Dialogues of the Dead (33 page)

27^ Chapter Thirty

'. .. putting on my top hat, brushing off my tails,' sang Andy Dalziel. 'Andy, you are not wearing tails,' called Cap Marvell from her bedroom. 'Wasn't talking about me clothes,' said Dalziel, looking down complacently at the kilt which encompassed his promontory buttocks. Cap emerged from the bedroom. 'I don't like the sound of that. You are wearing something underneath that skirt, aren't you?' For answer he lifted the kilt to reveal a pair of Union Jack boxer shorts and did a twirl. Then he let his gaze run the whole length of the woman's body from the discreet diamond tiara in her hair down the deeply cloven wine-coloured silk evening gown to the silver diamante-edged shoes and said, 'By gum, tha looks a treat.' 'Thank you kindly,' she said. 'And you too, Andy. A treat. That I take it is your family tartan?' 'Doubt it. Don't think the Dalziels have their own so likely the old man chose this one to match his bonny blue eyes.' 'So he wasn't a professional Scot, then?' 'No. A baker and a pragmatist. The kilt's the best garment in the world for three things, he used to say, and one of them was dancing.' 'Dare I ask the other two?' 'Defecation and copulation,' said the Fat Man. 'Shall we go?' 'Yes, I'm ready. Andy, I'm really touched you said you'd come tonight.. .' '... but?' 'But nothing.'

-'7J 'I know a but when I hear one,' said Dalziel. 'But will I promise to behave myself, is that it?' She laughed and said, 'Don't be silly. Half the pleasure of going to my son's regimental ball is the chance to behave badly. I've been trying to embarrass him for years., I think he enjoys it. No, if there was a but it was: But I hope that for once there's no chance of work rearing its ugly head. This is one time I'd be really pissed off to find myself coming home early, or left to the tender mercies of baby-faced subalterns who treat me like their gran, or randy majors who think it would be a laugh to stick it to the colonel's mother.' 'Any on 'em try that and it'll be piss-pots at dawn,' said Dalziel. 'I promised, luv, remember? No bugger knows where I'm at, and if you and the Hero don't mention what I do for a living, I certainly won't. Let the sojer boys think I'm your rich sugar daddy. As for being called out, I've not got a mobile or even a pager with me. You can search me, if you like.' He looked at her hopefully. 'Later,' she laughed. 'I look forward to searching you later. So that's a promise. You won't even be thinking about work.' 'Nay, I never said that,' he protested. 'When I'm having the time of my life, you'd not deprive me of the pleasure of thinking about all those poor sods back here working their fingers to the bone.' 'You don't really believe that, do you? When the cat's away ...' He smiled tigerishly. 'There's cats and cats,' said Andy Dalziel.

As the taxi bearing Dalziel and his lady to the ball headed into the dark countryside, Peter Pascoe was feeling very much like a mouse, but a mouse being played with rather than playing. After receiving his prize and making a touching little speech in which he dedicated his story to the memory of Sam Johnson, Franny Roote had returned to Pascoe and said, 'I'm sorry I had to cut you short before. I'm all yours now if you still want me.' Tell him to sod off, thought Pascoe. Collect your wife and go home, there's nothing in this for you. So the voice of experience spoke in his mind, but the mill of duty was grinding and could not so easily be switched off. Ellie looked ready to hit him when he told her he had to go to the station, and when she realized it was on account of Roote, she turned and walked away, as if not trusting herself to speak. Back at the station, Roote sat quietly while they played the security tape to him, then he smiled and said, 'It's a fair cop. Does it mean I'm disqualified?' 'We're not talking driving offences here, Mr Roote,' snapped Pascoe. But his agile mind was already anticipating the man's explanation. 'Of course you're not. I meant from winning the prize. Look, it's silly, only I'd been shilly-shallying about putting my story in - you know how it is, you write something and it feels great at the time, then you look at it later and wonder how you could have imagined anyone would ever want to read it. I'm sure Mrs Pascoe must have been through all this and more when she was writing her novel, which, incidentally I'm really looking forward to reading. Anyway, I woke up on Saturday knowing I'd missed the deadline and thinking what an idiot I was, and I got the idea of taking it round to the Gazette first thing and asking if I could have a special dispensation to add it to the others. Well, they told me there that the stories had already been sent round to the library for their initial sorting out by Mr Dee and Miss Pomona. So I headed round to the Centre, I really don't know why, but I suppose I had some idea of throwing myself on Mr Dee's mercy - he's such a nice man, isn't he? But when I got up to the reference library, I could hear him having a rather heavy discussion with Mr Follows in the office, and there on the counter was this plastic sack, open, and I could see it was full of the competition stories. I think I went on auto-pilot then. I found myself thinking, Where's the harm, it's not going to win anyway, and I slipped mine in. I suppose that technically I broke the competition rules. On the other hand, the Friday night time limit was for submission at the Gazette office, and I wasn't submitting my story there, was I? Perhaps you could advise me, here, Mr Pascoe. I'm a child when it comes to the law and you're an expert, aren't you? I'm in your hands.'

