HarperCollins/Publishers
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This paperback edition 1999 135798642
Previously published as a Paperback Original by HarperCollins in 1994 and reprinted five times
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins/Publishers 1994
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1994
The Last National Service Man © 1994 Pascoe's Ghost ©1979 Dalziel's Ghost ©1979 One Small Step ©1990
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
ISBN 0 00 647934 0 Set in Baskerville
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Caledonian International Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow
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TO YOU DEAR READERS
without whom the writing would be in vain
and
TO YOU
STILL DEARER PURCHASERS
without whom the eating would be infrequent
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
in appreciation
of your loyalty
in anticipation
of your longevity
in admiration
of your taste
NON SCRIBIT, CUIUS CARMINA NEMO LEGIT
CONTENTS
The Last National Service Man i
Pascoe's Ghost 59
Dalziel's Ghost 171
One Small Step 203
The Last National Service Man
'I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date,' sang Detective Constable Peter Pascoe.
In moments of stress his mind still trawled through the movies in search of a proper reaction.
'It's an immature tic you may grow out of when you've had enough Significant Experience of your own,' an irritated girlfriend had once forecast. 'Ring me when it happens.'
He hadn't rung yet. Surely his move to Mid Yorkshire where they sold Significant Experience by the bucketful would work the cure? But a fortnight into his new job, when he woke to discover he'd slept through his alarm, the section house boiler had failed, and there were three buttons missing from his only clean shirt, he'd immediately dropped into a Kenneth Williams panic routine straight out of Carry on Constable.
Sod's Law was confirmed when he got to the station. No time to grab a bite in the canteen, of course; hardly time to grab the essential file from the CID room: then the phone had rung just as he was passing through the door. Not another soul in sight, so like a fool, he'd answered it.
It had been some snout urgently requiring the DCI and not about to push something useful towards a mere DC. Five minutes getting that sorted. Then the Riley reluctant to start; every light at red: traffic crawling at sub-perambulator speeds (did they have different limits up here?); one side of every road dug up (water, or burial of the dead - which had finally arrived?).
And now, in the courts' car park, not a space in sight except one marked recorder.
Sod it, thought Pascoe. Little high-pitched instrument played by some geezer in a ruff couldn't need all that much room.
He gunned the Riley in, and was out and running up the steps before the Cerberic attendant could bark more than the first syllable of 'Hey-up!'
Why did the natives need this ritual exordium before they communicated? he wondered. Not properly a greeting, a command or even an exclamation, it was entirely redundant in the vocabulary of a civilized man.
He burst through the swing doors, and thought, 'Hey-up!' as he spotted a familiar face. Well, not really familiar. He'd known it for only two weeks and not even a lifetime could make it familiar. But unforgettable certainly. Straight out of Hammer Films make-up. They'd broken the mould before they made this one, ho ho.
'Sergeant Wield,' he gasped.
'Constable Pascoe,' said Wield. 'Now we've got that out of the way, you're lost.'
'You mean I'm late,' said Pascoe. 'Sorry but —'
'Nay lad. Mr Jorrocks, the magistrate is late, which means you'll not be called for another half-hour. What you are is lost. Magistrates' court is in the other wing. This is where the big boys play.'
With that face it was impossible to tell whether you were being bollocked or invited to share a joke. And what was Wield doing here anyway? Checking up? If so he was in the wrong place too . . .
Wield answered the question as if it had been asked.
'Our own big boy's here today,' he said. 'Come back all the way from Wales to give evidence. I need a word.'
'Mr Dalziel, you mean? Oh yes. I heard he was visiting.'
Pascoe knew the name shouldn't be pronounced the way it looked but hadn't quite got the vocalization right. This
time, perhaps because of the Welsh connection, it came out as Dai Zeal.
Wield's mouth spasmed in what might have been a smile.
''Dee Ell,' he said carefully. 'You've not met him yet, have you?'
Detective Constable Pascoe's transfer from South Midlands to Mid-Yorkshire CID had taken place while Detective Chief Inspector Dalziel was in Wales as part of a team investigating allegations of misconduct against certain senior officers. The Fat Man had been pissed off at being turned into what he called 'a bog-brush'. Wield suspected he was going to be even more enraged to discover that the CID boss, Superintendent 'Zombie' Quinn, had taken advantage of his absence to approve the newcomer's transfer.
Trouble was, Pascoe was everything Dalziel disliked: graduate, well spoken, originating south of Sheffield. Wield still had to make his mind up about the lad, but leastways he shouldn't be tossed to a ravening Dalziel without some warning. Not even a bubonic rat deserved that.
'No, but I've heard about him,' said Pascoe neutrally, unaware that Wield's finely tuned ear was well up to detecting the note of prejudgemental disapproval in his voice.
'Come along and see him in action,' said the sergeant. 'You can spare a few minutes.'
'What's the case?' asked Pascoe as they climbed the stairs.
