Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill Page B

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 offi ce 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.

    d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 49
    “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 lads 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, he could be quite formidable. Clearly he wanted now.
    “Decisions have been made. Your job when you return offi cially 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 they 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 Offi ce 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?”

    50 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    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