Asking for the Moon: A Collection of Dalziel and Pascoe Stories. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
So be it. He put all recriminations on the back burner and turned his mind to the problem in hand.
First things first. Useless wanker this unweaned college kid might be, but he deserved to know the score.
‘So tell me, Tankie,’ he said conversationally. ‘What fettle? They treat you all right in the glasshouse?’
‘Belt up, Dalziel!’ said Trotter, digging the barrel so far into the belly flesh it almost covered the trigger guard.
‘Nay, lad. Tha’s got something better in mind for me than splattering my guts all over this nice upholstery. Any road, it’s only polite to introduce you properly to Constable Pascoe. He’s new round here and likely he’s not heard of one of our most famous sons. That right, Pascoe? You’ve not heard of Tommy Trotter?’
‘Sorry, sir. No, I haven’t.’
‘Thought not. You might have a certificate or whatever it is you get in them colleges, but your education’s been sadly neglected. Right, Tankie?’
Trotter said unemotionally, ‘You think you can jerk my string, Dalziel, best think again. I’ve been needled by experts. I cut loose, it’s ’cos I want to cut loose.’
‘I believe it, Tankie. So, Constable Pascoe, what we have here is Thomas Trotter, known to all his friends as Tankie, mebbe because of the way he’s built, mebbe because of the way he drinks, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is, Tankie’s a real star. Unique. With a bit of luck, we’ll never see his like again. You see, lad, Tankie’s The Last National Service Man.’
He voiced the phrase with a tremulous awe which gave it capital letters if not inverted commas.
Trotter snarled, ‘Shitface, you trying to be cute? That was a derestriction sign. Speed it up to fifty. Left at the next roundabout.’
Shocked to be thus addressed, and impressed by the speed with which the man had spotted his attempt to draw attention by slow driving on the open road, Pascoe obeyed.
In the rear-view mirror his gaze met Dalziel’s. Was there a message in those stony eyes?
Brightly Pascoe said, ‘Last National Service Man? I don’t understand …’
‘Aye, you’ll be too young. Stopped in 1960 or thereabouts. It meant every bugger were conscripted into the forces for two years.’
‘Yes, sir, I know that. And I know that every time there’s any trouble with rockers or hippies, the Cheltenham set start baying to bring it back.’
‘Aye, bit of backbone, taste of discipline, teach ’em a bit of respect,’ said Dalziel.
Might have guessed you’d go along with it, thought Pascoe.
‘Load of bollocks, but,’ continued Dalziel, almost causing Pascoe to drive onto the verge with surprise. ‘Only thing National Service did for most lads was turn ’em bad or drive ’em mad. In some cases, both together, eh, Tankie?’
‘Why don’t you shut your gob?’ suggested Trotter, digging the gun barrel even deeper into the Fat Man’s side.
‘Nay, lad, I’m just bringing the constable up to date,’ protested Dalziel apparently impervious to either the pain or the danger. ‘He ought to know it’s not your fault. You’re just a victim. You see, Pascoe, Tankie and me are old friends. He were one of the last to be called up only he didn’t want to go. Not without reason, either, only when the Queen offers you her shilling, she don’t pay much heed to reason. And me, well, I got the job of going and picking him up and making sure he were handed over safe and sound to our colleagues in the military. Full-time employment for a while, weren’t it, Tankie? Number of times you took off and headed back home! It were regimental punishment at first, which were OK. Then you broke that MP sergeant’s nose, and that got you into the glasshouse. Now the thing about glasshouse time, Pascoe, is, it don’t count towards your two years’ National Service. So if you’ve got a year left to do when you go down for a year, you’ll still have a year to do when you come out. Got me?’
‘I think I can just about grasp the concept, sir,’ said Pascoe with heavy irony.
Dalziel smiled elephantinely.
‘Good. I’ll make a note of that, constable,’ he said softly. And despite all the more immediate and apparently greater dangers, Pascoe felt a shiver go down his spine.
Dalziel resumed.
‘So you can see Tankie’s problem. The more he hated the army, the wilder he got. But the wilder he got, the longer he had to serve. And the longer he had to serve, the more he hated the army. Had to laugh, some of the tricks he got up to. Burning down the officers’ mess! Chucking a grenade under the CO’s caravan on an exercise! But they’ve not got a great sense of humour, the military brass. And that’s how Tankie became the Last National Service Man. Right, Tankie?’
‘Wrong, you fat bastard,’ said Trotter dispassionately. ‘It’s you who’s going to be the Last National Service Man. Next left. No! That one there, you stupid cunt!’
Pascoe had almost overshot the narrow entry into an overgrown lane, once metalled but now potholed and greened by the irresistible pressure of weeds and grass. Any hope that his sudden braking and turn might have drawn attention was vain. Sod’s Law had made sure the road ahead and behind was empty. He bumped down the lane for fifty yards till progress was blocked by a five-barred gate. Assuming not even Tankie Trotter would expect him to crash through it, he brought the Riley to a halt.
‘Out and open it,’ said Trotter. ‘Try anything funny and you’ll hear the air hissing out of this bag o’ wind.’
Pascoe got out and took a deep breath of air. It tasted good.
Run you stupid sod, Dalziel urged mentally. Run!
Whatever Trotter’s threat, his instinctive reaction would likely be to take a potshot at the fleeing man. And if the gun barrel stopped drilling into his gut for even a second …
But the prancing academic prat was opening the gate! And now he was getting back into the car. What the hell did they teach them at these sodding colleges. If they went in for mutual masturbation, they’d likely need diagrams!
They passed through.
‘Right. Stop. Out and close it,’ growled Trotter.
Second chance! Mebbe the lad weren’t as daft as he looked. Mebbe he’d worked out he’d have a better chance of escaping when he was behind the car rather than in front of it. Dalziel tensed himself to grab for the barrel the moment he felt it move away from his gut. But the bugger was now shutting the gate, taking real care like he was worried about breaking the Countryside Code! And as he got back in the car, he said insouciantly, ‘Lovely day out there.’
Dalziel closed his eyes in pain. Who the hell does he think he is? Captain fucking Oates?
‘Drive