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

to check how many no-go areas are built in?’

      ‘Jesus, Pete,’ protested the sergeant. ‘She’s falling over herself to keep us happy. You think I’m going to help matters trying to trip her up? Even if she does hold back a bit, I bet not even Trimble’s got the clearance you need to know all that CAT stuff.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘So let’s go and take a look before young Andersen there follows orders and shoots us.’

      They got out and went towards the barrier.

      Andersen greeted them with a smart salute, then took out his notebook.

      ‘No need for that,’ said Pascoe smiling. ‘This is sort of unofficial official. Must be a bit boring for you, just hanging around here.’

      ‘Doesn’t seem much point to it,’ agreed the youngster disconsolately.

      ‘Not to worry,’ said Pascoe. ‘As long as you’re appreciated where it matters, eh? I’ll have a word with Mr Ireland, see if he can’t find you something a little more testing.’

      ‘Thanks very much, sir,’ said Andersen, delighted.

      ‘You really going to start telling Paddy Ireland how he should deploy his men?’ said Wield as they walked towards the ruined terrace.

      ‘I may suggest diplomatically that there are better ways of nurturing youthful enthusiasm than giving it all the most boring jobs,’ replied Pascoe.

      Wield gave a grunt which was in itself a masterpiece of diplomacy, conveying the message You must be out of your tiny mind without getting close to a definably insubordinate phoneme.

      Pascoe wasn’t paying attention anyway. He was recalling that day, so close still yet feeling as if it belonged in the historical past, when he’d risen from behind the car and taken those last few steps in the wake of Dalziel.

      The wake of Dalziel. Not the best omened of phrases.

      He shook it out of his mind and concentrated on the collapsed terrace into which Tig was already plunging with great delight, sending up clouds of white dust.

      ‘Any traces of asbestos?’ he asked, suddenly alarmed.

      ‘No, you’re OK,’ said Wield, glancing in a plastic folder. ‘Don’t think expensive fire-retardant materials had much appeal for the guys who built houses like these.’

      ‘That Jim Lipton’s report you’ve got there?’ said Pascoe.

      Lipton was the Chief Fire Officer.

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘What about the CAT stuff? If I know them, they wouldn’t be happy till they got their own experts in to second-guess the local yokel.’

      ‘Tried to access it, but they’ve got a firewall even Jim ‘ud find it hard to chop down,’ said Wield.

      ‘So you have been checking!’ said Pascoe, thinking that IT protection that kept Wield out had to be serious gear.

      ‘Only because I didn’t want to draw attention, this visit being so accidental.’

      ‘Quite right,’ said Pascoe. ‘So what’s Jim say?’

      ‘The way this place was built, the blast reduced it to matchwood, which was very handy for the fire. Site of the big bang was definitely Number 3. Relatively small amount of damage to the viaduct wall suggests that if it was their intention to plant the explosive there, they hadn’t yet started their excavation.’

      ‘Anything on the explosive?’

      ‘Not from Jim. Not his bag. But it was definitely Semtex.’

      ‘Your friend Glenister tell you that?’

      ‘No, I got chatting to one of her officers. Nice lad.’

      Pascoe raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Wieldy, I hope you remembered you’re a happily married man.’

      The sergeant and his partner, Edwin Digweed, had taken advantage of the new legislation formalizing same-sex relationships soon after it came into force. The Pascoes and Dalziel had attended the ceremony, which was a quiet affair. The party which followed in their local pub, the Morris, was far from quiet, but, rather surprisingly in view of Wield’s profession, neither ceremony nor celebration caused the least ripple of interest in the local media. Surprisingly, that was, to everyone except Pascoe. He’d expressed the hope to Dalziel that, despite the two Eds’ declared determination to live their lives as they wanted, there’d be no intrusive media presence. The Fat Man had replied, ‘Shame. I were looking forward to seeing our Wieldy as Bride of the Month in Mid-Yorkshire Life. But mebbe you’re right. I’ll have a word.’

      It was generally believed that if Dalziel had had a word, news of the death of Little Nell would not yet have reached Mid-Yorkshire.

      ‘Get anything else from this nice lad?’ enquired Pascoe.

      ‘Nay. Sandy Glenister came along just then and he were off like a linty.’

      ‘So much for her open sharing policy.’

      ‘I think you’ve got her wrong,’ said Wield. ‘She answers all my questions, or if she doesn’t, she tells me why. She reckons they were probably setting up a detonator device and something went wrong.’

      ‘It certainly went wrong for Andy,’ said Pascoe grimly.

      ‘It started going wrong before that,’ said Wield. ‘It started going wrong when he decided not to follow instructions.’

      ‘Got that in one of your cosy chats, did you?’ snapped Pascoe.

      Wield did not acknowledge the question but after a short silence said gently, ‘Pete, what exactly are we doing here?’

      What indeed? thought Pascoe. It was a desolate scene. The hot sunny spell was long gone, the temperature was distinctly unsummerish, clouds scudded overhead on a gusty wind which picked up handfuls of ash and created little dust-devils in the gloomy cleft formed by the looming mill and the railway viaduct. To explain he was here because of some crazy notion that only by finding out exactly what had happened in this place could he hope to keep Andy Dalziel alive would make him sound positively doolally.

      He said, ‘A crime was committed here. That’s my job, investigating crime.’

      It came out more pompous and dismissive than he intended.

      Wield said, ‘So you’re going to do your great detective act and sift through the ashes and find a clue the CAT team missed?’

      The open sarcasm was no more than he deserved, thought Pascoe.

      Trying to lighten things, he said, ‘No, I’ll leave that to Tig. What have you got there, boy?’

      Tig, a great snapper up of unconsidered and often insanitary trifles, came to them like his own ghost, covered in white dust and carrying something in his mouth.

      Pascoe stopped to accept the gift, wincing as his ribs reminded him that they might be ignorable when he was dallying with his wife, but at all other times, they could still crack a sharp whip.

      It was a piece of plastic, fused into a bolus by the intense heat of the fire.

      ‘One of the videos, I expect,’ said Wield. ‘The report says there was hardly anything left identifiable.’

      Pascoe threw it away, which was a mistake. Tig went after it with a delighted yelp, raising an even denser cloud of dust and ash. He was going to need a thorough brushing before he came in sight of Ellie.

      ‘We’ve got company,’ said Wield.

      ‘Shit,’ said Pascoe.

      A car had drawn up by the barrier. Out of it stepped a blond-haired elegantly suited figure he recognized as Dave Freeman, Glenister’s attendant spook.

      He