Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 14 - Asking For The Moon (HTML)

by Reginald Hill

  'And what's all this got to do with me, as if I can't guess,' said Dalziel.

  'The third name, in fact the one that was always top of the list, is yours, sir.'

  'Well, well,' said Dalziel. 'Nice to know that some folk really mean it when they say they'll never forget. Restores your faith in human nature. So you're the errand boy, are you, Wieldy? Sent to see me safely off the premises so if Tankie trashes me, it won't leave a mess on Zombie's door­step. You'd think .the idle bugger could have shown me enough professional courtesy to come along himself. Then I could have had the pleasure of hitting him over the head with that college kid and getting rid of two useless lumps together!'

  'Yes, sir, that would really have shown him the meaning of professional courtesy,' agreed Wield. 'So are you going to go quietly? Seriously, I doubt if Tankie knows where Wales is, and we should have felt his collar by the time you get back.'

  'Kind of trail he's leaving, what with flames and folk flying through the air, he shouldn't be difficult to find. You've tried his sister?'

  'Yes, I went round to see Judith myself. Only she weren't there. Taking a little break. Touring in the West Country. What do you think, sir?'

  'Anyone else I'd have said, wise move,' said Dalziel frown­ing. 'But them two have got a lot of common baggage to haul, and I don't just mean being twins. Still, things being the way they are, that might be even more reason for her to hide. Any road it's down to you, Wieldy. I'll just get a cup of tea and a wad and I'll be on my way.'

  'You'll get better value in a transport caff, sir.'

  Dalziel shook his head and said wonderingly, 'You're turn­ing into a right hard bastard, Wieldy. But I'll not hang around where I'm not wanted. See you in a week or two. Cheers.'

  That wasn't so hard, thought Wield as he watched the Fat Man head out to the car park. Mebbe he was learning sense at last. Or mebbe he was heading down to the station to throw Zombie out of the window! Still, what a mere sergeant could do, a mere sergeant had done.

  He glanced down the long corridor which led to the magis­trates' wing. Distantly he saw Peter Pascoe approaching.

  'Lost again?' he said when the youngster joined him.

  'No, sarge. My car's parked out front.'

  'So how'd it go?'

  'No problem,' said Pascoe. 'Harris is still droning on, but the beak would have to be brain dead not to commit those two jokers on the evidence. I've left word there's no objection to bail, so no need for me to stay, especially as I'm due at a briefing in ten minutes. See you!'

  He was off through the doors at a graceful trot.

  Didn't notice me and Fat Andy then, thought Wield. Or perhaps he really didn't think he had a problem. One thing was sure. Bomber Harris would have noticed his exit. Worth keeping an eye on the sly sod. He set off down the corridor.

  Pascoe meanwhile, with a quick glance around to make sure the attendant was nowhere in sight, ran down the steps to the Riley. As he got in he could hear the car in the next bay making a meal of getting started. It was a big Rover, facing outwards so it wasn't till he reversed past it that he became aware of the driver. It was Detective Chief Inspector Dalziel.

  There was a man sitting beside him, a big man with a Yul Brynner haircut and a blue chin. This didn't mean he couldn't be the Chief Constable, and as Dalziel had probably spotted him anyway, it seemed politic to stop.

  He got out and approached smiling. Dalziel ignored him and tried the engine again. It roared impotently.

  He tapped on the driver's window. Dalziel's head turned. His leathery lips formed two inaudible words. If Pascoe had not known it to be impossible, he would have guessed the words to be 'Fuck off'.

  He tapped again. The man with the polished head spoke. Dalziel slowly wound down the window. His gaze met Pascoe's with a force that almost straightened him up. And the lips were moving again, still inaudibly but this time unmistakably.

  'Fuck off!'

  'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Just thought you were having a spot of bother . . .'

  'He one of yours, Dalziel?' growled the man in the passen­ger seat.

  The DCI's expression seemed to suggest the idea gave great pain. Piqued by this response, and also encouraged by the passenger's tone in his suspicion that he might be brass, Pascoe said brightly, 'Detective Constable Pascoe, sir.'

  'Right. Out! Jildi! Move your fat arse!'

  Peter Pascoe had become aware very soon after joining the police that the rules of civilized social intercourse no longer applied. But did Chief Constables really speak to Chief Inspectors like this?

