There was no sign of life. But not for a second did Pascoe admit the possibility of death. Dalziel was indestructible. Dalziel is, and was, and forever shall be, world without end, amen. Everybody knew that. Therein lay half his power. Chief constables might come and chief constables might go, but Fat Andy went on forever.

Caught in the blast of a huge explosion, Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel lies on a hospital bed, with only a life support system and his indomitable will between him and the Great Beyond. Meanwhile, his colleague, Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe, is determined to find those responsible.

Ignoring his own injuries, the advice of his friends, and the pleas of his wife, Pascoe follows a winding trail to the Templars, a mysterious group that believes the only way to fight terrorism is through terror. Where the arm of the law cannot reach, their work begins. Soon Pascoe comes to suspect that they may have support and sympathy in high places, from men ready to accept the death of a policeman or of any other innocent bystander as regrettable but unavoidable collateral damage.

From the streets of Manchester to the Yorkshire countryside, Pascoe searches for the truth. And above it all, like a huge zeppelin threatening to break from its moorings, hovers the disembodied spirit of Andy Dalziel.

Mill Street ...

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

Chapter Two

Two Mutton Pasties and an Almond Slice

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."

"I was taking precautions."

"Oh aye? I'd stick to the tablets. What the hell are you doing here anyway? Bank Holiday's been canceled, has it? Or are you just bunking off from weeding the garden?"

"In fact I was sunbathing in it. Then Paddy Ireland rang and said there was a siege situation and you were a bit short on specialist manpower so could I help?"

"Specialist? Didn't know you were a marksman."

Pascoe took a deep breath and wondered what kind of grinning God defied His own laws by allowing Dalziel's fleshy folds, swaddled in a three-piece suit, to look so cool, while his own spare frame, clad in cotton slacks and a Leeds United T-shirt, was generating more heat than PM's Question Time.

"I've been on a Negotiator's Course, remember?" he said.

"Thought that were to help you talk to Ellie. What did yon fusspot really say?"

The Fat Man was no great fan of Inspector Ireland who he averred put the three f's in officious. If you took your cue and pointed out that the word contained only two, he'd tell you what the third one stood for.

If you didn't take your cue, he usually told you anyway.

Pascoe on the other hand was a master of diplomatic reticence.

"Not a lot," he said.

What Ireland had actually said was, "Sorry to interrupt your day off, Pete, but I thought you should know. Report of an armed man on premises in Mill Street. Number three."

Then a pause as if anticipating a response.

The only response Pascoe felt like giving was, Why the hell have I been dragged off my hammock for this?

He said, "Paddy, I don't know if you've noticed but I'm off duty today. Bank Holiday, remember? And Andy drew the short straw. Not his idea you rang, is it?"

"Definitely not. It's just that number three's a video rental, Oroc Video, Asian and Arab stuff mainly . . . "

A faint bell began to ring in Pascoe's mind.

"Hang on. Isn't it CAT flagged?"

"Hooray. There is someone in CID who actually reads directives," said Ireland with heavy sarcasm.

CAT was the Combined Antiterrorism Unit in which Special Branch officers worked alongside MI5 operatives. They flagged people and places on a sliding scale, the lowest level being premises not meriting formal surveillance but around which any unusual activity should be noted and notified.

Number 3 Mill Street was at this bottom level.

Pascoe, not liking to feel reproved, said, "Are you trying to tell me there's some kind of intifada brewing in Mill Street?"

"Well, no," said Ireland. "It's just that when I passed on the report to Andy . . . "

"Oh good. You have told him. So, apart from not feeling it necessary to bother me, what action has he taken?"

He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but...