Death Comes for the Fat Man (22 page)

He knew this beyond all doubt, but it wasn’t a comfort. It meant if she didn’t ring, she couldn’t.

Five minutes, he told himself. He’d give her fi ve minutes.

He sat there staring at the screen.

An announcer appeared. She began to apologize for the break in transmission as if it had been caused by a simple power failure. Why was she smiling faintly? he wondered. Perhaps she hated Joe Fidler and hoped he’d been shot in the mouth. Then her face became serious and she said they were going over to the newsroom for an update on the body-in-the-reservoir story that had broken earlier. The picture changed to some kind of lake with a rubber dinghy floating in it. An 164 r e g i n a l d h i l l

announcer was saying, “Police have not yet confirmed the rumor that the body has been identified as that of . . . ”

Impatiently Pascoe switched the set off. There was only one story he wanted to hear about. Surely that was five minutes now? He checked his watch, Only four! It felt like an hour. He watched the second hand sweep round and started to count down.

Twenty . . . nineteen . . . eighteen . . .

Of course if she didn’t ring it meant nothing . . .

. . . fifteen . . . fourteen . . . thirteen . . .

She could be simply too preoccupied taking care of someone . . .

. . . ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

Or her battery could be flat . . .

. . . six . . . fi ve . . . four . . .

Or she’d left her phone in the make-up room . . .

. . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

She was dead.

He knew it with a certainty beyond the reach of logic.

She wasn’t ringing because she couldn’t ring because she was lying sprawled on the floor of the TV studio with the lifeblood oozing out of her body.

The sense of loss was so huge, so stifl ing of all his senses, that he didn’t realize for some little time that the phone was ringing.

He snatched it up.

“Peter?”

“Oh Jesus. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Nothing to worry about, really.”

“You’re not dead . . . sorry . . . I’m babbling . . . I thought you might be . . . you’re not hurt at all, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. One of the first things they taught me at nursery school. Really, love, I’m fi ne.”

“Thank God. What about the others?”

“All fine, no problem. It was just a sort of air pistol, one of those gas-powered things. She got one pellet off, hit Joe Fidler in that tight-stretched crotch, very poetic. He says he’s OK, which is just as well, as I couldn’t see anyone rushing to offer fi rst aid.”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 165

“And you’re really all right? God, when I saw you getting up with your Superwoman look on . . . ”

“No need to have worried. Before I could get to my phone booth, Maurice had done the deed. Real action-man stuff. No, I shouldn’t mock, he was very brave. Fast too. If it hadn’t been for him, Kal would have got the pellet straight in the face. Listen, love. Would you ring Jane just in case she was watching, or worse still, letting Rosie watch

’cos I was on.”

“Good thinking,” said Pascoe. “I take it that’s the end of the show now?”

“For me, certainly. Not before time either. Now I know exactly how Ffi on got me on. I can see her on her mobile now. She’s probably selling my story to the tabloids. You might like to retain a good homicide brief. I’ll be back soon as I can. Love you. ’Bye.”

“Love you too. ’Bye.”

He rang off. His mobile was ringing.

It was Wield.

“Pete, I were watching
Fidler’s Three
. . . ”

“Ellie’s fine,” said Pascoe. “She just rang to tell me.”

“That’s grand,” said Wield. “I waited a few minutes before ringing

’cos I knew you’d want the lines free.”

That was Wield, a mind for all seasons. In Pascoe’s opinion he was one of the best cops in Mid-Yorkshire, if not in the whole country.

Sticking at sergeant had been his own choice, at first because he didn’t want his gayness to become a promotion issue, and latterly, since setting up home with Edwin Digweed, because he had no desire to take any step which might disturb his domestic happiness.

In an unprejudiced society, he’d have been Commissioner by now, thought Pascoe.

He relayed Ellie’s account of events.

“God knows what was bugging this woman,” he concluded. “Thank God she could only lay her hands on an air pistol.”

“I’ve a mate in the Middlesbrough mob,” said Wield. “I’ll give him a ring later when they’ve had time to get things sorted. As for the pistol, don’t underestimate them. Close range, one of them gas guns can put a 166 r e g i n a l d h i l l

pellet through your eye right into your brain. In fact, if it hits soft tissue anywhere, it can do real damage.”

