Far below he spotted the twin orbs of the earth and its circling moon. He recalled in childhood his mother trying to get him to see the man in the latter, but he'd never managed it. Now however he could see his features quite clearly in the broad bright orb, and it came as no surprise how closely they resembled those of Andy Dalziel.
The mouth was opening and shutting as if the Fat Man had something to say. Might even be worth hearing, admitted Pascoe, who was not afraid to learn from experience.
He grabbed a passing star, swung himself into a comfortable position along one of its radials, and settled down to listen.
'Think he'll make it, Wieldy?'
'They say there's no reason why not, sir.'
'Well, he better bloody had.'
'Yes sir. Any particular reason, apart from general humanity, sir?'
'He owes me ten bob, that particular enough for you?'
'Oh yes. What'll you do with him if he does make it?'
'Likely I'll keep him. It'll be a challenge.'
'And if he doesn't want to be kept?'
'Nay, Wieldy, you don't imagine I want anybody working for me who's daft enough to want to work for me, do you? A scared cop is a good cop, as long as it don't stop him thinking. And this bugger kept on thinking.'
'Yes, sir. I think he'll do a lot of that. But I shouldn't bank on him staying scared forever.'
'No? Mebbe not. But there's one bugger who should be running scared for the rest of his life. That's the stupid sod who told Tankie where to find me!'
'Sorry, sir?'
'I asked Tankie when he woke up how come he knew I'd be down at the courts. He said he rang the station and asked to speak to me, and some stupid bastard told him I was away for a while, but I'd be back that morning to give evidence. Can you credit it, Wieldy? No idea who he were speaking to, and this bumbrain gives chapter and verse where I can be found!'
Peter Pascoe, who'd been thinking he might try dropping off his star onto the earth next time it rolled past, decided that maybe he'd give it another couple of whirls.
Andy Dalziel said, 'I could murder a cup of tea, Wieldy. And a bun if you can find one.'
The door opened and shut. The Fat Man leaned over the bed and glowered into Pascoe's pale face.
'Anyone at home?' he asked. 'If there is, here's the deal. It'll be grapes and gruel for a bit, then it'll be hard bloody graft for evermore. 'Cos I'm going to make a man out of you, my son. You're going to be the very last National Service
Man. Only it's no soft two-year stint for you. Serve with me and you're in for the bloody duration. I'll badger you, and I'll bully you, and I'll bugger you about something rotten. But I'll not take advantage of you or make a dickhead out of you or fob you off with a load of lies. And when I've driven that college crap out of your head, then we'll find out what you're really made of. You may never amount to much as a cop, but by God, you'll learn to jump when I say jump, and that's something. Aye lad, by the time I'm done, if I tell you to fetch me the moon, you'll take off like a whippet and not come back till you've got it in your gob… what's that you say?'
Pascoe's lips had moved. The Fat Man stooped closer to catch the softly breathed words.
'… let's not ask for the moon… I'd rather swing on a star
…'
'Eh?' said Dalziel.
The eyes snapped open, the words came loud and clear.
'Bette Davis. Now Voyager. Almost.'
And for the first time in his life, Andrew Dalziel wondered if he might be biting off more than even his great cetacean jaws could manage to chew.
PASCOE'S GHOST
Truth is not always in a well… The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain tops where she is found.
CHAPTER I
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells.
The phone rang.
Swithenbank heard his mother answer it.
'John!' she called. 'It's for you.'
Stuffing the last fragments of toast into his mouth, he rose and went into the hall.
'Hello,' he said.
Everything was quiet. It was like being in church. The morning sun could only manage a dim religious light through the circle of stained glass in the front door and the smell of pine-scented polish was as heavy as incense on the dank autumn air. Could he not have noticed how cold it was here in his childhood? He vowed to bring an electric blanket if he came at Christmas. If he came.
'Hello? Hello!' he said and put the receiver down.
'Mother!' he called.
Mrs Swithenbank appeared at the head of the stairs. Her hair was a deep shade of lavender this month. For a woman in her late fifties, she had a trim elegant figure despite an enormous appetite which she never hesitated to indulge.
'Who was it on the phone?' asked her son.
'Didn't she tell you, dear?'
'She? No, the line was dead.'
'Was it? Oh dear. Perhaps she'll ring again.'
'Didn't she give a name?'
'I think so, dear. I always ask who's calling. In case it's Boris or one of the others so I can say you're out. Though I don't really like to lie.'
'It's just the modern equivalent of the butler saying I'm not at home, Mother,' said Swithenbank in exasperation. 'So, what did this woman say?'
'Well, to tell the truth, I didn't really catch it, she had such a funny voice. Very distant somehow. But it wasn't Boris or any of the others. I mean, I know it wasn't Boris, because it was a girl. But it wasn't Stella or Ursula either, or I'd have said.'
'Oh Mother!'
'It sounded a very odd name,' she said defensively. 'Una something, I think. I'm sorry I missed it, but after all, dear, I'm not your secretary. I'm sure she'll ring again.'
The phone rang.
Swithenbank snatched it up.
'Wearton two-seven-nine,' he said.
'John, dear fellow! Caught you at last. How are you?'
'Hello, Boris,' said Swithenbank, scowling at his mother's retreating back. 'I'm fine. I was going to call before I went back.'
'I would be devastated if you didn't. In fact that's why I'm ringing really. I'm having a few of the locals round for drinks tomorrow, Saturday, about seven-thirty. I thought I'd ask our old gang to hang on for a bite of supper afterwards. You know, Stella and Geoff, Ursula and Peter.'
'I know who the old gang are,' said Swithenbank acidly.
'We're all dying to see you again. It's been six months at wasn't it?'
'Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral, Boris.'
'Don't worry. We all understand. It's been difficult for you.' The voice dropped a sympathetic semi-tone. 'No word yet? On Kate, I mean.'
'No,' said Swithenbank shortly.
'It must be awful for you. Awful. It's a year now, isn't it?'
That's right. A year.'
'Twelve months, and nothing. Awful. Cheer up, though. I suppose no news is good news.'
'I can't imagine why you should suppose that,' said Swithenbank.
'I'm sorry. What I meant was… look, do try to get along tomorrow night, won't you?'
'I can't promise, Boris. I'll give you a ring later if I may.'
'Fine. Good. Excellent. 'Bye!'
Swithenbank was smiling as he put down the phone. He went into the kitchen where his mother was washing the dishes.
'That girl on the phone. The name couldn't have been Ulalume, could it?'
'Ulalume? Yes, that sounds very like it, though it doesn't sound very likely, does it? By the way, I'm going into town when I've finished these. I'll probably have lunch there.'