  Perhaps he'd made a mistake. In fact as the Fat Man slid out of the car and the bald man followed him via the same door, the pointers to error began to mount up.

  No reason perhaps why a Chief Constable should not be fluent in the patois. But surely no Chief Constable would wear khaki trousers, heavy black boots, and a sweat-stained green shirt whose rolled up sleeves revealed the word mum tattooed on a brawny forearm, the letters wreathed in roses and all enclosed in a ragged fillet of black?

  It occurred to him that he was concentrating so much on the specific gravity of the milk, he was ignoring the trout.

  One of the man's outsize hands was gripping the back of Dalziel's jacket while the other was forcing the sawn off barrel of a shotgun against the Fat Man's spine.

  'Try anything and his arse says goodbye to his belly,' snarled the man. 'Back in your car!'

  Pascoe looked helplessly at Dalziel and said, 'Sir?'

  The Fat Man rolled his eyes and said, 'You got yourself into this, lad. You'll have to find your own way out.'

  This was new country for Pascoe, in every sense. Certainly he had no Significant Experience to call on. Lots of movies, but the cop in his situation had always had a bull-horn in his hand and a posse of armed policemen at his back. Hadn't he once read a chapter in a textbook about hostage situations?

  He looked from the fat man to the bald. It occurred to him that, going by expression alone, their heads were interchange­able. It also occurred to him that it must have been a very boring textbook and he'd probably gone out for a pint and a curry halfway through that chapter.

  He got into the Riley and waited.

  The bald man pushed Dalziel into the rear seat and slid

  in beside him. It was a tight squeeze. The gun barrel must have ploughed a furrow in the Fat Man's flesh as it was dragged round from his spine to his belly.

  'Go go go!' commanded the bald man.

  Pascoe set the car in motion. Not a soul in sight. Where the hell was that blasted attendant when you wanted him? Or Sergeant Wield? Why hadn't he come out of the courthouse? Probably sitting in there somewhere all comfortable with a pot of tea and a fag.

  At the exit he said, 'Which way?'

  'Left. And drive steady. We pick up a cop car, they'll be picking up little pieces.'

  Cop car? What cop car? thought Pascoe as he drove through the town. More chance of seeing a uniform on a nudist beach. And now Sod's Law which had made his jour­ney to the courts seem like a funeral procession was casually flicking every light to green as he approached and letting the light traffic flow with careless ease.

  Except for the occasional direction from the bald man, no one spoke. What had happened to all Dalziel's little jokes? thought Pascoe sneeringly. All right for a courtroom where there was nothing but a woman's reputation to worry over. Stick a shotgun in his gut and the case was altered.

  Behind him Andy Dalziel was thinking, why the fuck couldn't it have been Wield who'd come out and heard him hammering his deliberately flooded engine? One glimpse of that shaven head and he'd have been off like a lintie to get the car park sown up tighter than a nun's knickers. Outcome still uncertain, but at least Trotter would have had the alternative spelt out loud and clear. Now they were on their way God knows where to face God knows what, and it could be God knows when before anyone got on their trail, or even knew there was a trail to get on!

  He paused, fair minded as ever, to give God a c
hance to share some of His knowledge. All he got was an echo of his own words to Pascoe . . . you'll have to find your own way out.

  So be it. He put all recriminations on the back burner and turned his mind to the problem in hand.

  First things first. Useless wanker this unwearied college kid might be, but he deserved to know the score.

  'So tell me, Tankie,' he said conversationally. 'What fettle? They treat you all right in the glasshouse?'

  'Belt up, Dalziel!' said Trotter, digging the barrel so far into the belly flesh it almost covered the trigger guard.

  'Nay, lad. Tha's got something better in mind for me than splattering my guts all over this nice upholstery. Any road, it's only polite to introduce you properly to Constable Pascoe. He's new round here and likely he's not heard of one of our most famous sons. That right, Pascoe? You've not heard of Tommy Trotter?'

  'Sorry, sir. No, I haven't.'

  'Thought not. You might have a certificate or whatever it is you get in them colleges, but your education's been sadly neglected. Right, Tankie?'

  Trotter said unemotionally, 'You think you can jerk my string, Dalziel, best think again. I've been needled by experts. I cut loose, it's 'cos I want to cut loose.'

