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

by Reginald Hill

  'That's right. And I'm not a squaddy and this ain't the glasshouse. So where does that get us? You want to prove that if I had to put up with what you had to put up with,

  I'd crack like a Boxing Day wishbone. Well, wish away, lad, but it's not going to come true. Tha's not got the time and tha's not got the talent. So where do we go from here?'

  Only one place! Pascoe's fears told him. But fear left just sufficient space for another voice which asked, why is Dalziel doing this? Why the change of tactics? And if there is a game, why the hell couldn't the big, fat, arrogant bastard let me in on it? Because he thinks I'm useless? Because he thinks he's God?

  Because, came a tiny voice from somewhere deeper than reason, because he knew from the start that everything we said was overheard by Trotter.

  Could it really be that this Quasimodo, this Incredible Hulk, this Creature From The Black Lagoon had been care­fully orchestrating everything he said? Oh, that would be a trick worth knowing, even if it took a lifetime to learn. Did he have a lifetime? He was beginning to hope again. But perhaps it was all just a clutching at straws. His mind was racing through the Fat Man's inconsequential ramblings . . . his bad jokes . . . desperately seeking the small man in the booth who was working the Great Oz's lips . . .

  'Tell you what, Tankie,' said Dalziel. 'Why don't you chuck it in? Leave us locked up and take off. I'll not chase you, believe me. Less i see of you in future the better. You can settle down somewhere, forget the past. Jude too. Past's dead and buried. Like your dad. Finished and forgotten, all debts paid. No names, no pack drill. You can both have a future. You wherever you go. And Jude back home with her man and her kiddie . . .'

  And at last Pascoe saw it, clear as the hair in Dalziel's nose. All those casual references to Judith's settled life . . . Tankie had known nothing of this! The poor bastard really had believed that during all his time behind bars, his twin had been shut away too in some empathic fastness of the heart and mind, living only for his release, their reunion.

  Dalziel had worked this out, guessed that Jude's co­operation wasn't just based on geminate love, or even fear

  that the Fat Man could tie her in to her father's death, but the much greater fear that if Tankie knew the truth, he might divert some or all of these pent up energies from destruction of Dalziel to destruction of her precious new life.

  So why hadn't the Fat Man just spilled the beans straight off?

  Because Tankie would probably have killed the messenger! This way, by letting him work it out for himself. . .

  It was all a question of timing, of working out when the hints had finally worked. And they had worked. The evidence was there in the woman's face, floating in the shadows over her brother's shoulder. One cheek pale as a winter sky, the other flushed like a summer dawn.

  The bastard had hit her. And then Dalziel had summoned him. Why?

  So he could learn about the child, of course!

  This revelation the Fat Man had kept for now, for face to face, guessing that Jude would keep hidden to the end what she valued most, even in face of - especially in face of! -Tankie's rage. For here was the clincher. A social life, a job, even a fellow, after the first explosion, these could be rational­ized away. But a child . . .

  Even Tankie would know this meant he was relegated to at least second place forever.

  He was looking at her now, seeking confirmation in those eyes which so weirdly mirrored his own.

  Pascoe glanced at Dalziel hoping for some sign of how he wanted to play this. Was the idea to take the chance offered by this moment of distraction and jump the Trotters? Or was he relying on the revelation having some softening effect on Tankie, making him realize that any further development of his crazy vengeance plan would not only destroy himself and his sister, but her child too?

  He'd have betted on violence, but once again he saw he was wrong. The Fat Man was putting his money on psychology, turning now to the locker and taking his suit out.

  Til be glad to get back into this,' he said. 'Wearing that

  stuff's like wiping your bum with sandpaper. Like to avert your eyes, Jude? Or do you reckon, seen one, you've seen 'em all?'

  He pushed his fatigue trousers down as he spoke. And Pascoe, watching Trotter's face in profile, saw that for all his jungle cunning, the Fat Man had miscalculated.

  Perhaps it was Dalziel's coarseness. Or perhaps it was the confirmation in his sister's expression of all that she'd kept from him, and why she'd kept it, and the difference it must make to their relationship for evermore.

