Asking for the Moon: A Collection of Dalziel and Pascoe Stories

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 (#ulink_b99a6cb2-2a73-58f3-b56e-5c2bf790d360)

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 (#ulink_3848f073-6667-515f-8a9d-2b24b61de221)

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells.

1

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 least since you were last in Wearton. Just before Father died, 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.’