Asking for the Moon (32 page)

'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!'

Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully and said, 'Yes, I'd heard summat about you being a boxer. And about the little Frog taking the piss.'

'Now that's what I call an unfortunate choice of phrase,' said O'Meara.

'I told you, lad. Cut the comedy! Let's just talk about you and Lemarque
and
the boxing ring, shall we?'

'I thought we agreed to whip this lot through double quick,'

said Pascoe irritably.

'Sorry. He bothered me, that one. Something not right.' 'Ah, the famous nose again. What kind of not-rightness?' 'Too many jokey answers and I got the feeling he was

trying to steer me around all the time.'

'So what did you end up not getting answers about that

you asked questions about?'

Dalziel considered, then said, 'Hard to say exactly. One

thing was why he got sick leave after his wife snuffed it, but

that can't have owt to do with anything, can it?' 'Unlikely. What was wrong with him, anyway?'

'Don't know. That's the point I'm making,' said Dalziel

'There should have been a medical report in his file. Hang about, I've still got it here. Sorry. Let's see. Emotional trauma, blah blah; physical symptoms, insomnia, slight hypertension blah blah; treatment, counselling and unpronounceable drugs; passed fit for duty, 7.10.06. Nothing there that's relevant, I'd say. Maybe he just doesn't like talking about that time. Stick this in his file, will you?'

Dalziel glanced at the medical report, shrugged and said, The bugger's still not right. How'd you do with Danish bacon? Fancy a slice?'

'I don't think so.'

'You don't fancy her or you don't think she's in the frame?'

'I don't think that Miss Schierbeck would judge any man worth killing,' said Pascoe. 'So. One each left. We're not doing too well, Andy.'

'Come on,' said Dalziel. 'You've scuppered the Yanks' motive for Kaufmann being the killer, haven't you?'

'Because he's a double? We knew that before I left Earth. It would still be very embarrassing to have to make that public in his defence. No, the only thing that's going to please my masters and cut the ground right from under the Americans' feet is for us to come up with the undeniably genuine perpetrator. There can't be any cover-up or fit-up. We need the real thing and, we need it fast!'

After thirty minutes with Adriaan van der Heyde, Dalziel was convinced that either the Dutchman wasn't the real thing or if he was, it would take thumbscrews, rack and Iron Maiden to prise it out of him. He'd heard Pascoe's door open and shut after only ten minutes, signalling that the Commissioner was following his own precept of speed. It annoyed Dalziel to be accused of dragging his feet, annoyed him even more to suspect that perhaps it was age that was making him take so long.

'Look,' he said in desperation, 'let's say you're in the clear,

right? Which of the others do you reckon most likely?'

The stolid Dutchman scratched his nose, then said very definitely, 'Albertosi.'

'What?' It occurred to Dalziel that, though it seemed unlikely, it would be nice to pin this on the Italian, not least because Pascoe obviously felt able to dismiss him so quickly.

'Why do you say that?' he asked. 'You reckon mebbe he was jealous of Lemarque?'

'Jealous? Sexually, you mean?' The Dutchman shook his head. 'That's all the British can think of. Sex!'

'Must be something to do with living above sea-level,' said Dalziel. 'All right, tulip. What do you say his motive was?'

'Revenge.'

There was an unnerving certainty about the man's manner and delivery.

Even Dalziel who was not easily impressed by the trappings of honesty couldn't help feeling he had better pay close attention here.

'You'd best explain,' he said.

The Dutchman nodded, took a deep breath and began to speak in a measured didactic tone which for a while disguised the incredible content of his allegations.

'Lemarque was approached by a consortium who wanted his help to take over the holy water bottling business in Lourdes. It is a multi-million-franc industry, you understand. He pretended to agree but went to the police. Unfortunately behind this consortium are people who decree that the price of betrayal of their confidence is death. Marco Albertosi was instructed to carry out the sentence.'

For a second Dalziel was reduced to a rare speechlessness. Then he burst out, 'For Christ's sake, are you telling me Albertosi is a Mafia hit man?'

'His family is Sicilian, did you know that?'

'No, I bloody didn't! Come on, lad, where's your hard evidence for all this? For
any
of it!'

'Lemarque's last words. They were incomplete.'

'Oh mer ... So?'

'He was trying to say
Omerta!'
said the Dutchman. 'The Mafia's code of silence.'

For a long moment Dalziel stared into van der Heyde's grave, unyielding face.

Finally he said, 'Are you taking the piss?'

Another long moment, then . . .

'Yes,' said van der Heyde. And his face crazed like an overtired Delft plate into a myriad lines of laughter.

The pod spun round the moon in a climbing orbit and Earth swam into view like a schoolroom globe. It was easy for Dalziel to pick out Africa and India, but Yorkshire was invisible under a cloud. He felt a sharp pang of homesickness.

'Long way back, huh?' said Druson, observing him sympathetically.

'Long way to come just to hear a Dutchman crack a joke, right enough,' said Dalziel.

He had rewarded van der Heyde with a glass of Scotch. One glass led to another and he'd finally emerged from the interview with a feeling of childish self-satisfaction at having so blatantly ignored Pascoe's repeated instruction to hurry things along. Logically he had no cause to feel irritated when he found that Pascoe had joined Silvia Rabal in the pod taking her up to
Europa,
but he did. Even the return of Druson with the nightwatch and the message that his 'boss' wanted him up there too didn't mollify him.

