.?' 'Aye, lad. It's your chance to shine. You'll be looking after the shop while I'm away. On your feet, jildi!’ Pascoe hurried along behind the retreating figure, catching up with him only when he halted at his own desk. 'Right. Where to start? Let's see. Good Scotch in this drawer, best at the back of yon cabinet. I've marked the levels and tested the specific gravity. That apart, I don't think there's owt else to say. You'll find everything in order.' 'What's happened? Have you been suspended?' demanded Pascoe. 'Don't be daft! Two things Desperate Dan doesn't like. One is twats like Adolf shouting the odds at him, t'other is spooky sods in the Smoke trying to pull his strings. When you're my size, you can afford to be flexible, bend with the wind. But a little chap like Dan needs to show he's the boss.' 'So you've not been suspended?' 'There's them as would like to see it.
Some twat – he didn't mention names, but it'll be yon bugger Sempernel likely – rang up and went on about this fellow turning up at Kohler's hideout. Big fat sod with an uncouth northern accent, he'd said, so Dan could see it were no use trying to pin it on me. Anyway, the long and short of it is, he asked me if I had some leave coming, suggested I might like to take it. You don't look happy, lad? Not feel up to the job, is that it?' Pascoe was recalling the last time Dalziel's embarrassing presence had been removed by 'leave'. All his absence had meant was that he popped up at even more unexpected times and places than normal. He said, without much hope, 'Will you actually be going away? I mean, far away?' 'Eh?' Dalziel laughed. 'Oh, I see what's bothering you. No. I've learned my lesson. You won't find me hanging around here, getting under your feet. I'm going to put myself as far as I can get from all this crap.' 'Oh yes? And where's that?' said Pascoe, hesitating to experience relief. 'Hang on,' said Dalziel who had picked up his phone and dialled. 'Hello! Mr Foley, please…
Come on, luv, bank managers aren't busy with clients at this time of day, they're busy putting on their British warms afore they head off to treat other bank managers to expensive grub at my expense. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel… Jim, lad! What fettle? Look, two things, first off I want to buy some shares. Glencora Distillery… I don't give a toss if you've never heard of it, you didn't know they'd privatized water till it started running green… How many? All I can afford and a few more besides. And don't hang about. Second, I want some travellers' cheques. US dollars. That's right, American. You've heard of America? Well, I'm going there the day after tomorrow… Very droll… I'll be in later on, then… Cheers.' He put the phone down and contemplated Pascoe's dropped jaw with undisguised glee.
'America?' said Pascoe. 'You're not going after… oh shit! Look, sir, do you think it's wise? Do you think it's possible? It's a long way, and bloody expensive, and I doubt if you'd even get a flight at such short notice.' 'All fixed,' said Dalziel, producing an airline ticket. 'Heathrow to New York. Sorted it out on my way back from Inkerstamm.' 'But you didn't know then that the Chief would suggest…’ Pascoe let his words fade to nothingness. He thought of mind and matter, will and law, and then of Hiller's warning against letting himself be used. But why listen to warnings from a man incapable of following his own precept? 'What was all that about shares?' he asked. 'Stamper gave me a tip.' 'Why'd he do that, for God's sake?' 'Didn't mean to, but you know these self-made buggers, can't resist showing off. Hello!' The phone had rung and Dalziel had scooped up the receiver at first ping with the speed of an Australian slip fielder. 'Percy, how are they hanging? No, you're dead right, not funny. Sorry… Right, I see. Look I'm going to be away for a few days, so why don't you give Mr Pascoe a ring when she gets back? Aye, he'll talk to her. Full authority. That's grand. Take care of yourself.' The phone went down. 'That was Percy Pollock,' said Dalziel. 'Mrs Friedman, her who worked at Beddington Jail, she's away on holiday just now, but expected back shortly. I said you'd deal with it, OK?' 'I suppose so,' said Pascoe unenthusiastically. 'What am I supposed to do with her?' 'You'll think of something, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Now I'd best go out and buy myself a phrase book, unless there's owt else you want to say?' Pascoe shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Except bon voyage. And God Save America.'
