Death Comes for the Fat Man

4

As he headed west, Pascoe shouted a number into his voice-activated car phone.

God was good to him. He knew most of the officers on Harrogate CID but the voice which answered was the one he most hoped to hear.

“Harrogate CID. DI Collaboy speaking. How can I help you?”

“Very good, Jim,” he said. “Very user-friendly. You must have been on the etiquette course.”

“Who the fuck’s that?”

“Oh dear. Think we may need a refresher. Pete Pascoe here.”

“Thought I recognized that poncey voice. How do, Pete? How’re they hanging?”

“Low and swinging free. Listen, Jim, you may have a situation. You know Haresyke Hall. Well, it’s the Gatehouse…”

He gave a brief outline, ending, “Hopefully you won’t need it, but I’d rustle up an ARU if you can.”

“Jesus. I’d seen something asking us to keep our eyes skinned for this guy Youngman, but I didn’t realize it was that serious.”

“CAT policy, they don’t want to scare the shit out of the citizens.”

“So they keep honest cops in the dark? Great thinking. This woman, the sister-in-law, who lives there, you say she’s in the frame too? So no hostage situation.”

“She’s in the frame, sure, but that doesn’t mean Youngman won’t threaten to slit her throat. He’s an ex-SAS hardcase, so be very careful.”

“You’re on your way, you say?” replied Collaboy. “In that case I’ll be so fucking careful, I’ll do nowt till you show your pretty face. That way, if it goes well, I can take the credit, and if it goes pear shaped, you can take the blame. Talking of which, I’ve just brought this Youngman character up on my computer and it says any sighting, inform CAT before action. You got that in hand, have you?”

“This isn’t a sighting, Jim. Just a vague possibility.”

“Which you want me to vaguely support with some vaguely armed back-up? You pulling my plonker, Pete?”

“You never complained before. Look, leave CAT to me, OK? I’ll see everyone who needs to know gets to know.”

“OK,” said Collaboy dubiously. “But I’ll need that in joined-up writing when you get here. My ex will be very unhappy indeed if I lose my pension.”

“Not all bad then,” said Pascoe. “Cheers, mate.”

Cheers, mate, he echoed in his mind as he switched off. Soon as he’d heard Collaboy’s voice he’d slipped into a saloon-bar modality, no conscious decision necessary, just a simple sound trigger.

Truly, he thought, I am the great chameleon. Fat Andy and Wieldy are themselves whoever they speak to, but me, I change shape and color and idiom according to my company. Which is very useful, but does make it difficult to put your finger on the real me. Was it for example the real me who’d cruelly deceived Ellie into thinking Dalziel was dead? And does it make it better or worse that I knew her pain would not be so much at losing the Fat Man, though that would be painful enough, but the greater and more intense part would derive from her empathy with my imagined sense of loss?

Worse, he decided without much debate. It makes it much worse.

When this is over I’m going to change, he assured himself. It’s Mill Street that has done this to me. I’ll take the tablets, go on a counseling course, turn back the clock, be me again.

Which brings me back to the first question. Who is me?

He pushed these introspective musings to the back of his mind and concentrated on finding the quickest way through the Saturday-afternoon traffic which, though lighter than on a weekday, made up in unpredictability what it lost in intensity. What did these people do with their cars for the rest of the week? he wondered as he aggressively overtook a yellow Beetle holding the center of the road with all the unconcerned assurance of a Panzer troop rolling into an undefended Belgian village.

His trip to the fete had taught him the quickest route. Out of Harrogate he took the Pateley Bridge road. As he passed Burnt Yates, the name slipped his mind back to A-Level English. Humankind cannot bear very much reality. That’s why they have policemen, he thought. To bear the reality for the rest of the sods!

Now he was off the main road, and after passing through the village of Haresyke, he rolled up to a Road Closed sign with an attendant constable. Jim Collaboy gave an impression of comfortable inertia, but he didn’t hang about.

Pascoe identified himself and the officer told him that the DI and his team were round the next bend about three hundred yards short of the entrance to Haresyke Hall.

