‘What do you think I told her?’ retorted Ellie indignantly. ‘Where you’ve stashed all that drug money you’ve stolen? I was upset, believe it or not, and she was kind.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe placatingly. ‘She does seem very kind. All the same, better check your purse and change your PINs.’
Ellie smiled the smile of a woman confident that no one of either sex could sweet-talk her out of anything she didn’t want to give.
‘I’d better go,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Last time I was late picking Rosie up from rehearsal, I found her sitting on the school wall, playing her clarinet. There was some change on the ground in front of her, but I suspect she’d put it there herself.’
‘Pity,’ said Pascoe. ‘Nice if she could be self-supporting. Give her my love. And tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘Yeah. Pete, what shall I tell her about Andy? I think she needs to know how bad things are, just in case…’
‘In case what?’ snapped Pascoe. ‘Sorry. Tell her the truth; that’s what we’ve always tried, isn’t it? But keep it cool, yes?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘By the way, they gave me what was left of your clothes. I went through your trouser pockets before I dumped them. Found a dental plate.’
‘It’s Andy’s,’ he said. ‘Clean it up, will you? He’ll want it when…’
His voice creaked into silence.
‘I’ll clean it,’ said Ellie, stooping to kiss him. ‘Now I’ve got to dash. But you won’t be lonely. I think I spotted another visitor lurking.’
She grinned as she spoke and a few moments later Pascoe realized why. The door slowly opened and a dolorous visage appeared, its brow puckered with uncertainty, like a sheep contemplating a gap in the hedge which separated its field from a busy motorway.
‘Hector,’ he said. ‘Nice of you to visit. Or are you just looking for the lavatory?’
He 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