PART THE THIRD
Golden Apple
ONE
'Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a disorganized country, a city that may not be even safe for you.' The Immigration queue snaked before him like an Alpine pass with its head almost hidden in the clouds. Dalziel took a pull from a half-empty flask of duty-free malt. 'How long do you reckon, luv?' he asked the woman he'd been sitting beside since Heathrow. Her name was Stephanie Keane. She was in her thirties, comfortably but elegantly dressed in a loose-fitting organdie blouse and skirt, quite pretty in an anorexic kind of way. Her first response to Dalziel's conversational gambits had been frosty, but once she caught on that he was a tyro at this kind of trip, she'd thawed and let herself be elected Beatrice to his lost soul. She was, he had learned, co-owner of a Midlands antiques firm, and a frequent transatlantic traveller in pursuit of her profession. Now she cast her expert eye over the queue.
'Three hours minimum,' she said. 'You're joking,' said Dalziel incredulously. 'I'd not queue that long to watch England stuff Wales.'
She gave him the look of amused condescension with which liberated woman views the futile muscle-flexing of prehistoric man. 'So what are you going to do about it?' she inquired satirically. Pensively Dalziel took another drink. Then he screwed the cap back on and slipped the bottle into his shoulder- bag. 'Sorry about this, luv,' he said. And, stooping down behind her, he put his right hand between her legs, grasped the front hem of her skirt and jerked it up hard against her crotch, at the same time twisting her left arm behind her back.
'Right, sunshine,' he said, 'consider yourself nicked.' Stephanie Keane screamed and tried to swing at him with the briefcase in her free hand but she might as well have whipped a bull with daisies.
Jerking her skirt tighter so that she was on tiptoe, he forced her forward through the ranks of passengers who scattered before them like sheep in a meadow, till finally their way was barred by an armed and uniformed man. 'What's the trouble here?' he asked. 'No trouble,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a cop, and this here's a smuggler. Why don't we have a word with your boss before you do summat daft like ruining your career?' Five minutes and several more uniforms later, he finally reached a grey business suit. In it was a fortyish black man with a boxer's scarred and flattened face and teeth perfect enough to please a monumental mason. He gently removed the furious woman from Dalziel's grip, handed her over to a couple of uniforms, invited her to accompany them to a nearby room where she would be taken care of, then ushered Dalziel into a carpeted office, presumably to take care of him. 'Passport, please,' he said. 'Help yourself. You pronounce it Dee-Ell.' 'How else?' said the man. 'I'm David Thatcher, by the way.'
'Oh aye? I think I knew your auntie.' The man smiled and said, 'So how can I help you. Superintendent?' 'Depends what you are.' 'I guess I'm a sort of superintendent too, though I don't know if it means the same on your side of the pond.' ‘It means I can do owt I like, so long as I don't let them catch me.' 'Then for once our common language unites us. This woman you say is a smuggler, have you had her under surveillance long?' 'Just since I got sat next to her at Heathrow.
Never saw her before that.' 'Oh. So how come you think she's a crook?'
'I've been talking to her for six hours,' said Dalziel. 'She were very helpful, very laid back about everything, Immigration was tedious but no hassle, Customs were a doddle as long as you weren't wearing ragged jeans or a turban. She knew it all.' 'So?' 'So it was herself she was reassuring,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Did you tell her you were a cop?' asked the black man. 'Don't be daft. I said I were a publican on a visit to my daughter who'd married a Yankee airman.' Thatcher regarded him steadily, then said, 'OK. Wrongful arrest suits can be very expensive over here, Mr Dalziel, but we'll take a close look at this lady. Anything I can get you while you wait?' Dalziel delved into his flight bag and produced his bottle of Scotch. 'Glass, me
bbe. Two if they'll not let you stay for the strip search.' Thatcher grinned broadly and went out.* In the event Dalziel probably spent almost as much time in the room as he would have done in the queue, but at least he was sitting comfortably drinking from the glass one of Thatcher's men brought him. Finally the black man himself appeared, carrying another glass and a big bag of something called pretzels. 'Any luck?' said Dalziel. Thatcher shrugged and said, 'These things take time. You said something about some Scotch?' They sat and talked in an apparently desultory fashion, but Dalziel soon realized he was being interrogated by an expert. He didn't mind. It made a change being on the receiving end. His first instinct was to throw up a smokescreen but after a while he found himself telling quite a lot of the truth.
