He was listening to a tape. Not the one Pascoe had tossed on to his desk with a casualness more cutting than accusation. How that had come to be stored with the Pal Senior suicide stuff he didn’t know, which bothered him. Pascoe in prissy mode liked to quote one of them foreign psycho-wankers- there’s no such thing as accident. Mebbe some imp of uncertainty dwelling deep in that darkness which lies at all our centres had made him leave the tape there. He didn’t like the feel of that, which was why he was listening to this other tape now, the original of the one he’d tossed back at Pascoe.
The voice on the tape, a woman’s voice, its soft American accent melodious on the ear, fell silent. It had worked its magic. He felt reassured. The imp was back in its dark cave. His sight cleared and took in the blue sky, the golden sun, the budding lime tree overhanging the corner of the car park. Once more he was Andy Dalziel, monarch of all he surveyed. In his mind’s eye he beheld the towns, villages, fields, woods, and rolling hills of Mid- Yorkshire, his proper dominion, and he saw that it was good; and the reason it was good was that behind him on the CID floor the massed ranks of his minions waited with bated breath for the commands which would send them galloping forth to defend the persecuted and bring the wrongdoer to justice.
His phone rang.
He picked it up and pronounced, “Dalziel,” with more than usual authority.
“God, Andy, that hurt! I’m on the phone, man, not standing on the next mountain top!”
He recognized the voice of Chief Constable Dan Trimble.
“Sorry, sir. And what can I do for you?”
“I just want to confirm a staffing detail. Your DC Bowler is still on sick leave, is he?”
“Yes, sir. He is. Leaving us short-handed and overstretched, as usual,” said Dalziel with only ritualistic force. His mind was too busy looking for the reason behind the query.
“Good, yes, I see. So there’s no way he could be operationally active, on say DCI Pascoe’s behalf? Without your knowledge, I mean.”
“No way,” said Dalziel firmly. He meant it. Pascoe was capable of pulling many clever strokes, but not this. In fact in the case of young Bowler, he’d got up Dalziel’s nose a bit, the way he clucked around like a mother hen, insisting that it might be a good six months before the lad was fit to return.
“Good, fine, didn’t think so,” said Trimble. “Thank you, Andy.”
The phone went dead.
Dan Trimble hailed from Cornwall, a county much admired by Dalziel for the unflinching brutality of its rugby players, the subtle ingenuity of its entrepreneurs, the vibrant beauty of its womenfolk, and the deep distrust of London shown by all its natives. After an initial sniffing-around period, he and Trimble had come to a series of mutually beneficent working understandings, and the Chief was looked up to with considerable respect by his fellow high-fliers as the man who could handle Fat Andy.
But though he had learned much, he had not yet learned that if you wanted to avoid awkward questions from Dalziel, it wasn’t enough to ring off quickly and order your secretary not to take the Superintendent’s calls, you must also pack a suitcase and flee the country.
“Mr Trimble’s office,” fluted his secretary when the phone rang a few seconds later.
“Bishop’s chaplain here,” said a high, faintly Welsh voice. “Could His Grace have a word?”
A moment later, Trimble said, “Good day to you, Bishop. How can I help you?”
“Sorry, sir, must be a crossed line. We got cut off. I were just going to ask you, what’s all this stuff about Bowler about?”
Now Trimble showed his quality by hesitating only a split second before admitting the inescapable.
He said, “Andy, I don’t know, and what little I do know I’m not supposed to tell you. I had a query from an old Hendon chum at the Yard saying he’d been asked to check unofficially with me if we had some operation going involving DC Bowler in a covert surveillance role.”
“Asked who by?” demanded Dalziel.
There was a pause and he went on impatiently, “Come on, sir. I know you. You’re like me, you’d want to know the why’s and wherefore’s.”
Feeling obscurely complimented, Trimble said, “Some chap by the name of Gedye. Works out of the Home Office, my chum gathered, whatever that means.”
“I know what it means and it don’t mean he’s a cleaner,” said Dalziel. “And what did you tell your chum? Sir.”
“I explained that Bowler was on sick leave but I’d double-check just to be quite sure. He said fine but the word was I must be very careful to create no ripples. I am on the point of reporting back negatively, and that I assume will be the end of the matter. Clearly been an intelligence snarl-up, which is par for the course in those misty regions on the edge of government. So no harm done. And I hope, Andy, this is going to be the nearest we get to a ripple from your direction.”
“Of course, sir. Thanks for being so forthcoming. Cheers, now.”
Dalziel put the phone down.
“Aye, Dan,” he said to the air. “No need to worry, my little pixie. I don’t do ripples. But I’ve promised nowt about bloody great splashes.”
Not that there was anything to splash in. Like Trimble said, probably a simple snarl-up. Them buggers down south made things so complicated that when they unzipped their flies they never knew whose cock they were going to pull out.
So why was that imp so recently repulsed twitching around in his gut once more? He poured himself a scotch and tossed it down. The imp received it gratefully. It was to be expected that any entity inhabiting the Dalziel frame would have developed a taste for old malts.
A phone was ringing close by. Pascoe’s, he guessed. It stopped. Then another phone started up in the main CID room. After five rings he flung open his door and strode down the corridor to demand to know why his minions with their bated breath weren’t rushing to answer it.
The answer was clear. Not a minion in sight.
No. Wrong. There was one, by the fax machine, trying to conceal himself behind a sheaf of printouts.
“Bowler. What the fuck are you doing here?” demanded Dalziel.
He did not pause for an answer but went to Wield’s desk and picked up the ringing phone and gave a noncommittal grunt.
“Wieldy, I was trying to get hold of Pete Pascoe. He’s not around, is he?”
The voice was Paddy Ireland’s. Dalziel gave another grunt, negative this time.
“Maybe you can help. It’s about this Moscow House business. Fat Andy was really keen to dump it on me- God knows why when you think of the speed he came running to stick his big nose in-but I managed to toss it back in the DCI’s lap. Now one of my lads has just mentioned that young Bowler has been asking questions about it down here, like he thought we were still dealing, and I wondered what that was all about. I thought he was off sick. Didn’t realize he was back.”
“Oh, he’s back, but he still looks pretty sick to me,” said Dalziel grimly. “Thanks, Paddy.”
He registered the shock at the other end, put the phone down and glared at Bowler, who was still crouching by the fax machine like a downhill skier who has felt a tremor in the ground and longs to fly away but fears a very slight move could bring the whole mountain crashing down.
Then suddenly, to the DC’s amazement, that great slab face fissured into a broad grin.
“Whatever you’re up to, it’s good to see you back, lad,” said Dalziel. “Come into my office and let’s see if we can’t find you some medicine.”
A few moments later, Hat found himself seated in front of the superintendent’s desk with a tumblerful of Highland Park in one hand. In the other he was still clutching the fax sheets in a grip which the shock of seeing the Fat Man had locked tight.
Dalziel had learned through a lifetime of interrogations that scaring people shitless wasn’t always the quickest way to extracting information. In addition, after a dicey start to their relationship, he had come to feel quite fond of Hat. As he said to Pascoe, “You can do a lot with a poncy graduate if you catch him young. Look at you.”
“So, tell us all about it,” he said now. “Off the record, like, seeing as you’re still officially on the panel. And no editing. The full monte.”
So Hat told him all about it. Or nearly all.
