Death Comes for the Fat Man

16

Ffion Lyke-Evans was a very lucky young woman.

Normally when the door of a besieged building is thrown open and a suspect comes running out wielding a shotgun what follows is a remake of the closing scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Happily the CAT Armed Response Unit responded to Sandy Glenister’s directorial scream of, “Don’t shoot!” by holding both their discipline and their fire.

When Peter Pascoe saw Ffion rushing toward him brandishing a shotgun, he presumed she was intent on finishing the job. So sure was he that he was dying anyway, he hardly felt relieved when he saw two of the men in black bring her crashing to the ground and remove the weapon from her unresisting hands. As she lay there, she shouted something which he had difficulty in hearing through the ringing in his ears. But if he’d got it right and what she was shouting was, “Peter! Peter! Are you all right?” this struck him as a pretty cheeky attempt at spin even for a publicist.

By now, however, most of his attention was focused on the terrible pain he expected any moment, on the life-draining gush of arterial blood from the wound in his neck.

But for some reason the pain didn’t come, and when he put his hand up to his wound, the spurt of hot blood felt surprisingly like a smear of cold earth.

The truth revealed to him by Officer Sullivan, who turned out to be a softspoken Ulsterman of amiable disposition, was both a huge relief and a slight embarrassment.

He hadn’t been shot. He’d backed into another of Youngman’s booby-trap wires, and the explosion had hurled a clod of earth that had struck him on the neck.

The only medication required was also provided by Sullivan in the form of a water bottle full of whiskey which the gentle Irishman administered only after extracting a promise of complete confidentiality.

It could have been a lot worse, thought Pascoe as he accepted a second dose. Especially the embarrassment. At least as he sank to his knees, he hadn’t dictated any dying messages. Indeed on this occasion, as in Mill Street, all the elegant valedictory epigrams he had collected over the years had quite gone out of his mind.

By the time he was fully back in the world he’d feared he might be leaving, there was no sign of Ffion or Glenister. When he tried to get into the cottage, Gordon, who’d set his men to combing the environs for other warning devices, barred his passage.

“Can’t go in there,” he said. “Crime scene. You should know that.”

Pascoe, disappointed at missing a chance to have a poke around among Youngman’s things, thought of arguing the toss. But never pull rank with a man who pulls triggers is a good maxim. Also he had no idea what Gordon’s rank was, nor indeed whether he belonged to the police or the spook faction of CAT.

He said, “Where’s Ffion, the Welsh girl?”

“Sandy Glenister’s taken her to your car. Watch how you go. Don’t want you falling over any more trip wires.”

He found the two women in the back of the car. Freeman must have driven up soon as the action was over. He got out of the driving seat as he saw Pascoe approach.

“Best leave them be a little while longer,” he murmured with the smile. “Girl talk.”

“Which it’s all right for you to hear but not me? What’s that make you? The palace eunuch?”

This seemed to tickle Freeman, who laughed out loud, then inquired solicitously, “And how are you, Peter? After your little shock, I mean.”

“I’m fine,” said Pascoe.

As with Gordon and entry to the cottage, there was nothing to do but sit on his frustration and wait for whatever crumbs of information fell his way, which seemed unlikely to compensate for a row with Ellie and the loss of a quiet Sunday night at home.

At last Glenister got out of the car and came to join him.

“So what’s she say?” he asked impatiently.

“A great deal, but very little to the point,” said the chief superintendent. “She claims to have strayed into all of this just following her hormones.”

Ffion’s story as told to the chief superintendent was fairly straightforward, starting with an admission that while doing publicity on Youngman’s last book, she’d slipped into a relationship with him.

“Nothing serious, she says,” said Glenister. “But she did spend a weekend up here in the wilds last spring, which suggests that it was more than just a fling. On Friday afternoon she got the train up north and just as she was getting into Middlesbrough she got a call from Youngman saying he couldn’t do the TV show after all, family illness. She was pretty pissed off but calmed down a bit when he said he didn’t think it would make any difference to their spending the weekend together as planned. He’d ring her later. Which he did, Friday night, after the show. He picked her up and drove her out here. Spent the next twenty-four shagging themselves witless. This morning he said he had to go off again. Gave her a choice. Either get dropped off at the nearest mainline station or hang around waiting for his return, which he anticipated would be midafternoon.”

