Free A Killing Kindness by Reginald Hill

these thoughts  to Dalziel, the fat man grunted, 'Oh aye?'
    A policewoman had been sent to tell Rosetta Stanhope the tragic news. Pascoe had steered her  out of the office earlier that afternoon, with assurances that they would certainly consider her kind  offer of psychic assistance.
    Later he had been summoned to Dalziel's office where the fat man was conferring with Detective Chief Inspector George Headingley who was in  charge of the Spinks' warehouse case. This was  now murder. The watchman had died in hospital  that morning, and Headingley was in search of  more manpower. They had gone over the staff dispositions together and seen how tautly stretched  they were. Then Pascoe had mentioned Rosetta  Stanhope's offer of help and frivously wondered  if they might not take it up.
    'Aye,' said Dalziel. 'She can try to make contact with the ACC for a start. That bugger's been dead  from the neck up for years!'
    They had all laughed. And not long afterwards Wield had phoned with his news.
    Now Pascoe awaited uneasily the arrival of the  dead girl's aunt. She would have to be taken to the mortuary for a formal identification of the  body. It was always an unpleasant business, and  though Rosetta Stanhope had impressed him as a strong-willed albeit rather eccentric character, experience had taught him there was no way of  forecasting reactions.
    He felt almost relieved when the policewoman called in with the news that Mrs Stanhope was not at home so she had stationed herself outside  her flat to await her return.
    Shortly afterwards Wield returned to say that Dave Lee had gone off in his van right after the  sergeant's visit. No one knew, or at least was  telling, his destination.
    Finally the DC sent to check on Tommy Maggs arrived, also unaccompanied. Maggs had not returned to work after the dinner break and  there was no reply to repeated knockings at the door of his home.
    'Check with the neighbours,' ordered Dalziel. 'See if he's contacted his parents at work. Find  out who his doctor is. Sergeant Wield, you've got Lee's van number? Right. Put out a call. Peter, you  go and deal with the press, will you? You're better  at shooting shit than anyone else.'
    'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'What do I tell them?'
    'What you know, which, unless you're holding something back, is bugger all.'
    'They'll be keen to know if it's the Choker again,'  said Pascoe.
    'Won't know that till the PM. And then we'll only know it's a Choker!'
    'It looks a pretty clear case,' protested Pascoe. 'I mean, compared with the Sorby girl . . .'
    'You think so? We'll have to see,' said Dalziel.
    The old bastard thinks he's on to something,  thought Pascoe. Or perhaps he just likes being  contrary.
    The journalists who had gathered at the fairground were not just local. Word had spread, and there  were even a couple from London already, though it  emerged that they had travelled up attracted by the  clairvoyance story, and Pauline Stanhope's murder  was just a bonus. In the car park, a television crew  were unshipping their cameras. They would get some good atmospheric footage if nothing more,  thought Pascoe. The fairground amusements, after  a brief hiatus, were back to full steam, whirling,  glittering, blaring. Did the laughter, the music, the  excited shrieking hold perhaps a more than usually  strident note of hysteria? wondered Pascoe. It was  almost indecent, but at the same time it was inevitable. Death, the biggest barker of them all, had  gathered together a huge crowd and the fair people could hardly be expected to ignore this opportunity. It wasn't even as if Pauline Stanhope was one of  their own. Nor Rosetta, for that matter. Once a year  they joined the show while the rest of them formed  a shifting but constant community.
    He stonewalled the questions for ten minutes. As he'd anticipated, they were most eager for  confirmation that this was a Choker killing.
    'What about the Hamlet calls, Inspector?' asked