Reginald Hill - Asking For The Moon

It came out in a volcanic rush, flaring (as with Silvia Rabal) into a violent spout of his own language which did not need a dictionary to translate.

'So you wouldn't be too unhappy about Lemarque's death?' said Dalziel.

'What do you say? I am not happy that a colleague dies, does not matter how I feel personally. But, how is it in English? – pride comes, then a fall. He was so boasting he was to be the first to step on the moon. Only he doesn't step, he falls!'

The idea clearly amused him.

'It bothered you, did it? Him getting the prima donna's job?'

'Prima donna! That's it! That is how he acts, like he is more important than the others. But what important is it, stepping on the moon? It is more than forty years since Armstrong did it. Since then many more Americans and Russians too. No, this is not a first, not a real first.'

'No? What would you reckon is a real first, then?' asked Dalziel.

The Italian smirked knowingly but did not reply.

'All right. Let's stick to facts. You and Silvia Rabal stopped on Europa and watched the monitors. Did you see anything unusual?'

This seemed to amuse Albertosi. First he internalized his laughter till his whole body was shaking. Then finally it burst out in a full-throated roar as Dalziel watched, stony-faced.

'Please, I am sorry,' gasped the Italian. 'Go on. Ask your questions. It is reaction, you understand. Much tension, then it comes out in laughter or in anger, makes no matter which.'

'Depends what you're laughing at,' said Dalziel.

'Nothing. Only my foolishness. Go on.'

'All right. Silvia Rabal says that she noticed nothing unusual on the monitor.'

But he was off again, turning red in his effort to suppress his amusement.

For a moment Dalziel felt nothing but a schoolteacher's exasperation in the face of a giggling adolescent. Then it began to dawn on him what this was all about.

'Oh, you dirty sod!' he said slowly. 'That's it, isn't it? That was your first! While Lemarque and the others were in the module heading for the surface, you and Silvia were bonking in space. You dirty sod!'

He began to chuckle and a few seconds later his laughter mingled with Albertosi's in a saloon bar chorus. It took the pouring of a couple of large Scotches to calm things down.

'So neither of you was watching the monitor?' said Dalziel.

'When Albertosi makes love, who watches television?' said the Italian' complacently.

'And this electrical storm that knackered the transmissions to Earth was just a happy coincidence?'

'A slight adjustment of the controls,' smirked Albertosi. 'A man must protect a lady's modesty, hey? Down there these bureaucrats watch us all the time but this they were not going to watch.'

He sipped his drink with a look of ineffable self-congratulation. Dalziel regarded him with an admiring envy which was mainly, though not entirely, assumed. It would be nice to puncture this inflated self-esteem, he thought, but that wasn't the name of the game. The way to a man's mind was through his pleasures.

He leaned forward and said confidentially, 'Just a couple more questions, Marco. First: floating around up there, what was it like?'

'Break for lunch now,' said Pascoe. 'Then we'll have the reverse singles.'

'Fine. How was the Dutchman?'

'Phlegmatic. And the Italian?'

'A bit up in the air,' said Dalziel. And laughed.

The Europa crew ate together in their dome, segregated partly by choice, partly by command. Druson had invited Pascoe and Dalziel to join him in the central mess. Conversation stilled for a moment as they entered but quickly resumed.

'So how's it going?' asked Druson.

'Early days,' said Pascoe. 'The crew are naturally eager to get this over and get back to work. Would you have any objection to a limited resumption of duties? It would ease a lot of tension.'

'You mean turn them loose on the surface?' said Druson doubtfully.

'Why not? It's not Jack the Ripper we're dealing with. And there's a hell of a lot of money invested in this programme.'

This appeal to the Great American Motivator just made Druson laugh.

'Hell, they're not going to find anything out there they couldn't read about in our college manuals!'

'Perhaps not,' said Pascoe equably. 'Think about it, anyway. Meanwhile I think at least we ought to have one of our people back on Europa. We've tied up your man long enough.'

Again Druson looked doubtful.

Dalziel, who was carving a steak like a Sunday joint, said, 'What's up, Ed? Scared we'll pick the killer and he'll make a run for Mars?'

'Funny. Yeah, OK, why not? Anyone in mind?'

'Rabal, the Spaniard's the obvious choice. She's the pilot. Also, though I've not talked to her myself yet, Andy here reckons she's in the clear and I've never known him wrong.'

You lying bastard! thought Dalziel, chewing on his steak. He got the feeling that Druson for all his street-wisdom was being edged into doing exactly what Pascoe wanted.

'OK,' said the American after a pause for thought. 'Why not? I'll arrange for one of our pods to make the transfer. No need to fuck around with that steam-powered module of yours!'

Dalziel noted the transfer of irritation. You've got the feeling you've been stitched up as well, my lad, he thought. And you've no idea how or why!

Pascoe pushed aside his almost untouched omelette and stood up.

'If you'll excuse me,' he said. 'Couple of things to do. Back to work in, say, fifteen minutes, Andy?'

He just about got the interrogative lift in, dulling the imperative edge of the sentence.

'Whatever you say,' said Dalziel.

They watched him walk away, a slim, upright figure, from behind very little changed from the young detective-constable Dalziel had spotted signs of promise in so many years ago.

'Hard man, your boss,' opined Druson. 'And in a hurry. Man in a hurry can make mistakes.'

'Whoever fixed the Frog's suit must have been in a hurry and he didn't make mistakes,' said Dalziel. 'Apart from leaving yon microprobe thing in his locker.'

'Could be even that wasn't a mistake,' said Druson. 'Could be he got instructions to put himself under suspicion and stir things up between the Germans and the French.'

'Oh aye. From which of his masters?' wondered Dalziel.

'From whichever wanted it most,' said Druson. 'I'm just a plain security jock. I don't mess with politics. Now if you'll excuse me, Andy. Anything you want, just ask, OK?'

He's getting worried about the lad wandering around free, thought Dalziel.

He said, 'Aye, there's one thing you could tell me, Ed. What do you lot do about sex up here?'

Back in their dome after lunch Dalziel said, 'Nice guy, Druson. Quite bright too, for a Yank.'

'Indeed,' said Pascoe. 'This afternoon, Andy, let's whip them through at a fair old pace. Don't give them time to think. How does that-sound to you as a strategy?'

It was the old Peter Pascoe's voice, easy, friendly, slightly diffident. But running through it now like a filament of high-tensile steel was the unmistakable tone of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

'Sounds fine,' said Dalziel.

He followed Pascoe's instructions to the letter with Kaufmann, hitting him with rapid-fire questions all of which the German handled with the assurance of a man well grounded in the interrogative arts.

'Did you like Lemarque?' he asked finally.

'He knew his job, he did his work,' answered the German.

'Aye, but did you like him?'

Kaufmann considered, then said, 'As a man, no. He was like many small men, too aggressive. Always compensating for his lack of height.'

'Give me an example.'

'Well, I recall during training, he found out that O'Meara had been a boxer in his youth, an amateur, you understand. All the time after that, he made jokes about it, pretended to fight with him, challenged him to a bout in the gym.'