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

‘Blow the horn!’ ordered Trotter.

Pascoe blew the horn.

The cottage door opened and a woman came out, rubbing floured hands on a flowered apron. It was a scene so rustically domestic that Pascoe thought: it’s a wind-up. Wield and the rest of the CID boys are waiting inside with a birthday cake for Fat Andy. But he didn’t really believe it, even before the woman stepped back inside and re-emerged with an under-and-over shotgun in her hands.

‘Out,’ ordered Trotter. ‘Shoot the boy if he tries anything.’

The woman nodded as if she’d been told her guests took sugar in their tea.

‘Hello, Jude,’ said Dalziel. ‘Heard you’d gone off for a trip. Nice place you found. Bet it costs more for a week than a fortnight. This boy you may have to shoot is Detective Constable Pascoe. This here’s Judith, Tankie’s sister. Twins, would you credit it? She got the beauty, he got the brawn. What happened to the brains, God alone knows, and He’s not telling us, is he, Jude?’

A smile touched the woman’s lips, acting like a tiny light to reveal the true beauty of her features. But her eyes confirmed her twinship. They were the same unyielding grey discs as her brother’s.

She said, ‘Some things are beyond working out with brains, Mr Dalziel. You just swim with the tide.’

‘Just what I keep telling these folk with degrees,’ said Dalziel.

‘Inside,’ said Tankie.

Pascoe moved in first with the woman in close attendance. Dalziel came behind, the gun barrel still drilling into his spine.

The cottage was almost as decrepit inside as out, but some effort had been made to render it inhabitable and there was a good smell of baking coming from the kitchen.

‘Scones,’ said Dalziel expertly. ‘I could murder a home-baked scone with fresh butter and some strawberry jam.’

Wish he’d stop harping on about killing, thought Pascoe.

They were herded past the kitchen into a stone-flagged, windowless room which must have been built as a dairy. Whatever the state of the rest of the building, this was solid, constructed of great granite blocks thick enough to keep out any warmth from the sun. It was lit by a solitary bulb dangling from the ceiling. It contained a narrow metal-framed bed covered by a thin flock mattress. By the bed stood a rusting metal locker, open to reveal various items of clothing.

‘Inspection in ten minutes,’ said Trotter stepping back and slamming the door.

Pascoe grabbed the handle and rattled it like they always did in the movies. But he’d heard the key turn in the lock, and the woodwork looked disturbingly solid.

He turned to find Dalziel had taken his trousers off.

‘Sir, what are you doing?’ he asked, not certain he wished to know the answer.

‘Like Judith said, you just swim with the tide. Even if you’re a shark,’ said Dalziel, removing his shirt. ‘I were telling you how Tankie and me fell out, weren’t I? Simple misunderstanding. God, I’d forgotten how this stuff itched!’

He’d taken a khaki shirt from the locker and was putting it on. As he buttoned it up, he continued talking.

‘Four years back Tankie were getting close to discharge. Then some silly twat of a sergeant spoke to him insensitively. Naturally Tankie nutted him. Then he helped himself to a Champ and took off home. That’s where I found him, waving an axe and demanding to know where his mam and Judith was. I told him his mam had taken badly and was down at the infirmary and I said if he gave me the axe, I’d make sure he got in to see her. He saw sense and gave me the axe and I drove him down the infirmary. Only when he got out of the car, the MPs were waiting for him. He seemed to think it were my fault. I still think I could have sorted things out and got him in to see his mam, only by the time I could make myself heard, Tankie had cracked one bugger’s head open, broken another’s arm and was marking time on a corporal’s goolies. There weren’t much scope for reasonable debate after that. They dragged him off, and a couple of hours later, his mam died. Christ, these are a bit tight. Long time since anyone thought I was thinner than I am!’

He’d pulled on a pair of grey denim fatigue trousers and was having difficulty fastening them up. Next he squeezed his feet into one of the two pairs of boots in the bottom of the locker. The laces tied, he now began to lay all the remaining clothes on the bed and folded them into neat geometric shapes. Pascoe recalled seeing Sean Connery do this in The Hill.