“What was his story this time?”

“Same as before. Hospital visiting. She recalls he grinned as he said it.”

“Really funny,” said Pascoe. “So she decided to wait. He must be good value.”

“Sounds like it. Also she’d cleared herself till Tuesday morning in anticipation of this bonking break, so there was no rush. By teatime she was getting annoyed. Then the phone rang. It was Youngman saying his relative was too ill to leave. Now you’ll like this bit. He told her that if he wasn’t back by dark, she should lock all doors and windows and load up his shotgun. There was this bunch of local yobs he’d been having a running battle with even since he bought the place. That’s why he had the booby traps…”

“She knew about the traps then?”

“Oh yes. Last time she was here, he’d shown them to her, so she would take care to steer clear of them, he said. She says he never missed a chance to remind her he was a hairy-arsed survivalist, which she freely admits she found a turn-on.”

Freeman, who’d been listening, said doubtfully, “You believe her when she claims she’s a complete innocent? I mean, how many women know how to use a shotgun?”

“Sometimes you are almost a Neanderthal, Dave,” said Glenister pityingly. “Apart from bonking, their only other activity during her previous stay had been a bit of rough shooting, which, incidentally, she seems to have been doing since she was six. It was either that or start playing rugby.”

“So he told her there might be intruders,” prompted Pascoe.

“You’re getting there. He said if she did have any bother, just to open the bedroom window a crack and fire a warning shot. That would send them running.”

“Jesus!”

“Yes, lovely guy, isn’t he? When things went pear shaped at the hospital thanks to you, Pete, the last place he was going to head was home. He knew we’d be on to this place eventually. And he must have thought it would hold things up a bit if there was someone on-site, armed and ready to resist boarders.”

“My God. The poor woman could have been killed!”

“Which would have left us with egg on our face and probably muddied up his tracks even more.”

Freeman said obstinately, “I think she should still be treated as a suspect.”

“Is that right? Opinion noted, Dave,” said Glenister. “Now why don’t you run along like a good little spook and see if they’ve secured the cottage yet? And you might tell Gordon I’d like a word.”

Freeman moved away. Pascoe had enjoyed seeing him squashed but wished he’d wriggled a bit more.

“I’m glad for Ffion’s sake he’s not in charge,” he said. “I think he’d be booking her a room in the Tower with the Full English Execution laid on for the morning. What will you do with her, by the way?”

“She’ll need to sign a statement then we’ll cut her loose, I expect,” said Glenister.

“Good,” said Pascoe. “All right if I have a word with her now?”

“By all means. The poor child’s naturally a bit strung out. A familiar face would probably be a comfort to her.”

Giving Glenister house points for humanity, Pascoe opened the car door and slipped in beside the publicist. She looked haggard and weary but her face lit up when she saw who it was.

“Peter,” she said. “Are you OK? God, I was so worried when I saw you go down!”

She leaned toward him and he put his arm round her shoulders and drew her in.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really. How are you? That’s the important thing. This must have been a terrible shock.”

“You’re not wrong there! It’s a nightmare! What happens now?”

“You’ll need to make a written statement, then we’ll get you back to civilization.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. What else did you imagine might happen?”

“I don’t know. It’s all been so crazy. When I heard that first bang and looked out and saw those guys running around all tooled up, I thought, This is it for you, girl! I slammed everything shut and said a prayer of thanks that Jonty had got the place so well protected. But I thought, Those guys out there look like they’ve come for serious business and they’re not going to let a bit of stainless steel and reinforced glass keep them out for long. When you appeared I was never so glad to see anyone in my life! But what’s happening anyway? What’s Jonty supposed to have done?”

Pascoe said cautiously, “It’s a security matter. We think he might have got mixed up with some rather unsavory people.”

