with officer i.c. As per regulations.’
He was gabbling. He tried to change it to the sternness of reproof, decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea and stuck with his gabble.
Happily Trotter wasn’t paying him much attention. He stepped back to the doorway, picked up a bucket of hot water his sister had set down there and said, ‘Throwing food around the place, are you, Dalziel? You may look like a pig and eat like a pig but you’re not going to turn this place into a sty. I want every inch of this tip scrubbed out by the time I get back, understood?’
‘SIR!’
Without a glance at Pascoe, Trotter about turned and marched out.
Oh dear, thought Pascoe. Perhaps I’m being written out of the script.
Dalziel was on his knees carefully gathering up the broken pieces of plate tunelessly whistling what might have been a bosh shot at ‘Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag’ or possibly the scherzo from Beethoven’s Fifth. Pascoe looked at the bucket. There was a toothbrush floating in it.
He took it out and said, ‘What’s this for?’
‘Scrubbing the floor,’ said Dalziel.
‘You’re joking!’
‘Well, you know what they say. If you can’t take a laugh you shouldn’t have joined. What’s up, lad? You’ve got that gormless college look on thy face again.’
Pascoe said slowly, ‘He had this bucket ready when he came in. As if he knew about the broken plate in advance.’
‘Coincidence. Good guesser,’ suggested Dalziel.
‘Maybe. Or maybe …’ He stopped voicing the words but mouthed at Dalziel, ‘… he’s listening!’
To his amazement Dalziel roared with laughter and applauded.
He’s bluffing, thought Pascoe. The old bastard’s only pretending he knew all along. How could he … oh shit! The wallet. He’d told Dalziel he’d dropped his wallet and a few minutes later Trotter had come in with it. Dalziel had worked it out, this fat, loutish, stupid … It was the animal cunning thing, of course. OK, so he’d worked it out, but he didn’t have that wider mental scope which might have enabled him to use his knowledge. Whereas if he, Peter Pascoe, BA, had realized, he would have … what? He tried to think of some way of utilizing the situation.
He looked at Dalziel who was now down on his knees methodically scrubbing the floor with the toothbrush.
Pascoe said, ‘Sir …’
‘Aye?’ prompted the Fat Man, but Pascoe was finding speech problematical. Suppose he said …? But if he said …?
Dalziel said, ‘Do you reckon the scientists in them vivisectionist places pay much heed to the squeaking of the rats?’
Pascoe whispered, ‘You think he’s going to kill us then?’
‘Speak up, lad. Can’t hear you.’
‘Do you think he’s going to kill us?’ shouted Pascoe.
‘Depends. He is doolally, even Tankie couldn’t deny that. But is he so far gone that killing a man he hates is worth spending the rest of his life banged up for? And if he thinks it is, then he may decide to chuck you in for good measure, that’s what you really want to know, isn’t it?’
‘But why kill me? I’ve done nothing?’
He knew he sounded plaintive, but if Tankie were listening, then perhaps this was a plea for his life and he wasn’t going to let embarrassment stand in the way.
‘Well,’ said Dalziel judiciously, ‘he might do it ’cos he thinks you’re one of my boys, an extension of me so to speak. If he’s not cottoned on how far from the truth that is, let me set him right. I’ve never seen you in my life afore today, right? You’ve been transferred into the squad behind my back without my agreement, and having had the pleasure of seeing you in action this last couple of hours, I think I can fairly promise if I do come out of this alive to make it my life’s work to get you sent back to whatever kindergarten you escaped from! No offence intended.’
‘None taken,’ said Pascoe. ‘In the same spirit of openness, may I say that I’d rather serve as an underground maintenance man in a sewage works than continue in your employ, sir.’
‘Glad we’ve got all that cleared up,’ said Dalziel. ‘On the other hand if Tankie thinks that, just because he’s topped me, he’s got to top you as well to give him a chance of getting away with it, well, he really has flipped it. He’s in the frame already. Fingerprints all over my car. He wasn’t wearing gloves, was he? And God knows who saw him around the place. Then they’ll find this cottage eventually. Lot depends on how clever Jude was. I reckon she’d have to set it up. Probably didn’t want to, all she’s got to lose. But she owes Tankie, ’cos without him things ’ud’ve been even worse for her and her mum all them years. And he’s her twin. And the bother he got into with the army was mainly because of his family. So, did she find this hole through an ad or go through an agent? Wieldy told me that he were told they’d gone off on a trip. Sooner or later they’ll trace t’others. Could take days. Or it could be they’ve done it already and the army’s crawling around the bushes outside.’
Did he really believe that? wondered Pascoe. Of course not, else he wouldn’t be saying it. Would he?
‘Mind moving your feet?’ said the Fat Man. ‘I need to scrub under them. By the by, here’s a tip. If the tear gas comes in, stick your head in this bucket of water.’
‘That will help with the gas?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Nay, it’s just that the sharpshooters have been taught not to blast off at a man with his head in a bucket!’
He bellowed a laugh, and Pascoe thought disgustedly, he’s a total clown. Except that the eyes regarding him were shrewd and almost sympathetic.
‘No use feeling sorry for yourself, lad,’ said Dalziel. ‘Like my old ma always used to say, there’s plenty worse off than you.’
‘Name one.’
‘That poor lass Judith for a start,’ said Dalziel. ‘Tankie’s got nowt to lose except his freedom, and to tell truth, I reckon that after all this time, the notion of being free scares the shit out of him. But Judith’s got a life to go back to. OK she’d get her knuckles rapped for helping him, but no one’s really going to blame her for running scared of a loonie like Tankie and jumping when he says jump! Look at me. I’m jumping aren’t I? And I’ve not got any kids or loved ones he can threaten. We snuff it, but, and Jude can say goodbye to all that. Cleft stick, poor cow. How about you, Sonny Jim? You got anyone who’ll miss you, apart from the Inspector Calls lass?’
‘I told you, she’s history,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘When I told her I wanted to be a cop, she and her mates started singing that song from Going My Way whenever I came into the bar. The one with the line: or would you rather be a pig?’
‘Bing Crosby,’ said the Fat Man. He started to sing in a booming baritone, ‘Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? Daft bloody words. Daft bloody woman. You’re well shut of her. How about family? Is your mam really dead?’
‘No, I’m glad to say. Nor my father. And I’ve got two elder sisters, so there’s still an active family unit in existence.’
‘Oh aye? Sounds right cosy. I bet you have active family unit reunions at Christmas and birthdays and such,’ sneered Dalziel.
The old bastard certainly had a nose for sniffing out trouble, thought Pascoe, feeling a great longing to launch the toe of his shoe at the kneeling man’s buttocks.
I’d probably break my leg, he thought.
He said, ‘I think my private life is none of your business, just as yours is none of mine. As long