“I know,” said Pascoe. “But I reckon Ellie would still have had a go even if it had been a Kalashnikov. Fortunately that guy Kentmore seems to have been on the ball. I reckon I owe him a drink . . . sorry, Wieldy, got to go. The house phone’s ringing.”

It was Jane Pulman.

“Peter, has Ellie been on the television tonight?”

“Yes, she has, but she’s OK . . . ” then with sudden alarm, “Why are you asking? Is it Rosie?”

He’d guessed right. The four girls were in a bedroom that had a TV

set in it. They’d been allowed to watch a video, then Jane had looked in to make sure the set was off and the girls in bed.

“But you know kids,” she said. “They must have switched it on again, spotted Ellie, then something happened, something with a gun, right?”

The girls had tried to convince themselves that it was just part of the show, like the Ping-Pong balls, but Rosie had been so agitated that in the end, Mandy, Jane’s daughter, had decided to put her hand up and admit to her mother they’d been watching, and ask for reassurance.

“Let me talk to her,” said Pascoe. “No, better still, I’ll get Ellie to ring and talk to her.”

He put the phone down, and rang Ellie’s mobile.

“Hi, Pete,” she said, sounding rather breathless. “It’s chaos here.

Place is full of cops and reporters. I wish I’d twisted your arm to come.

Maurice has got his sister-in-law here and Kal has got Jamila, his fi an-cée. Lovely girl, you probably saw her on the box. They’ve stuck us all together in this side room where we’ve got to wait till we’ve made our statements. Fortunately it’s the same room they had the preshow refreshments in so we’re not short of booze and snacks. God knows when I’ll get away . . . ”

He interrupted her to explain why he was ringing.

“I’d better ring Jane straightaway before the battery goes in my mobile,” she said. “See you later, love. Don’t know when, but no need to worry, I’m being well looked after. ’Bye!”

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 167

He switched the TV back on to catch the news and was irrationally put out to find that the incident on
Fidler’s Three
rated only third place behind the body in the reservoir story and a plane crash in Canada. But as he began to take in the details of the reservoir story, his attention was fully engaged.

Though there was still no offi cial confirmation, observers were absolutely definite that the dead man was Michael Carradice, aka Abbas Asir, found not guilty a few hours earlier on terrorism charges.

And now a leak from the police said it was suspected he’d died of ricin poisoning.

“Shit!” said Pascoe.

This was tragic. It might also be trouble. With Carradice’s acquittal, he’d hoped that Ellie’s connection with the man could remain a sleeping dog. But now, especially if this turned out to be a Templar killing, the press would be all over it.

He returned his attention to the news, which had moved on to the Canadian air disaster with the inevitable speculation about possible terrorist involvement. In this case it seemed most unlikely, but it didn’t stop the “experts” from stirring the pot.

Then at last it was the incident on the Fidler show. By comparison with the preceding items this was presented in a straightforward, factual way with very little comment and a surprisingly small amount of fi lm footage.

I’m on the wrong channel! Pascoe told himself.

Over the past couple of decades the great British public, once so phlegmatic and passive, had learned that fortitude might be the virtue of adversity but it doesn’t get you money in the bank. Now many thousands who might have difficulty spelling the words
psychological
trauma
had no problem understanding its value. A twenty-fi rst-century Dunkirk would see the lines of rescued men heading first not for home or hospital but to their lawyers’ offi ces, there to be reunited with their loved ones already queuing up to make a claim for compensation.

The channel’s lawyers would have advised, Play this down or you’ll play the eventual bill up!

But their rivals would have no such inhibition.

He switched to another news program and found he was right.

168 r e g i n a l d h i l l

But along with a lack of inhibition, there was also a lack of footage, though to some extent they turned this to their advantage, giving the impression through the words of eyewitnesses of something close to the gunfight at the OK Corral.

Despite his superior knowledge, that was what it felt like to Pascoe too.

The next couple of hours dragged by. He tried to get through to Ellie again but either her phone was switched off or the battery had gone. Presumably she was on her way home now, otherwise he was sure she’d have found some way of letting him know.