277 He held his own hands out before him as he spoke, as if to show there was nothing in them, and smiled ruefully. Pascoe said, 'Do you really imagine that I give a toss about this sodding short story competition, Mr Roote?' 'It does seem rather strange. But I thought maybe because Mrs Pascoe was involved in the judging, you felt a little protective of her reputation. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, this is her first professional engagement, and naturally you'd be very solicitous to see she got it right.' Leave it alone, Pete, urged Wield telepathically. He's jerking you around like a hooked fish. He must have got through because the DCI, after a couple of the deepest breaths the sergeant had ever seen him take, termin ated the interview and advised Roote that he was free to go. 'You did the right thing,' said Wield after they'd seen him off the premises. 'Did I? I wish to hell I thought so,' replied Pascoe savagely. 'OK, he might have been slipping his story in late, but that doesn't mean he didn't put the Dialogue in too.' 'True, but unless you can produce something to support that idea, all you've got here is the kind of daft story the press would go to town on, "Cop bangs up wife's protege. 'A likely story,' says top tec." Plus everything from the past being raked up. That what you want?' 'You should have been a sub-editor, Wieldy,' said Pascoe. 'But I tell you, every time I see him walk away, I think, someone's going to pay because I found him too slippery to keep a hold of.' 'You can't know that, Pete,' said Wield. 'But if you're right, he'll be back.' He was back, but a lot quicker than either of them anticipated. Pascoe had just got home and was in the middle of a lively discussion about the evening with Ellie when the phone rang. He picked it up, listened, said, 'Oh Christ. I'll be there.' 'What's happened?' said Ellie. 'I put a uniformed watch on Roote's flat and, in all the excite ment, I forgot to cancel it. They've just brought him back in. They tried to release him again when they realized what had happened, but he's refusing to go till he gets my personal assur ance that he can go to bed without fear of further disturbance. He says either I come .or the press comes. This time I really am going to kill the bastard!'

At just about the same time, Dalziel was doing a Gay Gordons with enormous energy and a lightness of step which won universal applause. 'Don't know what he does to your ma, Piers,' said Lord Partridge, 'but he frightens the shit out of me.' Lieutenant-Colonel Piers Evenlode smiled a touch wanly, but at least he smiled. When he'd learned that his mother was bringing her frightful plod to the ball, his heart had sunk. On the whole she did her best to make sure that the, in his view, neo-Bohemian lifestyle she favoured did not impinge too much upon his military career. By reverting to her maiden name of Marvell, she drew no attention to him on the occasions when her various protest activities got her into the papers, and, to be fair, since she and this tun of lard had become an item, though unchanged in her attitudes and activities, she no longer seemed to seek the limelight in the old way. No, what he feared, more for her sake than his own, he reassured himself, was that Andy Dalziel's presence at the ball would render her an object of pity and ridicule. And, he also admitted because he was a basically honest man, that some of the muffled laughter would be directed at himself. His worst fears had seemed to be realized when he saw the kilt. But in the event, the man had proved able to carry it, and he'd fielded all the attempted jokes at his expense with good humour and enough sharp wit to make the would-be mockers wary, and above all, far from looking ludicrous on the dance floor, he had moved with such grace and lightness that he was rapidly the partner of choice amongst the women who preferred real dancing to the close-quarters foreplay favoured by the increasingly tipsy soldiery. That was another thing. Eschewing champagne, the man had consumed what must have been a whole bottle of malt without showing the slightest diminution of speech or motor control. So perhaps, unless it turned out he'd got the stately home ringed by bobbies with their breathalysers at the ready, it was going to be all right after all.

