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

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       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 the 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 СКАЧАТЬ