice of you,’ said Paxman. ‘But do you condemn the killing?’ Again the verbiage, again the question. And again, and again. And never a direct answer came.
Next day the papers went to town, led as always by the People’s Voice.
The People’s Voice, the youngest and fastest-growing of the tabloids, was in fact not so much the voice of the people as the rant of the slightly pissed know-it-all in the saloon bar who isn’t fooled by government statements, legal verdicts, historical analyses, or forensic evidence, but knows what he knows, and knows he’s right!
The Voice headline screamed
BEHEADING HOSTAGES IS OK! (so long as it’s done in the best possible taste)
‘That’s the one,’ said Glenister. ‘Well, barring miracles, he’s done his last talking-head show. For the past two days there’s been a rumour that Al Jazeera had received a tape showing an execution, a beheading. But not a Western hostage this time. A Muslim.’
‘So? In Iraq they’ve shown little compunction about killing their own.’ Then it came to him what she was saying. ‘You don’t mean…?’
‘This morning the BBC, ITV and Sky all received copies of what is presumably the same tape. Yes, it’s definitely Mazraani. He hadn’t been seen in any of his usual haunts for several days. We sent a team to visit his flat in Manchester. They were told to be discreet but there was already enough of a smell to bother the neighbours. He was in there, him and his head, quite close but not touching. Plus another man not known to us.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Pascoe. ‘Was he beheaded too?’
‘No. Shot. They want me back over there now. Mazraani was on my worksheet.’
‘This sounds like big trouble,’ said Pascoe.
‘More than you can imagine,’ she said grimly.
‘Well, thanks for bringing me up to date…’ he began.
‘That’s not why I sent for you,’ she interrupted. ‘It will be in the papers anyway. Al Jazeera have said they’re going to broadcast today. No, what I wanted to say, Peter, was I’ve asked Dan Trimble if I can take you with us. He says fine, if you feel up to it.’
Pascoe was gobsmacked and made no attempt to hide it.
‘But why…?’ he managed.
‘Peter, I can’t be certain, but I’ve got a feeling there might be some link with what happened here. Being as involved as you are usually means that judgments get blurred, corners cut. But from what I’ve seen, I get the impression it’s just tightened your focus, heightened your responses. If there are any connections, could be you’re the one most likely to sniff them out. So what do you say? Couple of days can’t hurt, and you’ll only be an hour or so’s drive away.’
Pascoe hesitated, finding this hard to take in. He was given a breathing space by the appearance of Freeman, who gave Glenister a file and Pascoe a flicker of those cold eyes before disappearing.
‘You say you’ve cleared this with the Chief?’ he said. ‘What about your bosses?’
‘They’re fine with it.’
He found himself reluctant to accept the unanimity of this vote of confidence.
‘And Freeman? I bet he jumped for joy.’
‘Not the jumping kind,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though in fact it was Dave who put the idea in my head. You’ve made a big impression there.’
This got zanier.
He said, ‘I’ll need to talk to…people…’
‘Your wife? She struck me as a sensible woman. I’ll have a word if you like, assure her I’ll take good care of you.’
Pascoe smiled.
‘No, I’ll take care of that,’ he said.
‘That’s a yes then. Good. Go and get packed.’
As Pascoe moved away he wondered what Glenister would have said if he’d told her that what really worried him was the prospect of admitting to Wield that he’d got it absolutely wrong.
The sergeant didn’t gloat. That wasn’t his thing, but he surprised Pascoe by saying, ‘Pete, watch your back out there.’
‘Watch my back? It’s Manchester I’m going to, Wieldy, not Marrakesh.’
‘So? There’s funny buggers in Manchester too,’ said Wield. ‘You take care.’