'So Kohler's back home, but you think she really was guilty and they're going to do a shit job on your old boss, right?' 'That's how it looks to me.' 'So what's your game plan, Andy?' 'To catch up with Kohler and have a little chat. Also to talk with the rest of the American connection, see what I can squeeze out of them. Oh aye, there's plenty for me to do.' He spoke confidently. Thatcher grinned, sipped his Scotch and said, 'That's what Stephanie Keane sounded like, I guess.' 'You what?' 'Talking laid back to reassure herself. Andy, to coin a phrase, this is a big country. How the hell are you going to find Kohler for a start? And what's the rest of this American connection you mentioned?' 'Well, there's Marilou Stamper, she's a Yank. Got a divorce, so likely she's living here somewhere. And there's Rampling, he was at the US Embassy back then, and now he's something important, at least I've seen his name in our papers so I shouldn't have any problem tracing him…' He was whistling in the dark, but it didn't bother him. He'd been in the dark before and if you whistled loud enough, something usually came snuffling along to see what all the noise was. Thatcher said, 'Rampling? You don't mean Scott Rampling?' 'Aye, yon's the bugger. Stocky blond lad, could have been another young Kennedy, leastways that's how he looked twenty-seven years ago.' 'That's not how he looks now. You're right, you'll have no problem tracing him, but I doubt you'll find it easy to see him. In fact I'm not sure it would even be wise to try.' 'Why's that?' 'The reason you've read about him is he's in line to be Deputy Director of the CIA, which is an appointment that needs clearance from the Senate. He knows where all the bodies are buried, which means he's got a lot of friends, or, put it another way, he's got a lot of smiling enemies who wouldn't be sorry to see something nice and dirty dug up in his background. It wouldn't take much – politically we're a neurotic society – so even if Scott Rampling's pure as the driven snow, he might not take kindly to an unofficial English cop linking him with an ancient murder case.' 'He can please himself,' said Dalziel indifferently. He finished his drink, screwed the top back on the now almost empty bottle and stood up. 'Well, I'd best be on my way. Enjoyed our chat.' 'Hold on,' said Thatcher. 'What makes you think we're finished?' 'Come on, lad! You'd not be chewing the fat with me so relaxed if you hadn't got yon cow in the bag. I bet you told her I was a cop and we'd been following her for days, and now she's busy dropping everyone she can in the shit. I know the type.
What was it? Antiques? A big scam, only she got greedy and decided to mix in a bit of private enterprise?' 'You may turn out to be a marvel,' said Thatcher. 'At first she was very tight-lipped, even when I said you'd been following her for weeks. So finally I showed her my law degree and ran a few sentences before her, maybe I exaggerated a tad, but the thought of five years in the slammer concentrated her mind wonderfully. She's over here to oversee the unpacking of a shipment of antiques all properly documented from your side, only a lot of the documentation itself is a work of art. Seems there's stuff there which would never have got an export licence even if it hadn't been stolen in the first place. She's done this before a couple of times, gets well paid, but not enough. So this time, when this pair of very hot eighteenth-century miniatures turned up in her shop, she chatted to a mate in Boston, got a good offer, and simply wrapped them in her underwear. "Repro samples" was going to be her story if they got spotted, but as no one had ever bothered her before, she wasn't too much worried.' 'They never are till they see the whites of your eyes,' said Dalziel. 'So that's that. How do I get out of here?' 'Back to the Immigration line, you mean?' said Thatcher. 'Nay, lad. You wouldn't?' said Dalziel in alarm. 'Believe me, if Keane had come out clean, you'd be so far back in the line, you'd be up to your knees in water,' said Thatcher evenly. 'But then I wouldn't be drinking your Scotch, would I? So let me show you the express route through the formalities. Here's my card, by the way. Anything I can do, call me. I owe you.' 'Thanks,' said Dalziel. 'I may just do that.' 'And take care of yourself, Andy. You're a long way from home and the house rules are different over here.' 'I'll be so quiet, you'll scarcely notice I'm here,' promised Dalziel. The Manhattan skyline made a dramatic frieze against the evening sky as Dalziel's taxi crossed the East River, but the Fat Man was in no state to appreciate it. He hadn't been so terrified since Mad Jack Dutot had pressed a double-barrelled shotgun against his balls and invited him to choose left or right. Deposited outside his hotel on Seventh Avenue, Dalziel carefully counted out the exact fare. The driver looked at him expectantly. 'You want a tip?' inquired Dalziel. The man pursed his lips in an expression that was acquiescent without being eleemosynary. 