  'I believe it, Tankie. So, Constable Pascoe, what we have here is Thomas Trotter, known to all his friends as Tankie, mebbe because of the way he's built, mebbe because of the way he drinks, I'm not sure. What I am sure of is, Tankie's a real star. Unique. With a bit of luck, we'll never see his like again. You see, lad, Tankie's The Last National Service Man.'

  He voiced the phrase with a tremulous awe which gave it capital letters if not inverted commas.

  Trotter snarled, 'Shitface, you trying to be cute? That was a derestriction sign. Speed it up to fifty. Left at the next roundabout.'

  Shocked to be thus addressed, and impressed by the speed with which the man had spotted his attempt to draw attention by slow driving on the open road, Pascoe' obeyed.

  In the rear-view mirror his gaze met Dalziel's. Was there a message in those stony eyes?

  Brightly Pascoe said, 'Last National Service Man? I don't understand . . .'

  'Aye, you'll be too young. Stopped in 1960 or thereabouts. It meant every bugger were conscripted into the forces for two years.'

  'Yes, sir, I know that. And I know that every time there's any trouble with rockers or hippies, the Cheltenham set start baying to bring it back.'

  'Aye, bit of backbone, taste of discipline, teach 'em a bit of respect,' said Dalziel.

  Might have guessed you'd go along with it, thought Pascoe.

  'Load of bollocks, but,' continued Dalziel, almost causing Pascoe to drive onto the verge with surprise. 'Only thing National Service did for most lads was turn 'em bad or drive 'em mad. In some cases, both together, eh, Tankie?'

  'Why don't you shut your gob?' suggested Trotter, digging the gun barrel even deeper into the Fat Man's side.

  'Nay, lad, I'm just bringing the constable up to date,' pro­tested Dalziel apparently impervious to either the pain or the danger. 'He ought to know it's not your fault. You're just a victim. You see, Pascoe, Tankie and me are old friends. He were one of the last to be called up only he didn't want to go. Not without reason, either, only when the Queen offers you her shilling, she don't pay much heed to reason. And me, well, I got the job of going and picking him up and making sure he were handed over safe and sound to our colleagues in the military. Full time employment for a while, weren't it, Tankie? Number of times you took off and headed back home! It were regimental punishment at first, which were OK. Then you broke that MP sergeant's nose, and that got you into the glasshouse. Now the thing about glasshouse time, Pascoe, is, it don't count towards your two years' National Service. So if you've got a year left to do when you ' go down for a year, you'll still have a year to do when you come out. Got me?'

  'I think I can just about grasp the concept, sir,' said Pascoe with heavy irony.

  Dalziel smiled elephantinely.

  'Good. I'll make a note of that, constable,' he said softly. And despite all the more immediate and apparently greater dangers, Pascoe felt a shiver go down his spine.

  Dalziel resumed.

  'So you can see Tankie's problem. The more he hated the army, the wilder he got. But the wilder he got, the longer he had to serve. And the longer he had to serve, the more he hated the army. Had to laugh, some of the tricks he got up to. Burning down the officers' mess! Chucking a grenade under the CO's caravan on an exercise! But they've not got a great sense of humour, the military brass. And that's how Tankie became the Last National Service Man. Right, Tankie?'

  'Wrong, you fat bastard,' said Trotter dispassionately. 'It's you who's going to be the Last National Service Man. Next left. No! That one there, you stupid cunt!'

  Pascoe had almost overshot the narrow entry into an over­grown lane, once metalled but now potholed and greened by the irresistible pressure of weeds and grass. Any hope that his sudden braking and turn might have drawn attention was vain. Sod's Law had made sure the road ahead and behind was empty. He bumped down the lane for fifty yards till progress was blocked by a five-barred gate. Assuming not even Tankie Trotter would expect him to crash through it, he brought the Riley to a halt.

  'Out and open it,' said Trotter. 'Try anything funny and you'll hear the air hissing out of this bag o' wind."

  Pascoe got out and took a deep breath of air. It tasted good.

  Run you stupid sod, Dalziel urged mentally. Run

  Whatever Trotter's threat, his instinctive reaction would likely be to take a potshot at the fleeing man. And if the gun barrel stopped drilling into his gut for even a second . . .