‘You’re getting ready for a kit inspection,’ he said incredulously. ‘This is what Trotter meant when he said you were going to be the Last National Service Man.’

‘Glad they taught you to think at you kindergarten,’ said Dalziel. ‘Pity they didn’t teach you to think fast.’

‘They taught me to think logically,’ said Pascoe grimly. ‘And logic tells me we should be looking for ways of getting out of here, not wasting time going along with this madman’s fantasies.’

‘And that’s your very best thought, is it?’ sneered Dalziel. ‘You listen to me, sunshine. Time for you to have great thoughts was back there at the gate when you were out of the car and Tankie were in it. But you missed your chance, and you’re in the army now, and you’re not paid to think!’

‘Now hold on,’ said Pascoe. ‘Of course I thought of making a run for it back there. But I believed him when he said he would blow you away. What I did manage to do though was drop my wallet with my warrant card in it by the gate. If someone finds it and hands it in …’

He hadn’t expected fulsome praise for his ingenuity but he was taken aback by Dalziel’s expression, as if he’d chewed on a chocolate drop and found it was a sheep dottle.

‘All right,’ he said defensively. ‘At least I tried something which still seems better to me than just going along with Trotter.’

‘You reckon?’ said Dalziel. ‘What do you want me to say? That you’re not so green as you’re cabbage looking? Consider it said. But you’d be well advised to stop being clever and think of nowt but survival. Your own personal survival.’

‘It’s kind of you to be so concerned about me, sir,’ said Pascoe only half satirically. ‘But I get the impression it’s you Tankie’s really after.’

‘Right. And that’s why I’ll play along with the little game he’s got planned. What I don’t want is you trying any Boy’s Own stuff. Don’t lose sleep being grateful. Way I see it is, Tankie’s not killed anyone yet. Last thing I want is him finding out how easy it is. Now sit down out of the way and let me get this lot sorted.’

Pascoe squatted on the floor near the door, his back against the wall, and uneasily contemplated his new role as the buffer zone between Dalziel and death.

Suddenly the Fat Man who’d been arranging the items on the bed with a housewifely deftness, snapped to attention, chin high, arms rigid, thumbs pointing straight down the side seams of his trousers. He even managed to hoist part of the bulge of his belly to swell the overhang of his chest.

Pascoe had heard nothing, but now the door flew open sending him scrambling out of its path. Trotter strode in and snapped to a halt inches in front of the Fat Man. He was holding the sawn-off under his arm, like a sergeant major’s stick, with his finger on the trigger and the barrel levelled at Dalziel’s chest.

But his back was to Pascoe, and for half a second he weighed up the odds of flinging himself onto Trotter’s shoulders.

Then he saw the full shotgun barrel sticking through the doorway and met the still, grey eyes of Judith Trotter fixed unblinkingly on his face.

Trotter was speaking in a low impassioned voice.

‘You are disgusting,’ he breathed. ‘You are the most disgusting fucking object it’s been my misfortune to see since I joined this man’s army. WHAT ARE YOU?’

‘Disgusting, sir!’ bellowed Dalziel.

‘And what’s this?’ asked Trotter turning his attention to the bed.

‘My kit, sir!’

‘Kit? This milo heap of rubbish? I’ve seen cleaner looking gear in a Port Said bazaar. In fact, I’ve seen cleaner cat crap. And you’ve actually put it on your bed! You’ve got to sleep on this bed, soldier. This is unhygienic! UNHYFUCKINGGIENIC!’

He stooped, took the mattress in his left hand and threw it against the wall, spilling all the kit onto the floor.

‘That’s better. Probably saved your life there, soldier. Now when I come back in here in half an hour’s time, I want to see this place looking so neat and fucking tidy you could invite Her Gracious Majesty the Queen Mother, God bless her, to sit down and take tea with you!’

‘Sir!’ shouted Dalziel.

Trotter stepped back and glanced down at Pascoe who wondered if he was meant to snap to attention too. Sod that!

‘You dropped this,’ said Trotter tossing Pascoe’s wallet onto the floor.

‘Oh yes. Thanks,’ said Pascoe, trying to conceal his dismay.