When his phone rang he snatched it up, certain it would be Ellie, but it was Wield’s voice he heard.

“Is Ellie back yet?” he asked.

“No, but she should be on her way.”

“Good. Thought you might like an update on what I’ve got out of my chum in Middlesbrough. They’ve got the whole thing on tape.

Cameras kept rolling even after they cut off transmission. That guy Kentmore was the hero of the hour, moved like lightning, got himself between Sarhadi and the gun, then disarmed the woman. And of course he didn’t know it wasn’t a real pistol. So a real hero.”

“For which, much thanks. What do we know about the woman?”

“Only son worked in London. Got caught in one of the tube bombings. Died in hospital three months later. Since then anyone east of Spurn Head has been her perceived enemy. Also she’s a
Voice
reader.”

When its fellow tabloids fell into line behind the
Bradford News
’s pro-Sarhadi campaign, it was inevitable that the
Voice
should break ranks.

Coincidence? Maybe not!
had been its headline over a photo of an under-fifteen soccer team with Sarhadi and Raza, heads ringed, standing next to each other.
Once teammates, always teammates?
it went on.

No smoke without fi re?
And upon this flimsy base it built
a provable case
which needs to be answered!

When complaints were made to the Press Council, the
Voice
hid behind its question marks and offered a single-sentence apology in small type above the small ads.

“So it’s just some poor deranged woman looking for someone to blame, that it?” said Pascoe.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 169

“Looks like it. There could be a question of how she got on the front row. All three of the panel said they’d noticed her looking a bit agitated from the start. Fidler said he noticed nothing, but one of his producers admitted they check the audience out on CCTV before the show and decide who’s going to sit at the front.”

“So if you’re a bit wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth, you get put within striking distance of the panel? Nice. They ought to sack that bastard!”

“Don’t be daft, Pete. Tonight’s do has probably doubled his ratings.

Give my love to Ellie. We still on for tomorrow evening?”

“Yeah. Cheers!”

He put the phone down, opened another beer, and settled down once more to wait.

All logic told him Ellie was fine, but it was still a huge relief fi nally to hear her key in the front door.

He rushed into the hall to greet her.

As he folded her passionately in his arms, over her shoulder he saw she wasn’t alone. A man and a woman stood behind her on the threshold, making a big thing of examining the elegant
Pompon de Paris
climbing up the porch pillar.

The man he recognized as Maurice Kentmore, Ellie’s fellow panelist. The woman was familiar but it took him a second to realize it was the woman who’d been sitting next to Sarhadi’s fi ancée. In the flesh she looked even more striking. Emaciation merely underlined her elegant facial bone structure and made her dark eyes seem huge. Against the blackness of her cropped hair the pallor of her skin seemed to glow.

“Peter, this is Maurice Kentmore,” said Ellie as she broke away.

“And Kilda.”

“Maurice’s sister-in-law,” said the woman, offering her hand. Her voice had the faintest hint of an Irish accent. Her grip was fi rm, her palm dry but chilly.

“There wasn’t a car booked for me because I was a last-minute job,” explained Ellie, “and getting a taxi in Middlesbrough on a Friday night’s like getting a plumber on Christmas Day. Then Maurice offered a lift, even though it’s well out of his way.”

170 r e g i n a l d h i l l

“Glad to help,” said Kentmore. “Now, it’s late, so perhaps we should leave you . . . ”

“Don’t be silly. A drink’s the least we can offer you,” said Ellie.

“Yes, please come in,” urged Pascoe with an enthusiasm overegged by his private hope that they’d insist on being on their way.

“Well, just for a minute then,” said Kentmore.

As Pascoe ushered them in, he said to Ellie, “You got through to Rosie?”

“Yes, she was really worried. We spoke till my battery gave out. I convinced her I wasn’t dead, but not much more. She says she’s coming home in the morning.”

“But I thought Jane was taking the whole gang of them ice-skating.”

“Not our daughter. She’s a real doubting Thomas, won’t be happy till she sees for herself I’m not in a wheelchair. Sorry, Maurice. The joys of family life, eh?”