Death Comes for the Fat Man

1

Ellie, I’m late and I’m alone and I’m devastated,” said Maurice Kentmore. “Kilda’s had to pull out. A migraine. She’s been getting them ever since…you know. They come on like lightning and lay her low. The doctors have tried everything, but in the end there’s nothing for the poor girl to do but lie in a darkened room for six or seven hours. I thought of ringing you but what was the point? Nothing you could change at such short notice, so better to hurry on here and offer apologies face-to-face. Which I do. Sorry.”

He finished, out of breath and out of words. If, thought Ellie, he’d spiked everything after you know, it might have been more convincing.

“Poor Kilda,” she said. “Maurice, don’t just stand there, come on in.”

Kentmore stepped into the hall. Pascoe was standing in the living room doorway.

“Peter, Kilda can’t make it. A migraine,” said Ellie.

“I heard. Poor woman. Maurice, nice to see you again. Let me get you a drink. White wine OK?”

“Fine.”

Pascoe stood aside to let his guest pass through the door. Ellie made a wry face at her husband and headed for the kitchen. Kentmore accepted the glass poured for him, tasted it, and said, “This is nice. Where do you get it?”

“Sainsbury’s, I expect,” said Pascoe. “How goes it with the piglets?”

“What? Oh yes. Fine, they’re fine.”

“Good. Must be hard when the time comes to kill them, though.”

“No. Not hard. I’m a farmer. You breed animals for meat, it’s part of the job.”

“And you don’t actually slaughter them yourself, of course.”

“Only in extremis, to put them out of pain.”

Ellie came back in and poured herself a glass of wine.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“Pigs,” said Pascoe. “And whether you can have a relationship with them before you kill them.”

“Ugh. Luckily we’re having trout and it’s hard to get attached to a fish.”

“I don’t know. Remember Goldie? Goldie was our daughter’s goldfish,” he explained to Kentmore. “When it went belly-up, Ellie would have given it a nautical send off down the loo but Rosie insisted on the full C of E service and she still puts flowers on the grave when she remembers.”

“On the site of the grave,” corrected Ellie. “Tig dug the box up a few days later when Rosie was at school. Didn’t seem worth putting it back and it was bin day.”

“You never said. Ellie, as you see, is not sentimental, Maurice. She would have made a good farmer’s wife.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Kentmore with an effort at a smile. “Is your girl at home?”

“No, she’s gone skating. Should have gone last week but she missed out.”

“And came to our fete instead. A poor substitute.”

“No no,” said Ellie. “She thoroughly enjoyed herself, and Tig had a really great time. He’s not so hot at skating. Pete, take Maurice into the garden. We thought we’d cross our fingers and eat outside. Ready in about five minutes.”

She went out and Pascoe said, “Meaning, if you want the loo, now’s the time. She gets seriously pissed with people who wait till the gong sounds, then disappear.”

“Not my intention,” said Kentmore, following Pascoe through the French window onto a raised patio. “So this is how a policeman lives. Nice garden.”

In fact, the narrow rectangle of lawn showed signs of the depredations of an active daughter and an even more active dog, but the well-tended borders were rich with shrub roses, creating a corridor of color which drew the eye down to the fine magnolia grandiflora against the high south-facing wall. Birds sang in its branches, bees buzzed among the roses, and the light summer wind twitching the white cloth on the garden table was heavy with the sweet scent of both tree and shrubs.

“Yes, it is,” said Pascoe with the complacency of one whose wife did most of the actual work. “Not exactly a landed estate, but we try to keep up appearances and of course the bribes help.”

“What? Oh yes. Like a Jewish joke, only funny when a Jew makes it. So how were things in Manchester?”

“Oh you know, Lancastrian.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry into your work.”

“And I wasn’t being coy,” said Pascoe. “I felt a little out of my element over there. Also it was a bad time to be away with my boss out of commission and all that.”

“Any news there?”

“No. Nothing. There’s still evidence of brain activity, so we’re still a long way off the switching-off option, but it’s been nearly three weeks now.”

“Nineteen days.”

That was very precise, thought Pascoe.

