Death Comes for the Fat Man (42 page)

After a moment the door opened again and Kalim Sarhadi came out.

“Hello, Mr. Pascoe,” he said.

“It was Peter at the fete,” Pascoe replied, smiling.

“This not offi cial then?”

“Well, sort of,” admitted Pascoe.

“Aye, I didn’t really think you’d be wanting to talk about my wedding.”

“I just didn’t want to trouble your friend. But it’s not official in any official kind of way,” said Pascoe. “Can we talk somewhere?”

“Along here,” said Sarhadi, leading him into a small offi ce. “So what do you want?”

His attitude was polite but restrained.

Pascoe, who knew when to go round the houses, when to be direct, took a photograph of Youngman out of his pocket and put it in front of Sarhadi.

“Do you recognize this man?” he asked.

“Aye.”

Pascoe felt that tremor of pleasure that comes from a hypothesis proven.

“So how do you know him?” he asked.

“Didn’t say I knew him. But he’s the guy who writes them SAS

books, right?”

The tremor of pleasure fizzled out.

“That’s right,” said Pascoe. “You’ve never actually met him?”

“Why should I? Some of the lads wanted to go over to a reading he were doing at a bookshop in Leeds earlier this year.”

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

That must have been the tour Ffion had told him about.

“To demonstrate?” he asked.

“Well, they weren’t planning to buy his book, that’s for sure. Have you looked at the stuff he writes? Don’t mind a good thriller, superhero killing all the baddies, but in Youngman’s books that’s everyone who’s not white plus anyone who is who doesn’t agree with him. It weren’t just Saddam and his supporters that was the enemy, it was every Iraqi, bar none. And he gets on the best-seller lists. Makes a lot of our lads think, If this is your multicultural society, you can stuff it.”

“So off they go and train as suicide bombers because someone’s written a bad thriller?”

Sarhadi said, “That’s a jump. I’m not talking killing people, just a bit of a demo. Mind you, doesn’t take much to make some folk think it’s right to take the law into their own hands. I know. I got beaten up to prove it. And these Templar loonies going around murdering people, what did it take to push them over the edge? Not much, probably.”

“So why didn’t the demo take place?” asked Pascoe, not wanting to get onto the topic of the Templars.

“What’s the point? Would likely have ended in a ruckus with us getting all the bad publicity.”

He paused and regarded Pascoe shrewdly.

“This writer guy, Youngman, you don’t think he’s one of them Templars, do you? Is that why you’re here?”

He was bright, thought Pascoe. Bright enough to be playing a double game? Could the woman waving the air pistol on
Fidler’s Three
have been right after all?

“Just part of a general inquiry,” he said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

But Sarhadi wasn’t fi nished yet.

“But if you’re after Youngman ’cos he’s a Templar, why do you think he might have spoken to me? Hang about! You’re not thinking he might have tried to recruit me ’cos I’m on the record as saying Al Qaeda extremism’s the wrong way? Bloody hell, you must be desperate! You’re really reaching, aren’t you?”

It was true, thought Pascoe. Freeman’s skepticism he’d been able to dismiss as partial and prejudiced, but Sarhadi’s open mockery made d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 317

him feel the absurdity of what he’d been suggesting. If there really were someone in the Lubyanka pulling the Templar strings, then they must be laughing their bollocks off watching him running around like a blue-arsed flea. Whoops, there he went slipping into Fat Man terminology again.

He was saved further embarrassment by the door opening and the tall bearded man coming in.

“Here you are, Kalim,” he said in a pleasantly musical voice with just the slightest hint of guttural continuo. “Won’t you introduce me to our visitor?”

“Of course. This is Chief Inspector Pascoe of Mid-Yorkshire CID, isn’t it?”

Pascoe nodded. And Sarhadi went on, “And this is our imam, Sheikh Ibrahim.”

The Sheikh put his hands together and inclined his head.

Pascoe said, “Glad to meet you.”

“And I you. Is there any particular reason for your visit, Chief Inspector? Or are you just seeking after truth?”

“That’s my particular reason and my general profession,” said Pascoe.