The ARU had left its vehicles a couple of hundred yards down the track. As Pascoe pulled in behind the ARU vehicles, he was reminded of the previous Sunday up in Northumberland. How long ago that seemed! How furious Ellie had been at his involvement. She hated guns and everything associated with them. Now here he was again, in pursuit of the same prey, once more rendezvousing with armed men in visored helmets and bulletproof vests.

Jim Collaboy came forward to meet him.

He looked older than his forty years, with receding gray hair and a pouched and patchy face which hung on his broad cheekbones like a badly fitting mask.

“How do, Jim,” said Pascoe, shaking hands. “You’ve moved bloody quick for a fat old fart.”

“Less of the old,” said Collaboy. “Thought I’d leave you to do the briefing, as I’d only be showing my ignorance.”

“Fine,” said Pascoe.

The sergeant in charge of the ARU was polished chalk to Collaboy’s blue-veined cheese, with features which would not have looked out of place on an Elgin Marble. Even his name, Axon, had a Greek ring.

Pascoe spoke to him with crisp authority, thinking, Here I go again!

“Possible occupants, two persons, a man and a woman. The man is SAS trained, a war veteran, expert in small arms and explosives. He should be regarded as potentially very dangerous. The woman has no weapons background that I know of but she is possibly unstable and has shown herself ready and able to use violence. It is almost certain that the man will be armed.”

“Likely level of resistance, sir?” asked the sergeant in a surprisingly soft and gentle voice.

Pascoe hesitated, rehearsing what he knew of Youngman.

“I’d guess the man will be reluctant to get involved in a firefight. Firstly, because his quarrel is not with the police. Secondly, because realistically he knows he can’t win.”

“And the woman?”

“Less capacity to resist, but less realism too.”

“Any chance he’ll try to make her a hostage?”

“Possibly. But we shouldn’t forget she is no innocent bystander,” said Pascoe. “She is his accomplice. We do not negotiate with criminals because they are threatening each other.”

“Yes, sir. Procedure?”

This was the moment of choice, hit the house hard and take them by surprise, or open up lines of communication.

If he was right and Youngman would be realistic enough to assess the odds and act accordingly, it had to be the latter.

Also, he admitted to himself, in these situations he was always reluctant to order other men to take risks he wasn’t sharing, and if Youngman did decide not to come quietly, the risks could be great. ARU training was hard but it was kindergarten stuff compared with what you needed to get into the SAS.

“Dispose your men so that the building is completely covered, then I’ll talk to him,” said Pascoe. “No shooting except on my command.”

“Except if life is threatened,” said Sergeant Axon, wanting to hear him say it.

“Naturally.”

“Right,” said the sergeant and went to join his men.

Ten minutes later he returned to say, “All in position. Some movement inside. So far only confirmation of one inmate.”

“Male or female?”

Axon shrugged.

“OK. Lead on.”

Pascoe followed the sergeant into a small beech copse. When the cottage came in sight, they halted behind a tree broad enough to absorb rounds from most small arms.

Collaboy gave him a field phone with a recording facility. You never knew how long a negotiation might take and it was as well to be able to check what both sides had said.

“Number?” he asked.

Collaboy gave it to him. Good old efficient Jim.

He punched it into the keypad.

The insistent shrill of the phone came floating out of the cottage’s open windows.

On the fourth ring it was answered.

“Hi. Youngman here.”

He sounded very relaxed.

“Mr. Youngman. This is Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe.”

“Thought it might be. Real early bird, aren’t you?”

That was interesting.

Pascoe said, “Mr. Youngman, I’m ringing to tell you that the cottage is surrounded by armed officers-”

“I know,” the voice cut in. “Been watching them get into place for the last twenty minutes. Way those lads move, they’re not going to win many prizes on Celebrity Come Dancing!”

“Perhaps not, but they are all expert marksmen, and they have orders to shoot unless my instructions are carried out to the letter.”

“Fair enough. Instruct away.”

“First of all, is Mrs. Kentmore there with you?”

“Kilda? No, sorry. She was, but she went off earlier. Had some shopping to do, I expect. You know women. If it’s not sex, it’s shopping. Any excuse. Sales, birthday, something for a wedding. I told her that she ought to stay put, but you’re a married man, Chief Inspector, you must know that once a woman gets an idea in her head, it would take an M19 to knock it out. Us servants of the Crown, we just follow orders, but a woman does whatever fucking well takes her fancy.”