'All right, here's one, take up sky-diving. You'll live longer and so will your passengers.' He went into the hotel followed by a cry of, 'Up yours, fatso!' It wasn't a great hotel but it wasn't a fleapit either. It was the early hours of the morning, home-time. He dumped his case in his room and went down to the coffee shop on the first floor, where he made a hearty supper of hamburgers and fries. Back in his room it was still too early American-time to go to bed, but his body disagreed, so he compromised by removing his shoes, finishing off his duty-free Scotch, and stretching out on the bed. Four hours later he awoke from a dream of Mad Jack Dutot and the shotgun. It was bad but not a nightmare. It had been the reality that was the nightmare till Wally Tallantire walked in and assured Dutot that whichever barrel he used to scatter Dalziel's family jewels, the other was going straight up Mad Jack's own arse. Dutot who, despite his sobriquet was a not unreasonable young man save on the subjects of bank robbery and Sheffield Wednesday, said, 'Sod it. It's not loaded anyway,' in proof of which assertion he pointed the weapon at his own foot and squeezed the trigger. The resultant explosion, smoke, pedal dispersion, and loud screaming gave Dalziel cover under which he was able to go outside and clean himself up. When he'd tried to thank Tallantire, the Superintendent said, 'Word of advice, lad. Next time you want to be a hero, wear plastic pants or a brown suit.' Dalziel rolled off the bed, stripped, went into the bathroom and stood under a searingly hot shower till British time, both past and present, had been sloughed out of his system. Towelling his crutch vigorously, he came out of the bathroom, feeling at last he was one hundred per cent in New York and got instant confirmation in the shape of a pallid young man going through his suitcase. If anything, the youngster looked the more shocked of the two, but this was small consolation as he instantly pulled a small handgun out of his waistband and screamed, 'Hold it right there!' 'Nay, lad, I'll hold it anywhere you like,' said Dalziel reassuringly. 'Do I look like I'm going to give you trouble?' He was quite sincere. His reading of the British tabloids had taught him that New York was full of drug-crazed muggers with Saturday Night Specials that went off if you farted. Suddenly he felt a strong nostalgia for Mad Jack Dutot. He glanced at his watch. Eight hours in this sodding country and he'd been mixed up with an art smuggler, a homicidal cab-driver and a nervous mugger. He must be on Candid Camera! If so, it occurred to him that the mugger was having trouble remembering his lines.
Time for a prompt before the inarticulate young man decided that guns spoke louder than words.
'Don't you want my watch, then? It's a good 'un, stands up to God knows how many atmospheric pressures, though what a man would want with knowing the time when his eyeballs have gone pop, I've never been able to fathom.'
As he spoke he took a step forward, pulled the watch off, tossed it on to the bed, saw the man's eyes follow its flight, draped the huge towel over the hand gun, pirouetted to one side with the deceptive speed of an angry bear, and as the weapon went off, hit the youngster behind the ear with a fist like a steamhammer.
Then he got dressed. A shot in the night was clearly not regarded as a summons for room service in New York, so after he'd buttoned his shirt, he picked up the phone and got the desk.
'Room 709,' he said. 'Can I have Security up here, please. Oh, and while you're at it, you might let the housekeeper know I'll need a new bath towel.'
TWO
'I am a doctor… let me examine it.' ‘I do not want it examined… let it be.' 'Don't your colleagues ever warn you about smoking?' said Peter Pascoe as Dr Pottle lit another cigarette from the dog end between his lips. 'I tell them if they keep out of my lungs, I'll keep out of their heads,' said Pottle. He was Head of the Psychiatry Unit at the Central Hospital. Pascoe, despite Dalziel's scepticism, had been using him as a consultant on police matters for years. That was why he was here today, he assured himself, an assurance he'd have found more convincing if the particular case he'd presented for Pottle's scrutiny hadn't been the Mickledore Hall murder. With Dalziel's departure, he had made, and meant, a fervent promise that there'd be no more meddling in the inquiry. After an initial euphoria at Dalziel's absence, however, he found himself strangely unable to enjoy the freedom he now had to shape CID more in his own image. Ellie was still away, her telephone conversation was evenly divided between concern for her mother and contumely for her mother's doctor, and Pascoe did not feel able to break the tacit truce which had evolved around their own personal battle. He'd come to the Central to talk about security after a man with a record of sex offences had been caught hiding in a toilet near the children's ward.
Recalled to Life dap-13 Page 16