'Sexual assault,' said Wield. 'DCI was leading a drugs raid. Kicked a door open and found what was allegedly a rape in progress.'
'Allegedly?'
'House was a knocking-shop, woman's got three convictions for tomming. Accused's got Martineau defending him. He hates Mr Dalziel's guts.'
That's a lot of hating, thought Pascoe as he tiptoed into the court and had his first glimpse of the bulky figure wedged in the witness box.
Flesh there was in plenty, but more Sydney Greenstreet than Fatty Arbuckle. This was all-in wrestler running to seed
rather than middle-aged guzzler running to flab. And if any notion of the comic book fat man remained, it stopped when you moved up from the body to that great granite head which looked like it could carve its way through pack-ice on a polar expedition.
A lemon-lipped barrister with scarcely enough flesh on him to make one of Dalziel's arms was asking questions in a voice which did not anticipate co-operation or trust. 'So you, Chief Inspector, were the first person through t
he door?'
'Yes, sir.'
His voice like a ship's cannon booming down a fjord.
'Where you found the defendant and Miss X on the bed, sexually coupled?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now please think carefully before you answer the next question. Did you immediately form the opinion that the defendant was using duress?'
Dalziel thought carefully.
He said, 'No, sir. I did not.'
'Really?' said Martineau, surprise mingling with triumph. 'And why not?'
'Well, I don't expect he had time to put one on, sir.'
When order was restored the judge fixed a stern gaze on Dalziel and said, 'I don't know whether your hearing or your taste is defective, Chief Inspector, but what Mr Martineau wishes to ascertain is whether you immediately formed the opinion that sex was taking place against Miss X's will, or was it her subsequent behaviour and allegations which brought up this possibility?'
'Oh aye. I'm with you. It were immediate, m'lud.'
'I see. Perhaps you can explain why.'
'Well, first off, he had his right hand round her throat like he was keeping her quiet by strangling her, and his left hand were holding both her wrists above her head so she couldn't hit him . . .'
Martineau's body and voice shot up together.
'My lord! These assumptions . . .'
'Yes, yes. Mr Dalziel, just describe what you saw without giving us the benefit of your inferences, please.'
'Yes, sir. Sorry. Main thing was, soon as I saw the defendant's face, I said to myself, hello —'
Martineau was now soprano with indignation.
'My lord, witness cannot be allowed to imply —'
'Thank you, Mr Martineau,' interrupted the judge. 'I'm grateful as always for your assistance in points of law, but I'm sure that an officer of Mr Dalziel's standing was not about to say anything contrary to the rules of evidence.'
'Nay, sir!' said Dalziel all injured innocence. 'Tha knows I'd never mention a man's record in court, no matter how rotten it were. All I was going to say was, I said to myself, spotty little scrote like that, I bet he'd have to use force to get his own mother to kiss him goodnight!'
Under cover of the renewed laughter, Wield drew Pascoe out of the court.
'I don't believe it!' exclaimed the younger man as they went back downstairs. 'He's turning the whole thing into music hall. Is he for real.'
'Weren't impressed then?' said Wield.
'Impressed? I was horrified! It's bad enough that poor woman having to go through the trauma of a trial without some insensitive clown playing it for laughs.'
'I did tell you the raid were in a knocking-shop and she's got convictions —'
'And that means she's fair game, does it?' interrupted Pascoe indignantly. 'I thought everyone was entitled to equal protection under the law. Excuse me. I'd better get off to my case.'
Wield watched him stride away. Nice mover, head held high, good shoulders, slim body, long legs. Lead us not into temptation. Not that there was much chance of that, not in the force. They might be marching for gay rights in San Francisco, but here in Mid Yorkshire, gay was still what poets felt when they saw a bunch of head-tossing daffs. There was even a holiday company in the High Street called Gay
Days Ltd. Caused a lot of misunderstanding with tourists from the louche south!
Any road, he couldn't see Constable Pascoe being around long enough to break any hearts. Zombie (which was what Dalziel had christened Detective Superintendent Quinn after catching him enjoying a post-prandial snooze in his office) might propose but everyone knew that in the end Fat Andy disposed.
'Penny for 'em,' said Dalziel who despite his bulk could come up on you like Umslopagaas.
'You'd want change, sir,' said Wield. 'Mr Martineau didn't keep you long.'
'Mebbe it was something I said. I saw you earwigging. Brought a friend, did you?'
Even under forensic assault the Fat Man didn't miss much.
'DC Pascoe. Transfer from South Midlands. Highly recommended, top promotion grades, good on the ground, graduate entry . . .'
'Wash your mouth out, Wieldy! Christ, moment I turn me back, Zombie's trawling the boneyards for the living dead. Where's he at now?'
'Committal proceedings. His first day, stopped two guys on suss by the auction mart. Found they had some weaners in their pick-up and" no proof of ownership.'
