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.'
'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.
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
CHAPTER I
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells.
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.'
'We had once. At least, I thought so.'
'But Kate put paid to that,' said Kingsley spitefully. 'Funny, I often think that both you and Stella got married on the rebound.'
'Stella?' She raised her eyebrows.
'Your sister-in-law, dear. There are depths beneath that unyielding surface.'
'I'm glad to hear it. I wasn't conscious of a rebound,' she said evenly. 'Unless it was from Stella moving into the bungalow. I could hardly stay on, could I?'
'I wish you'd stayed and the bungalow had moved,' grumbled Kingsley, walking across to the window and peering out.
The lawn had that tousled unkempt look even the best kept grass gets on a dank October morning. He had the sense of peering down at a wild moorland from some craggy height. Away to the right ran an avenue of trees, while straight ahead was a tangle of neglected shrubbery which reinforced the impression of desolation till he raised his eyes a little and the cheerful red-brick of the Rawlinson bungalow some three hundred yards away re-established the scale of things.
'Pa should never have sold your father that land,' said Kingsley with irritation. 'It ruins the view.'
'I dare say Stella will think the same about little Willie if she's out in the garden,' said Ursula.
'She should be so lucky,' said Kingsley. 'How do you think your brother is since his accident?'
'You are an evil-minded bastard sometimes, Boris,' she said.
'And you're the vicar's wife,' he mocked. 'Is it sermon on the mount time?'
She rolled off the bed as he approached.
'I think it's time to go home and have breakfast.'
'Stay here,' he suggested. 'When's Peter due back from his concert?'
'Not till this afternoon.'
'Well then.'
'But old mother Warnock is due here in half an hour.'
'She'll devil us some kidneys. You can say you dropped in to invite me to address the Mothers' Union.'
'Boris, dear, she'd stand up and denounce us before
the first hymn next Sunday morning. No, I'll have a quick shower and be off.'
She left the room before he could attempt to restrain her by force or persuasion.
He did not appear too frustrated by her evasion but strolled round the room getting dressed. Unhappy at the selection of trousers in the large mahogany wardrobe which occupied half a wall opposite his bed, he took a key from a chest of drawers and unlocked a smaller oak wardrobe in the corner by the window. Here were hanging the heavier twills which the chill of the morning invited.
Here also hung a woman's dress in white muslin with blue ribbons to gather it gently in beneath the bosom. On the shelf above was a wide-brimmed floppy hat in white linen trimmed with blue roses. He touched it lovingly, then caressed the soft material of the dress with his open hand.
When he turned from re-locking the wardrobe Ursula was standing dripping wet in the bedroom doorway.
'I couldn't find a towel,' she said.
Til come and rub you dry,' he answered, smiling.
Geoffrey Rawlinson let his binoculars rest on his chest, stood up, collapsed the seat of his shooting-stick and, leaning heavily on it so that he drilled a trail of holes across the lawn, he limped back to the bungalow.
He heard the phone being replaced as he negotiated the high step into the kitchen, and a moment later his wife came into the room, snapping on the light so that he blinked as it came bouncing at him off chrome, tile and Formica. The changes Stella had made in the kitchen never ceased to amaze him. It was, he claimed, more automated than the War Room in the Pentagon. But even in high summer it still needed artificial light till the sun was high in the sky.
'Children off to school?' he asked.
'Yes. Please, Geoff, how many times do I have to ask you? Don't dig up the floor tiles with that thing!'
'Sorry,' said Rawlinson. He leaned the shooting-stick against the waste-disposal unit and took up his heavy blackthorn walking stick which was hooked over the rack of the dishwasher. It had a thick rubber ferrule which squeaked against the floor as he walked towards his wife.
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