'That's where it would have to be, wouldn't it?' said Dalziel. 'I mean, if the Yanks had got us bugged, they'd not be shy about searching our luggage, would they? Though what they'd have made of a harmless list of names and addresses, I'm not sure.'
Pascoe's hand went involuntarily to his breast pocket and Dalziel laughed.
'It's all right, lad. I put it back after I'd taken a shufti while you were in the shower. I knew there had to be something, and it had to be in writing so you could slip it over to O'Meara while you were interrogating him. Then, after giving him time to take this list in, there'd likely be another piece of paper with his instructions on, like, You're going to confess to killing Emile Lemarque, or else?
'Or else what, Andy?' inquired Pascoe. 'You're losing me.'
'Oh, I think I may have done that already,' said Dalziel coldly. 'I can make a stab at guessing what that list meant, but why should I bother when I can get it from the horse's mouth. So how about it, Paddy? I've never known an Irishman keep quiet for so long!'
He poked O'Meara savagely in the ribs and he opened his bright blue eyes and abandoned his pretence of sleep.
'Now there you are, Andy, me old love,' he said brightly. 'I should have known a man with a face like an old potato couldn't be as thick as he looks! No, no, that's enough of the punching. One thing I learned as a young boxer was not to fight outside me weight. And I got right out of my weight when I was a boy, believe me. Oh, the company I kept, you'd not believe it. Wild men, terrible men, men who drank Brit blood for breakfast and ate Proddy flesh for tea. I was just a messenger, a look-out, a tea-boy, nothing heavy, and I thought I'd put it all behind me when I joined up, and I was glad to be getting away from it all, believe me. But those boys don't forget so easily, and the top and the bottom of it is they came after me to do me old mates a few favours, like giving details of the guard routine at my training depot and looking the other way when I was on sentry so they could get into the arms store.
'Now I was young, but not so young I didn't know that once I started that road, I'd be on it for ever. So, I told our security officer. He was a real gem. He did a deal with the Brits, passing on all information on condition they did the cleaning-up job on their side of the border and pointed the finger a long way from me. A couple of days later, I don't know if it was a cock-up or policy, but the Brits laid an ambush and when the shooting stopped, all the wild men were dead, and me, I was both very guilt-ridden and very relieved, for this meant I was completely in the clear. Or so I thought. Only what I didn't reckon on was that full details of the affair would be carefully recorded in some great computer file where it would lie sleeping for all these years till Prince Charming here came along and woke it with a kiss!'
'He's good at that,' said Dalziel. 'And these names and addresses? They'd be relatives of the men who got killed? And members of your own family?'
'That's right. And if the first lot ever found out who bubbled their menfolk… they've got long memories back in Ireland, and they don't forgive. So now you know all about me, Mr Dalziel. And now you know too what nice company you've been keeping.'
Dalziel turned to Pascoe and said, 'Oh Peter, Peter, what have they done to you?'
'Come on, Andy!' protested Pascoe, looking uncomfortable. 'You've cut a hell of a lot of corners in your time, you can't deny it. And we've only got O'Meara's word for it that he turned his old chums in the first time they asked for his help. God knows what mayhem he contributed to before he got cold feet! And what'll happen to him now? He was planning to get out after this mission, we know that. He already has a deal tied up with a publisher, and this will do him no harm at all. An Irish jape that went tragically wrong. End of a promising career with full pension rights guaranteed. Punishment enough from his own conscience, sentence suspended. Advance sales astronomical, serialized in the Spheroid, he buys a castle in Killarney and he and his family live happily ever after. I'm practically doing him a favour!'
Dalziel had started shaking his huge head halfway through Pascoe's plaintive self-justification, but he didn't speak till it had run its course.
'Oh Pete, Pete,' he said now. 'Christ, but you've started running slow since you've not had me to wind you up! You don't really imagine I'm bothered about this poor Paddy and his tribal troubles, do you? I never met a Mick yet who didn't deserve ten times worse than he got!'
'So why the shaken head, the plummeting sigh, the heartfelt reproach?' asked Pascoe, trying unsuccessfully for lightness.