'Keen bugger. Sounds straightforward. Let's see what kind of a fist Wonderboy makes of it.'
They found 'Wonderboy' under heavy attack from a sharp little solicitor called 'Bomber' Harris.
'So tell us, Detective Constable, what was your reason for being at the back of the market pens?'
'Just passing, sir.'
'Just passing? Along a cul-de-sac whose only function is that of service road to the remoter storage pens of the auction mart?'
'Well, I'm new to the area and I was finding my way about —'
'So, you were lost. And while in this state of uncertainty,
you came upon my clients whose driving aroused your suspicions. How so?'
'They were reversing —'
'Out of a narrow cul-de-sac? Sounds reasonable so far. Go on.'
'They looked as if they wanted to get away very quickly.'
'Ah yes. The famous quick getaway. In reverse. And this made you block their path and examine their truck.'
'Yes, sir. That's when I found the piglets.'
'Weaners I believe is the cant term. How many were there?'
'Eight, sir.'
'You counted them?'
'Well, not exactly. They were quite lively and moving around . . .'
'So how can you be sure there were eight?'
'Because,' said Pascoe with an infant teacher's clarity, 'that was how many Mr Partridge said had been stolen.'
Dalziel groaned and ground his teeth.
Bomber Harris smiled.
'Yes, we have heard Mr Partridge's evidence that on the day in question he had eight weaners stolen from the auction mart. Also that he has since recovered seven. My clients, who should know, state that they had only six in their pick-up. Why incidentally did you fail to make an accurate count, constable.'
'Well, they got away, sir. The defendants let down the tailboard —'
'At your request? To facilitate your inspection.'
'Yes, sir. And the piglets, the weaners, got out and ran off. But they were recovered later —'
'Really? My clients will be glad to hear it, concerned as they are that their compliance with your instructions should have resulted in such a loss of property.'
'I mean that seven were later rounded up which Mr Partridge identified —'
'You will insist on dragging Mr Partridge into this. There is as yet nothing to prove a connection between the eight
which he allegedly lost, the seven which he was fortunate enough to recover, and the six which my clients claim are still missing. As things stand, it seems to me what we have here is a serious allegation of crime unsupported by any corpus delicti whatsoever.'
'Perhaps, Mr Harris,' said the magistrate who aspired to judicial wit, 'we should say corpi as there were six or seven, or even eight, of them.'
'Indeed, sir. Corpi. Very good.'
'Corpora,' said Pascoe.
'I'm sorry?' said Harris, histrionically puzzled.
'The plural of corpus is corpora? explained Pascoe.
And Bomber Harris smiled and said, 'I'm sure we are both grateful to your classical scholarship, Constable Pascoe.'
'Let's get out of here,' growled Dalziel. 'Before I honk my ring!'
Outside, he said, 'Are we stuck with it, Wieldy, or can we flush the useless turd back down south?'
'Fair do's, sir, he may have settled in by the time you finish in Wales. Still much to do, sir?'
'Too bloody much. It's like the wild bloody west out there. Buggers waiting to ambush you behind every slag heap. Some lovely rugby, but. Going to a match tonight. Only schoolboys, b
ut they've got this fly half who's going to give those tossers down at Twickers a few headaches in the near future, always supposing he survives the GBH his compatriots dish out.'
'Oh good,' said Wield with the false enthusiasm of one who found it hard to understand why society found aggression between men so praiseworthy and affection between men so deplorable. 'Then you'll be heading straight back?'
Dalziel was viewing him with great suspicion.
'You're a bit keen to be shut of me,' he said. 'Come to think of it, what the hell are you doing hanging around here anyway?'
'The Super thought I should have a word, sir.'
'Zombie? What else has the useless sod been doing? Hiring the Dagenham Girls Choir as dog handlers?'
'No, sir. Just worried about you, that's all. He thought you should know that Tankie Trotter's on the loose?'
'Tankie Trotter? You don't mean he's made it at last? Wonders'll never cease.'
'Yes, sir. He were returned to the Wyfies' regimental depot at Leeds for discharge at the weekend. From the sound of it, if he'd been serving a civil sentence, he'd likely have been transferred straight to a nut house. But the army are only too glad to have got rid of him at last.'
'Can't blame 'em. Must be an embarrassment still having a National Service Man on the books after all this time. So why're you telling me this, Wieldy?'
'Seems Tankie had a sort of hate list scratched on his cell wall. Didn't matter how often they made him whitewash it over, it always came back. One name was his old platoon commander's. He's a major now, serving out in Hong Kong. Took his family with him, fortunately.'
'Fortunately?'
'He's got a house out near Burley. It were torched night before last. Empty, thank God. Another name was the RSM when Tankie got called up. He retired last year. He's got a flat in Horsforth. Second floor. Someone picked him out of bed last night and tossed him out of the window. He's in intensive care.'
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 14 - Asking For The Moon (HTML) Page 1
