Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 14 - Asking For The Moon (HTML)

by Reginald Hill

  'What do you think he was trying to say before he died?'

  She shrugged and said, 'Who can know?'

  'Oh mer . . . How about, Oh Marte?' said Dalziel.

  'The vowel sound is not right,' she observed indifferendy.

  'Dying Frenchman pronouncing a Danish name,' he said. 'What do you want? Professor Higgins?'

  She took the reference in her stride and said, 'It would be touching to believe his thoughts turned to me at such a time.'

  Touching, thought Dalziel. Aye, mebbe, A hand on the shoulder in an identity parade, that's touching!

  But he didn't bother to say it. Or if he pleases through it pass . . . Silly bugger who wrote the hymn can't have heard of frosted glass, he thought.

  'You don't look happy,' said Pascoe.

  'You do. Found the Paddy amusing, did you?'

  'Oh, he's a broth of a boy, sure enough. More froth than a pint of Guinness.'

  'Get you anywhere?'

  Pascoe said uncertainly, 'I'm not sure, I got a feeling he was trying to manipulate me . . . but you know how Irishmen love to wind up the English. We'll see what you think in the

  reverse singles. Who do you fancy now. Van der Heyde or Albertosi?'

  Dalziel said, 'How come I suddenly get a choice? You made out the list and I'm down for first stab at the Eyetie.'

  'Sorry. I got worried in case you thought I was being a bit rigid, pulling rank, that sort of thing.'

  'Oh aye? Word of advice,' said Dalziel gravely. 'Pulling rank's like pulling bollocks; once you start, you'd best not let go.'

  'Oh aye?' mocked Pascoe. 'You've been at your Roche­foucauld again, I see. Well, one good maxim deserves another. Look before you leap on top of a touchy Italian. Albertosi's psych report says he's got a short fuse. He prob­ably wouldn't have made the trip if the other Italian nominee hadn't fallen off his scooter and cracked his skull. So tread carefully.'

  'No need to warn me, lad,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a changed man these days. No more clog dancing. It's all tights and tippie-toe now, believe me!'

  'Here's something that'll make you laugh, Marco,' said Dalziel. 'From what's been said so far, you're looking the man most likely to have knocked off Emile Lemarque!'

  The Italian's English was nowhere near as good as the two women's, but he had no difficulty with the idiom.

  'Who has said this? What have they said?' he demanded angrily.

  'General notion seems to be you and him were bonking rivals. You know, jealous of each other's success with the ladies.'

  'What? Me jealous of Lemarque? More chance I am jealous of a flea because he bites the woman I love!'

  'Flea, you say? You want to watch where you get your women,' said Dalziel kindly. 'But you were both after Silvia Rabal, weren't you?'

  'What? Oh yes, he bothers her. Is always flapping round her, calling her his little cockatoo, making jokes. But is all

  words like with all these Frenchman, talk, talk, talk, so much talk, so little action. Women like men who act, real men, big men. He is no bigger than she is, a midget almost! When a true man comes along, his little cockatoo soon jerks him off the nest!'

  Dalziel hid a grin and said, 'So what you're saying is, Lemarque wasn't worth bothering about, right? But he did bother you, didn't he? So why was that?'

  Albertosi grimaced and said, 'You are right. I will not lie. I did not like the Frenchman. But not because of Silvia.'

  'Why, then?'

  'Because he has a poison tongue! Because he makes slander about me.'

  'They're like that, these Frogs,' said Dalziel sympa­thetically. 'Think yourself lucky you've still got the Alps between you. We've let the buggers build a tunnel so they can come hopping across any time on a day return. What was it he said about you?'

  'He said that I have injured my comrade, Giuseppe.'

  'Eh?'

  'Giuseppe Serena. We are Italy's team for the moon shot, but only one of us will go, it is not yet decided which. Then my friend is riding back to the base on his scooter when a car forces him off the road. He is not badly injured but bad enough to put him out of the running, you understand. Then this pig, this Frenchman, he says it is I who drive the car, I who hurt my friend so that I will be selected!'

  It came out in a volcanic rush, flaring (as with Silvia Rabal) into a violent spout of his own language which did not need a dictionary to translate.

