'The Law is sometimes an ass,' said Pascoe carefully. 'At certain times and in certain places, the Law is more than an ass, it is a hyena and feeds on human flesh. But when a man is hung for a sheep he did not in fact steal, then the Law, whether ass or hyena, has been abused. That is a miscarriage of justice which may not be shrugged off even if it happened a thousand years ago.'
She regarded him with comic-book amazement.
'You sure you're a cop, Pete? And your bosses let you roam the streets by yourself? There may be hope for this benighted country yet. OK. You've almost got me persuaded. Give me the full pitch.'
So Pascoe told her the story. She made notes as he spoke and when he'd finished, she said, 'So there's still some doubt this Sergeant Pascoe really was your great-granddad?'
'There's a mystery, certainly, but not much doubt. My little girl took one look at the photo and asked what I was doing in fancy dress. I can't see the resemblance as clearly as that, I'm afraid, but then I've always thought I'm a dead ringer for Rudolph Valentino.'
She looked at his thin mobile English face with its untidy mop of fair brown hair and smiled.
He smiled back and said, 'So if Sergeant Pascoe rings a bell. .'
'Hey, this isn't the servants' hall in here. I don't have three hundred plus bells all nicely labelled. Also my interest, which is still at the preliminary stage, is in all FGCM death sentences, not just the ones confirmed …'
'Sorry?' said Pascoe. 'FGCM?'
'Field General Court Martial. Different from a General Court Martial which needed at least five officers and a legally qualified judge-advocate to advise them. In battlefield conditions this wasn't always convenient, unless it was an officer being tried. Your common or garden squaddie got an FGCM, only three officers needed with hardly a judge-advocate in sight. You can see the thinking. Made life — or death — a lot easier when you were up the Front.'
'And what do you mean, confirmed?'
'After sentence the verdict was passed up the line of command so's everyone could put in their two cents' worth till it landed in the C-in-C's lap. If he confirmed the sentence, that was it. Army's line of defence is that only ten per cent of the death sentences were actually confirmed. Makes them sound like a bunch of crypto-conchies, doesn't it? Then you work out that three hundred plus executions from 1914 to 1918 means three thousand plus death sentences.. makes you wonder about the old military grey matter, doesn't it?'
'But surely not all are necessarily in dispute,' said Pascoe, reluctant to abandon totally his ur-faith in the protective power of the Law.
'You mean like if a crime was capital under civvy law, the same penalty should apply under military? Fair enough. If my memory serves me right, there were about thirty done for murder, and even then they didn't get the access to legal defence that a civilian court would have given. And that leaves about three hundred guys who got theirs for terrible crimes like being shell-shocked, or scared, or completely knackered, or losing their rags and punching some pompous brass hat up the hooter. That's no Law. That's fucking Licence!'
Pascoe smiled and murmured, 'Well, I'm glad to see you're approaching your subject in a proper spirit of pure academic objectivity.'
'Don't go all Anglo-superior on me, Pascoe,' she snapped. 'You Poms should never forget we've got the moral high ground here. Despite all pressure from your High Command, the Oz government refused to apply your primitive military legal system. For an Australian soldier, if it wasn't a capital crime in civvy street, it wasn't a capital crime in the army. Just as well, or maybe I wouldn't be here.'
'Why's that?'
'My great-grandfather was at Gallipoli, they used to call him Jolly Polly when he got back. During some mix-up he came under the command of one of you lot who ordered him and some other guys to advance in broad daylight over bare rocky terrain which the Turks had covered by half a dozen machine guns. He said, "You set off, mate, and I'll catch you up when I've finished plucking my nose hairs." The Pom officer wanted him court-martialled for cowardice, refusing to obey an order, all kinds of things that were topping offences in your mob. His own CO put him on shit-shovelling duties for two days which no one minded as it kept you out of the line.'
Pascoe laughed and said, 'Nice. I'm glad he made it home to sow his seed.'
'Jesus. The way you guys talk! But because I'm a sentimental cow and we both had great-granddads who helped make a world fit for heroes like us, I'll ignore the fact that you're a stuck-up Pom and a fascist jack to boot. Do you have an address or do you just roam the streets looking for crime?'
Pascoe pulled out a card with his home number.
'I'll get back to you, but don't hold your breath. Jesus, is that the time? I've got a train to catch.'
'Going somewhere nice?'
'London. And yes, I'll be getting my fingers dirty on MOD records but that doesn't mean I'll have the opportunity or even the inclination to dig your particular bit of dirt.'
She glowered at him to make her point, then relaxed her features into a grin.
'But I'll do my best,' she said.
'Not even a stuck-up Pom could ask for more,' he said, grinning back.
She downed the last inch of her lager and left. It seemed to Pascoe that the whole Staff Club heaved a collective sigh and settled into a deeper sleep.
He was tempted to follow its example. His chair was lovely, soft and deep. But he had promises to keep.
He rose and went to keep them.
vi
Pascoe was both right and wrong about Dalziel's state of mind when they parted that morning.
It was true he had an invitation to drop in on Cap Marvell for lunch again, and the prospect filled him with a light-headed anticipation he hadn't experienced since he was a likely lad.
But nowadays such light-headedness was ballasted by a bellyful of solid experience and cynical observation, and he was far from sure he ought to go.
Last night he'd held out, but he couldn't really put it down to virtue. She had left the party not all that long after their conversation with Ellie Pascoe. When she told him she was going he'd looked at his watch and said,
'Woman who lets the telly interfere with her drinking ought to buy a video.'
'Didn't you know? Women aren't allowed to understand such arcane matters. If you get hungry about midday tomorrow, how about another spot of lunch?'
'That sounds good,' he'd said. 'But I can't say definite. My job, you never know what's going to come up.'
'I understand,' she'd said sympathetically. 'But if you can.. Goodnight now.'
And with a kiss on the cheek, delicious because of its ease, but dangerous because of its wifeliness, she had gone.
Some time later he'd heard himself saying to the vice chancellor, 'You got a telly round here, Bog-eye? Case I'm working on might get a mention.'
'Of course. Always happy to help the police with their enquiries,' said Burgoyne, and five minutes later, Dalziel found himself sitting in the AVA department watching Cap sort out some poofy interviewer with practised ease, even managing to weave her critique of ALBA into such a seamless web with her account of the discovery of the bones that they hadn't been able to edit it out. Somehow the sight of her electronic image affected him even more powerfully than her physical presence and when the item finished, instead of returning to the party, he headed for his car and drove round to Cap's apartment block.
If there'd been a light in her window he'd have gone straight up, but the flat was in darkness, not even the white flicker of a TV set showing.
Then as he sat indecisive, cursing himself contradictorily for both a vacillating adolescent and a randy old fool, to his surprise he saw her emerge from the alley which led to the garages behind the flats. Now was the time to intercept her and tell her whatever she'd been doing she'd missed a great show on the telly and why didn't he describe it to her over a nightcap.