Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill Page A

they’re going to broadcast today.
    No, what I wanted to say, Peter, was I’ve asked Dan Trimble if I can take you with us. He says fine, if you feel up to it.”
    Pascoe was gobsmacked and made no attempt to hide it.
    “But why . . . ?” he managed.
    “Peter, I can’t be certain but I’ve got a feeling there might be some link with what happened here. Being as involved as you are usually means that judgments get blurred, corners cut. But from what I’ve seen, I get the impression it’s just tightened your focus, heightened your responses. If there are any connections, could be you’re the one most likely to sniff them out. So what do you say? Couple of days can’t hurt, and you’ll only be an hour or so’s drive away.”
    Pascoe hesitated, finding this hard to take in. He was given breathing space by the appearance of Freeman, who gave Glenister a fi le and Pascoe a flicker of those cold eyes before disappearing.
    “You say you’ve cleared this with the Chief ?” he said. “What about your bosses?”
    “They’re fine with it.”
    He found himself reluctant to accept the unanimity of this vote of confi dence.
    “And Freeman? I bet he jumped for joy.”
    “Not the jumping kind,” she said with a smile. “Though in fact it was Dave who put the idea in my head. You’ve made a big impression there.”
    This got zanier.
    He said, “I’ll need to talk to . . . people . . . ”
    “Your wife? She struck me as a sensible woman. I’ll have a word if you like, assure her I’ll take good care of you.”
    Pascoe smiled.

    78 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    “No, I’ll take care of that,” he said.
    “That’s a yes then. Good. Go and get packed.”
    As Pascoe moved away he wondered what Glenister would have said if he’d told her that what really worried him was the prospect of admitting to Wield that he’d got it absolutely wrong.
    The sergeant didn’t gloat. That wasn’t his thing, but he surprised Pascoe by saying, “Pete, watch your back out there.”
    “Watch my back? It’s Manchester I’m going to, Wieldy, not Marrakesh.”
    “So? There’s funny buggers in Manchester too,” said Wield. “You take care.”

    QPART THREE
    Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr’d By thwarting signs, and braves
    The freshening wind and blackening waves.
    And then the tempest strikes him; and between The lightning bursts is seen
    Only a driving wreck,
    And the pale master on his spar-strew-deck With anguish’d face and fl ying hair
    Grasping the rudder hard,
    Still bent to make some port he knows not where, Still standing for some false, impossible shore.
    — M AT T H E W A R N O L D ,
    “ A S U M M E R N I G H T ”

    1
    L U B Y A N K A
    Manchester is monumental in a way that no other northern town quite manages. You can feel it flexing its muscles and saying, I’m a big city, better step aside. The building which housed CAT had all the family traits. It was solid granite, its tall façade as unyielding as a hanging judge’s face. Carved into a massive block alongside a main entrance that wouldn’t have disgraced a crusader’s castle were the words THE SEMPITERNAL BUILDING.
    “Tempting fate a bit, aren’t you?” said Pascoe as he and Glenister approached.
    She laughed and said, “Not us. It was a Victorian insurance company. Went bust during the great crash, so they paid for their hubris.
    It’s been used for lots of things since then. We took it over three years ago. Most of your new colleagues refer to it as the Lubyanka, the Lube for short. Whether that’s tempting fate or not we’ve yet to see.”
    They went into a wide foyer that looked conventional enough until you noticed that further progress could only be made through security gates with metal detectors, X-ray screening, and large men in attendance. There were almost certainly cameras in operation too, thought Pascoe, though he couldn’t spot them. Perhaps they were hidden among the summer blooms that filled what looked like an old horse