Dialogues of the Dead

After they’d called for an ambulance and ministered to Hat and Rye as best they could, the Fat Man had said, “Best try some resuscitation here.”

“Nay, sir, he’s gone,” said his driver with the authority of one who’d attended more major traffic accidents than he cared to recall.

“Even so, can’t have folk saying we didn’t try,” said Dalziel firmly. “Pete, give us a hand.”

Pascoe knew what they were doing. It was called interfering with a crime scene. It was also called making sure that when the enquiry team sat in judgment in some nice clean conference room with pads of pristine paper to make notes on and jugs of crystal water to refresh their throats when they became dry from asking too many dusty questions, no one would be able to pass around photos of an abattoir.

No way they could alter the pathologist’s report, of course. But verbal description of the wounds wrapped in formal medical language, or even photographs of the cleaned-up body on a mortuary slab did not begin to convey the scene at Stangcreek Cottage.

These morbid reflections were driven from his mind by a disturbance in the corridor.

“Where’s he hiding at?” cried a familiar voice. “In here? Keep it quiet, tha says, luv? Nay, I’ve dealt with more malingerers than tha’s had hot flushes.”

The door burst open and Dalziel filled the room.

“I knew it. Up and talking. No wonder the NHS is short of beds with fit buggers like you filling them.”

Behind him an indignant staff nurse fluttered till Dalziel put her out of sight and mind by shutting the door.

“So, howst’a doing, lad? What fettle?” said the Fat Man, sitting on the edge of the bed which responded with the outraged squeak of a goosed matron.

“I’m OK, I think, sir,” said Hat.

“He will be OK in a few weeks, I imagine,” said Pascoe firmly.

“A few weeks?” said Dalziel incredulously.

“No, honestly, I think I’ll be out and about before that,” said Hat.

Dalziel regarded him closely, then shook his head.

“No you won’t,” he said. “The DCI’s right. Couple of weeks at least. Then a couple more convalescing.”

“No, really …” said Hat, this volte-face taking him by surprise.

“Fuck really,” said Dalziel. “Listen, lad, out there while you’re in here, you’re a wounded hero. So in here you’ll stay till we get that made official. Then when you do come out, them as wonder why you needed to stab Dee the Dick thirteen times can mutter all they like. Can’t touch a hero.”

“Why did you need to stab him thirteen times, Hat?” asked Pascoe.

“Wasn’t counting,” said Hat. “And maybe I didn’t need to, but I certainly wanted to.”

“First bit, good answer. Second bit, lousy answer,” said Dalziel. “Best is no answer. Look pale, little wince of pain, then say it’s all a blur, you remember nowt but this monster trying to kill this helpless innocent lass. All you knew was you had to stop him, even if it meant putting your own life on the line. And if you get a gong, say you reckon it’s the lass as should have it, all you did was your job, they’ll love that.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hat. “Sir, what about Penn?”

“What about him?”

“He alibi’d Dee for the Stang Creek killing, remember?”

“Maybe he got the night wrong. Maybe he was doing his mate a favour. Or maybe Dee bamboozled us about what he were doing the other possible times. Not your worry, lad. Leave Charley Penn to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hat, closing his eyes momentarily and wincing.

“You OK?” said Pascoe, concerned.

“Fine,” said Hat. “Didn’t realize it was such hard work being a hero.”

“Expensive work too,” said Dalziel. “First round in the Black Bull’s on you when you get back. Come on, Pete. Lad needs his rest and some of us have got work to do.”

Out in the corridor, Pascoe said, “Do we need to worry about Penn?”

“Only if he feels he don’t need to worry about me. Hello, what’s this? Don’t usually see folk running into these places, just out.”

The door at the end of the corridor had burst open to admit Rye Pomona at a run. She didn’t look as if she would have stopped, but Dalziel’s body was an obstacle not easily ignored.

“I got a message saying he’s awake,” she gasped.

“Awake, compos mentis, and asking about you,” smiled Pascoe.

“He’s OK? Truly OK?”

She spoke to Dalziel. Fair enough, thought Pascoe. I’m good enough for reassurance, but for assurance, Fat Andy’s your only man.

“He’s grand, luv. Bit weak still, but sight of you’ll have him standing up in no time. How about yourself? You OK?”

She looked OK. Indeed, with her golden skin flushed from running and her rich chestnut hair with its distinctive silver flash becomingly dishevelled, she could have modelled for a pre-Raphaelite picture of Atalanta diverted from her race by Aphrodite’s golden apples. Except there were only three of them and with Andy Dalziel as diversion, the artist would have need to paint a whole barrelful.

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I’m fine. Went back to work today.”

“What? Miserable buggers. Should have thought they’d give you a month at least.”