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’
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 uncertainty replied. ‘Uncle Andy will wake up when he wants to, don’t you see?’
Ellie had promised herself when Rosie was born that she would never be anything but completely honest with her daughter. Often her resolution had been strained close to breaking point, but she’d always tried. Now she nodded and said, ‘Let’s hope so, love. Let’s hope so. But he is very ill and we’ve got to face it: maybe he’s so ill that he wouldn’t want to wake up, and he’ll just die. I’m sorry.’
Her words clanged dully in her own ears, but Rosie’s expression didn’t change.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she exclaimed. ‘He’ll still wake up when he’s needed.’
Like King Arthur, you mean? thought Ellie. Or, perhaps more aptly, the Kraken?
But she said no more. What else was there to say but the clichés of comfort? And the time for them, though close, had not yet arrived.
So, leaving behind a wife absolute for death and a daughter buoyed up by a sure and certain hope of resurrection, Peter Pascoe returned to work.
Determined to conceal any evidence of debility, as he approached the CID suite he took a deep breath which proved rather counterproductive, sending a spasm of pain through his rib cage that made him momentarily let up on the effort of will necessary to control his left knee.
Thus the first sight his junior colleagues had of him, he was limping, wincing and breathing hard. Edgar Wield followed him into his office and said anxiously, ‘Pete, you OK? I thought you were laid up for a week at least.’
‘Bloody quacks, what do they know?’ said Pascoe roughly. ‘Right, Wieldy, bring me up to speed.’
‘Not a lot’s changed,’ said the sergeant. ‘Three more break-ins up on Acornboar Mount; spate of credit-card fraud—looks like someone’s recording PINS; couple of muggings; an affray outside the Dead Donkey—’
‘Jesus, Wieldy!’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘That’s not what I’m worried about. Someone blew up half a street, three dead, Andy lying in a coma, that’s the only case I’m interested in. So what’s the state of play there?’
Wield shrugged and said, ‘Sorry, out of our hands. You’ll need to talk to CAT. Dan’s told us to co-operate fully. So far that’s meant pointing Glenister and her men towards the best pubs and restaurants.’
Dan was Chief Constable Dan Trimble.
‘So he’s had his arm twisted,’ said Pascoe. ‘Two can play at that game.’
He reached for the phone.
Wield said, ‘Actually, he’s here. In Andy’s room, I think…’
‘Andy’s room? What the hell’s he doing in there?’ demanded Pascoe.
‘Well, he is the chief constable…’ began Wield, but he was speaking to Pascoe’s back as the DCI headed out of the door.
He didn’t bother to knock when he reached Dalziel’s office but burst in.
‘Peter!’ said Sandy Glenister, her round farmer’s-wife face lighting up with a welcoming smile. ‘Good to see you. We were just talking about you, weren’t we, Dan?’
‘Er, yes. But I wasn’t expecting…Shouldn’t you still be on sick leave?’ said Chief Constable Trimble.
Glenister was sitting in Dalziel’s extra-large chair behind a desk which was as clear and tidy as Pascoe could recall seeing it. Trimble was sitting opposite her so that he had to twist round to look at the newcomer.
‘I’m fine, sir,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘Couldn’t lie around when there’s so much to do. Who have we got heading up the Mill Street investigation, sir?’
‘That would be me, I think,’ said Glenister.
‘No, I meant from our side,’ said Pascoe.
‘Our side? I hope that’s what I’m on too.’ She smiled.
‘Sir?’ said Pascoe, addressing himself pointedly to Trimble.
The Chief eyed him speculatively, decided to make allowances and said, ‘Peter, in view of the national security aspects of the business, I think it’s reasonable that we follow Home Office guidelines and let the specialists deal with the investigation—’
‘Sir!’
