‘Morning, sir,’ said Hector with a facial spasm possibly aimed at bright alertness, but probably a simple reaction to the taste of the felt-tipped pen which he licked as he spoke. ‘How can we help you?’
Pascoe looked despairingly into that slack, purple-stained mouth and wondered once more about his pension rights. In the first few weeks of convalescence he had talked seriously about retirement, partly because at that stage he didn’t believe the surgeon’s prognosis of almost complete recovery, but also because it seemed to him in those long grey hospital nights that his very marriage depended on getting out of the police. He even reached the stage where he started broaching the matter to Ellie, not as a marriage-saver, of course, but as a natural consequence of his injury. She had listened with a calmness he took for approval till one day she had cut across his babble of green civilian fields with, ‘I never slept with him, you know that, don’t you?’
It was not a moment for looking blank and asking, ‘Who?’
‘I never thought you did,’ he said.
‘Oh. Why?’ She sounded piqued.
‘Because you’d have told me.’
She considered this, then replied, ‘Yes, I would, wouldn’t I? It’s a grave disadvantage in a relationship, you know, not being trusted to lie.’
They were talking about a young miner who had been killed in the accident which crippled Pascoe and with whom Ellie had had a close and complex relationship.
‘But that’s not the point anyway,’ said Pascoe. ‘We ended up on different sides. I don’t want that.’
‘I don’t think we did,’ she said. ‘On different flanks of the same side, perhaps. But not different sides.’
‘That’s almost worse,’ he said. ‘I can’t even see you face to face.’
‘You want me face to face, then stop whingeing about pensions and start working on that leg.’
Dalziel had come visiting shortly after.
‘Ellie tells me you’re thinking of retiring,’ he said.
‘Does she?’
‘Don’t look so bloody betrayed else they’ll give you an enema! She doesn’t want you to.’
‘She said that to you?’
Dalziel filled his mouth with a bunch of grapes. Was this what Bacchus had really looked like? AA ought to get a picture.
‘Of course she bloody didn’t,’ said Dalziel juicily. ‘But she’d not have mentioned it else, stands to reason. Got any chocolates?’
‘No. About Ellie, I thought …’ He tailed off, not wanting a heart to heart with Dalziel. About many things, yes, but not about his marriage.
‘You thought she’d be dying to get you out of the Force? Bloody right, she’d love it! But not because of her. She wants you to see the light for yourself, lad. They all do. It’s not enough for them to be loved, they’ve got to be bloody right as well! Your mates too mean to bring you chocolates, is that it?’
‘They’re fattening,’ said Pascoe, loyal to Ellie’s embargo.
‘Pity. I like chocolate. So drop this daft idea, eh? Get the years in first. And you’ve got that promotion coming up, they’re just dragging their feet till they’re sure you won’t be dragging yours. Now I’d best be off and finger a few collars. Oh, I nearly forgot. Brought you a bottle of Lucozade.’
He winked as he put it on the bedside locker. The first bottle he’d left, Pascoe had taken at face value and nearly choked when a long swig had revealed pure Scotch.
This time he drank slowly, reflectively. But the only decision he reached after another grey night was that on your back was no place for making decisions.
Now here he was on his feet, thinking that on your back might not be such a bad place after all.
‘Constable Hector,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I work here. DI Pascoe, remember?’
In Hector’s memory a minute was a long time, three months an eternity.
He’s going to ask for identification, thought Pascoe. But happily at that moment, Sergeant Broomfield, chief custodian of the desk, appeared.
‘Mr Pascoe, good to see you back,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Thanks, George,’ said Pascoe with almost tearful gratitude. ‘I thought I might have been forgotten.’
‘No chance. Hey, have you heard about Mr Dalziel, though? Got himself a killer, single-handed, last night. He says that round here they’re so certain of getting caught, they’ve taken to inviting CID to be present! He doesn’t get any better!’
Chuckling, the sergeant retired to the nether regions while Pascoe, conscious still of Hector’s baffled gaze, made his way upstairs. He had brought his stick, deciding after some debate that it was foolish to abandon it before he felt ready. But as he climbed the stairs he realized he was exaggerating its use. The reason was not far to seek. I’m reminding people I’m a wounded hero! he told himself in amazement. Because there wasn’t a reception committee, and because Fat Andy has somehow contrived to upstage me, I’m flaunting my scars.
Disgusted, he shouldered the stick and tried to run lightly up the last couple of stairs, slipped and almost fell. A strong hand grasped his arm and supported him.
‘I expect you’d like another three months away from here,’ said Detective-Sergeant Wield. ‘But there’s got to be easier ways. Welcome home.’
Wield had the kind of face which must have thronged the eastern gate of Paradise after the eviction, but in those harsh features Pascoe read real concern and welcome.
‘Thanks, Wieldy. I was just trying to prove how fit I am.’
‘Well, if you fancy a miracle cure, come and touch God’s robe. You heard about his little coup last night?’
‘I got a hint from Broomfield.’
‘You’ll get more than a hint up here.’
Dalziel was on the phone but he waved them in expansively.
‘Couldn’t take the risk of hanging about, sir,’ he was saying. ‘He might have been away or we could’ve ended up with one of them hostage situations, tying up men and traffic with reporters and the SAS crawling all over the place!’
He made them both sound like rodents.
‘Thank you, sir. Ten o’clock? That’ll suit me fine. And I’ll make sure them buggers carry on working regardless!’
He replaced the receiver.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘I gather congratulations are in order.’
‘I believe they are,’ said Dalziel complacently. ‘Though Desperate Dan’s got mixed feelings. Doesn’t know whether to pat my back or stab it. Either way he’ll need a box to stand on!’
He was referring to Dan Trimble, Chief Constable, who, though small by police standards, was not a dwarf.
‘Mixed feelings? Why?’
‘Being out of practice at detective work, lad, you likely didn’t notice it’s like a bomb site down there.’ Dalziel had risen and was looking out of his window. ‘That’s Dan’s personal project. Part of his grand modernization plan. Rumour is he set the coroner up with a rent boy to get him to part with his garden. And he probably had to flog his own ring to get those tight bastards at County Hall to allocate the money. Trouble is, if the work’s not finished in March, the money is! That’s why Dan was all set to give me a kiss and a police medal till he heard who it was I’d nicked.’
‘And who