  But the prancing academic prat was opening the gate! And now he was getting back into the car. What the hell did they

  teach them at these sodding colleges. If they went in for mutual masturbation, they'd likely need diagrams!

  They passed through.

  'Right. Stop. Out and close it,' growled Trotter.

  Second chance! Mebbe the lad weren't as daft as he looked. Mebbe he'd worked out he'd have a better chance of escaping when he was behind the car rather than in front of it. Dalziel tensed himself to grab for the barrel the moment he felt it move away from his gut. But the bugger was now shutting the gate, taking real care like he was worried about breaking the Countryside Code! And as he got back in the car, he said insouciantly, 'Lovely day out there.'

  Dalziel closed his eyes in pain. Who the hell does he think he is? Captain fucking Oates?

  'Drive on,' ordered Trotter.

  As the car moved forward Pascoe said, 'You were telling me about Mr Trotter's career, sir.'

  Aye, and I'm looking forward to telling you about yours, lad, thought Dalziel savagely.

  He said, 'Not much more to tell. Spent so much time serv­ing time, it soon worked out he were the only conscript left in Her Majesty's Army. Last bloody National Service Man. The Wyfies were almost proud of him!'

  The Wyfies?'

  The West Yorkshire Fusiliers.'

  'Good Lord, I think they were the lot my great-grandfather served in.'

  'You one of them army bastards? I might have known,' snarled Trotter.

  'Hold on,' protested Pascoe. 'He got killed in the Great War, that's all the army connection I've got.'

  'What the hell were he doing in the Wyfies?' demanded Dalziel accusingly. 'Got lost when he went to sign on, did he?'

  'No, sir, I'm sorry to say he was a Yorkshireman. But we try to keep it quiet,' retorted Pascoe.

  This near blasphemous insubordination momentarily

  caused Dalziel to forget the shotgun, but as he leaned forward to administer a just rebuke, Trotter screwed it in another quarter inch. This time Dalziel let out a gasp of pain as he subsided. And as his wrath faded, the thought came into his mind that probably both the insolence and the insouciance came from the same source. The boy was scared out of his tiny mind.

  He found the thought quite comforting. Last thing a ma
n up shit creek needs is a red-blooded hero willing to use his dick as a paddle.

  And Pascoe thought: sitting there like Heckmondwyke's answer to Buddha, is he really as unfazed as he looks? Or is his brain so atrophied, he's simply incapable of appreciating the situation? What the blazes has he done to make this madman hate him so much? One thing's for certain: whatever it was, this isn't the time to bring it up!

  Dalziel said, 'Likely you're wondering, constable, how come after so many years of going steady, me and Tankie finally fell out.'

  Oh God, thought Pascoe. Completely brain dead!

  'No, sir,' he said brightly. 'I wasn't wondering that.'

  'And you call yourself a detective! Motive, lad, that's the key. Once you've got a hold on that, the rest'll not be long in coming, as the bishop said to the actress.'

  'Stop here,' said Trotter.

  The lane had widened into a small overgrown paddock in front of a cottage which was more Gothic than picturesque. True, round the door there were roses rambling and honey­suckles suckling, but they looked more carnivorous than vegetarian, as if their ambition were to devour the house, which indeed slumped sideways like a stricken deer, only supported by a roofless barn on the left-hand side.

  'Blow the horn!' ordered Trotter.

  Pascoe blew the horn.

  The cottage door opened and a woman came out, rubbing floured hands on a flowered apron. It was a scene so rustically domestic that Pascoe thought: it's a wind-up. Wield and the

  rest of the CID boys are waiting inside with a birthday cake for Fat Andy. But he didn't really believe it, even before the woman stepped back inside and re-emerged with an under-and-over shotgun in her hands.

  'Out,' ordered Trotter. 'Shoot the boy if he tries anything.'

  The woman nodded as if she'd been told her guests took sugar in their tea.

  'Hello, Jude,' said Dalziel. 'Heard you'd gone off for a trip. Nice place you found. Bet it costs more for a week than a fortnight. This boy you may have to shoot is Detective Con­stable Pascoe. This here's Judith, Tankie's sister. Twins, would you credit it? She got the beauty, he got the brawn. What happened to the brains, God alone knows, and He's not telling us, is he, Jude?'