Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill Page B

trough standing incongruously at the foyer’s center.
    At the reception desk, Pascoe was issued a security tag with a complex fastening device.
    “Don’t take it off till you’re leaving,” said Glenister. “They’re self-alarmed the minute you pass through the gate. Removal anywhere but the desk sets bells ringing.”
    “Why would I want to take it off ?”

    d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 81
    “Why indeed? It’s to stop anyone taking it off you.”
    She said it without her customary smile. Necessary precaution or just self-inflating paranoia? wondered Pascoe.
    They went straight into a room with twenty chairs set in four rows of five before a large TV screen. Pascoe and Glenister took seats in the second row. He glanced round to see Freeman in the row behind. Was this indicative of a pecking order? And if so, did they peck from the front as in a theater or from the rear as in a cinema?
    As if in answer, the man sitting directly in front turned round and smiled at him. Pascoe recognized him instantly. His name was Bernie Bloomfield, his rank was Commander, and the last time Pascoe saw him, he’d been giving a lecture on criminal demography at an Interpol conference. If he hadn’t pursued a police career, he might well have fi lled the gap left by that most sadly missed of British actors, Alastair Sim.
    “Peter, good to see you again,” said Bloomfi eld.
    For a moment Pascoe was flattered, then he remembered his security label.
    “You too, sir,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were in charge here.”
    “In charge?” Bloomfield smiled. “Well, well, in this work we like to keep in the shadows. How’s my dear old friend Andy Dalziel doing?”
    “Holding on, sir.”
    “Good. I’d expect no less. A shame, a great shame. Andy and I go way, way back. We can ill spare such good men. But it’s a pity it was one of your less indispensable officers who was first on the scene.
    Constable . . . what was his name?”
    “Hector, sir,” said Glenister.
    “That’s it. Hector. From what I’ve read, we’re likely to get more feedback from the speaking clock. Sort of funny and not a darkie, isn’t that the gist of his contribution?”
    There was a ripple of laughter, and Pascoe realized that their conversation had moved from private chat to public performance. He felt a surge of irritation. Only here two minutes and already he was having to defend Hector in front of a bunch of sycophants who clearly felt very superior to your common or garden provincial bobby.
    Time to lay down the same markers he’d already put in place with Glenister.

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    He said with emphatic courtesy, “With respect, sir, as I’ve told the superintendent, I think it would be silly to underestimate Constable Hector’s evidence. While it’s true that in his case the picture may take a bit longer to come together, what he does notice usually sticks and emerges in a useful form eventually. What he’s given us so far has proved right, hasn’t it? In fact, with respect, isn’t most of what we know about what happened in Mill Street that day down to Hector rather than CAT?”
    This defensive eulogium which in the Black Bull would have had colleagues corpsing reduced the audience here to silence. Or perhaps they were simply waiting to see how Bloomfield would deal with this uppity newcomer who’d just called him silly and his unit ineffi cient.
    The Commander gave Pascoe that Alastair Sim smile that indicates he knows a lot more than you’re saying.
    “That’s very reassuring, Peter,” he said. “Or are you just being loyal?”
    Pascoe said firmly, “Loyalty’s nothing to do with it, sir. You fi nd us a live suspect and I’m sure you’ll be able to rely on Hector for identifi cation.” Never back down, was the Fat Man’s advice. Especially when you’re not sure you’re right!
    “I’m glad to hear it. Now I think it’s time to get our show on the road.”
    He rose to his feet and let his