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

Trotter said unemotionally, ‘You think you can jerk my string, Dalziel, best think again. I’ve been needled by experts. I cut loose, it’s ’cos I want to cut loose.’

‘I believe it, Tankie. So, Constable Pascoe, what we have here is Thomas Trotter, known to all his friends as Tankie, mebbe because of the way he’s built, mebbe because of the way he drinks, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is, Tankie’s a real star. Unique. With a bit of luck, we’ll never see his like again. You see, lad, Tankie’s The Last National Service Man.’

He voiced the phrase with a tremulous awe which gave it capital letters if not inverted commas.

Trotter snarled, ‘Shitface, you trying to be cute? That was a derestriction sign. Speed it up to fifty. Left at the next roundabout.’

Shocked to be thus addressed, and impressed by the speed with which the man had spotted his attempt to draw attention by slow driving on the open road, Pascoe obeyed.

In the rear-view mirror his gaze met Dalziel’s. Was there a message in those stony eyes?

Brightly Pascoe said, ‘Last National Service Man? I don’t understand …’

‘Aye, you’ll be too young. Stopped in 1960 or thereabouts. It meant every bugger were conscripted into the forces for two years.’

‘Yes, sir, I know that. And I know that every time there’s any trouble with rockers or hippies, the Cheltenham set start baying to bring it back.’

‘Aye, bit of backbone, taste of discipline, teach ’em a bit of respect,’ said Dalziel.

Might have guessed you’d go along with it, thought Pascoe.

‘Load of bollocks, but,’ continued Dalziel, almost causing Pascoe to drive onto the verge with surprise. ‘Only thing National Service did for most lads was turn ’em bad or drive ’em mad. In some cases, both together, eh, Tankie?’

‘Why don’t you shut your gob?’ suggested Trotter, digging the gun barrel even deeper into the Fat Man’s side.

‘Nay, lad, I’m just bringing the constable up to date,’ protested Dalziel apparently impervious to either the pain or the danger. ‘He ought to know it’s not your fault. You’re just a victim. You see, Pascoe, Tankie and me are old friends. He were one of the last to be called up only he didn’t want to go. Not without reason, either, only when the Queen offers you her shilling, she don’t pay much heed to reason. And me, well, I got the job of going and picking him up and making sure he were handed over safe and sound to our colleagues in the military. Full-time employment for a while, weren’t it, Tankie? Number of times you took off and headed back home! It were regimental punishment at first, which were OK. Then you broke that MP sergeant’s nose, and that got you into the glasshouse. Now the thing about glasshouse time, Pascoe, is, it don’t count towards your two years’ National Service. So if you’ve got a year left to do when you go down for a year, you’ll still have a year to do when you come out. Got me?’

‘I think I can just about grasp the concept, sir,’ said Pascoe with heavy irony.

Dalziel smiled elephantinely.

‘Good. I’ll make a note of that, constable,’ he said softly. And despite all the more immediate and apparently greater dangers, Pascoe felt a shiver go down his spine.

Dalziel resumed.

‘So you can see Tankie’s problem. The more he hated the army, the wilder he got. But the wilder he got, the longer he had to serve. And the longer he had to serve, the more he hated the army. Had to laugh, some of the tricks he got up to. Burning down the officers’ mess! Chucking a grenade under the CO’s caravan on an exercise! But they’ve not got a great sense of humour, the military brass. And that’s how Tankie became the Last National Service Man. Right, Tankie?’

‘Wrong, you fat bastard,’ said Trotter dispassionately. ‘It’s you who’s going to be the Last National Service Man. Next left. No! That one there, you stupid cunt!’

Pascoe had almost overshot the narrow entry into an overgrown lane, once metalled but now potholed and greened by the irresistible pressure of weeds and grass. Any hope that his sudden braking and turn might have drawn attention was vain. Sod’s Law had made sure the road ahead and behind was empty. He bumped down the lane for fifty yards till progress was blocked by a five-barred gate. Assuming not even Tankie Trotter would expect him to crash through it, he brought the Riley to a halt.

