Asking for the Moon: A Collection of Dalziel and Pascoe Stories. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
into music hall. Is he for real.’
‘Weren’t impressed then?’ said Wield.
‘Impressed? I was horrified! It’s bad enough that poor woman having to go through the trauma of a trial without some insensitive clown playing it for laughs.’
‘I did tell you the raid were in a knocking-shop and she’s got convictions—’
‘And that means she’s fair game, does it?’ interrupted Pascoe indignantly. ‘I thought everyone was entitled to equal protection under the law. Excuse me. I’d better get off to my case.’
Wield watched him stride away. Nice mover, head held high, good shoulders, slim body, long legs. Lead us not into temptation. Not that there was much chance of that, not in the force. They might be marching for gay rights in San Francisco, but here in Mid Yorkshire, gay was still what poets felt when they saw a bunch of head-tossing daffs. There was even a holiday company in the High Street called Gay Days Ltd. Caused a lot of misunderstanding with tourists from the louche south!
Any road, he couldn’t see Constable Pascoe being around long enough to break any hearts. Zombie (which was what Dalziel had christened Detective Superintendent Quinn after catching him enjoying a post-prandial snooze in his office) might propose but everyone knew that in the end Fat Andy disposed.
‘Penny for ’em,’ said Dalziel who despite his bulk could come up on you like Umslopagaas.
‘You’d want change, sir,’ said Wield. ‘Mr Martineau didn’t keep you long.’
‘Mebbe it was something I said. I saw you ear-wigging. Brought a friend, did you?’
Even under forensic assault the Fat Man didn’t miss much.
‘DC Pascoe. Transfer from South Midlands. Highly recommended, top promotion grades, good on the ground, graduate entry …’
‘Wash your mouth out, Wieldy! Christ, moment I turn me back, Zombie’s trawling the boneyards for the living dead. Where’s he at now?’
‘Committal proceedings. His first day, stopped two guys on suss by the auction mart. Found they had some weaners in their pick-up and no proof of ownership.’
‘Keen bugger. Sounds straightforward. Let’s see what kind of a fist Wonderboy makes of it.’
They found ‘Wonderboy’ under heavy attack from a sharp little solicitor called ‘Bomber’ Harris.
‘So tell us, Detective Constable, what was your reason for being at the back of the market pens?’
‘Just passing, sir.’
‘Just passing? Along a cul-de-sac whose only function is that of service road to the remoter storage pens of the auction mart?’
‘Well, I’m new to the area and I was finding my way about—’
‘So, you were lost. And while in this state of uncertainty, 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.