Death Comes for the Fat Man

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never much of a street west-the old wool mill a prison block in dry blood brick its staring windows now blinded by boards its clatter and chatter a distant echo through white-haired heads east-six narrow houses under one weary roof huddling against the high embankment that arrows southern trains into the city’s northern heart few passengers ever notice Mill Street never much of a street in winter’s depth a cold crevasse spring and autumn much the same but occasionally on a still summer day with sun soaring high in a cloudless sky Mill Street becomes desert canyon overbrimming with heat

At least it gives me an excuse for sweating, thought Peter Pascoe as he scuttled toward the shelter of the first of the two cars parked across the road from number 3.

“You hurt your back?” asked Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel as his DCI slumped to the pavement beside him.

“Sorry?” panted Pascoe.

“You were moving funny.”

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