  'So you wouldn't be too unhappy about Lemarque's death?' said Dalziel.

  'What do you say? I am not happy that a colleague dies, does not matter how I feel personally. But, how is it in Eng­lish? - pride comes, then a fall. He was so boasting he was to be the first to step on the moon. Only he doesn't step, he falls!'

  The idea clearly amused him.

  'It bothered you, did it? Him getting the prima donna's job?'

  'Prima donna! That's it! That is how he acts, like he is more important than the others. But what important is it, stepping on the moon? It is more than forty years since Armstrong did it. Since then many more Americans and Russians too. No, this is not a first, not a real first.'

  'No? What would you reckon is a real first, then?' asked Dalziel.

  The Italian smirked knowingly but did not reply.

  'All right. Let's stick to facts. You and Silvia Rabal stopped on Europa and watched the monitors. Did you see anything unusual?'

  This seemed to amuse Albertosi. First he internalized his laughter till his whole body was shaking. Then finally it burst out in a full-throated roar as Dalziel watched, stony-faced.

  'Please, I am sorry,' gasped the Italian. 'Go on. Ask your questions. It is reaction, you understand. Much tension, then it comes out in laughter or in anger, makes no matter which.'

  'Depends what you're laughing at,' said Dalziel.

  'Nothing. Only my foolishness. Go on.'

  'All right. Silvia Rabal says that she noticed nothing unusual on the monitor.'

  But he was off again, turning red in his effort to suppress his amusement.

  For a moment Dalziel felt nothing but a schoolteacher's exasperation in the face of a giggling adolescent. Then it began to dawn on him what this was all about.

  'Oh, you dirty sod!' he said slowly. 'That's it, isn't it? That was your first! While Lemarque and the others were in the module heading for the surface, you and Silvia were bonking in space. You dirty sod!'

  He began to chuckle and a few seconds later his laughter mingled with Albertosi's in a saloon bar chorus. It took the pouring of a couple of large Scotches to calm things down.

  'So neither of you was watching the monitor?' said Dalziel.

  'When Albertosi makes love, who watches television?' said the Italian' complacently.

  'And this electrical storm that knackered the transmissions to Earth was just a happy coincidence?'

  'A slight adjustment of the controls,' smirked Albertosi. 'A man must protect a lady's modesty, hey? Down there these bureaucrats watch us all the time but this they were not going to watch.'

  He sipped his drink with a look of ineffable self-con­gratulation. Dalziel regarded him with an admiring envy which was mainly, though not entirely, assumed. It would be nice to puncture this inflated self-esteem, he thought, but that wasn't the name of the game. The way to a man's mind was through his pleasures.

  He leaned forward and said confidentially, 'Just a couple more questions, Marco. First: floating around up there, what was it like?'

  'Break for lunch now,' said Pascoe. 'Then we'll have the reverse singles.'

  'Fine. How was the Dutchman?'

  'Phlegmatic. And the Italian?'

  'A bit up in the air,' said Dalziel. And laughed.

  The Europa crew ate together in their dome, segregated partly by choice, partly by command. Druson had invited Pascoe and Dalziel to join him in the central mess. Conver­sation stilled for a moment as they entered but quickly resumed.

  'So how's it going?' asked Druson.

  'Early days,' said Pascoe. 'The crew are naturally eager to get t
his over and get back to work. Would you have any objection to a limited resumption of duties? It would ease a lot of tension.'

  'You mean turn them loose on the surface?' said Druson doubtfully.

  'Why not? It's not Jack the Ripper we're dealing with. And there's a hell of a lot of money invested in this programme.'

  This appeal to the Great American Motivator just made Druson laugh.

  'Hell, they're not going to find anything out there they couldn't read about in our college manuals!'

  'Perhaps not,' said Pascoe equably. 'Think about it, any­way. Meanwhile I think at least we ought to have one of our people back on Europa. We've tied up your man long enough.'

  Again Druson looked doubtful.

  Dalziel, who was carving a steak like a Sunday joint, said, 'What's up, Ed? Scared we'll pick the killer and he'll make a run for Mars?'

  'Funny. Yeah, OK, why not? Anyone in mind?'

  'Rabal, the Spaniard's the obvious choice. She's the pilot. Also, though I've not talked to her myself yet, Andy here reckons she's in the clear and I've never known him wrong.'

