Read Online Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online

to his side.
    “Anything new on Mr. Dalziel?” she asked.
    He shook his head.
    “Well, while there’s life . . . Sorry if that sounds banal, but at times like this, there’s no gap between banal and pretentious. I found that out when I lost my man. Banal’s sincere; pretentious means they don’t give a damn.”
    “Your . . . man, was he job?”
    “Oh yes. Funny really. We’d been married seven years. I was at the point where I really had to decide, kids or career. Then I woke up one morning realizing I could have both. Just as me and Colin would share the kids, so we’d share his career, which looked set to be glorious. It all seemed so obvious. I’d never felt so happy. And that of course was the day it happened.”
    She fell silent. Pascoe didn’t ask what happened. Her motives for telling him this much were obscure. If she wanted to tell him more, she would.
    After a while he said, “I’m sorry.”
    “Thank you. So am I. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t be here now. Peter, why don’t you sit there?”
    She indicated the chair behind the desk which she’d just vacated.
    “If anyone should keep this seat warm, it’s you,” she said. “I’ve got an Ops room down the corridor. Dan asked me if I’d sit in here if I had d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 51
    any spare time. With his two best CID officers out of the frame, I think he wants someone senior to make sure things keep ticking over. I didn’t much care for the idea, but like I say, he’s an old friend . . . ”
    She smiled the smile of someone who finds old friends hard to refuse.
    In fact, guessed Pascoe, what she was probably doing was checking through Andy’s files to see if there was anything there which tied in even remotely with the events in Mill Street. She’d be lucky. Dalziel’s system of paperwork was sibylline.
    Left to himself he would have been reluctant to take over the Fat Man’s seat, but now he refused to play coy.
    He sat down, looked around, and said, “Someone’s been tidying up.”
    “Me, I’m afraid. The way I work. Set things in order, then you’ll see what they mean. Your Mr. Dalziel from all accounts belongs to the opposite school. Ignore chaos and ultimately its meaning will come looking for you.”
    “I think rather he had . . . has . . . the ability to set things in order in his mind, but reckons that chaos has its meaning too,” said Pascoe.
    “Meaning now I’ve put stuff where it ought to be, he won’t be able to find a thing.” She laughed. “Anyway, here’s the deal, Peter. You’ll have full access to my Ops room. I’ll have full access anywhere I care to go in CID. I’ll consult with you first before using anything I think may be relevant. And I expect you to return the courtesy.”
    Seated at Dalziel’s desk, it occurred to Pascoe that the proper response would be to say he didn’t take kindly to folk offering to do him favors on his own CID floor, but he swallowed the words and said as mildly as he could manage, “That sounds reasonable. Why don’t we stroll along to your Ops room now and you can bring me up to speed?”
    He rose, went to the door, opened it, and stood there to usher her out.
    For a moment she looked slightly nonplussed at the speed with which he was moving things along, then gave him the open matronly smile again and moved through the doorway.
    The CAT Ops room bore the Glenister trademark. It was as tidy and well organized as she’d left Dalziel’s desk. Three computers had been set up on a trestle table at the far end. Not a spare inch of power 52 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    cable showed. On a wallboard were pinned six photos, three showing the remains found in the ruins of Mill Street, each connected to a head shot of a man, two of them distinctly Asian in coloring and feature, the third less so. Beneath each photo was a name. Umar Surus, Ali Awan, and Hani Baraniq.
    “Surus and Awan are positive IDs,” said Glenister. “We