Death Comes for the Fat Man

12

Next morning when Rosie heard about the proposed hospital visit she said, “I’ll come too.”

“No,” said Pascoe more shortly than he intended. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Uncle Andy’s very ill. Very ill indeed.”

“That’s why I want to see him.”

“But he still hasn’t woken up, he won’t know you’re there.”

“He won’t know you’re there either and that doesn’t stop you from going.”

But it didn’t make it easy, thought Pascoe. Was he just transferring to Rosie his own unhappiness at the prospect of sitting at the Fat Man’s side, murmuring a few awkward self-conscious phrases in his ear, but the growing conviction that if this unresponsive hulk could hear anything, it was only the melancholy, long, withdrawing roar of that same tide of life which had beached him here?

“OK,” said Pascoe. “If Mum says it’s OK, you can come.”

He looked at Ellie. She gave him the look she usually gave him when he wished a decision about Rosie on to her, but her voice was even and pleasant as she said, “Of course you can go, darling, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that’s what I want,” said the girl. “What time shall I be ready?”

She spoke with great aplomb, but as they approached Dalziel’s room, Pascoe was able to gauge from the increased pressure of her fingers around his that she was as nervous as he was.

When he pushed open the door, it was a relief to see Cap Marvell sitting by the bedside.

She was talking to the recumbent figure, naturally, easily, with none of the self-consciousness of his own attempts. Indeed, as if in the middle of a real conversation, she gave them a welcoming smile but didn’t break off till she’d finished what she had to say.

“…and the bastard said I was trespassing and if I didn’t get off his land, he was in his rights to throw me off, and I asked if he could drive a tractor one-handed, because if he laid a finger on me I’d break his arm. Then I rang the RSPCA. Had to wait an hour till they got there, but I didn’t trust him not to blow the poor beast’s brains out and drag it off and hide the body if I left. Now here’s Peter and Rosie to see you. Hello, you two. Rosie, how are you? It’s been an age since I saw you. You’re still awfully thin, my dear. I hope you’re eating properly. How’s school?”

Amanda Marvell had shed much of the conditioning of her upbringing, but in her attitude to children the spirit of nanny and nursery still clung close.

“Fine,” said Rosie.

She began to walk slowly round the bed as if determined to get the fullest possible view of the Fat Man.

Cap had a small bottle in her hand which she now held beneath Dalziel’s nose.

“Smelling salts?” inquired Pascoe.

She smiled and moved the bottle beneath his nose.

A peaty, spirituous aroma floated out of it.

“Lagavulin,” she said. “Very distinctive.”

“Good Lord. Do you think it does any good?” said Pascoe doubtfully.

“Watch this.”

She produced another small bottle, removed the stopper, and held that under Dalziel’s nostrils, which immediately crinkled in seeming distaste.

“Gin,” said Cap. “Which Andy thinks is only fit for disinfecting urinals.”

“What do the staff here think of your…treatment?”

“The staff?” she said, puzzled. “How on earth should I know?”

She was truly formidable. Pascoe wasn’t absolutely certain how much he liked her, and though always friendly toward him, he occasionally got the feeling that she regarded him as a Leporello to the great Don. In build she was Wagnerian rather than Mozartian, in this at least a fit consort for the Fat Man. In background (landed gentry), education (St. Dorothy’s Academy), and beliefs (animal rights, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth), she was a Scots mile away from him. In bed…the collective imagination of the Mid-Yorkshire constabulary had become considerably overheated fantasizing on their carnal relationship. “Whales do it,” PC Maycock had said. “Yes, but they do it in water,” PC Jennison had responded. On land or in sea, the Fat Man and his buxom leman seemed to be managing very well, thank you.

Rosie meanwhile had settled herself on a chair on the other side of the bed, leaning forward. Her eyes were wide open and fixed unblinkingly on Dalziel’s face.

Pascoe said, “Any change?”

“I got the impression he was getting bored with the Big Bands, so I’ve changed the tape,” said Cap. “Thought he’d like this.”

She showed him a cassette box which advertised that it contained the perfect music to turn your dull Anglo-Saxon New Year into a hootenanny Hogmanay ceilidh.

“Good, good,” said Pascoe, thinking, The world is full of seriously weird people. And I should know, living with two of them.

He said, “Look, we won’t interrupt. There’s another of our officers in hospital. I think I’ll pop along and see him. Rosie, you want to come and say hello to Constable Hector?”

The girl didn’t respond. She was leaning so far forward now, her face was almost touching the Fat Man’s. She’d had to move some of his tubes and wires to get so close.

“Rosie?” he said, faintly alarmed. “Be careful you don’t get tangled in that stuff.”

Detective’s daughter switches her dad’s boss off. That would be a headline to set alongside the one about Cousin Mick.

“Rosie!” he said more sternly.

She stood up and came to the end of the bed.

