Under World

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‘Another fine mess you’ve got me into,’ said Detective-Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.

In his mind’s eye, Peter Pascoe could see his superior’s broad slab of a face twisted into a mock exasperation intended to be reassuring. The picture had to be mental because he’d lost his torch in the roof fall which held him pinned helpless from the waist down, and Dalziel only used his light fitfully as he dug at the debris with his bare hands.

Mental or not, the picture was not to Pascoe’s liking. In sick-bed terms, comfort from Andy Dalziel was like seeing the doctor edged aside by the priest. He tried to move again and felt pain run up his legs like fire up a fuse, exploding him to full consciousness.

‘Jesus!’ he gasped.

‘Hurting? That’s a good sign.’

‘That’s your expert fucking opinion, is it?’ grated Pascoe. ‘Where’d you pick up that priceless gem? Bart’s, was it? Or the interview room?’

‘Watch it, lad,’ warned Dalziel. ‘I’ll make allowances for delirium but I’ll not stand insubordination. Any more of that and I’ll …’

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