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

was surprised to hear himself make the joke. Usually he made a conscious effort not to join in the friendly piss-taking which Hector provoked among his colleagues.

      Maybe somewhere deep inside, or not so deep, I blame him, he thought. If it hadn’t been for Hector, none of this would have started. Or if someone else had started it, then perhaps Dalziel would have taken it more seriously. Or…

      He pushed the thoughts aside and forced a smile.

      ‘Come in then,’ he said. ‘Have a seat.’

      Slowly Hector advanced. Like many lanky men, he walked with his head held low and thrust forward, as if to distract attention from his height. At moments of maximum uncertainty, which were many, the posture was so exaggerated that he put Pascoe in mind of those men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders that Desdemona seemed to find a turn-on. Dalziel, less literary but in his own way just as poetic, had once said to him, ‘For God’s sake, straighten thyself up, lad. You look like someone’s hung your tunic on a coat hanger with you still in it!’

      Perched on the edge of the chair, he stared fixedly at Pascoe.

      ‘So,’ said Pascoe heartily. ‘And how are things down at the factory? I mean, the Station. The Police Station.’

      It was as well to be precise in your intercourse with Hector.

      ‘OK,’ said Hector. ‘I mean, everyone’s dead worried about you and Mr Dalziel, but.’

      ‘Are they? Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine. And the Super, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.’

      There followed a long silence and Pascoe was thinking about bringing the visit to an end with a plea of fatigue when Hector burst out, ‘Is it true he’s going to die, sir?’

      ‘I hope not,’ said Pascoe, touched by the degree of concern shown. ‘But I’m afraid he is very ill. Look, Hector, you shouldn’t blame yourself…’

      ‘Blame who, sir?’ said Hector, screwing up his eyes in the effort of concentration.

      Whoops, thought Pascoe. Got that wrong, didn’t I. Whatever’s bothering Hector, it’s not a sense of guilt.

      ‘Blame anyone,’ he said. ‘It’s no one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen to anyone.’

      Hector nodded vigorously, very much at home with the concept of awful things that could happen to anyone but which for some reason were more likely to happen to him.

      ‘I gather you’ve been talking to Mrs Glenister,’ Pascoe went on; then, observing a familiar blankness spreading across Hector’s face, he added, ‘Chief Superintendent Glenister from the anti-terrorism unit.’

      ‘Glenister?’ said Hector. ‘Joker said her name were Sinister. Her who speaks funny?’

      Deafness clearly hadn’t affected Constable Jennison’s love of a laugh, thought Pascoe, for which I suppose we ought to be grateful.

      ‘Yes, she does. It’s called a Scottish accent. That’s Mrs Glenister all right. I hope you were able to help her.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ said Hector, very positive. ‘Kept on asking about the men I saw in the shop. Asking and asking. I started getting a bit confused but Mrs Sinister—sorry, Mrs Glenister—said not to worry as the men I saw must have got blown up anyway. Then she helped me with my report.’

      ‘That was nice of her,’ said Pascoe. ‘And it’s nice of you to come visiting. But I’m a bit tired now, Hector…’

      He paused and started counting to fifty. Dropping a hint to Hector was like turning on an old-fashioned wireless. You had to wait for the valves to warm up.

      At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, ‘I’d best be going.’

      He took a step towards the door. then turned back.

      ‘Nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘Brought you this—’

      Out of the depths of his tunic jacket he took a paper bag which he placed carefully on the bedside locker. Then he set off again, this time reaching the door before he halted once more.

      ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I hope Mr Dalziel doesn’t die. He’s been very good to me.’

      Then he was gone, leaving Pascoe only a little less amazed than he would have been if the angel Gabriel had popped in to tell him he’d been chosen to have a baby.

      He settled back into his pillows to contemplate the nature of the Fat Man’s goodness towards Hector, noticed the paper bag on his locker, reached out and picked it up.

      It contained, rather squashed but not beyond recognition, a custard tart.

      ‘Oh shit,’ said Pascoe.

      And suddenly for some reason beyond reason, the barrier he’d been erecting both consciously and unconsciously between himself and the events in Mill Street crumbled like the walls of Number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.

       Part Two

       The Days that we can spareAre those a Function dieOr Friend or Nature—stranded thenIn our EconomyOur Estimates a Scheme—OurUltimates a Sham—We let go all of Time withoutArithmetic of him—

      Emily Dickinson, ‘Poem 1184’

       1 a tidy desk

      On the third day, there were many in Mid-Yorkshire not normally noted for their religious fervour who would have been unsurprised to hear that Dalziel had taken up his hospital bed, hurled it out of the window, and walked away.

      But in an age of digital TV and the mobile phone, commonplace miracles have gone out of fashion, so the day dawned and departed with the Fat Man still comatose.

      Pascoe, on the other hand, did manage to rise and limp away, not through divine intervention, but by dint of nagging Dr John Sowden into discharging him, though only on the strict understanding that he took a minimum of seven days convalescent leave.

      On his second day home he announced his intention of dropping in at work to see how things were going.

      Ellie’s objections were forceful in expression and wide in range, starting with medical diagnostics and ending with reflections on his mental stability. When she paused for breath, Pascoe said, ‘You’re absolutely right, love. About everything. Only, I feel that, here at home, I’m not pulling for Andy. I know it’s daft, and me going back to work isn’t going to make the slightest difference. But somehow it feels like it might.’

      Ellie said, ‘You and your daughter, you’re both mad. But you’d better go. It’s going to be bad enough if the fat bastard dies without you feeling personally responsible.’

      In her mind, Ellie had already given up on Dalziel and was gathering her strength to deal with the aftermath of his death. She did not doubt it would be traumatic, like losing a…Here her imagination failed her. Like losing what? No human simile fitted. Humans went. It was their nature. You grieved. You got on with living. But Dalziel, when he went it would be like losing a mountain. Every time you saw the space where it had been, you’d be reminded nothing was for ever, that even the very majesty of nature was only smoke and mirrors.

      If anything she was more worried about her daughter than her husband. Peter knew that his reaction was daft. OK, he still went ahead, but he knew. Rosie, by contrast, had reacted to the news of Uncle Andy’s coma with apparent indifference. When Ellie had gently tried to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation, she had reversed the roles and with the patience of mature experience addressing childish