Death Comes for the Fat Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

said, “No, not for Andy. But till he wakes up—”
    He left the sentence unfi nished.
    “Twenty-four hours is nothing,” said Pascoe. “Look at me.”
    “You’ve been back with us a lot longer than that,” said Wield. “Bit woo-zie maybe with all the shit they pumped into you, but making sense mostly.
    You don’t think Ellie would have taken off if you’d still been comatose?”
    “I’ve spoken with Ellie then?”
    “Aye. Don’t you remember?”
    “I think I recall saying hi.”
    “Is that all? You’d best hope you didn’t make a deathbed confession,” said Wield.
    “And there was someone else, ginger hair, Scots accent, maybe the matron. Or did I dream that?”
    “No. That would be Chief Superintendent Glenister from CAT. I was there when she turned up.”
    “You were? Did I say much to her?”
    “Apart from sod off, you mean? No. That was it.”
    “Oh hell,” said Pascoe.
    “Not to worry. She didn’t take offense. In fact, she’s sitting outside in the waiting room. You’ve not asked what’s wrong with you.”
    “With me?” said Pascoe. “Good point. Why am I in here? I feel fi ne.”
    “Just wait till the shit wears off,” said Wield. “But they reckon you were lucky. Contusions, abrasions, few muscle tears, twisted knee, couple of cracked ribs, concussion. Could have been a lot worse.”
    “Would have been if I hadn’t had Andy in front of me,” said Pascoe grimly. “What about Jennison and Maycock?”
    “Joker reckons he’s gone deaf but his mates say he were always a bit hard of hearing when it came to his round. Their car’s a write-off though. Andy’s too.”

    d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 29
    “What about number three? Was there anyone in there?”
    “I’m afraid so. Three bodies, they reckon. At least. They’re still trying to put them together. No more detail. The CAT lads are going over the wreckage with a fine-tooth comb, and they’re not saying much to anyone and that includes us. Of course they’ve got a key witness.”
    “Have they? Oh God. You mean Hector?”
    “Right. Glenister spent an hour or so with him. Came out looking punch-drunk.”
    “Hector did?”
    “No. He always looks punch-drunk. I mean Glenister. I’d best let her know you’re sitting up and taking notice.”
    “Fine. Wieldy, do a check on Andy, will you? You know what they’re like in these places, getting good info’s harder than getting a decent claret with your dinner.”
    “I’ll see what I can do,” said Wield. “Take care.”
    He left and Pascoe eased himself properly upright in the bed, trying to assess what he really felt like. There didn’t seem to be many parts of his body which didn’t give a retaliatory twinge when provoked, but, ribs apart, nothing that threatened much beyond discomfort. He wondered if he could get out of bed without assistance. He had got himself sitting upright and was pushing the bedsheet off his legs preparatory to swinging them round when the door opened and the ginger woman came in.
    “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Peter,” she said, “but I think you should stay put a wee while longer. Or was it a bed pan you wanted?”
    “No, I’m fine,” said Pascoe, pulling the sheet back up.
    “That’s OK then. Glenister. Chief Super. Combined Antiterrorism Unit. We met briefly earlier, you probably don’t remember.”
    “Vaguely, ma’am,” said Pascoe. “In fact I seem to recall being a bit rude . . . ”
    Glenister said, “Think nothing of it. Rudeness is good, it needs a working mind to be rude. I’d just been interviewing Constable Hector for the second time. I couldn’t believe the first, but it didn’t get any better. Is it just shock, or is that poor laddie always as unforthcoming?”
    “Expressing himself isn’t his strongest point,” said Pascoe.

    30 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    “So you’re saying that what I’ve got out of him is probably as much as I’m likely to get?” said Glenister. “His