“OK,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Pascoe felt a coward at his readiness to take off after such a very short visit, but at least he’d made an excuse, however feeble, whereas Rosie’s response just sounded totally indifferent.

He glanced apologetically at Cap, who gave him an ironic smile as if she knew he was running for cover.

He said defensively, “Maybe we can look in again on our way out.”

Rosie said, “No need. We’re done for now.”

This hardly improved matters.

“We?” he said sternly. As he spoke the word, it occurred to him it didn’t feel as if it included him or Cap.

“Me and Uncle Andy.”

Was she saying she’d taken her farewell? Not a road to go down here and now.

He said, “OK. Let’s go then. Oh by the way, Cap. You’d better have this, for when he wakes up.”

He handed her a plastic bag containing Dalziel’s dental plate.

To his horror, he saw her eyes fill. She doesn’t really believe he’s going to recover either, he thought.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the bag. “Good of you to come. You too, Rosie.”

The girl looked at her thoughtfully, then said, “I think he’d like the Scottish music now. ’Bye.”

In the corridor Pascoe said, “How did you know Cap had brought some Scottish music for Uncle Andy?”

“Didn’t she tell us?”

“No. Perhaps you saw the box.”

“That must have been it. I’m going to get Uncle Andy to teach me the sword dance when he comes home. He’s got some real claymores in his attic.”

This was true. Pascoe had seen them one night when he’d accompanied the Fat Man home for a nightcap after the enthusiastic celebration of a successful case. The nightcap had turned into a whole milliner’s shop, and something had been said which provoked Dalziel into giving a demonstration of his prowess. For ten minutes his stockinged feet had performed intricate and athletic steps between the gleaming blades of the crossed claymores without a single mistake. Finished, he had essayed a bow and toppled over across a substantial coffee table which he reduced to matchwood.

Maybe Rosie had overheard him describing the scene to Ellie.

They got directions to Hector’s ward from a nurse. As they approached, a man came from the opposite direction and began to open the door. He paused when the Pascoes halted, preparatory to following him into the room.

Through the half-open door they could see two beds, one with Hector’s unmistakable head, eyes closed, on the pillow, the other empty but looking as if it had been recently occupied.

“Damn,” said the man. “He must have gone to the dayroom. I’ll check it out.”

With a courteous smile he held the door open to allow them to pass, then closed it behind them.

They approached Hector’s bed. Sleep had smoothed his normal waking emotions of doubt and concern from the constable’s face and for a moment Pascoe saw him as he might have been if life hadn’t set such ambushes in his path.

Then the eyes opened, the old bewilderment returned, followed after a little while by recognition and an attempt thwarted by his long legs to stiffen to attention under the sheet.

“At ease,” said Pascoe. “Sorry to hear about your spot of bother, Hec. How are you doing?”

While the constable riffled his word hoard for a suitable response, Pascoe’s gaze drifted to the bedside locker. Its surface was bare except for a stub of pencil and a cheap writing pad. It stood in strong contrast with the locker by the other bed, its surface precariously crowded with a bowl of fruit, a vase of flowers, a box of chocolates and a pile of paperbacks. He recalled Hector’s appearance at his own sick bed with the custard tart and was annoyed at himself for coming empty-handed.

“Not so bad, sir,” said Hector.

“Good. Good. This is my daughter, Rosie. We’ve just been visiting Mr. Dalziel.”

Hector suddenly looked animated.

“How is he? Has he woken up?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

The animation faded.

Pascoe tried to find something optimistic to say, but the words stuck in his throat.

Instead he asked, “So when can we expect you back, then?”

“Back?”

“At work. Everyone’s missing you.”

Not a lie, just an ambiguity.

“That’s nice,” said Hector. “I’m looking forward to getting back.”

“Good. But make sure you’re fit first. By all accounts it was a nasty knock you took. Have you remembered anything about the accident?”

“I thought maybe…I’m not sure…don’t think so, sir.”

This was a truly Hectorian answer.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get him. The milkman who found you gave a description of the car and it’s bound to have a dent in it.”

The door opened and a man in a dressing gown came in. He didn’t look pleased to see them and made straight for his bed.

As he climbed in, Pascoe called to him, “Did your friend find you all right?”

“What friend?”

“There was someone looking for you. He said he’d try the day room.”

“That’s where I’ve been so he can’t have tried very hard,” said the man indifferently.

He picked up a book and started to read.

Rosie said, “Is this supposed to be Brad Pitt?”

She’d picked up the writing pad and opened it.

Hector said, “No. It’s not him.”

“That’s all right then because it doesn’t look like him. The armor’s good though.”

Pascoe, knowing how sensitive Hector was about his drawing, said sharply, “Rosie, don’t be rude. You’ve no right to be looking at that anyway.”

