Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill

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 “Detective Superintendent Glenister from the antiterrorism 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 he supposed they ought to be grateful.

    d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 43
    “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 tubes to warm up.
    At forty-six, Hector stood up and said, “I’d best be going.”
    He took a step toward 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 crumbled like the walls of number 3, and when the nurse looked in to check that all was well, she found him with his face buried in his pillow, sobbing convulsively.

    QPART TWO
    The Days that we can spare
    Are those a Function die
    Or Friend or Nature—stranded then
    In our Economy
    Our Estimates a Scheme—
    Our Ultimates a Sham—
    We let go all of Time without
    Arithmetic of him—
    — E M I LY D I C K I N S O N ,
    “ T H E D AY S T H AT W E CA N S PA R E ”
    ( P O E M 1 1 8 4 )

    1
    A T I D Y D E S K
    On the third day, there were many in Mid-Yorkshire not normally noted for their religious fervor 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 mobile phones, 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