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armed man 32 r e g i n a l d h i l l
    in number three. Reports it to the car-patrol officers who pass it on to the duty inspector who alerts the station commander. Don’t see where the vagueness lies. All by the book so far.”
    “Yes, and that’s the way it continued,” said Pascoe fi rmly. “Knowing that the property was flagged, Mr. Dalziel made sure your people were alerted then proceeded to Mill Street as instructed.”
    “As instructed?” Glenister chuckled.
    Chuckling was a dying art, thought Pascoe, genuine chuckling that was, not just that pretence of suppressed mirth which politicians still use to make or, more often, avoid a point. But Glenister’s chuckle was the real McCoy.
    “My understanding of his instructions,” continued the Chief Superintendent, “is that he was told to withdraw any police vehicles from Mill Street, establish blocks at its ends, maintain observation from a distance, and make no attempt to approach number three.
    Which bit of his instructions would you say Mr. Dalziel followed, Peter?”
    “I don’t know because I’ve only your say-so that that’s what they were,” retorted Pascoe, consigning to the recycle bin what the Fat Man had told him as they squatted behind the car. “But, if we’re portioning out responsibility, what I’m certain your instructions didn’t contain was any reference to the fact that there was enough explosive in the place to blow up the whole bloody terrace! But I guess you didn’t know that, else why would it have only a bottom-level fl agging?”
    Glenister shook her head and said sadly, “You’re so right, Peter. We should have known that. But you’re completely wrong if you think I’m here to off-load blame. Wrists will be slapped at CAT, have no fear. If your Mr. Dalziel got it wrong, then we got it wrong just as much, and he’s paid a far higher price. I hope he comes through, but the signs aren’t good. So the only person I’ve got who can give me a close-up account of what took place is you. All I want is to be absolutely sure about everything you saw during your time outside number three Mill Street.”
    “That’s easy,” said Pascoe. “From my arrival to the explosion, I saw absolutely no sign of life in the house, or anywhere else in the terrace.
    Full stop.”

    d e a t h c o m e s f o r t h e fa t m a n 33
    “Fine, that’s good enough for me,” said Glenister, standing up and offering her hand. “We’ll talk again when you’re back on your feet. I hope that will be very soon.”
    “But can’t you tell me what you think happened in there?” demanded Pascoe, holding on to the hand.
    Glenister hesitated then said, “Why not? I hear you’re a discreet man. In fact, you might turn vain if you knew how highly you’re rated.
    Quite the Blue Smartie yourself.”
    She smiled at her joke. Pascoe gave her a token fl icker and said, “So?”
    “We had the shop flagged as a meeting place, at best a casual message center, for a group who showed little inclination to move from dialectic to destruction. At some time in the past few days a decision must have been taken to upgrade it to a storehouse for explosive in preparation for an event. We had some nonspecific intelligence that something big was being planned in the north.”
    “Like blowing up Mill Street?” said Pascoe incredulously. “Not exactly the Houses of Parliament, is it?”
    “I said number three was just the storehouse,” said Glenister.
    “Though it won’t have escaped your notice that the terrace backs onto the embankment carrying the main London line, and your fair city is being honored with a royal visit the week after next. Be that as it may, suddenly there is a large quantity of explosive on-site, harmless enough when being handled by experts. But as I say, the group who had hitherto made use of the shop were anything but experts. Your Constable Hector disturbed them, your Mr. Dalziel made them panic. Perhaps they were simply trying to conceal the