The Sheikh smiled.

“Then I hope you may fi nd it. Peace be with you and the mercy of Allah.”

He turned and went out.

“So that’s the famous Sheikh Ibrahim,” said Pascoe.

“Aye, that’s the famous bogeyman that’s going to eat you all in your beds.”

“You must read the
Voice,
” said Pascoe. “My paper just says he preaches from a rather extremist viewpoint. Which makes me wonder about your relationship with him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, if as you say, you’re anti-demonstrations and anti–Al Qaeda, then you don’t seem to have a lot in common.”

“He’s our imam, so we’ve got our faith in common. Anyway, you want he should only deal with people who agree with everything he says? One thing I’m sure of, if you lot had owt on him, you’d arrest him.

Here, is that the real reason you’re here? To see if you can dig up some dirt on the Sheikh?”

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

“If I wanted to do that, where would you suggest I dig?”

Sarhadi shook his head and said, “I’ve told your lot already. I’ll not turn into a spy on my own people.”

“Not even if you see one of them heading off toward the town center wearing a Semtex corset?”

“I hope I’d act like I hope your lot would act if they saw someone trying to take another shot at the Sheikh. By the way, it were him that stopped the lads demonstrating against Youngman, not me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Pascoe. “Kalim, I’m sorry to have troubled you. Many congratulations in advance for Saturday. I hope you have a long and happy married life.”

“Ta,” said the young man. “Give my best to your missus. How’s that poor woman with the gun, by the way?”

“She’s receiving treatment, I believe.”

“Hope it turns out OK for her. Losing someone like that must be hard to get over.”

Then his face split in a very attractive smile.

“Still, out of bad comes good. When she shot Joe Fidler in the bollocks, that must have made a lot of people think there has to be a God, eh?”

Pascoe was still grinning as he got back into the car, which was waiting outside.

Rod, who was on his phone, didn’t return the grin. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Bernie. And he’s pissed off.”

Frowning, Pascoe took the phone.

“Hello, sir,” he said.

“Peter, what the hell are you playing at?”

“Don’t follow you, sir. I’m just doing the job you gave me.”

“Then I must brush up on my communication skills. I don’t remember giving you carte blanche to be a one-man band!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you could be a little more specific . . . ”

“You want specificity, do you? Right. Item, you do not interrogate detainees in Safe Houses without clearance from a senior offi cer. And you certainly do not subject them to sexual harassment. Item, you do not remove confi dential files from this building without clearance, and you certainly do not sit reading them in a public place. Item, you do d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 319

not invade the privacy of distinguished ex-officers in Her Majesty’s armed forces without preparing the ground very carefully. Item, you do not descend unannounced on a location which a moment’s thought should have told you we have under close surveillance. Is that specifi c enough for you?”

“Yes, sir. Look, I’m sorry but . . . ”

“Save your excuses. Get yourself back here as quickly as possible.

And that means don’t stop on the way, not even if the Angel Gabriel appears to you with yet another brilliant idea!”

The phone went dead.

He handed it back to Rod, who said miserably, “Peter, I’m sorry. I did try to say . . . ”

“That we shouldn’t be doing this? Yes you did. And I’m sure it’s already on tape if not on video,” said Pascoe wearily. “Sorry. It’s a lot more than that. And none of it is down to you, I’ll make that clear. So let’s head on back and face the music, shall we?”

14

A W E E D E O C H A N D O R I S

To start with, the music seemed less discordant than he’d expected.

Back at the Lube, he expected to be wheeled in before a court-martial consisting of Bloomfield, Komorowski, and Glenister. Instead he was met by two men he didn’t know who introduced themselves without a flicker of a smile as Smith and Jones.

Their job, they said, was to debrief him, which they did with great courtesy but at considerable length. And when they had fi nished taking him through his activities in minute detail, they went back to the beginning and started again. After a couple of hours, they offered him coffee and sandwiches. Then they started again.

By the time they announced they were finished, it was after ten pm. He felt as if he’d been in the interview room with them for days.

