Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill Page A

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 a what? No human simile fit. Humans went. It d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 47
    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 forever, 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 the 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 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 was limping, wincing, and breathing hard. Edgar Wield followed him into his offi ce 48 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    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 cooperate fully. So far that’s meant pointing Glenister and her men toward the best pubs and restaurants.”
    Dan was Chief Constable Dan Trimble.
    “So he’s had his arm