‘Out and open it,’ said Trotter. ‘Try anything funny and you’ll hear the air hissing out of this bag o’ wind.’

Pascoe got out and took a deep breath of air. It tasted good.

Run you stupid sod, Dalziel urged mentally. Run!

Whatever Trotter’s threat, his instinctive reaction would likely be to take a potshot at the fleeing man. And if the gun barrel stopped drilling into his gut for even a second …

But the prancing academic prat was opening the gate! And now he was getting back into the car. What the hell did they teach them at these sodding colleges. If they went in for mutual masturbation, they’d likely need diagrams!

They passed through.

‘Right. Stop. Out and close it,’ growled Trotter.

Second chance! Mebbe the lad weren’t as daft as he looked. Mebbe he’d worked out he’d have a better chance of escaping when he was behind the car rather than in front of it. Dalziel tensed himself to grab for the barrel the moment he felt it move away from his gut. But the bugger was now shutting the gate, taking real care like he was worried about breaking the Countryside Code! And as he got back in the car, he said insouciantly, ‘Lovely day out there.’

Dalziel closed his eyes in pain. Who the hell does he think he is? Captain fucking Oates?

‘Drive on,’ ordered Trotter.

As the car moved forward Pascoe said, ‘You were telling me about Mr Trotter’s career, sir.’

Aye, and I’m looking forward to telling you about yours, lad, thought Dalziel savagely.

He said, ‘Not much more to tell. Spent so much time serving time, it soon worked out he were the only conscript left in Her Majesty’s Army. Last bloody National Service Man. The Wyfies were almost proud of him!’

‘The Wyfies?’

‘The West Yorkshire Fusiliers.’

‘Good Lord, I think they were the lot my great-grandfather served in.’

‘You one of them army bastards? I might have known,’ snarled Trotter.

‘Hold on,’ protested Pascoe. ‘He got killed in the Great War, that’s all the army connection I’ve got.’

‘What the hell were he doing in the Wyfies?’ demanded Dalziel accusingly. ‘Got lost when he went to sign on, did he?’

‘No, sir, I’m sorry to say he was a Yorkshireman. But we try to keep it quiet,’ retorted Pascoe.

This near blasphemous insubordination momentarily caused Dalziel to forget the shotgun, but as he leaned forward to administer a just rebuke, Trotter screwed it in another quarter inch. This time Dalziel let out a gasp of pain as he subsided. And as his wrath faded, the thought came into his mind that probably both the insolence and the insouciance came from the same source. The boy was scared out of his tiny mind.

He found the thought quite comforting. Last thing a man up shit creek needs is a red-blooded hero willing to use his dick as a paddle.

And Pascoe thought: sitting there like Heckmondwyke’s answer to Buddha, is he really as unfazed as he looks? Or is his brain so atrophied, he’s simply incapable of appreciating the situation? What the blazes has he done to make this madman hate him so much? One thing’s for certain: whatever it was, this isn’t the time to bring it up!

Dalziel said, ‘Likely you’re wondering, constable, how come after so many years of going steady, me and Tankie finally fell out.’

Oh God, thought Pascoe. Completely brain dead!

‘No, sir,’ he said brightly. ‘I wasn’t wondering that.’

‘And you call yourself a detective! Motive, lad, that’s the key. Once you’ve got a hold on that, the rest’ll not be long in coming, as the bishop said to the actress.’

‘Stop here,’ said Trotter.

The lane had widened into a small overgrown paddock in front of a cottage which was more Gothic than picturesque. True, round the door there were roses rambling and honeysuckles suckling, but they looked more carnivorous than vegetarian, as if their ambition were to devour the house, which indeed slumped sideways like a stricken deer, only supported by a roofless barn on the left-hand side.