'Because in all my years of cutting corners, as you put it,' said Dalziel heavily, 'I did a lot of chancy things, but I never screwed up a mate. I badgered you, and I bullied you, and I buggered you about something rotten. But I never took advantage of you, or made a dickhead out of you, or fobbed you off with a load of lies. Did I?'
'Well,' said Pascoe uncertainly, 'there were a couple of…'
'Did I?'
'OK, no. In principle, in essence, at the end of the day, no, you didn't.'
'So why've you done it to me, lad? Why've I spent the last few days with your hand up my arse working my jaw-hinges like Charlie McCarthy? Don't answer that. I'll tell you. It wasn't my sodding expertise and independence you wanted.
With your clout, you could have had any bright young thing in the game at your service, spouting your script with a will. But why risk an act when for no extra cost you can have the real thing? That would shut the Americans up, eh? Not a Euro whizzkid out to please daddy, but a genuine geriatric, out to please no bugger but himself, who would trip over the truth with his walking frame and leave the Yanks too bothered and bewildered to cry, "Foul!" Was it all your plan, Pete? Every bit of it? Or did some other genius set it off and you just threw me in as a makeweight to make sure you got your share of the glory?'
His voice never rose above a murmur, but its pace increased and its timbre changed, as waters that start soft and slow become harsh with menace when the meadows give way to rock and the stream starts accelerating towards the cataract.
O'Meara said, 'Oh dear. If you two girls are going to quarrel, I really am going to sleep.'
And sinking back, he closed his eyes once more.
Pascoe too had slumped back into his couch. He did not speak for a long time, then said simply, 'Andy, you're absolutely right. What I did was unforgivable. I don't know how…'
His voice failed.
Dalziel said, 'It's a tightrope, lad. The higher you go, the more dangerous it gets. Me, I got as far as I could safely. Beyond that, I didn't fancy the trip. One small step in the wrong direction and you can end up bent, or you can end up using people. People that matter, I mean. Your mates. The other buggers are there to be used, aren't they? Everyone thought I got stuck because them above me didn't care for the colour of my eyes. Bollocks! I could make 'em and I could break 'em. And if I'd wanted… but I didn't. Where I was was right for me. Anything more would have been giving a face-lift to a cuddy's backside. But I always thought: There's one bugger I know that I'll trust to go all the way; who'll be able to look up without getting delusions and down without getting giddy; who'll not change to fit changes; who'll not let new honours get more important than old mates…'
Now it was his voice that died away.
When Pascoe finally spoke, his voice was tight with restraint.
'Andy, I'm sorry. More sorry than ever I've been about anything. I've let you down and I know it. God knows if I can hope to put things right with you, but I'll try, I promise I'll try. But there's a more pressing problem even than that. I've got to ask you something, not as a friend or even an ex-friend, but as a Federal Justice Commissioner. Andy, you've got knowledge, possibly dangerous knowledge, about O'Meara, about Kaufmann, about the fit-up, about everything.
'Andy, what are you going to do about it?"
What are you going to do about it?
Dalziel rubbed a hand like an eclipse across his face.
This was the second time that day he'd been asked this question.
Then as now he had not given an
immediate answer, though he doubted if the delay would have the same result now as then.
His doubts had started long before their arrival on the moon; as soon as Pascoe had telephoned him, in fact. He was no Holmes or Poirot to be hauled out of retirement to solve one last all-baffling case. He was a pensioned-off bobby, suffering from gout, flatulence, distiller's droop, and the monstrous regiment of visiting nurses.
So what the hell was the lad playing at?
He hadn't worked it out straightaway but he'd soon worked out the role Pascoe wanted him to play. The old steam-age detective puffing his way to the pre-ordained terminus! And to start with, he'd really enjoyed playing it. Of course in the old days he'd have done things his way. They'd have visited Europa to get the feel of the ship before interrogating the suspects. But his resistance to Pascoe had been token. It was the lad's game, so play to his rules. And the lad had been right. It was pointless planting his clues till he was sure the victim of the fit-up was going to play ball. Mind you, it had been rather offensive the way he'd shovelled them at Dalziel thereafter, as if he really did think his old taskmaster was past it! Best thing that could be said for him was he was working to a timetable. If they hadn't caught this shuttle, they'd have had to wait forty-eight hours for the next, and that would have given the Yanks time to re-group and counter-attack O'Meara with a better offer.