  You lying bastard! thought Dalziel, chewing on his steak. He got the feeling that Druson for all his street-wisdom was being edged into doing exactly what Pascoe wanted.

  'OK,' said the American after a pause for thought. 'Why not? I'll arrange for one of our pods to make the transfer. No need to fuck around with that steam-powered module of yours!'

  Dalziel noted the transfer of irritation. You've got the feel­ing you've been stitched up as well, my lad, he thought. And you've no idea how or why!

  Pascoe pushed aside his almost untouched omelette and stood up.

  'If you'll excuse me,' he said. 'Couple of things to do. Back to work in, say, fifteen minutes, Andy?'

  He just about got the interrogative lift in, dulling the imperative edge of the sentence.

  'Whatever you say,' said Dalziel.

  They watched him walk away, a slim, upright figure, from

  behind very little changed from the young detective-constable Dalziel had spotted signs of promise in so many years ago.

  'Hard man, your boss,' opined Druson. 'And in a hurry. Man in a hurry can make mistakes.'

  'Whoever fixed the Frog's suit must have been in a hurry and he didn't make mistakes,' said Dalziel. 'Apart from leav­ing yon microprobe thing in his locker.'

  'Could be even that wasn't a mistake,' said Druson. 'Could be he got instructions to put himself under suspicion and stir things up between the Germans and the French.'

  'Oh aye. From which of his masters?' wondered Dalziel.

  'From whichever wanted it most,' said Druson. 'I'm just a plain security jock. I don't mess with politics. Now if you'll excuse me, Andy. Anything you want, just ask, OK?'

  He's getting worried about the lad wandering around free, thought Dalziel.

  He said, 'Aye, there's one thing you could tell me, Ed. What do you lot do about sex up here?'

  Back in their dome after lunch Dalziel said, 'Nice guy, Dru­son. Quite bright too, for a Yank.'

  'Indeed,' said Pascoe. 'This afternoon, Andy, let's whip them through at a fair old pace. Don't give them time to think. How does that-sound to you as a strategy?'

  It was the old Peter Pascoe's voice, easy, friendly, slightly diffident. But running through it now like a filament of high-tensile steel was the unmistakable tone of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

  'Sounds fine,' said Dalziel.

  He followed Pascoe's instructions to the letter with Kauf­mann, hitting him with rapid-fire questions all of which the German handled with the assurance of a man well grounded in the interrogative arts.

  'Did you like Lemarque?' he asked finally.

  'He knew his job, he did his work,' answered the German.

  'Aye, but did you like him?'

  Kaufmann considered, then said, 'As a man, no. He was like many small men, too aggressive. Always compensating for his lack of height.'

  'Give me an example.'

  'Well, I recall during training, he found out that O'Meara had been a boxer in his youth, an amateur, you understand. All the time after that, he made jokes about it, pretended to fight with him, challenged him to a bout in the gym.'

  'And did O'Meara take up the challenge?'

  'Naturally not. Such things would not be allowed. We were training for the mission. Physical injury would have been disastrous for any one of us.'

  'So what happened?'

  'Nothing,' said Kaufmann. 'O'Meara kept his temper, though I think it was difficult for him sometimes. Eventually Lemarque found a new target.'

  'Which was?'

  'Me, I think. The Germans in the wars of the last century, something like that.'

  'And you kept your temper too?'

  'Oh yes. Sometimes I imagined what I would like to do to the troublesome little creature, but it stayed in my imagination.'

  'Oh aye. And can you prove that?'

  The answer came unhesitatingly.

  'All I can say is, if I had decided to kill him, one thing is sure. Everyone would have been quite convinced it was an accident.'

  'He had a point,' said Dalziel. 'But not just for him. How come with all their electronic know-how, whoever did it made such a pig's arse of covering their tracks?'

  'We've been through this, Andy,' said Pascoe. 'It must have been done in a hell of a hurry. I gather there's only room for one person at a time in the Europa's hold and the TV camera is blocked by the body. So the opportunity's there. But if anyone spent an unusually long time down there,

  it'd stick out in the recordings at Control, and it doesn't.'