'Boss'.
He couldn't recall the last time he had acknowledged a boss, and he certainly wasn't about to start with a jumped-up detective-sergeant who'd struck lucky!

Mistaking his irritation, Druson said, 'Don't take it to heart, Andy. So the German still looks the man most likely, so what? Let the politicians work it out.'

'Eh? What makes you think I give a toss about politics?'

'You don't?' Druson looked at him shrewdly and said, 'I almost believe you, Andy. So what do you care about?'

'A fair measure in a clean glass,' said Dalziel. 'That'll do me.'

'And Commissioner Pascoe, is that how he feels too?'

'Peter? Straight as a donkey's shaft,' said Dalziel. 'Too honest for his own good sometimes.'

He spoke with a force he didn't quite understand the need for.

'He's done well for an honest man,' observed Druson neutrally. 'But at least he brought you along, so that's a point in his favour, I'd say.'

Dalziel tried to work out the drift of Druson's comments as they came in to dock with
Europa,
but once aboard he needed all his concentration to keep him from bouncing around like a ball in a bingo jar. On the US lunar shuttle he had been safe in the embrace of his wrap-around couch, so this was his first true experience of untrammelled weightlessness. Pascoe watched with open amusement, but Silvia Rabal showed a deal of concern which Dalziel found flattering till he realized she was more worried about her delicate instruments than his delicate body.

Finally, having discovered that the basic art was to reduce his energy output by ninety per cent, he gained sufficient control to follow Pascoe on a tour of the ship.

The fact that every dimension was usable made it feel surprisingly large. There were three main compartments: the bridge, which was the principal control area in the bow; the deck, which was the large central section housing most of the accommodation facilities; and the hold. This was basically a narrow cylinder walled by storage lockers, seven of which had the crew's names stencilled on them.

Dalziel almost filled the central space.

'You'd need to be a bloody contortionist to muck around with one of them TECs down here,' he said, pulling at the door marked
van der Heyde. 'Locker'
proved a misnomer. It was

held shut only by a magnetic catch and flew open. A framed photo came floating out and he grabbed it.

'These people are highly trained pros,' said Pascoe, behind, or above, or underneath him. 'Also they're very fit and fairly thin. What's that you've got?'

'Family snap,' said Dalziel, passing back a photo of two very plain girls and a scowling woman. 'You can see why he took to space. They're allowed personal stuff, then?'

'Within reason. Weight's not the problem it was.'

'Not for some,' said Dalziel. 'Let's have a shufti.'

He began opening other lockers. This felt more like real police work! But he soon began to feel that these souvenirs of Earth were better material for a psychiatrist than a simple bobby.

Surprisingly, only the Dutchman had brought a family photo. Perhaps he didn't trust his memory and was insuring against the shock of reunion. Marco Albertosi obviously felt he could not live without a set of AC Milan's European Gup Programmes. Silvia Rabal's trust in technology did not extend to nourishment and her talisman was a soft leather bag containing sachets of camomile tea and various other pods, seeds, and dried herbs. Dalziel recalled her spicy breath and inhaled deeply. Marte Schierbeck's memento was more mysterious. An old tinder-box. Perhaps she was worried about being marooned? He opened it and found it contained a small tube of contraceptive pills. Perhaps it was who she was marooned with that bothered her! Kaufmann had brought with him a miniature score of Beethoven's
Emperor
concerto. Dalziel marvelled that these squidges could echo as music in some men's minds. Or perhaps it was just a spy's code book after all. The only other book he found was in O'Meara's locker, an ornately bound New Testament with a brass catch.

'Didn't strike me as religious,' observed Dalziel.

'What's that?' said Pascoe.

'New Testament in O'Meara's locker.'

'Oh, you know the priest-ridden Irish. Never shake it off. Bring it out anyway.'

'Hang on. Just one to go.'

It was Lemarque's and it was completely empty. Presumably it had contained nothing except the journal and that had been removed as evidence.

He gave a gentle push and floated backwards out of the hold into the deck area.

'So. One New Testament. Not quite the kind of testament I was hoping for,' said Pascoe glumly.

Dalziel undid the catch and opened the book. On the fly leaf, a book-plate had been stuck headed
Holy Cross Youth
Club: Award for service. Under this was a handwritten inscription
To Kevin (K. 0.) O'Meara. Western District featherweight
champion, 1993, 1994- Well done! It was signed,
Father Powell (i Tim vi, 12).

'All his success since, and this is what still matters to him!' said Pascoe reflectively.

'You reckon?' said Dalziel, turning to the First Epistle to Timothy.

The page containing Chapter 6 verse 12 was folded in half and when he straightened it out he saw that either deliberately or by chance some flakes of white powder had been trapped there. Some, of them floated free. Dalziel licked his finger and stabbed at them, then cautiously put it to his mouth.

'What are you after, Andy? Coke? Forget it. Druggies don't make it on to the space programme, believe me!'

'Why not? They let in spies and killers,' said Dalziel. 'It's not coke anyroad. But I know that taste . . .'

'Probably dandruff. Sorry. All right, pass it here and I'll take it back for analysis just to keep you quiet.'

Dalziel, who didn't think he'd been making any unusually loud fuss, folded the page back to retain the rest of the powder. As he did so he glanced at Verse 12.
Fight the good
fight of faith. No wonder young K. O. O'Meara had won his titles; he'd had the referee in his pocket. His eye strayed a