“Is this anything to do with that Templar gang who chopped the Arab’s head off and poisoned Carradice?”

She was sharp, perhaps too sharp for her own good. Of course the possible connection was not too hard to make, especially if she had a radio. The airwaves had been full of debate about the origins, identities, and intentions of the so-called New Knighthood, most of it pure speculation, and ranging in tone from absolute condemnation, through various versions of understanding-the-impulse-while-deploring-the-deeds, to the near open approval of the Voice’s editor. Interviewed on one of the news programs he had repeated the burden of his editorial rant.

If the Security Services can’t catch the terrorists, and the Law is powerless to punish the few who do get caught, it’s hard to blame anyone who looks for a better way. If the question is, do the Templars make me feel safer now than I did before, the answer is a resounding yes, they certainly do!

Pascoe thought of warning Ffion about putting her speculations in the public domain but decided that would only come close to confirming them.

He said, “Look, we need to talk to Youngman, for his own good as much as anything. The sooner we can eliminate him from our inquiries the better. So if there’s any way you can give us a line on him…”

There was something, he felt it. But she was hesitating, maybe because she was in the media business herself and hated to give up a possible story, or maybe because she was recalling her own terror at the sight of those armed men coming at her across the garden. He thought of drumming home his conviction that Youngman had deliberately set her up to take the brunt of the likely assault on the cottage. But he decided she’d been terrified enough tonight already without piling on more.

He said gently, “Listen, Ffion, if there is anything, I’ll do my best to get to him by myself, just to talk to him, none of this guns-at-midnight nonsense. We want to talk to him, that’s all, to let him have his say. Anything you can tell me that might help me reach him before the Wild Bunch out there do, now’s the time. It won’t go any further.”

He felt her relax against him and she said, “It’s probably nothing, but when I toured his second book in February, there were a couple of times he spent the night away from our hotels. Nothing wrong with that, he never missed a promotional meet, not until Friday that is. I probably wouldn’t have noticed he was away, except that we’d sort of got together by then, so him not being around at night impinged, if you follow me.”

“Did you ask him where he’d been?” said Pascoe.

“Too bloody right I did!” she said with sudden force. “OK, he’s not the kind of guy you expect exclusive rights on, but no way was I going to play second fiddle to some randy reading-group woman. Some of these writers are forever on the make when they do a signing, see. It’s a small step from fan to fanny, that’s what one of them once said to me, and him what they call a literary novelist and on the Booker shortlist that year!”

Pascoe made a note to tell Ellie that Ffion clearly expected a higher standard of behavior from serious novelists than mere genre fiction writers.

He said, “But he convinced you he hadn’t just availed himself of a better offer?”

“Oh yes. First time he said he’d dropped in on an old military friend and been persuaded to stay the night. That was when we were staying in Sheffield. Same thing a couple of nights later when we were doing Leeds. I said, another old military friend? He laughed and said, in a way, though not so old. I didn’t get that, but I did get the impression that if I started acting like I had some sort of right to know what he was up to, I’d soon get the dusty answer. So I shut up.”

“Because you liked him a lot?”

“Because I liked him quite a lot, yeah. Also I like my job, and if a successful author says he wants to dump a publicist, people start asking questions. Talking of jobs, you sure I’ll get away tonight? I really need to be back at my desk sometime tomorrow.”

Forgetting that you’ve already told Glenister you’re not expected back till Tuesday, thought Pascoe. But he couldn’t blame her for wanting to be back in bright-light land as quickly as possible, especially not with a story like hers to tell. No doubt CAT would try to persuade her to keep quiet for a while at least. Well, good luck. It wasn’t his job, thank heaven!

“Yes, sure,” he said. “But you ought to take things quietly when you get home. You’ve had quite a weekend. First that thing on the Fidler show, now this. Maybe you should pick your authors more carefully.”

“Will you tell Ellie or shall I?” she riposted.

Smiling, he got out of the car and went to join Glenister.

“Nice work,” she said.

“What? I haven’t told you anything yet,” he replied. And he still wasn’t certain how much he was going to tell. Feed information into CAT and you never knew where it was going to come out.