The tone was mocking. Was he simply taking the piss or was he actually lying about Kilda’s departure?

Why would he lie? Pascoe asked himself. So that he can show his face and lure us into the open, then Kilda springs an ambush?

Not likely, not unless Youngman himself was looking to go out in a blaze of glory, and from what Pascoe had read about him, he didn’t sound like the suicidal type.

“OK. Here’s what you do,” he said. “I want you to remove your shirt and your trousers. Open the front door and come out with your hands on your head. Advance six paces, then halt and wait for further instructions.”

“Don’t want my briefs off too? Folk have been surprised what I’ve got hidden down there.”

“No. Keep them on. But I hope you don’t find uniforms a turn-on,” said Pascoe. “You get twitchy, my marksmen could get twitchy too.”

He was doing his chameleon act again, slipping into the mode which seemed best suited for getting the job done.

Youngman laughed and said, “I’m on my way. See you soon.”

The phone went dead. A few moments later, the front door opened.

“Coming out,” called a voice.

Then Youngman emerged, hands on head, stripped down to his underpants. He marched forward six paces and did a parodic military halt.

“OK, Sergeant,” said Pascoe. “Over to you.”

There was the usual yelling and shouting and kicking open of doors and clatter of running feet which ended with Youngman lying on his face, his hands cuffed behind his back, and Axon reporting to Pascoe, “Cottage clear, sir. No one else present.”

“Good work, Sergeant,” said Pascoe. “Jim, you and your boys start searching the place. No nasty surprises lying around, I hope, Mr. Youngman?”

Youngman rolled over on his back, looked up, at him and grinned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Chief Inspector.”

“Good.” He stooped to whisper directly into the man’s ear. “But if it turns out you’re lying, I’m going to cut your balls off.”

“That’s tough talk, Mr. Pascoe. But could you really do it?”

“Oh yes,” said Pascoe straightening up.

The recumbent man regarded him thoughtfully, then said, “Yeah, maybe you could, but we’re not going to find out today. No nasty surprises. Apart from yourself, of course. Didn’t think you’d get here for another hour at least…Hold on, I’ve got it. It’s Maurice, right? You were having lunch with him and you got him to talk. Knew he was a bit limp but didn’t think he’d drop Kilda in it.”

“Sometimes a man’s conscience speaks even more loudly than family loyalty,” said Pascoe, deliberately sententious. There was no way he could maintain the hardman role once this got official, and he didn’t doubt that Youngman had been trained to withstand interrogation techniques far beyond anything he could bring to bear. But let him think you were a bit of a pompous plonker, get him to feel superior…

But he saw instantly that wasn’t going to get him anywhere either.

Youngman grinned up at him and gave him an exaggerated wink.

“Oh yes, I can see all the stuff I’ve heard about you’s true, Mr. Pascoe. You’re a one to watch. So that’s it from me, nothing more but name and number.”

“You’re not a prisoner of war,” said Pascoe.

“Aren’t I? In that case shouldn’t you be telling me something about the right to remain silent? Which is a right I’m fucking well exercising till I’ve got my lawyer present.”

For a man lying almost naked at the feet of his captor, who he must know had evidence enough to put him away for a very long time, he sounded surprisingly unconcerned.

He knows that CAT are going to take control of him as soon as they get wind of this, thought Pascoe. And he reckons that once he’s in their hands, he’s going to get a much better deal than he can expect from me.

So, back to hardman.

He said to Sergeant Axon, “Get him into a car, wrap a blanket around him. Any move he makes that you haven’t okayed should be treated as an escape attempt. Warn him, then shoot him. My authority.”

He went into the house where Collaboy and a couple of uniformed officers had begun their search. The DI wasn’t happy.

“Should we be doing this, Pete?” he asked. “Won’t CAT want to have a clean scene when they show up? At least I ought to call up a SOCO team.”

“It’s not a crime scene, Jim,” nitpicked Pascoe. “As for CAT, I’ll take full responsibility. I’ve been seconded to them since getting back to work, did you know that?”

“Heard something,” said Collaboy.

“Cheer up,” said Pascoe, not happy at trying to mislead his colleague. “Your patch, your collar. Now let’s see what we can find.”