“That’s right, nineteen days. For Andy Dalziel, that’s a long time between drinks. It’s going to be hard going in on Monday and finding he’s not there. I suppose if I’d been back in my own office continuously since I got signed off the sick list, I might have made some adjustments, but this will be like starting all over again…sorry. I’m getting maudlin.”

“No, no. He sounds like a very special man.”

“Oh yes, he was. I mean, he is. Very special. Irreplaceable. When he goes, it will feel like the end of things.”

Ellie’s voice broke the silence that followed.

“Grub up!” she said, stepping onto the patio with a laden tray. “Maurice, grab a seat. Peter, could you bring the wine?”

As he passed her she hissed, “Lighten up, for God’s sake!”

At the table she moved smoothly into lively hostess mode and Kentmore relaxed into the guest having a good time role with well-bred ease. But it seemed to Pascoe that his mind was elsewhere.

Or is it just my mind that’s elsewhere? Pascoe asked himself. In Mill Street, to be precise. Have I become so obsessed by what happened there that I want to see connections everywhere? Perhaps instead of looking at my ejection from CAT in terms of conspiracy theory, I should be booking a few sessions with a good counseling service.

Ellie kicked him under the table and he realized he’d drifted off into an introspective silence.

He said brightly, “Are you a cricket fan, Maurice?”

“I keep an eye on the test score but I haven’t played myself since school. Too busy farming, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. And riding, and climbing mountains. That must fill the day.”

It was meant to come out as admiration that one man could pack so much into one life. Instead it sounded to Pascoe’s own critical ear not far short of a social sneer.

Kentmore said, “I still ride when I can but I’ve rather given up on the climbing. How about you two?”

Ellie said, “We do a bit of hill walking, but when it gets so steep you need a rope, we head down to the nearest pub.”

“Each to his own,” said Kentmore.

“Yeah, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” said Pascoe.

There I go again! What the hell’s getting into me?

Ellie opened her mouth but whether it was to issue a stinging reproof or ask if anyone wanted seconds remained a mystery as the doorbell rang.

Pascoe began to rise but she said firmly, “No, you sit and talk. I’ll get it.”

She went out.

Pascoe poured more wine.

“This is nice,” said Kentmore. “Where do you get it?”

Poor sod was repeating himself. Pascoe felt a little better about his flirtation with rudeness. Socially this guy was on autopilot, his mind was definitely elsewhere.

But where?

Don’t reach, Pascoe warned himself. Let reason be your guide.

“Sainsbury’s, I think,” he said. “Well, look who’s here.”

A figure had appeared at the French window. It was Edgar Wield. His face was as always unreadable but there was something in his posture which said he wasn’t about to ask if anyone fancied tennis.

Behind him stood Ellie, looking faintly puzzled.

“Peter, I need a word,” said Wield in a rough peremptory tone.

“Sure,” said Pascoe.

He stood up, and as if the movement had triggered it, let out a tremendous sneeze.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling out his handkerchief. “Hope I’m not getting a summer cold. Wieldy, would you like a glass of wine?”

“No thanks,” said the sergeant.

He took a step onto the patio, his eyes fixed on Pascoe.

Something about the way he held himself, a stiffness across his shoulders, a rigidity in his arms, was alarming Ellie.

“Is everything OK, Wieldy?” she asked.

He didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on Pascoe.

“Pete,” he said.

It sounded like a preliminary, but nothing followed.

Pascoe said, “For God’s sake, Wieldy, what is it? Is something wrong? Oh shit. Is it Andy?”

“Yes,” said Wield. “It’s Andy. I’ve just come from the hospital.”

He was having difficulty speaking. His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar. Whatever it was he had to say, he clearly didn’t want to say it.

“What? Spit it out, man! Is he worse?”

Wield shook his head but his answer was affirmative.

“Worse, aye. The very worst.”

He looked round at Ellie as if he didn’t want her to be there. Then his gaze returned to Pascoe and he sucked in a deep breath, as if the heavy words he had to speak needed a torrent of air to float them out.

“Pete, he’s dead,” he said brokenly. “I’m sorry. He’s dead. Dalziel is dead. Andy Dalziel is dead.”