The Death of Dalziel: A Dalziel and Pascoe Novel. Reginald Hill

      ‘Andre de Montbard and Archambaud de St Agnan,’ said Glenister, who was looking at Pascoe with the gentle smile of a mother proud of her prodigious son.

      ‘…which to anyone but the brain-dead sound suspiciously like assumed names—didn’t he wonder who this pair were?’

      Komorowski now looked like a schoolteacher cornered by a smart-arse pupil.

      ‘Or,’ Pascoe went on relentlessly, ‘did he make the same error as Mazraani and assume they were official, maybe because he’d got used to working in an environment where the right hand doesn’t always know what the left is doing?’

      A silence followed this question, and in Pascoe’s eyes answered it too.

      Then Freeman spoke from behind him.

      ‘Lukasz,’ he said, ‘if Pete here’s quite finished…’

      Pascoe glowered round at him. Teacher’s pet, he thought. Get your boss off the hook, earn brownie points.

      He said, ‘I’m done. For now.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Freeman. ‘Lukasz, these weird names the killer gave—or rather, the man we assume is the killer gave—do we have anything on them?’

      ‘Yes, as a matter of fact we do,’ said Komorowski. ‘But first I should draw your attention to an e-message every newspaper, TV news centre and news agency received two days ago. It read: It would appear that a new order of knighthood has been founded on earth.’

      He paused as if inviting identification.

      When none came he said, ‘Don’t worry. Of the great intellects who run our press, only one recognized it, and that, curiously, was the sports editor of the Voice. He was intrigued enough to mention it to the paper’s Security correspondent, who passed it to us. We put it on file with a question mark. Now I think the question mark can be removed.’

      He paused again and Bloomfield said, ‘In your own time, Lukasz.’

      ‘Thank you, Bernie,’ said Komorowski, as if taking the remark at face value. ‘In fact this is a translation of the opening words of St Bernard of Clairvaux’s Liber ad milites Templi, written at the request of his friend, Hugh de Payens, to define, justify and encourage a new order of knights Hugh and a few others had just founded. These were the Knights Templar, whose initial function was to protect the many pilgrims travelling to Jerusalem. Although the First Crusade had seen the establishment of new Christian states in the region, it was still a dangerous place for the unwary pilgrim, who provided an easy target both for religious zealots and for common thieves. Rapidly, however, the new Order outgrew its founding purpose and evolved into an independent fighting force dedicated to driving the infidels out of the Holy Land. Eventually it became so powerful that it had to be crushed by the very powers of Western Christendom whose values it was formed to defend. But it is its beginnings not its ending that concern us here.’

      He paused again and looked around as though anxious for approval.

      Bloomfield said, ‘Good, good. And your point, Lukasz?’

      ‘Besides Hugh de Payens there were eight other founder members of the order, all French noblemen,’ said Komorowski. ‘One is unknown, possibly Hugh Count of Champagne who was de Payens’ liege lord. Two are known only by their Christian names: Rossal and Gondamer. The names of the others are Payen de Montdidier—incidentally, the fact that Payen here and its plural form in the name of the Order’s founder look like medieval forms of modern paien, pagan, seems to be a coincidence.’

      Another pause, another glance around as if looking for comment or contradiction. There was none, unless an audible sigh from Bloomfield could be interpreted as either.

      ‘Now where was I?’ said Komorowski. ‘Oh yes. Montdidier. Then there are two Geoffreys: de St Omer and Bisol. And finally, and for our present purpose, most significantly, there is a knight called Archambaud de St Agnan, and a future Grand Master of the Order whose name is Andre de Montbard.’

       2 a pale horse

      Hugh de Payens was galloping his grey stallion across a wide green meadow under an ancient castle’s beetling walls. On either side ranks of armed men held their eager mounts under strict control, their restless hooves rising and falling on the same spot, their heaving breasts creating a dark ripple of muscle that ran as far as the eye could see. Cuirasses glinted in the bright summer sun, pennants bearing lions, bears, griffins and dragons, rampant, courant, couchant, fluttered above them, and high over all floated the broad banners which on a lily-white ground bore the symbol of their purpose and their faith, the red cross.

      Then a little bell rang and in a trice the castle became an insubstantial ruin, the mounted men and their flags vanished, leaving the rider hacking gently along the edge of a field on a placid grey mare with nothing for company but a few uncurious cows.

      He reined in, took out a mobile, accessed Messages and found a single capital X.

      He erased it and urged his mount forward into a spinney of beech trees slimming into willow as he approached a narrow but deep and fast-moving stream. On its bank he came to a halt and slackened the rein so that the horse could crop the long grass.

      He speed-dialled a number.

      ‘Bernard.’

      ‘Hugh.’

      ‘De Clairvaux.’

      ‘De Payens.’

      Silence. He counted mentally.

       one thousand two thousand three thousand

      Dead on three seconds the other voice spoke.

      Anything less, anything more, and he would have switched off, removed the SIM card, cut it in half with the pair of electrical wire strippers attached to his belt, and hurled the pieces and the phone into the stream.

      ‘Hugh, the loose end, there’s been a suggestion it might not be so harmless as we thought. I wonder if it wouldn’t be as well to tie it up. Discreetly, of course.’

      A moment’s silence then Hugh said, ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that. It’s not what we’re about.’

      ‘Of course it isn’t. But in the field sometimes the choice is between collateral damage and protecting our own. Or, let’s not be mealy-mouthed, protecting ourselves.’

      ‘Our structure protects us.’

      ‘There are always links. You know me. Andre knows you. The Geoffreys know Andre.’

      ‘I hope you trust my discretion. I trust Andre. And he says the Geoffreys are reliable.’

      ‘Are they? From what you reported of Bisol’s reaction to Mill Street, I would have doubts.’

      ‘He’s concerned about the injured policeman. Removing another as damage limitation isn’t going to make him feel any better.’

      ‘Properly done, no reason why he should ever know, is there? Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but I know how easily things can unravel. I’ve already had to put one nosey policeman on a tight rein. The loose end in question seems to be accident prone, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to remove him without arousing either suspicion or further agitating Bisol’s tender conscience. From what you say of him, I imagine Andre would take it in his stride. I leave it with you.’

      The phone went dead.

      Hugh switched off. His patient horse, alert to signals, raised its head, then resumed cropping the grass as its rider made no movement but sat in thought for a while.

      Finally he activated his phone once more, texted an X, and disconnected.

      A few moments later the phone rang.