They both looked at him in a faintly puzzled way and he realized that in fact there hadn’t been any rudeness intended nor any offense taken. It had been an exchange between children who feel no need to soften facts.

“It’s all right, sir,” said Hector.

“Well, if you don’t mind.”

He took the pad and looked at the drawing. It really was quite good. He could see why Rosie had thought of Brad Pitt. The chariot and the armored figure were strongly reminiscent of the movie Troy which he’d seen on television recently.

But it wasn’t the kind of film he’d ever let Rosie sit up to watch and when it came out a couple of years ago there was no way she’d been to see it. So how…?

One of her stopovers with friends, he thought grimly. On Friday night they’d caught the big action moment on Fidler’s Three. On other occasions where there was a DVD player built into the bedroom set, they’d probably dump the kiddie film and take a look at something “borrowed” from the parents’ collection. God knows what else Rosie had seen! He reminded himself to have a word with Ellie. Somehow his own well-honed interview techniques lost their edge when he tried to interrogate his daughter.

He gave her a promissory glower and asked, “This one of yours, Hec?”

“Yes,” said Hector defiantly, as if he’d been accused of something.

“It’s very good, though I don’t recall many cats pulling chariots in the movie.”

“It’s not a cat, silly,” said Rosie. “It’s a jaguar.”

“Is that so? I bow to your superior knowledge,” said Pascoe.

Apart from the weirdness of the beast between the shafts, there was something else about the picture…

He said, “The charioteer, if it’s not Brad Pitt…”

“It looks like the man at the door,” said Rosie, putting into words what he found almost too far-fetched to admit, let alone say.

But now it had been said, there was no doubt about it. The face staring out beneath the funny helmet was the man who’d been opening the ward door when they arrived.

He said, “What made you draw this picture, Hec?”

The constable’s eyes showed the beginnings of panic and Pascoe went on reassuringly, “It’s just that it’s so good, it’s almost like it was drawn from life. Could be really useful to someone in our line of work.”

The inclusion of Hector in the DCI’s line of work did the trick.

The panic faded and Hector said, “It was a face in my mind…someone in a sort of dream.”

“That’s really interesting.”

He wanted to lean forward closer and urge Hector to talk about his dream, but he guessed that too much pressure might be counter-productive.

He leaned back in his chair and said, “Isn’t that interesting, Rosie. You have some funny dreams too, don’t you? I bet you’d like to hear what Hec was dreaming about.”

Was it his imagination or did she look at him with a cool amusement that said clearer than words, OK, if I do this, does that get me off the hook about watching Troy?

It must have been his imagination. No child could be as super-subtle as that, not even Ellie’s daughter. Could she?

She said, “I sometimes dream about playing the clarinet in a really big orchestra, and I’m doing a solo, and the conductor’s someone really famous like Simon Rattle who I saw when Mum took me to Leeds once and in my dream it looks just like him. What did you dream about, Hec?”

Hesitantly, Hector began to tell her about his dream, making the point several times that it wasn’t like an ordinary dream because he seemed to still have it when he was awake.

Pascoe thought, This is crazy. A man in a chariot pulled by a jaguar who deliberately runs him down…the milkman seeing a big car, maybe a Jag pulling away at high speed…I rest my case, m’lud. Court collapses in helpless laughter.

He stood up and took the writing pad to the other patient, covering the distracting jaguar with his thumb.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you recognize this man?”

The man raised his eyes from his book, said, “Yes,” and went back to his reading.

This should have been a relief. Why the hell should Hector’s subconscious mind be any more reliable than his conscious? And it was a relief insomuch as Pascoe, still smarting from Wield’s demolition of his hypothetical construction last night, shuddered at the thought that he might have tried out this latest theory on any of his colleagues.

And yet it was disappointing too. No man likes to see his fantasy, no matter how far-fetched, destroyed.

He began to turn away, then because he was famous for, as Dalziel put it, liking his eyes crossed and his teas dotted, he said, “And were you expecting him to visit you today?”

The patient looked at him with irritation.

“Eh?” he said.

“Your friend, the one who was looking for you, were you expecting to see him today?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This man, the one in the drawing, the one you said you recognized, isn’t he your friend?”

“What’s up with you, mate? Yes, I recognize him. No, he’s not a friend. Hang about…”

He leaned over to his locker and pulled a book from the bottom of the pile of paperbacks.

“There,” he said, thrusting it into Pascoe’s hand. “That’s the fucker. Now can I get on with my reading?”

The book was called Blood on the Sand and subtitled A novel of the Iraq Wars. Its author was John T. Youngman, formerly, so Pascoe discovered when he turned the book over, of the SAS. He also noticed the publisher was Hedley-Case, the same as Ellie’s, but what really drew his eye was the photograph of the author beneath the blurb.

It wasn’t very big, passport size at most, but it was undoubtedly a picture of both the man at the door and Hector’s charioteer.