LITMIR.BIZ

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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!’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘There’s been a major incident on our patch, we’ve got bodies, Mr Dalziel’s in a coma, the people of Mid-Yorkshire, our constituents, will be expecting their own police force to provide answers. The local media will want to see faces they know, not listen to the meanderings of some imported spin doctor. Our own men need to feel they’re involved instead of being sidelined by a bunch of—’

      ‘Enough, Chief Inspector!’ said Trimble, rising.

      He wasn’t a very big man, but even Dalziel grudgingly allowed that, when he wanted, Trimble could be quite formidable. Clearly he wanted now.

      ‘Decisions have been made. Your job when you return officially to work will be to follow and to implement them. I’m sure that Chief Superintendent Glenister will keep you informed of progress, on a need-to-know basis, of course…’

      ‘You mean there may be things relating to criminal activity in Mid-Yorkshire that I don’t need to know?’ exclaimed Pascoe incredulously. ‘Has there been a change of government or what?’

      Trimble went fiery red. But before he could reply, Glenister said, ‘Hey, come on, you two! My da used to say that the English were a cold, unfeeling race, no passion. He should be here now! Dan, Peter’s quite right. I’d feel the same in his position. Home Office guidelines! What do those wankers know about life at the sharp end, eh? And I could do with all the help I can get. Why don’t you leave me and him to get acquainted and work out a modus operandi?’

      The chief constable thought for a moment, during which his cheeks cooled to their normal healthy glow.

      ‘That sounds reasonable,’ he said. ‘But if you should decide that in your estimation the chief inspector needs to rest for the full term of his prescribed convalescence, just let me know.’

      He left.

      Pascoe said, ‘You and the Chief seem to be very close.’

      ‘Oh yes, we go way back, me and Dan,’ said the woman. ‘Started out together in the days of auld lang syne.’

      And now, thought Pascoe, Dan’s chief constable and you’re chief super which, making allowances for what Andy called the handicap of tits and twat in the police promotion stakes, puts you several lengths ahead. Definitely one to watch.

      She stood up and came round the desk to his side.

      ‘Anything new on Mr Dalziel?’ she asked.

      He shook his head.

      ‘Well, while there’s life…Sorry if that sounds banal but, at times like this, there’s no gap between banal and pretentious. I found that out when I lost my man. Banal’s sincere; pretentious means they don’t give a damn.’

      ‘Your…man, was he job?’

      ‘Oh yes. Funny really. We’d been married seven years. I was at the point where I really had to decide, kids or career. Then I woke up one morning realizing I could have both. Just as me and Colin would share the kids, so we’d share his career, which looked set to be glorious. It all seemed so obvious. I’d never felt so happy. And that of course was the day it happened.’

      She fell silent. Pascoe didn’t ask what happened. Her motives for telling him this much were obscure. If she wanted to tell him more, she would.

      After a while he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Thank you. So am I. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t be here now. Peter, why don’t you sit there?’

      She indicated the chair behind the desk which she’d just vacated.

      ‘If anyone should keep this seat warm, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an Ops room down the corridor. Dan asked me if I’d sit in here if I had any spare time. With his two best CID officers out of

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