Then he saw her remove her ear-piece, and the implication of her compliment struck home.

“You’ve been listening!”

“Of course,” she said. “Told you a friendly familiar face would do the trick, didn’t I? You played it well, laddie. That stuff about wanting a little heart to heart with Jonty, no nasty guns, that was the perfect line. We’ve got his military record already, of course. Now we’ll do a deep trawl to see if we can pick up a link around Sheffield or Leeds.”

There was no way to express his indignation without giving away his doubts.

He said, “We try to please. So if we’re done here now, shall I send her on her way?”

She gave him the schoolmarm stare.

“You’re joking,” she said.

“But I practically gave her my word…”

“She’s Welsh. You know what they think of the word of an Englishman. Get real, Peter. You don’t think I’m letting someone with her press connections loose, do you? At least, not before two Appeal Lords and a whole coven of Amnesty lawyers make me!”

“But surely if we explain to her, she’ll promise to cooperate.”

“Of course she will. She’ll promise you her bonny Welsh body if it means getting somewhere she can start haggling with the Voice. After that trick she played on your wife, I’m amazed you can even contemplate trusting her.”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“She’s going to be invited to accompany us back to Manchester for further questioning. If she plays up, I’ll arrest her.”

“For what?”

“Come on, laddie! Earn your pay! She had a rendezvous with a man suspected of being complicit in several serious crimes. She held stuff back when she talked to me, God knows what she’s still holding back. And she fired a shotgun at my men.”

“But you know she’s innocent!”

“Innocent? You sure of that, Peter? We need to be absolutely sure. Anyway, innocent, guilty, the important thing is, it will be a couple of days before anyone starts asking questions about her, so why let her run round shooting off her mouth before then? You know it makes sense. Do you want to be the one who tells her or shall I?”

Pascoe looked toward the car. Ffion was watching them through the window. She smiled at him. He smiled uncertainly back.

God knows what all this is going to do for Ellie’s literary career, he thought gloomily.

“She’s all yours,” he said. “Now, please, can I go home?”

“Of course,” said Glenister. “I’ve sent someone to fetch your car. Didn’t think you’d want to sit with the fair Ffion again! Thanks a lot, Peter. You’ve been a great help.”

This sounded a bit final.

He said, “So, see you tomorrow.”

She looked at him blankly, then said, “Here, help me get out of this torture machine before I swoon away like a Victorian maiden.”

She doesn’t know what to do with me, he thought as he gave her what was quite unnecessary assistance in removing her bullet proof vest.

“Thank God for that,” she said joggling her liberated bosom. “I’ve lost all sense of feeling. I could suckle a warthog and not feel a thing.”

He said, “And tomorrow?”

“I hope normal service will have been resumed by tomorrow,” she laughed.

“I meant me, tomorrow. Shall I report to the Lubyanka?”

“No. Take a day off, Peter,” she said. “You probably came back to work too soon anyway, and this weekend was meant to be an R and R session for you. Didn’t really work out that way, did it? You have a long lie-in with that lovely wifie of yours, and I’ll give you a bell, OK?”

I shouldn’t have asked, he reproached himself. I should just have turned up in Manchester. Now they can cut me right out of the loop.

He felt as if he were on the edge of seeing things plainly but was powerless to stop the lights being turned off.

He said, “I’d like to go on helping. I think I can contribute.”

He tried to keep it tight and professional. Any hint of a personal plea could be counterproductive. He knew from his own experience that having someone on your team whose motives were too up close and personal was generally a bad idea.

“Of course you can,” she said reassuringly. “But only if you’re fully fit. And, Peter, a word. If I ring you at home and find that you’re not at home because you’ve gone into work, that’s it. I don’t like laddies on my team who can’t follow instructions. Watch how you drive now.”

Was she his friend or not? He didn’t know, but he had to act as if she were.

“I will,” he said. “And you watch out for warthogs.”

Her laughter as he walked away sounded genuine enough.

But then it would, wouldn’t it?