  Or perhaps it was simply that if fear of your reputation as a wild beast is the nearest you've had to respect in a waste of years, then a wild beast's response is the only option you ever have.

  Reasons didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that he was swinging the gun round to blow the Fat Man away.

  As in the climactic shoot-out in The Wild Bunch, everything slowed down. Dalziel like a Carry-On farceur was immobilized with his trousers round his ankles. Pascoe didn't have time to pick a role. His body was launching itself through the air towards the Last National Service Man leaving his mind some way back, wondering why the hell he should give a damn about saving the Fat Man for posterity.

  Probably posterity would still have been spared this Grecian gift if Judith hadn't got in on the act.

  No doubt about her motives. Where she had imagined her brother's crazy game could lead was never clearly estab­lished. Later she claimed that the mental intimidation from her dominant twin, plus the trauma of childhood abuse, not forgetting her fear for her own child, had combined to bring her to this point almost without any conscious thought. Now all she saw was that if the Fat Man were blown away, with him went everything in her life that made any sense of it.

  She jumped on her brother's back, flinging both arms round his neck and wrapping her legs around his body in a grip as sexual as a Freudian could have desired as she tried to topple him backwards. He staggered and twisted. The

  gun wavered away from the overhang of Dalziel's belly, and Pascoe grabbed the barrel and dragged it even further round.

  Perhaps Trotter deliberately squeezed the trigger, though later, naturally, he denied it. Perhaps it was a finger-jerk reaction caused by the shock of his sister's assault. Or perhaps Pascoe himself, by pulling on the barrel, literally triggered the explosion.

  Whoever or whatever, it went off.

  There was no pain, just a sense of some tremendous change in his relation with the universe. Then came a couple of seconds' out-of-body experience, in which he hovered some­where around the single light bulb, watching Dalziel step out of his trousers, advance three paces across the room and deal Trotter a blow on the temple which felled him like a blasted pylon. As he hit the ground, the whole room dissolved under a tidal wave of white light which bore Peter Pascoe out through the cottage roof and carried him at breakneck speed towards the boundary of the universe.

  Later he claimed never to have lost consciousness or even the power of rational thought. For a moment, or a millen­nium, he even had hopes of passing through a 2001 type stargate and ending up in a nice hotel room. But gradually the white light faded and the speed diminished till finally he was simply tumbling slowly through space.

  Far below he spotted the twin orbs of the earth and its circling moon. He recalled in childhood his mother trying to get him to see the man in the latter, but he'd never managed it. Now however he could see his features quite clearly in the broad bright orb, and it came as no surprise how closely they resembled those of Andy Dalziel.

  The mouth was opening and shutting as if the Fat Man had something to say. Might even be worth hearing, admitted Pascoe, who was not afraid to learn from experience.

  He grabbed a passing star, swung himself into a comfort­able position along one of its radials, and settled down to listen.

  'Think he'll make it, Wieldy?'

  'They say there's no reason why not, sir.'

  'Well, he better bloody had.'

&nbs
p; 'Yes sir. Any particular reason, apart from general human­ity, sir?'

  'He owes me ten bob, that particular enough for you?'

  'Oh yes. What'll you do with him if he does make it?'

  'Likely I'll keep him. It'll be a challenge.'

  'And if he doesn't want to be kept?'

  'Nay, Wieldy, you don't imagine I want anybody working for me who's daft enough to want to work for me, do you? A scared cop is a good cop, as long as it don't stop him thinking. And this bugger kept on thinking.'

  'Yes, sir. I think he'll do a lot of that. But I shouldn't bank on him staying scared forever.'

  'No? Mebbe not. But there's one bugger who should be running scared for the rest of his life. That's the stupid sod who told Tankie where to find me!'

  'Sorry, sir?'

  'I asked Tankie when he woke up how come he knew I'd be down at the courts. He said he rang the station and asked to speak to me, and some stupid bastard told him I was away for a while, but I'd be back that morning to give evidence. Can you credit it, Wieldy? No idea who he were speaking to, and this bumbrain gives chapter and verse where I can be found!'

