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

‘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.

2

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.’