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 as we do the job we're paid for.. .'
Dalziel paused in his scrubbing and looked up at him, the great mouth rounding in big-close-up astonishment.
'We? he said. 'As in you and me? In the same word? Like we were doing the same job? Now listen, sunshine, you'd better get yourself disenchanted. Man who can believe we've got owt in common except two bollocks and a bunghole, and I'm not sure about you, could end up owning a lot of clapped-out used cars.'
'Oh you're right, sir,' said Pascoe angrily. 'I'm so sorry. I'd heard a lot about you and I now see I was wrong not to believe every incredible word. From the moment I heard you this morning allegedly giving evidence on behalf of that poor woman, I knew the last thing I wanted was to be tarred with your brush. Sir!'
'No need to get personal,' said Dalziel looking hurt. 'What were wrong with my evidence anyway?'
'Wrong? You were the main prosecution witness…"
'No, lad. That were the woman,' corrected Dalziel gently.
'Yes, and just because she was a prostitute and you felt there was little chance of a conviction, you'd clearly decided the whole thing was a waste of time!'
'Aye, well, you're half right, I'll give you that,' Dalziel replied disconcertingly. 'That's exactly the line yon donkey-pizzle, Martineau, was taking. So I just made sure the jury got a wink and a nod that this weren't no jolly punter willing to pay for a quick bang, but a career sex offender who won't be stopped till it's lopped off!'
'Oh, yes? Easy to say that now,' sneered Pascoe.
'Nay, lad. Easier not to say it at all and I don't know why I bothered,' sighed Dalziel. 'What's a sprog daft enough to correct a magistrate's jokes know about giving evidence?'
Pascoe digested this then exploded, 'So you've been spying on me as well!'
'I went into a public court to see one of my junior officers giving evidence, yes. Bet you thought you were doing all right, too, eh?'
'Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Damn sight better than you anyway,' said Pascoe who was almost beginning to enjoy the crackling heat of his burning bridges.
'Oh aye? Tell you what. Ten bob says my scrote got sent down, your pair walked free.'
Pascoe did a mental double-take. Against volition, his jaw, as craggily set as Spencer Tracy's in the expectation of moral showdown, dropped. He must have missed something. Otherwise how come he'd moved from career-ending confrontation to settling matters with a friendly bet like two chaps in a pub?
He looked at the Fat Man with growing suspicion. Could it possibly be that this cop, so obviously the archetypical bruiser who got results by kicking down doors and beating out questions in Morse code on a suspect's head, was in fact jerking him around with words? No! Reason wouldn't admi^ it… or was it pride that wouldn't admit it? He tried to bring to mind the scene in the court… the jury laughing… Martineau furious*… was that the key…? Should he have listened more carefully…?
Dalziel straightened up and broke wind.
'Better out than in,' he said. 'So, is it a bet?'
'I'd need odds,' said Pascoe. 'There's two of mine.'
'You cheeky sod. All right. Ten bob to a quid. How's that?"
'Done,' said Pascoe.
'Grand. And I reckon this is done too."
He pushed himself to his feet rather creakingly and massaged his knees. Then he looked at his watch and said, 'I'll never make it back to Taff-land in time for the kick-off now. Not to worry. I daresay I'll see a bit too much of yon little bugger over the next ten years or so. Here, Tankie's taking his time about the next inspection, isn't he?'
'I'm not complaining,' said Pascoe.
'Well, you bloody well should be. Officer present, prisoner ready for inspection, and the RSM absent from parade? It's not bloody on! Excuse me, SIR!'
And Pascoe, who was getting used to finding himself tumbling in zero gravity every time he began to feel something like firm ground beneath his feet, was hardly surprised to be pushed aside as the Fat Man began to beat a thunderous rhythm on the door accompanied by a raucous bellow of, 'Come on, Tankie, let's be having you. Plenty of time to sit around playing with yourself when this lot's over. Charley, Charley, get out of bed! Charley, Charley…'
Pascoe got well clear of the door but this time instead of being flung violently against the wall, it swung slowly open. Trotter stood there, the sawn-off shotgun at the high port. His face was so impassive, it just needed a cheroot to get him auditioned for a spaghetti western.
He didn't look like he'd come to play at inspections.