Recalled to Life

by Reginald Hill

  The giant straightened up. Dalziel smiled at him through the wind-screen and laid a finger across his lips. The man turned away and raised the barrier. It seemed to take more effort than it had before.

  Dalziel drove away. There was another nice crunch which he enjoyed. Not a bad morning's work, he thought. But he did not deceive himself. There was trouble approaching. But so what? It was going one way, he was going the other, and soon it'd be behind him with all the

  other trouble that littered his past. Clear horizons were for boring holidays on the Costa Brava. Hell, which he didn't believe in, would be sun, sand, and a tideless sea.

  And heaven? (Which he didn't believe in either.)

  Good whisky in your belly. Satisfaction in a job well done. Anticipation of a struggle ahead. And a mate or two you could rely on. In fact, the status quo. The conclusion took him by surprise. Was he really in heaven after all, sitting in a stuffy car on a crowded motorway? Perhaps he was. And perhaps knowing it made it hell after all.

  He shook his head in irritation. He was thinking too much, like the boy, Pascoe, and look how miserable it made that poor sod.

  He leaned all his considerable weight on to the accelerator and slipped into the endless line of cars doing no more than 20 m.p.h. over the legal limit heading north in the outside lane.

  ELEVEN

  'My way out of this is to put you all in the wrong.'

  The explosion came at two o'clock that afternoon.

  There was still no sign of Dalziel when Pascoe returned from lunch but there was an urgent message requesting their immediate attendance upon the Chief Constable.

  The atmosphere in the Chief's office was like a First World War court martial. Trimble's face was stern though relatively neutral, but Hiller, occupying a chair ambiguously placed to one side of the Chief's desk as though to give him a buttock on both the seat of judgement and the prosecution bench, wore the expression of a vengeful hamster.

  'Mr Dalziel?' said Trimble.

  'Not back yet, sir.'

  'Back from where?' demanded Hiller.

  It was a wife-beating question, inviting him to admit complicity, claim ignorance, or essay deceit.

  He said, 'From lunch, sir.'

  Hiller looked ready to assault him but Trimble intervened.

  'I think we can leave Mr Dalziel to answer for himself. Mr Pascoe, I understand you have been detailed to act as liaison officer between Mr Hiller's inquiry team and CID.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'I ask because it may be that it was some rather broad interpretation of this duty that took you to Haysgarth to interview Lord Partridge about the Mickledore Hall case yesterday morning.'

  It was a tenuous line of defence but probably the only one possible that Trimble was offering him. Yet all that Pascoe could think was how wrong he'd been to even dream that he could trust a lord.

  'Yes, Mr Pascoe?' prompted Trimble.

  Oh, sod it, thought Pascoe. What was the point of all this boxing clever when down the road they were already drawing lots to see who got the firing squad detail?

  'No, sir,' he said.

  'No, what?'

  'No, it wasn't any such misinterpretation of my liaison role that took me to Haysgarth.'

  'All right,' said Trimble, patience at end. 'Then what?'

  Pascoe drew in a deep breath and with it, or so it seemed, the office door, which swung slowly open to reveal Dalziel.

  'Got a message asking me to drop by, sir,' he said, making it sound like an invitation to afternoon tea.

  Had he been listening at the door? wondered Pascoe, as perhaps did Trimble for he said, 'Excellent timing, Andy. As always. I was just asking Mr Pascoe here why he interviewed Lord Partridge yesterday.'

  'Oh, that. Don't be too hard on the lad, sir. I admit I were a bit narked myself when I heard what a cock-up he made, but after my experience this morning, I've got a lot more sympathy.'

  He shook his head ruefully. Pascoe groaned inwardly, Hiller's lips, already tight, faded to a pale line, and Trimble sat back in his chair and looked as if he were trying to think of England.

  'Explain,' he said gently.

  'It's this private security firm inquiry you're so keen on, sir. Lord Partridge since he came out of politics doesn't get any official protection but he does have a firm called SecTec who keep an eye on things. So I thought his lordship would be just the man to give us a customer's eye view of the private sector. Only it seems Peter, Chief Inspector Pascoe that is, let himself be lured into some idle-chit-chat about the Mickledore business. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if his lordship weren't trying to pump the lad, you know how these politicians' minds work. Any road, her ladyship came in, got her knickers in a twist, and Mr Pascoe, being a well bred sort of chap, thought it best to beat a retreat.'

  Hiller could contain himself no longer.

  'And I suppose coincidentally that's what happened to you this morning when you spoke with Sir Arthur Stamper?'

  'Aye, that's right,' said Dalziel, beaming with pleasure at Hiller's perspicuity.

  'Perhaps I should warn you that Sir Arthur taped your conversation.'

  'Grand! Then if you listen to it, you'll hear it was him that recognized me from way back and set off talking about Mickledore. I had a hell of a job getting him back on course. Then you turned up, Geoff, and steam had to give way to sail.'

  If Hiller had grown a Hitler moustache, he would have swallowed it by now.

  Trimble said almost indifferently, 'I suppose you had cleared yourself with South before going to Sheffield?'