27^ The dance finished and Dalziel led Cap off the floor to where her son was standing. 'Refill, luv?' he said. 'No thanks, I'm fine,' she said. 'Summat to eat, then?' 'No, really.' 'Think I'll have another nibble,' he said. 'Need to keep my strength up if I'm going to be searched later.' With a wink at Piers, he moved away. 'Searched?' said Piers, alarmed, recalling his fantasy about a ring of cops watching the house. 'What's he mean?' His mother looked at him fondly. 'Darling, you don't want to know,' she said. In the buffet room, Dalziel looked around till he saw what he was looking for, a white-haired woman with a strong-jawed, rather severe face who was keeping a close eye on a flock of young helpers. 'How do, luv,' said Dalziel, approaching. 'Any more of that lovely SahnetorteY She looked at him with interest and said, 'She sprechen Deutsch, mem HerrY 'Just enough to ask for what I like,' he said. 'And I like that cream cake. Best I've had since last time I were in Berlin. Where do you get it round here? It 'ud be worth a long trip.' 'We do not get it,' she said scornfully in heavily accented but perfectly clear English. 'I make it.' 'Nay! Well, blow me. You make it yourself! Now, hang on, I bet you're Frau Penck, the treasure old Budgie was telling me about.' 'His Lordship is very kind.' 'Didn't he say you were Charley Penn's mam?' Dalziel went on. 'By God, making cake like that and being Charley's mam, . you've a lot to be proud of. Always talking about the lovely cakes | his old mutti makes, is our Charley.' 'j 'You know my son?' she asked, i 'Aye, do I. Often have a drink with him on a Sunday lunchdme, j but he usually has to cut it short, to go and see his old mam, he j always says. Well, I can see why he rushes off now. It must do i| you good to know that someone as important as Charley puts you '| top of his list when it comes to choosing what to do. He's a big | man, tha knows. He can pick and choose his company. It's incredible the way he's succeeded. More British than the Brits! You'd never know he weren't a bred-in-the-bone Yorkshireman. You must be right proud to think you can get a man like this to come running just by snapping your fingers.' She did not reply to this but gave him what Dalziel thought of as the universal female significant look which implied that her lips were sealed but if they weren't, then she might have something to say which would bowl him over. He pressed on. 'Last Sunday, I recall, it were my birthday and I was pushing the boat out a bit, and I tried to persuade Charley to hang on a bit longer to have a spot of lunch in the pub. They do a lovely sticky toffee pudding there, but when I tried to tempt Charley, he said it couldn't compare with the sweets his old mam would have ready for him. He's always talking about the grub he gets every Sunday when he visits you. Well, now I know why. Go on, make me mouth water, what did you give him?' 'Last Sunday? Nothing,' the old woman said. 'Nothing? Not even Sahnetorte'?' said Dalziel. amazed. 'Nothing at all. He did not come. It was no matter. I do not expect him. He comes when he will.' 'You're sure he weren't here last Sunday?' said Dalziel, looking at her doubtfully. 'Of course I am sure. You think I am senile?' 'Nay, missus, I can see you're not that. My mistake, he must have said he was going somewhere else. Now, about the cake .. .' 'I think you'll find it's over here, Andy,' said Cap Marvell. He turned. She was standing regarding him with the kind of expression he'd expect to be printed on his own face if he heard a known villain, caught with his hand in a church poor-box, claiming he was making a contribution. 'Oh aye. So it is. Nice talking, missus. I'll give your love to Charley.' 'So,' said Cap as they moved away, 'this is how you leave your work behind, is it?' 'Nay, lass, I were just passing the time of day.. .' 'Lying about your birthday? That's bollocks, and I've got a great eye for bollocks.' 'Well, you've had the practice ... Jesus, that hurt!'

281 'Next time it won't be your ankle I kick. Let's have the truth.' 'It's nowt really ... just a notion I got about Charley Penn. He said he were out here visiting his mam last Sunday afternoon when Johnson got topped. Young Bowler checked her out and she seemed to say that Charley were never away. Just thought when I bumped into her that I'd have a little chat, double check. No harm in that, is there?' She considered then said, 'Bollocks again. I don't think you bumped into her because you came to the ball, you came to the ball so that you could bump into her. And that was because you reckoned that with her background when Frau Penck found herself being questioned by the police about her son, she probably clammed up tighter than a virgin's valve. On the other hand, talking to an old chum of Budgie^s who's escorted the colonel's mama to the regimental ball, she could let all her resentment at being neglected by her Anglophile son hang out.' 'Virgin's valve? Don't know where you pick these expressions up from,' said Dalziel reprovingly. 'Sod the expression. What I've said is the truth. Admit it or I'll push that Sahnetorte into your face.' Dalziel looked down at the huge portion of the cream cake he'd just helped himself to and said, 'Funny, but that's just what I were going to do. Nay, hold on there, I'm admitting, I'm admitting. OK, it mebbe helped dp the balance, but I'm bloody glad it did. I'd not have missed this for the world. I'm having the best rime of my life.' 'That's as maybe, but you've used me, Andy.' 'Well,' he said judiciously through a mawful of whipped cream, 'you've never complained before. Any road, it's nearly the sabbath. Good day for forgiving is the sabbath.' 'Oh, I forgive, but I won't forget. You owe me one, Andy Dalziel.' 'Don't worry, luv,' he said. 'Afore the night's out, I intend giving thee one. Hey, listen, they're playing a tango. Let's go and show these tin soldiers how to do it!'