Once Pascoe had got the famous stubby finger to point at the Irishman, all he had to do was get back to the Village as quickly as possible and go through the pre-arranged charade of accusation and confession, with the Yanks listening in helplessly. And preferably without a fat old steam-age cop sitting in the corner, nebbing in with awkward questions.
So the cunning bastard had left him on Europa, with the alleged task of making sure Silvia Rabal didn't broadcast anything of what had taken place, this from a ship which was pumping out sound and pictures twenty-four hours of the day!
At this stage he still wasn't sure what was going off. Mebbe Pascoe genuinely believed O'Meara was the perpetrator and had at last learned a lesson Dalziel had once despaired of teaching him, that like faith without works, belief without evidence got you nowhere, so where was the harm in giving God a helping hand?
But it rankled not to be admitted to the plan, if that was the plan.
And also, like a stuffed owl, the case against O'Meara looked right, but it didn't fly.
With these thoughts in his mind he had watched the pod depart, then turned to look at Silvia Rabal, no stuffed owl this but a living and exotic creature of the air, and matters forensic were flushed from his mind.
'Right, luv,' he said. 'Now what can an old vulture like me and a bright little cockatoo like you do to pass the time? With a bit of luck, mebbe we'll get an electrical storm, eh?'
Even though his tone was nostalgically playful rather than lewdly insinuating, it was not the most gallant of things to say, and had her reaction been scornful abuse, mocking indifference, or even righteous indignation, he would have accepted it as his due. But what rounded those huge dark eyes was surprise; more than surprise, shock; in fact more than shock – fear!
And suddenly, in a flash – but not at all sudden in truth, for this was where the subtle independent micro-circuits of his mind had been directing him while Pascoe was busy with spanner and wrench at the pistons and cogs of his consciousness – he saw the stuffed owl topple off its perch to be replaced by a warm, living, tremulous…
'Tell me, luv,' he said. 'What's French for cockatoo?'
She went floating away up into the bridge, fluttering her supple hands over the bank of control lights, and for a moment both terrifying and exhilarating he thought she might be going to send them blasting off into the depths of space.
But then she turned and floated back to face him.
She said, 'Kakatoes. He called me Ka when we were… in private. But you know this, and more. Not everything perhaps. But enough to guess everything. From the start I saw you were the dangerous one.'
She spoke almost flatteringly. She was also speaking unnecessarily freely considering all those TV cameras.
He said warningly, 'Mebbe we should…' What? There was nowhere private to go! But she took his meaning and laughed, making a flapping gesture with her hands.
'It is all right. No witnesses. These electrical storms are sometimes convenient, hey?'
'You mean you've fixed it?' A light dawned. 'Of course, it was you who fixed it last time, not Marco. It was your idea.'
'Of course. I guessed Marco might boast, but he's too macho to tell it was not his initiative!'
'Why'd you need to do it?'
'I often imagined how it might be in zero gravity,' she said mischievously.
'I meant the blackout.' He frowned.
'Oh, that. If Control had spotted a fault in Emile's TEC circuits during the module descent, they might have aborted the landing and spoilt my plan.'
She was bloody cool, thought Dalziel. Another thought occurred to him and he said, 'But weren't the suits tested earlier in the voyage out?'
'Of those involved in the landing, yes.'
She regarded him expectantly. It was as if she wanted him to justify her decision to black out the cameras and confront him directly. Though what she hoped to gain by that…
As often happens with sight, taking his eye off a sought-after object brought it into view.
He said, 'I saw the files. You and Lemarque are the same height, so your suits would be much the same. You fixed your suit at your leisure, didn't you? You had time to do a real job on it, not this botched-up job the Yanks claimed. Then all you had to do was swap the suits. And the name strips. That's why his was out of line. You had to do that in a hurry down in the hold. I should have remembered the smell.'