  'Oh yes. Des Monkhouse'll have it on record.'

  'I don't doubt it,' snarled Hiller. 'Called in one of the famous Dalziel favours, did you? And what about your lad here visiting Mavis Marsh? I suppose that was about private security firms as well? I warned you what would happen if you got in my way, Dalziel - '

  'Mr Hiller.' Trimble spoke quietly but his voice was like a gunshot across a saloon brawl. He let the ensuing silence confirm itself, then went on, 'I think I'd like a private word with Mr Dalziel now. I'm sure you have a great deal of work on your plate, and I assure you it will proceed without any impediment. Mr Pascoe, thank you for . . . coming,' he concluded.

  As they descended the stairs together, Hiller said without looking at him, 'I'm disappointed in you, Mr Pascoe. I'd heard good things, but I see now that bad habits are not easily avoided if you keep bad company.'

  'I'm sorry, sir. But if loyalty's a bad habit, then you're right. That's all that's motivating Mr Dalziel, loyalty to his old boss. OK, so he acts . . . erratically sometimes, but the only thing personal in it is that sense of loyalty. That can't be altogether bad, can it?'

  He spoke with a passion born more of uncertainty than conviction and now Hiller looked at him.

  'I believe in loyalty too, Mr Pascoe,' he said, with something not unlike sympathy in his thin voice. 'Loyalty to a common cause. Anything else is just personality cult. But there are other habits you might care to pick up from Andy Dalziel. For instance, he prides himself on not letting himself be used. Now there's a quality worthy of emulation by all of us, wouldn't you say?'

  They parted. Pascoe went back to his office and tried to settle to some work but his head was overcrowded with Hiller's words and speculation about what was being said up in the Chief Constable's office. At last he heard the approaching beat of Dalziel's step accompanied by a bravura humming of Colonel Bogey. Sometimes he came at you like Queen Mab and sometimes like the band of the Coldstream Guards.

  'There you are, then,' cried the Fat Man as he came through the door. 'Come on. I'll need you around when I clear up so you can see where things are.'

  'Clear up . . . ?'

  'Aye, lad. It's your chance to shine. You'll be looking after the shop while I'm away. On your feet, jildi!’

  Pascoe hurried along behind the retreating figure, catching up with him only when he halted at his own desk.

  'Right. Where to start? Let's see. Good Scotch in this dra
wer, best at the back of yon cabinet. I've marked the levels and tested the specific gravity. That apart, I don't think there's owt else to say. You'll find everything in order.'

  'What's happened? Have you been suspended?' demanded Pascoe.

  'Don't be daft! Two things Desperate Dan doesn't like. One is twats like Adolf shouting the odds at him, t'other is spooky sods in the Smoke trying to pull his strings. When you're my size, you can afford to be flexible, bend with the wind. But a little chap like Dan needs to show he's the boss.'

  'So you've not been suspended?'

  'There's them as would like to see it. Some twat - he didn't mention names, but it'll be yon bugger Sempernel likely - rang up and went on about this fellow turning up at Kohler's hideout. Big fat sod with an uncouth northern accent, he'd said, so Dan could see it were no use trying to pin it on me. Anyway, the long and short of it is, he asked me if I had some leave coming, suggested I might like to take it. You don't look happy, lad? Not feel up to the job, is that it?'

  Pascoe was recalling the last time Dalziel's embarrassing presence had been removed by 'leave'. All his absence had meant was that he popped up at even more unexpected times and places than normal.

  He said, without much hope, 'Will you actually be going away? I mean, far away?'

  'Eh?' Dalziel laughed. 'Oh, I see what's bothering you. No. I've learned my lesson. You won't find me hanging around here, getting under your feet. I'm going to put myself as far as I can get from all this crap.'

  'Oh yes? And where's that?' said Pascoe, hesitating to experience relief.

  'Hang on,' said Dalziel who had picked up his phone and dialled.

  'Hello! Mr Foley, please . . . Come on, luv, bank managers aren't busy with clients at this time of day, they're busy putting on their British warms afore they head off to treat other bank managers to expensive grub at my expense. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel . . . Jim, lad! What fettle? Look, two things, first off I want to buy some shares. Glencora Distillery ... I don't give a toss if you've never heard of it, you didn't know they'd privatized water till it started running green . . . How many? All I can afford and a few more besides. And don't hang about. Second, I want some travellers' cheques. US dollars. That's right, American. You've heard of America? Well, I'm going there the day after tomorrow . . . Very droll . . . I'll be in later on, then . . . Cheers.'

  He put the phone down and contemplated Pascoe's dropped jaw with undisguised glee.

  'America?' said Pascoe. 'You're not going after ... oh shit! Look, sir, do you think it's wise? Do you think it's possible? It's a long way, and bloody expensive, and I doubt if you'd even get a flight at such short notice.'

  'All fixed,' said Dalziel, producing an airline ticket. 'Heathrow to New York. Sorted it out on my way back from Inkerstamm.'

  'But you didn't know then that the Chief would suggest...’

