The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill
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the three effs in officious. If you took your cue and pointed out that the word only contained two, he’d tell you what the third one stood for.
If you didn’t take your cue, he usually told you anyway.
Pascoe on the other hand was a master of diplomatic reticence.
‘Not a lot,’ he said.
What Ireland had actually said was, ‘Sorry to interrupt your day off, Pete, but I thought you should know. Report of an armed man on premises in Mill Street. Number 3.’
Then a pause as if anticipating a response.
The only response Pascoe felt like giving was, Why the hell have I been dragged off my hammock for this?
He said, ‘Paddy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m off duty today. Bank Holiday, remember? And Andy drew the short straw. Not his idea you rang, is it?’
‘Definitely not. It’s just that Number 3’s a video rental, Oroc Video, Asian and Arab stuff mainly…’
A faint bell began to ring in Pascoe’s mind.
‘Hang on. Isn’t it CAT flagged?’
‘Hooray. There is someone in CID who actually reads directives,’ said Ireland with heavy sarcasm.
CAT was the Combined Anti-Terrorism unit in which Special Branch officers worked alongside MI5 operatives. They flagged people and places on a sliding scale, the lowest level being premises not meriting formal surveillance but around which any unusual activity should be noted and notified.
Number 3 Mill Street was at this bottom level.
Pascoe, not liking to feel reproved, said, ‘Are you trying to tell me there’s some kind of Intifada brewing in Mill Street?’
‘Well, no,’ said Ireland. ‘It’s just that when I passed on the report to Andy…’
‘Oh good. You have told him. So, apart from not feeling it necessary to bother me, what action has he taken?’
He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but not very hard.
Ireland said in a hurt tone, ‘He said he’d go along and take a look soon as he finished his meat pie. I reminded him that 3 Mill Street was flagged, in case he’d missed it. He yawned, not a pretty sight when he’s eating a meat pie. But when I told him I’d already followed procedure and called it in, he got abusive. So I left him to it.’
‘Very wise,’ said Pascoe, also yawning audibly. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that he’s just passed my office, yelling that he’s on his way to Mill Street so maybe I’ll be satisfied now that I’ve ruined his day.’
‘But you’re not?’
A deep intake of breath; then in a quietly controlled voice, ‘What I’m not satisfied is that the super is taking what could be a serious situation seriously. But of course I’m happy to leave it in the expert hands of CID. Sorry to have bothered you.’
The phone went down hard.
Pompous prat, thought Pascoe, setting off back to the garden to share his irritation with his wife. To his surprise she’d said thoughtfully, ‘Last time I saw Andy, he was going on about how bored he’s getting with the useless bastards running things. He sounded ripe for a bit of mischief. Maybe you ought to check this out, love, before he starts the next Gulf War single-handed. Half an hour wouldn’t harm.’
None of this did he care to reveal to Dalziel.
‘Not a lot,’ he repeated. ‘So perhaps you’d like to fill me in.’
‘Why not? Then you can shog off home. Being a clever bugger, you’ll likely know Number 3’s CAT flagged? Or did Ireland have to tell you too?’
‘No, but he did give me a shove,’ admitted Pascoe.
‘There you go,’ said Dalziel triumphantly. ‘Since the London bombings, them silly sods have put out more flags than we did on Coronation Day. Faintest sniff of a Middle East connection and they’re cocking their legs to lay down a marker.’
‘Yes, I did hear they wanted to flag the old Mecca Ballroom at Mirely!’
A reminiscent smile lit up Dalziel’s face, like moonlight on a mountain.
‘The Mirely Mecca,’ he said dreamily. ‘Had some good times there in the old days. There were this lass from Donny. Tottie Truman. Her tango could get you done for indecent behaviour—’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘I’m sure she was a charming girl vertically or horizontally—’
‘Nay, ho’d on!’ interrupted the Fat Man in his turn. ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to put folk in boxes. It’s a bad habit of yours, that. Tottie weren’t just a bit of squashy flesh, tha knows. She had muscle too. By God, if they’d let women throw the hammer she’d have been a gold medallist! I once saw her chuck a wellie from halfway at a rugby club barbecue and it were still rising as it went over the posts. I thought of wedding her, but she got religion. Just think of the front row we could have bred!’
It was time to stop this trip down memory lane.
Pascoe said, ‘Very interesting. But perhaps we should concentrate on the situation in hand. Which is…?’
‘That’s the trouble with you youngsters,’ said Dalziel sadly. ‘No time to smell the flowers along the way. All right. Sit rep. Foot-patrol officer reported seeing a man in Number 3 with a gun. Passed on the info to a patrol car who called in for instructions. So here we are. What do you make of it so far?’
The Fat Man had moved into playful mode. It’s guessing-game time, thought Pascoe. Robbery in process? Hardly worth it in Mill Street, unless you were a particularly thick villain. This wasn’t the commercial hub of the city, just the far end of a very rusty spoke. The mill itself had a preservation order on it and there’d been talk of refurbishing it as an industrial Heritage Centre, but not even the Victorian Society had objected to the proposed demolition of the jerry-built terrace to make space for a car park.
The mill project, however, had run into difficulties over Lottery funding.
Right wingers said this was because it didn’t advantage handicapped lesbian asylum seekers; left wingers because it failed to subsidize the Treasury.
Whatever, plans to demolish the terrace had gone on hold.
The remaining residents had long been rehoused and, rather than have a decaying slum on their hands, the council encouraged small businesses in search of an address and office space to move in and give the buildings an occupied look. Most of these businesses proved as short-lived as the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, and the only survivors at present were Crofts & Wills, patent agents, at Number 6 and Oroc Video at Number 3.
All of which interesting historical analysis brought Pascoe no nearer to understanding what they were doing here.
Losing patience, he said, ‘OK, so there might be a man with a gun in there. I presume you’ve some strategy planned. Or are you going to rush him single-handed?’
‘Not now there’s two of us. But you always were a bugger for the subtle approach, so let’s start with that.’
So saying, the Fat Man rose to his feet, picked up a bullhorn from the bonnet of his car, put it to his lips and bellowed, ‘All right, we know you’re in there. We’ve got you surrounded. Come out with your hands up and no one will get hurt.’
He scratched himself under the armpit, then sat down again.