It seemed impossible that it was only yesterday morning that he had returned to the Lube and taken up his new job.

He stood up and said, “Any chance of a word with the Commander now?”

They looked at each other, then Smith (he’d got them distinguished by the color of their eyes) said, “I’m sure you’ll be contacted if it is felt necessary.”

Pascoe digested this, then said, “You mean this is it?”

“As far as we’re concerned, yes.”

“Then I’ll bid you good night,” he said, stretching. “May I have my briefcase?”

“It will be waiting for you at Security.”

They walked down the stairs with him. The foyer was dark and empty. Komorowski’s plants looked as if they’d curled up for the night.

d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 321

At the security checkout, as he handed over his badge, the duty officer said, “May I have your pass too, sir.”

His sense of relief began to wash away.

“But I’ll need it to get in tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Sorry, sir. If you could just hand it over . . . ”

So this was how it was done, he thought disbelievingly. Not even a kangaroo court. One strike and you were out. If he’d ever really been in.

“I suppose it’s better than the poisoned umbrella,” he said, handing over the pass.

“Your briefcase, sir. And your mobile phone.”

He took them and walked across the foyer. Nobody said goodnight.

Back at the hotel, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find his bag packed and waiting at reception. He sat down in his room and tried to think things through.

He’d crossed a line, and he was out. The question was whether he was out because he’d broken a few of their stupid fucking rules or because he’d started to get too close to the Templar mole.

Not that it mattered. He had done everything he could. Should he have been more subtle? Perhaps. But if you were dropped blindfolded into a snake pit, surely it made more sense to follow your instinct and make a mad rush to where you thought the exit might be rather than crawl around, trying to feel your way out?

He was tempted to ring Ellie, but he suspected he’d be bugged, and anyway, to ring her so late with talk of snake pits and blindfolds would add to her fear that he was heading for the funny farm.

Maybe she was right and maybe what he’d been doing wasn’t conducting an investigation but running round like a headless chicken in a superstitious effort to distract whatever judgmental deity held Andy Dalziel’s life in the scales.

He opened the minibar. A distaste for people who were profl igate with public money had kept his demands on it to a minimum, but now he felt he’d earned what Dalziel would probably have called
a wee
deoch an doris.
He plucked out a couple of miniatures of single malt and poured them into a goblet. They went down very smoothly, and he replenished his glass with another two. That left the mini-bar empty of whisky. He’d have to move on to cognac, or liqueurs.

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

What would Andy have done at such a juncture? Tipped the lot into a jug probably, given it a shake, them taken it to bed with him.

Each to his own. He set the goblet on the bedside table and went into the bathroom where he showered, then climbed into bed.

His mind was still working too hard to make sleep an imminent prospect. The alcohol should kick in eventually but meantime he needed some other soporifi c.

Blood on the Sand
lay beside his whisky glass.

He opened it and began to read, and for a while it seemed set to do the trick.

He was reading a chapter in which nothing much happened.

Shack’s patrol had been sent out to check an enemy MSR. They found themselves in a stretch of empty desert watching a length of empty road along which nothing moved for twenty-four hours. The chapter was full of authenticating acronyms and cant terms and the characters seemed to be competing to decide who was the most boring and limited. Shack’s authorial voice was at pains to point out that life even in a “glamorous” unit like the SAS could be tedious and uninvolv-ing. Pascoe felt that he overdid the demonstration but it was perfect for a reader in search of rest.

The chapter ended with them packing up to rendezvous with the Chinook that was taking them back to base. Then a call came through on the radio telling them to stay put and await further orders. No reason, but this wasn’t surprising. Radio traffic was always kept as brief as possible to make it harder for the enemy to get a fi x.

Finally they got the bad news. Their helicopter had been brought down by enemy fire en route to the rendezvous. A reconnaissance overflight had spotted the downed machine still more or less in one piece but there was no sign of its three crew members. When the Search and Rescue choppers got there, they confi rmed that though there was blood in the cabin, the crew and all portable equipment had vanished, which suggested they’d been taken prisoner. The Iraqis would not have bothered to remove corpses.