  Peter Pascoe, who'd been thinking he might try dropping off his star onto the earth next time it rolled past, decided that maybe he'd give it another couple of whirls.

  Andy Dalziel said, 'I could murder a cup of tea, Wieldy. And a bun if you can find one.'

  The door opened and shut. The Fat Man leaned over the bed and glowered into Pascoe's pale face.

  'Anyone at home?' he asked. 'If there is, here's the deal. It'll be grapes and gruel for a bit, then it'll be hard bloody graft for evermore. 'Cos I'm going to make a man out of you, my son. You're going to be the very last National Service

  Man. Only it's no soft two-year stint for you. Serve with me and you're in for the bloody duration. I'll badger you, and I'll bully you, and I'll bugger you about something rotten. But I'll not take advantage of you or make a dickhead out of you or fob you off with a load of lies. And when I've driven that college crap out of your head, then we'll find out what you're really made of. You may never amount to much as a cop, but by God, you'll learn to jump when I say jump, and that's something. Aye lad, by the time I'm done, if I tell you to fetch me the moon, you'll take off like a whippet and not come back till you've got it in your gob . . . what's that you say?'

  Pascoe's lips had moved. The Fat Man stooped closer to catch the softly breathed words.

  '. . . let's not ask for the moon . . . I'd rather swing on a star . . .'

  'Eh?' said Dalziel.

  The eyes snapped open, the words came loud and clear.

  'Bette Davis. Now Voyager. Almost.'

  And for the first time in his life, Andrew Dalziel wondered if he might be biting off more than even his great cetacean jaws could manage to chew.

  In Pascoe's Ghost all the chapter headings come from the poetical works of Edgar Allan Poe.

  PASCOE'S GHOST

  Truth is not always in a well. . . The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain tops where she is found.

  The Chevalier C. auguste dupin

  I

  CHAPTER I

  Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells.

  I

  The phone rang.

  Swithenbank heard his mother answer it.

  'John!' she called. 'It's for you.'

  Stuffing the last fragments of toast into his mouth, he rose and went into the hall.

  'Hello,' he said.

  Everything was quiet. It was like being in church. The morning sun could only manage a dim religious light through the circle of stained glass in the front door and the smell of pine-scented polish was as heavy as incense on the dank autumn air. Could he not have noticed how cold it was here in his childhood? He vowed to bring an electric blanket if he came at Christmas. If he came.

  'Hello? Hello!' he said and put the receiver down.

  'Mother!' he called.

  Mrs Swithenbank appeared at the head of the stairs. Her hair was a deep shade of lavender this month. For a woman in her late fifties, she had a trim elegant figure despite an enormous appetite which she never hesitated to indulge.

  'Who was it on the phone?' asked her son.

  'Didn't she tell you, dear?'

  'She? No, the line was dead.'

  'Was it? Oh dear. Perhaps she'll ring again.'

  'Didn't she give a name?'

  'I think so, dear. I always ask who's calling. In case it's Boris or one of the others so I can say you're out. Though I don't really like to lie.'

  'It's just the modern equivalent of the butler saying I'm not at home, Mother,' said Swithenbank in exasperation. 'So, what did this woman say?'

  'Well, to tell the truth, I didn't really catch it, she had such a funny voice. Very distant somehow. But it wasn't Boris or any of the others. I mean, I know it wasn't Boris, because it was a girl. But it wasn't Stella or Ursula either, or I'd have said.'

  'Oh Mother!'

  'It sounded a very odd name,' she said defensively. 'Una something, I think. I'm sorry I missed it, but after all, dear, I'm not your secretary. I'm sure she'll ring again.'

  The phone rang.

  Swithenbank snatched it up.

  'Wearton two-seven-nine,' he said.

  'John, dear fellow! Caught you at last. How are you?'

  'Hello, Boris,' said Swithenbank, scowling at his mother's retreating back. 'I'm fine. I was going to call before I went back.'

