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

8 without fear or favour

       9 the decisive moment

       10 queen of the fête

       11 forgotten dreams

       12 the man of my dreams

       13 no change

       14 the tangle o’ the Isles

       15 a shot in the dark

       16 the word of an Englishman

       Part Five

       1 a free lunch

       2 promotion

       3 melodious twang

       4 red mite and greenfly

       5 no-name

       6 wake-up call

       7 safe house

       8 to the castle

       9 armour

       10 mother love

       11 a change of direction

       12 prison

       13 girls and boys

       14 a wee deoch an doris

       15 a call in the night

       16 the full English

       17 one last decision

       Part Six

       1 the very worst

       2 wheel of fire

       3 singles

       4 snapshots

       5 wedding gifts

       6 hi-yo, Silver!

       7 gatecrashers

       8 it is written

       Part Seven

       1 the end

       2 really the end

       Keep Reading

       About Reginald Hill

       Acclaim for The Death of Dalziel

       By Reginald Hill

       About the Publisher

       Part One

       Some talk of ALEXANDERAnd some of HERCULES;Of HECTOR…

      Anon, ‘The British Grenadiers’

       1 mill street

       never much of a street

       west—the old wool mill a prison block in dry blood brick its staring windows now blinded by boards its clatter and chatter a distant echo through white haired heads

       east—six narrow houses under one weary roof huddling against the high embankment that arrows southern trains into the city’s northern heart

       few passengers ever notice Mill Street

       never much of a street

       in winter’s depth a cold crevassespring and autumn much the same

       but occasionallyon a still summer day

       with sun soaring high in a cloudless skyMill Street becomesdesert canyon overbrimming with heat

       2 two mutton pasties and analmond slice

      At least it gives me an excuse for sweating, thought Peter Pascoe as he scuttled towards the shelter of the first of the two cars parked across the road from Number 3.

      ‘You hurt your back?’ asked Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel as his DCI slumped to the pavement beside him.

      ‘Sorry?’ panted Pascoe.

      ‘You were moving funny.’

      ‘I was taking precautions.’

      ‘Oh aye? I’d stick to the tablets. What the hell are you doing here anyway? Bank Holiday’s been cancelled, has it? Or are you just bunking off from weeding the garden?’

      ‘In fact I was sunbathing in it. Then Paddy Ireland rang and said there was a siege situation and you were a bit short on specialist manpower so could I help.’

      ‘Specialist? Didn’t know you were a marksman.’

      Pascoe took a deep breath and wondered what kind of grinning God defied His own laws by allowing Dalziel’s fleshy folds, swaddled in a three-piece suit, to look so cool, while his own spare frame, clad in cotton jeans and a Leeds United T-shirt, was generating more heat than PM’s Question Time.

      ‘I’ve been on a Negotiator’s Course, remember?’ he