'Smell?'
'In Lemarque's. suit. That spicy smell. I thought it were a funny kind of aftershave…'
And now the memory of her spiced breath and the contents of the leather pouch in her locker came together and he said, 'What was it you put in his coffee to make him pee? Dandelion juice? Used to call them piss-the-beds when I were a lad.'
'Dandelion, pansy, burdock, black briony -just a very little of the briony, it is very poisonous, very dangerous to those who do not know how to use it. When I hear he is dead, at first I thought: My God, I have used too much and killed him!'
Her face paled with the memory of shock. Dalziel scratched his nose reflectively and said, 'Aye, but you did kill him. lass.'
'No!' she protested indignantly. 'He dies by accident! All I do is give him a shock, make him ridiculous in front of the whole world! You must believe me, Dalziel. You must!'
She looked at him beseechingly and he said, 'Must I? I'll need to know a lot more before I can go along with that. First thing I need to know is why you wanted to electrify his goolies anyway.'
She scowled and said, 'He was a rat! He turned from me to that Danish icicle. Well, that was his right. I grow tired of men too. But this rat wanted us both, he is insatiable. Even that I don't mind. But he hid it from me and he did not hide it from her, and that I mind very much! She knew I was being tricked and found it amusing. They screw with their minds, these Scands. But it was his fault, so I decided he must be punished and this idea came. It seemed to me -what is your phrase? Poetical justice! That's it. To pain him in the places he valued most. His vanity and his sex! But pain only, not death. You cannot laugh at a dead man, can you?'
This sounded like a clinching argument to Dalziel.
'So you're saying it was a fault in the TEC design that killed him? But if you hadn't interfered with it, that fault would never have shown up.'
'My interference was a possible fault, therefore it could occur, so this other fault was the real fault,' she flashed.
'Mebbe that makes sense in Spanish,' he said. 'So you definitely left it looking like an accidental fault?'
'Of course! You think I am stupid?' she cried. 'So what has happened? How is it you are looking for a killer? And why is Kevin accus
ed? How can that idiot who comes with you believe such a stupidity? Kevin will prove his innocence, won't he?'
He missed the implication of this for the moment as his mind tried to rearrange everything he knew into something he could understand. And as the picture emerged like a nega live in developing fluid, his slab-like face grew cold and hard as a rock on a wintry fell.
'I'd not put money on it, luv,' he said. 'In fact, I'd bet that yon idiot who comes with me has probably got O'Meara's full and frank confession in his pocket already.'
'Confession? Why should he confess?'
'I don't know yet. But one thing's for sure. Somehow it'll seem a better option for him than not confessing.'
She digested this.
'You think so? Then in fact, I will be helping Kevin by keeping quiet, is that not so?'
He grinned at her ingenuity, and also at her naivety.
'Bit late to be thinking of keeping quiet when you've just coughed your guts out to me, luv,' he said cheerfully.
'Coughed? Oh yes. I understand.' She smiled at him with wide-eyed innocence. 'But I do not understand why you say I have coughed? There is no one here. Just you and me and the electrical storm. No witnesses.'
She gestured at the useless TV eyes.
Dalziel shook his head and showed his gums in a chimpanzee's smile.
'Good try, luv,' he said. 'But they don't like us using a notebook and a stubby pencil any more.'
From his breast pocket he took a flat black plastic case with a silver grille along one edge, held it up to his ear, pressed a button and listened to the resulting faint hiss with every appearance of satisfaction.
'That's grand,' he said switching off. 'I was a bit worried in case the electrical storm had affected the recording quality.'
She stared at him, baffled, unsure, as he replaced the instrument in his pocket. He met her stare full on, raised his eyebrows as if to invite her comment. She moistened her lips nervously. At least it started as nervousness, but the tiny pink tongue flickering round the full red lips carried a sensual jolt like an electric shock, and when she saw his reaction, she smiled and let the tongue slowly repeat the soft moist orbit.
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