Asking for the Moon (2 page)

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, but 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.'

'And what's all this got to do with me, as if I can't guess,' said Dalziel.

'The third name, in fact the one that was always top of the list, is yours, sir.'

'Well, well,' said Dalziel. 'Nice to know that some folk really mean it when they say they'll never forget. Restores your faith in human nature. So you're the errand boy, are you, Wieldy? Sent to see me safely off the premises so if Tankie trashes me, it won't leave a mess on Zombie's doorstep. You'd think .the idle bugger could have shown me enough professional courtesy to come along himself. Then I could have had the pleasure of hitting him over the head with that college kid and getting rid of two useless lumps together!'

'Yes, sir, that would really have shown him the meaning of professional courtesy,' agreed Wield. 'So are you going to go quietly? Seriously, I doubt if Tankie knows where Wales is, and we should have felt his collar by the time you get back.'

'Kind of trail he's leaving, what with flames and folk flying through the air, he shouldn't be difficult to find. You've tried his sister?'

'Yes, I went round to see Judith myself. Only she weren't there. Taking a little break. Touring in the West Country. What do you think, sir?'

'Anyone else I'd have said, wise move,' said Dalziel frowning. 'But them two have got a lot of common baggage to haul, and I don't just mean being twins. Still, things being the way they are, that might be even more reason for her to hide. Any road it's down to you, Wieldy. I'll just get a cup of tea and a wad and I'll be on my way.'

'You'll get better value in a transport caff, sir.'

Dalziel shook his head and said wonderingly, 'You're turning into a right hard bastard, Wieldy. But I'll not hang around where I'm not wanted. See you in a week or two. Cheers.'

That wasn't so hard, thought Wield as he watched the Fat Man head out to the car park. Mebbe he was learning sense at last. Or mebbe he was heading down to the station to throw Zombie out of the window! Still, what a mere sergeant could do, a mere sergeant had done.

He glanced down the long corridor which led to the magistrates' wing. Distantly he saw Peter Pascoe approaching.

'Lost again?' he said when the youngster joined him.

'No, sarge. My car's parked out front.'

'So how'd it go?'

'No problem,' said Pascoe. 'Harris is still droning on, but the beak would have to be brain dead not to commit those two jokers on the evidence. I've left word there's no objection to bail, so no need for me to stay, especially as I'm due at a briefing in ten minutes. See you!'

He was off through the doors at a graceful trot.

Didn't notice me and Fat Andy then, thought Wield. Or perhaps he really didn't think he had a problem. One thing was sure. Bomber Harris would have noticed his exit. Worth keeping an eye on the sly sod. He set off down the corridor.

Pascoe meanwhile, with a quick glance around to make sure the attendant was nowhere in sight, ran down the steps to the Riley. As he got in he could hear the car in the next bay making a meal of getting started. It was a big Rover, facing outwards so it wasn't till he reversed past it that he became aware of the driver. It was Detective Chief Inspector Dalziel.

There was a man sitting beside him, a big man with a Yul Brynner haircut and a blue chin. This didn't mean he couldn't be the Chief Constable, and as Dalziel had probably spotted him anyway, it seemed politic to stop.

He got out and approached smiling. Dalziel ignored him and tried the engine again. It roared impotently.

He tapped on the driver's window. Dalziel's head turned. His leathery lips formed two inaudible words. If Pascoe had not known it to be impossible, he would have guessed the words to be 'Fuck off'.

He tapped again. The man with the polished head spoke. Dalziel slowly wound down the window. His gaze met Pascoe's with a force that almost straightened him up. And the lips were moving again, still inaudibly but this time unmistakably.

'Fuck off!'

'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Just thought you were having a spot of bother . . .'

'He one of yours, Dalziel?' growled the man in the passenger seat.

The DCI's expression seemed to suggest the idea gave great pain. Piqued by this response, and also encouraged by the passenger's tone in his suspicion that he might be brass, Pascoe said brightly, 'Detective Constable Pascoe, sir.'

'Right. Out! Jildi! Move your fat arse!'

Peter Pascoe had become aware very soon after joining the police that the rules of civilized social intercourse no longer applied. But did Chief Constables really speak to Chief Inspectors like this?

Perhaps he'd made a mistake. In fact as the Fat Man slid out of the car and the bald man followed him via the same door, the pointers to error began to mount up.

No reason perhaps why a Chief Constable should not be fluent in the patois. But surely no Chief Constable would wear khaki trousers, heavy black boots, and a sweat-stained green shirt whose rolled up sleeves revealed the word mum tattooed on a brawny forearm, the letters wreathed in roses and all enclosed in a ragged fillet of black?

It occurred to him that he was concentrating so much on the specific gravity of the milk, he was ignoring the trout.

One of the man's outsize hands was gripping the back of Dalziel's jacket while the other was forcing the sawn off barrel of a shotgun against the Fat Man's spine.

'Try anything and his arse says goodbye to his belly,' snarled the man. 'Back in your car!'

Pascoe looked helplessly at Dalziel and said, 'Sir?'

The Fat Man rolled his eyes and said, 'You got yourself into this, lad. You'll have to find your own way out.'

This was new country for Pascoe, in every sense. Certainly he had no Significant Experience to call on. Lots of movies, but the cop in his situation had always had a bull-horn in his hand and a posse of armed policemen at his back. Hadn't he once read a chapter in a textbook about hostage situations?

He looked from the fat man to the bald. It occurred to him that, going by expression alone, their heads were interchangeable. It also occurred to him that it must have been a very boring textbook and he'd probably gone out for a pint and a curry halfway through that chapter.

He got into the Riley and waited.

The bald man pushed Dalziel into the rear seat and slid

in beside him. It was a tight squeeze. The gun barrel must have ploughed a furrow in the Fat Man's flesh as it was dragged round from his spine to his belly.

'Go go go!' commanded the bald man.

Pascoe set the car in motion. Not a soul in sight. Where the hell was that blasted attendant when you wanted him? Or Sergeant Wield? Why hadn't he come out of the courthouse? Probably sitting in there somewhere all comfortable with a pot of tea and a fag.

At the exit he said, 'Which way?'

'Left. And drive steady. We pick up a cop car, they'll be picking up little pieces.'

Cop car? What cop car? thought Pascoe as he drove through the town. More chance of seeing a uniform on a nudist beach. And now Sod's Law which had made his journey to the courts seem like a funeral procession was casually flicking every light to green as he approached and letting the light traffic flow with careless ease.

Except for the occasional direction from the bald man, no one spoke. What had happened to all Dalziel's little jokes? thought Pascoe sneeringly. All right for a courtroom where there was nothing but a woman's reputation to worry over. Stick a shotgun in his gut and the case was altered.

Behind him Andy Dalziel was thinking, why the fuck couldn't it have been Wield who'd come out and heard him hammering his deliberately flooded engine? One glimpse of that shaven head and he'd have been off like a lintie to get the car park sown up tighter than a nun's knickers. Outcome still uncertain, but at least Trotter would have had the alternative spelt out loud and clear. Now they were on their way God knows where to face God knows what, and it could be God knows when before anyone got on their trail, or even knew there was a trail to get on!

He paused, fair minded as ever, to give God a chance to share some of His knowledge. All he got was an echo of his own words to Pascoe . . . you'll have to find your own way out.