The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill
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taking notice.’
‘Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what they’re like in these places, getting good info’s harder than getting your dinner wine properly chambré.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Wield. ‘Take care.’
He left and Pascoe eased himself properly upright in the bed, trying to assess what he really felt like. There didn’t seem to be many parts of his body which didn’t give a retaliatory twinge when provoked, but, ribs apart, nothing that threatened much beyond discomfort. He wondered if he could get out of bed without assistance. He had got himself sitting upright and was pushing the bed sheet off his legs preparatory to swinging them round when the door opened and the ginger woman came in.
‘Glad to see you’re feeling better, Peter,’ she said, ‘but I think you should stay put a wee while longer. Or was it a bed pan you wanted?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.
‘That’s OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Anti-Terrorism unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably don’t remember.’
‘Vaguely, ma’am,’ said Pascoe. ‘In fact I seem to recall being a bit rude…’
Glenister said, ‘Think nothing of it. Rudeness is good, it needs a working mind to be rude. I’d just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldn’t believe the first, but it didn’t get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?’
‘Expressing himself isn’t his strongest point,’ said Pascoe.
‘So you’re saying that what I’ve got out of him is probably as much as I’m likely to get?’ said Glenister. ‘His descriptions of the men he saw are, to say the least, sketchy.’
‘He does his best,’ said Pascoe defensively. ‘Anyway, surely it’ll be DNA, fingerprints, dental records, that are going to identify the poor devils in there?’
‘Aye, we should be able to find enough of them for that,’ said Glenister.
She was mid to late forties, Pascoe guessed, full figured to the point where she fitted her tweed suit comfortably but if she didn’t cut down on the deep-fried Mars Bars, she’d soon have to upsize. She had a pleasant friendly smile which lit up her round slightly weather-beaten face and put a sparkle into her soft brown eyes. If she’d been a doctor he would have felt immensely reassured.
Pascoe said, ‘You’ll want to debrief me, ma’am.’
Glenister smiled.
‘Debrief? I see you’re very with it here in Mid-Yorkshire. Me, I’m too old a parrot to learn new jargon. A full written report would be nice when you’re up to it. All I want now is a wee preliminary chat.’
She pulled a chair up to the bedside, sat down, produced a mini-cassette recorder from the shoulder bag she was carrying, and switched it on.
‘In your own words, Peter. All right to call you Peter? My friends call me Sandy.’
Trying to work out if this were an invitation or a warning, Pascoe launched into an account of his part in the incident, with some judicious editing, in the interest of clarity and brevity he told himself.
‘That’s good,’ said Glenister, nodding approval. ‘Succinct, to the point. Just what I need for the record.’
She pressed the off button on the recorder, sat back in her chair and took a tube of Smarties out of her shoulder bag.
‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘So long as it’s not blue.’
‘No thanks,’ said Pascoe.
‘Wise man,’ she said. ‘I started on the sweeties when I stopped the ciggies. When I realized five bars of fruit-and-nut a day were going to kill me as surely as forty fags, I tried to go cold turkey and that nearly had me back on the nicotine. Now I treat myself to a Smartie whenever the urge comes on. Just the one. Except if it’s a blue one. Then I can have another. God knows what I’ll do now they’re stopping the blue ones.’
She gave him that attractive smile, mocking herself. She really should have been a doctor, thought Peter. With a bedside manner like this, she could have sold urine samples at a guinea a bottle.
‘Now let’s stray off the record, Peter,’ she said, popping one of the tiny sweets into her mouth (a yellow one, he noticed) and settling herself more comfortably into her chair. ‘Just you and me. Thoughts and impressions this time. And maybe just a wee bit more detail. For a start, why were you really there?’
‘I told you. Inspector Ireland rang me and I went to assist.’
‘And why did Paddy Ireland ring you?’
‘Because of my negotiating experience, I suppose,’ said Pascoe. But even as he spoke he was registering the Paddy as a gentle reminder that Glenister had already interviewed the inspector.
‘And because I think he felt that, as the video shop had been flagged by you people, Mr Dalziel might be grateful for some assistance,’ he added.
‘And was he?’
‘I think so.’
‘But he hadn’t contacted you himself?’
‘He wouldn’t care to disturb me on my day off,’ said Pascoe.
‘A most considerate man then. I gather he even offered to obtain refreshment for the people inside Number 3.’
So she knew about the bit of knockabout with the bullhorn. Hector. Or Jennison. Or Maycock. Why wouldn’t they describe exactly what had happened? Even if they’d tried to play it down, they’d have been easy meat for this bedside manner.
He said, ‘Yes, Mr Dalziel did try to make contact with anyone who might be inside the shop.’
‘Who “might” be? You had doubts?’
‘Our information seemed a bit vague.’
‘Vague? Not quite with you there. Foot patrol sees an armed man in Number 3. Reports it to the car-patrol officers who pass it on to the duty inspector who alerts the station commander. Don’t see where the vagueness lies. All by the book so far.’
‘Yes, and that’s the way it continued,’ said Pascoe firmly. ‘Knowing that the property was flagged, Mr Dalziel made sure your people were alerted then proceeded to Mill Street as instructed.’
‘As instructed?’ Glenister chuckled.
Chuckling was a dying art, thought Pascoe; genuine chuckling that was, not just that pretence of suppressed mirth which politicians still use to make or, more often, avoid a point. But Glenister’s chuckle was the real McCoy.
‘My understanding of his instructions,’ continued the superintendent, ‘is that he was told to withdraw any police vehicles from Mill Street, establish blocks at its ends, maintain observation from a distance, and make no attempt to approach Number 3. Which bit of his instructions would you say Mr Dalziel followed, Peter?’
‘I don’t know because I’ve only your say-so that that’s what they were,’ retorted Pascoe, consigning to the recycle bin what the Fat Man had told him as they squatted behind the car. ‘But, if we’re portioning out responsibility, what I’m certain your instructions didn’t contain was any reference to the fact that there was enough explosive in the place to blow up the whole bloody terrace! But I guess you didn’t know that, else why would it only have a bottom-level flagging?’
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