  'I would be devastated if you didn't. In fact that's why I'm ringing really. I'm having a few of the locals round for drinks tomorrow, Saturday, about seven-thirty. I thought I'd ask our old gang to hang on for a bite of supper afterwards. You know, Stella and Geoff, Ursula and Peter.'

  'I know who the old gang are,' said Swithenbank acidly.

  'We're all dying to see you again. It's been six months at

  wasn't it?'

  'Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral, Boris.'

  'Don't worry. We all understand. It's been difficult for you.' The voice dropped a sympathetic semi-tone. 'No word yet? On Kate, I mean.'

  'No,' said Swithenbank shortly.

  'It must be awful for you. Awful. It's a year now, isn't it?'

  That's right. A year.'

  'Twelve months, and nothing. Awful. Cheer up, though. I suppose no news is good news.'

  'I can't imagine why you should suppose that,' said Swithenbank.

  'I'm sorry. What I meant was . . . look, do try to get along tomorrow night, won't you?'

  'I can't promise, Boris. I'll give you a ring later if I may.'

  'Fine. Good. Excellent. 'Bye!'

  Swithenbank was smiling as he put down the phone. He went into the kitchen where his mother was washing the dishes.

  'That girl on the phone. The name couldn't have been Ulalume, could it?'

  'Ulalume? Yes, that sounds very like it, though it doesn't sound very likely, does it? By the way, I'm going into town when I've finished these. I'll probably have lunch there.'

  'Mother,' said Swithenbank wearily. 'You've been going into town and having lunch there on Fridays for the last twenty years at least. Everyone in Wearton expects it. I expect it. I can only hope that you may be visiting the hair­dresser, too. But I cannot be surprised.'

  'I'm not trying to surprise you, dear,' said his mother mildly.

  Fifteen minutes later he heard her call goodbye as she passed the open sitting-room door. Almost simultaneously the phone rang.

  By the time he got into the entrance hall his mother had picked up the receiver.

  'It's that girl again, dear,' she said. 'I must dash or I'll miss my bus. 'Bye!'

  He did not touch the phone till he heard the front door close behind her.

  Hello? Hello?' he said.

  For twenty seconds or more there was no reply then as from a great distance a thin infinitely melancholy voice said, "Ulalume . . . Ulalume,' stretching the words out like a street-vendor's cry.


  "For God's sake, stop fooling around!' commanded Swithenbank, his voice authoritative and controlled. But the

  control disappeared when a voice behind him said, 'Mr John Swithenbank?'

  He spun round. Standing in the open doorway was a man, tall, slim beneath a short fawn raincoat, early thirties, rather a long nose, mop of brown hair falling over his brow and shadowing the light blue, watchful eyes.

  'Who the hell are you?' demanded Swithenbank.

  'I met a lady on the drive — she said just to walk in. Some­thing about the bell not working.'

  He reached out of the door and pressed the bell-push. A deafening chime echoed round the hall. He looked embar­rassed.

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm interrupting your call. I'll wait outside, shall I, till you're finished.'

  'It is finished,' said Swithenbank, replacing the receiver firmly. 'What do you want with me, Mr . . . ?'

  'Inspector. Detective-Inspector Pascoe,' said the man. 'Could I speak with you, Mr Swithenbank? It's about your wife.'

  'You'd better come in,' said Swithenbank. 'Hang your coat up if you think it's going to be worth it.'

  Pascoe wiped his feet, removed his coat, and carefully hung it up on the old-fashioned hall-stand which loomed like a multiple gallows behind the door.

  Boris Kingsley replaced the phone on the bedside table. He was sitting on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. He was naked and he contemplated his bulging belly with the helpless bewilderment of a weak king confronting a peasants' revolt.

  'When did you last see your little Willie?' asked Ursula Davenport, snuggling against his back and peering over his shoulder.

  He dug his elbow into one of her bountiful breasts.

  'About the same time you saw your little Umbilicus,' he said.

  'Will he come?'

  'What?'

  'Johnny, I mean.'

  'Why do you call him Johnny? No one else calls him Johnny. You always try to suggest a special relationship.'