  'Aye, well, mebbe I'll get the chance to see what it's like up there for myself before we're done,' growled Dalziel.

  'Still thinking we're not following proper procedure?' mocked Pascoe. 'You're such a stickler! It wasn't always like that, I seem to recall. Incidentally, I assume the new Andy Dalziel has been carefully checking out the order they got themselves ready in?'

  Dalziel looked uncomfortable and Pascoe allowed himself a superior smile.

  'Good news and bad news,' he said. 'The good news is you haven't missed anything by not checking, for the bad news is Lemarque was last into the hold, so it could have been anyone who fixed his suit!'

  'How does an Irishman get to be an astronaut?' asked Dalziel.

  Kevin O'Meara cocked his head on one side in best lepre­chaun fashion and said, 'Is it an Irish joke you're after telling?'

  'Sorry?'

  'Do I say, I don't know, and you say, he lights a rocket but doesn't retire till he's sixty-five? Or is it a real question?'

  'That's the only Sort I know.'

  'All right, then. Here's the story of me fascinating life and hard times. I joined the Air Force at sixteen, not out of any sense of patriotism, you understand — Nor law nor duty made me fight, Nor public men nor cheering crowds - you'll know your Yeats? No, the only reason I had was to learn to fly so I could become a commercial airline pilot, and make a lot of money, and spend me spare time pleasuring hostesses in palatial hotels. Now isn't that a reasonable ambition for a randy young buck?'

  'Sounds fair enough to me,' said Dalziel. 'What happened?'

  'I grew up. Or at least I grew older. Young men should be given their heart's desires straight away. If you wait till you've earned them . . .'

  He threw back his head and carolled, 'Oh, the youth of the heart and the dew in the morning, you wake and they've left you without any warning.'1

  'Don't ring us,' said Dalziel. 'So you just more or less drifted into the space programme, is that what you're saying?'

  'Isn't that the way of most things? You now, I dare say you just drifted into being a policeman.'

  'No,' said Dalziel. 'It was what I wanted.'

  'Was it now? OK, I'm sorry to hear that. I like my cops to be ordinary chaps like myself who can look at some poor devil in trouble and think: There but for the grace of God go I.'

  'If I'd fancied the merc
y business, I'd have trained as a nun,' said Dalziel. 'From your file, I see you had a longish period of sick leave about four years back.'

  'Is it me file you've got there? Then you'll know more about meself than I'll ever want to know.'

  'It was after your wife died, right?'

  'Let me think. Yes now, you'll be right. Or was it after the budgie escaped? Drat this memory of mine!'

  'Not much to choose between a wife and a budgie, I sup­pose,' said Dalziel. 'All bright feathers and non-stop twit­tering. Your missus flew away too, didn't she? Funny, that. You need to be a very cheeky sod to apply for sick leave "cos the tart who dumped you's got herself killed.'

  'That's me all over,' said O'Meara. 'More cheek than Sister Brenda's bum, as the saying is.'

  'She'd run off with a Frog, hadn't she?' persisted Dalziel. 'Died with him in a car accident. Terrible bloody drivers, these foreigners.'

  'Aha!' said O'Meara. 'At last I'm getting your drift! And here's me thinking you were just showing a friendly interest! Because me wife ran off with a Frog, as you call him, every time I see a Frenchman, I feel an irresistible desire to kill him, is that it? Sure now, it's a fair cop. Except it happens in this case, the Frog she ran off with was a Belgian!'

  'Let's not split hairs,' said Dalziel.

  'You're right. Many things I am, but not a hair-splitter Do I get a choice of wearing the cuffs in front or behind And what happens if I want to go to the little boys' room while I've got them on?'

  'You pray no one's been mucking about with your wiring This sick leave you had, exactly what was it that was sup­posed to be wrong with you?'

  'Oh, women's trouble, you know the kind of thing.'

  Dalziel slapped the file down on his knee with a crack that made the Irishman flinch.

  'End of happy hour,' he snarled. 'Let's have some straight answers, right?'

  'Oh God!' cried the Irishman, clenching his fists in a par­ody of a boxer's defences. 'You don't mean you're after fight­ing with the gloves off, is that it? I never could abide bare fists. Bare anything else you care to name, but not the bare fists!'