“Sir!” called a constable from upstairs.

He was in a small single bedroom. There was a grip on the bed in which Youngman had been packing his clothes. The constable had pulled open the drawers in a dressing table. In one of them lay a nine-millimeter Beretta and several clips of ammo. In the other was a bundle of what looked to Pascoe’s inexpert eye like detonators alongside a plastic box containing a quantity of gray claylike material.

“Sex aids?” said Collaboy.

“I think we’d better get the bomb squad out here,” said Pascoe. “Close this room up but let’s carry on looking elsewhere.”

Next door was another larger bedroom, clearly the woman’s. There was nothing to suggest they’d been sharing a bed, which was interesting in view of Youngman’s reputation. Farther along the landing Pascoe found a door that was locked. He didn’t waste time looking for a key but kicked it open with his heel. It turned out to be Kilda’s darkroom. There were shelves lined with photographic materials and a variety of cameras. She was evidently technically as well as artistically proficient, for on a work surface by the sink Pascoe spotted the innards of a camera, removed presumably for modification or repair. But he didn’t waste much time looking at this, for out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something strangely familiar.

And when he turned to look at the wall half hidden by the open door, he saw it was covered by photo prints, half a dozen of which featured his own face.

A man frozen in the act of stuffing a wedge of Victoria sponge into his gob doesn’t look his best, he observed critically. But they were good pictures and they’d caught the bright delight in his eyes that sprang both from the pleasure of eating and the pleasure of Kilda’s company. For a brief moment he relived the magic moment that had followed, when they’d sat at the still point of the turning world in a silence more potent than music.

Then his gaze drifted to the other pictures displayed here and the moment was dispelled more completely than it had been by the terriers’ distant cacophony.

There were other mementos of the fete here. Ellie looking quizzical, Kentmore determinedly hearty, Rosie obstinate, Sarhadi and Jamila smiling and happy. And these fete pictures were surrounded by others less clearly focused as though taken through a long lens by a handheld camera, pictures which showed the Marrside Mosque and a bearded man coming out and ducking into a waiting car.

Sheikh Ibrahim. And Pascoe did not doubt that this was the same day someone had put a bullet into the rear light of his car, not the bullet of a professional like Youngman, which would have been from a high-powered perfectly zeroed sniper’s rifle.

No, this had been a bullet fired opportunistically, a bullet from a 9mm Beretta, the same kind of pistol they’d found in the cottage and that Kilda had used in Mill Street.

Pascoe hurried out of the darkroom and went downstairs and out of the house. The phone he’d used to ring Youngman rested where he’d laid it.

He ran the recording tape back and played it.

Kilda? No, sorry. She was, but she went off earlier. Had some shopping to do, I expect. You know women. If it’s not sex, it’s shopping. Any excuse. Sales, birthday, something for a wedding. I told her that she ought to stay put, but you’re a married man, Chief Inspector, you must know that once a woman gets an idea in her head, it would take an M19 to knock it out. Us servants of the Crown, we just follow orders, but a woman does whatever fucking well takes her fancy.

And he recalled what the man had said as he lay on his back, smiling up at him

No nasty surprises. Apart from yourself, of course. Didn’t think you’d get here for another hour at least…

Why should he have been expecting the police would turn up at the Gatehouse sometime that day?

“Oh shit,” said Pascoe.

He started to run toward his car.

Behind him, Collaboy yelled, “Pete!”

He paused and looked back. The DI had his mobile to his ear.

“What?”

Collaboy lowered the phone and muffled it with his hand.

“I’ve got Bagshit here. He’s heard about me calling up an ARU and he wants to know what the fuck’s going on.”

Superintendent Bagshott of Harrogate was notorious for being a stickler for proper procedure as well as being a great snapper-up of other officers’ credit.

“What have you told him?” yelled Pascoe.

“The truth, dickhead. What else would I tell him? He wants to speak to you.”

“Tell him the truth again,” cried Pascoe. “Tell him I’m not here.”

“But you are-”

Then Collaboy realized that Pascoe wasn’t asking him to lie.

The DCI had vanished from sight at a fast run and a moment later all that indicated he’d ever been there was the scream of an overrevved engine fading away on the rich summer air.