  Pascoe let his words fade to nothingness. He thought of mind and matter, will and law, and then of Hiller's warning against letting himself be used. But why listen to warnings from a man incapable of following his own precept?

  'What was all that about shares?' he asked.

  'Stamper gave me a tip.'

  'Why'd he do that, for God's sake?'

  'Didn't mean to, but you know these self-made buggers, can't resist showing off. Hello!'

  The phone had rung and Dalziel had scooped up the receiver at first ping with the speed of an Australian slip fielder.

  'Percy, how are they hanging? No, you're dead right, not funny. Sorry . . . Right, I see. Look I'm going to be away for a few days, so why don't you give Mr Pascoe a ring when she gets back? Aye, he'll talk to her. Full authority. That's grand. Take care of yourself.'

  The phone went down.

  'That was Percy Pollock,' said Dalziel. 'Mrs Friedman, her who worked at Beddington Jail, she's away on holiday just now, but expected back shortly. I said you'd deal with it, OK?'

  'I suppose so,' said Pascoe unenthusiastically. 'What am I supposed to do with her?'

  'You'll think of something, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Now I'd best go out and buy myself a phrase book, unless there's owt else you want to say?'

  Pascoe shook his head.

  'Nothing,' he said. 'Except bon voyage. And God Save America.'

  PART THE THIRD

  Golden Apple

  ONE

  'Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means

  of travelling, a disorganized country, a city that may

  not be even safe for you.'

  The Immigration queue snaked before him like an Alpine pass with its head almost hidden in the clouds.

  Dalziel took a pull from a half-empty flask of duty-free malt.

  'How long do you reckon, luv?' he asked the woman he'd been sitting beside since Heathrow. Her name was Stephanie Keane. She was in her thirties, comfortably but elegantly dressed in a loose-fitting organdie blouse and skirt, quite pretty in an anorexic kind of way. Her first response to Dalziel's conversational gambits had been frosty, but once she caught on that he was a tyro at this kind of trip, she'd thawed and let herself be elected Beatrice to his lost soul. She was, he had learned, co-owner of a Midlands antiques firm, and a frequent transatlantic traveller in pursuit of her profession.

  Now she cast her expert eye over the queue.

  'Three hours minimum,' she said.

  'You're joking,' said Dalziel incredulously. 'I'd not queue that long to watch England stuff Wales.'

  She gave him the look of amused condescension with which liberated woman views the futile muscle-flexing of prehistoric man.

  'So what are you going to do about it?' she inquired satirically.

  Pensively Dalziel took another drink. Then he screwed the cap back on and slipped the bottle into his shoulder- bag.

  'Sorry about this, luv,' he said.

  And, stooping down behind her, he put his right hand between her legs, grasped the front hem of her skirt and jerked it up hard against her crotch, at the same time twisting her left arm behind her back.

  'Right, sunshine,' he said, 'consider yourself nicked.'

  Stephanie Keane screamed and tried to swing at him with the briefcase in her free hand but she might as well have whipped a bull with daisies. Jerking her skirt tighter so that she was on tiptoe, he forced her forward through the ranks of passengers who scattered before them like sheep in a meadow, till finally their way was barred by an armed and uniformed man.

  'What's the trouble here?' he asked.

  'No trouble,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a cop, and this here's a smuggler. Why don't we have a word with your boss before you do summat daft like ruining your career?'

  Five minutes and several more uniforms later, he finally reached a grey business suit. In it was a fortyish black man with a boxer's scarred and flattened face and teeth perfect enough to please a monumental mason. He gently removed the furious woman from Dalziel's grip, handed her over to a couple of uniforms, invited her to accompany them to a nearby room where she would be taken care of, then ushered Dalziel into a carpeted office, presumably to take care of him.

  'Passport, please,' he said.

  'Help yourself. You pronounce it Dee-Ell.'

  'How else?' said the man. 'I'm David Thatcher, by the way.'

  'Oh aye? I think I knew your auntie.'

  The man smiled and said, 'So how can I help you. Superintendent?'

  'Depends what you are.'

  'I guess I'm a sort of superintendent too, though I don't know if it means the same on your side of the pond.'

  ‘It means I can do owt I like, so long as I don't let them catch me.'

  'Then for once our common language unites us. This woman you say is a smuggler, have you had her under surveillance long?'

  'Just since I got sat next to her at Heathrow. Never saw her before that.'

  'Oh. So how come you think she's a crook?'

  'I've been talking to her for six hours,' said Dalziel. 'She were very helpful, very laid back about everything, Immigration was tedious b
ut no hassle, Customs were a doddle as long as you weren't wearing ragged jeans or a turban. She knew it all.'

  'So?'

  'So it was herself she was reassuring,' said Dalziel grimly.

  'Did you tell her you were a cop?' asked the black man.

  'Don't be daft. I said I were a publican on a visit to my daughter who'd married a Yankee airman.'

  Thatcher regarded him steadily, then said, 'OK. Wrongful arrest suits can be very expensive over here, Mr Dalziel, but we'll take a close look at this lady. Anything I can get you while you wait?'