Reginald Hill - Asking For The Moon

She scowled and said, 'He was a rat! He turned from me to that Danish icicle. Well, that was his right. I grow tired of men too. But this rat wanted us both, he is insatiable. Even that I don't mind. But he hid it from me and he did not hide it from her, and that I mind very much! She knew I was being tricked and found it amusing. They screw with their minds, these Scands. But it was his fault, so I decided he must be punished and this idea came. It seemed to me -what is your phrase? Poetical justice! That's it. To pain him in the places he valued most. His vanity and his sex! But pain only, not death. You cannot laugh at a dead man, can you?'

This sounded like a clinching argument to Dalziel.

'So you're saying it was a fault in the TEC design that killed him? But if you hadn't interfered with it, that fault would never have shown up.'

'My interference was a possible fault, therefore it could occur, so this other fault was the real fault,' she flashed.

'Mebbe that makes sense in Spanish,' he said. 'So you definitely left it looking like an accidental fault?'

'Of course! You think I am stupid?' she cried. 'So what has happened? How is it you are looking for a killer? And why is Kevin accused? How can that idiot who comes with you believe such a stupidity? Kevin will prove his innocence, won't he?'

He missed the implication of this for the moment as his mind tried to rearrange everything he knew into something he could understand. And as the picture emerged like a nega live in developing fluid, his slab-like face grew cold and hard as a rock on a wintry fell.

'I'd not put money on it, luv,' he said. 'In fact, I'd bet that yon idiot who comes with me has probably got O'Meara's full and frank confession in his pocket already.'

'Confession? Why should he confess?'

'I don't know yet. But one thing's for sure. Somehow it'll seem a better option for him than not confessing.'

She digested this.

'You think so? Then in fact, I will be helping Kevin by keeping quiet, is that not so?'

He grinned at her ingenuity, and also at her naivety.

'Bit late to be thinking of keeping quiet when you've just coughed your guts out to me, luv,' he said cheerfully.

'Coughed? Oh yes. I understand.' She smiled at him with wide-eyed innocence. 'But I do not understand why you say I have coughed? There is no one here. Just you and me and the electrical storm. No witnesses.'

She gestured at the useless TV eyes.

Dalziel shook his head and showed his gums in a chimpanzee's smile.

'Good try, luv,' he said. 'But they don't like us using a notebook and a stubby pencil any more.'

From his breast pocket he took a flat black plastic case with a silver grille along one edge, held it up to his ear, pressed a button and listened to the resulting faint hiss with every appearance of satisfaction.

'That's grand,' he said switching off. 'I was a bit worried in case the electrical storm had affected the recording quality.'

She stared at him, baffled, unsure, as he replaced the instrument in his pocket. He met her stare full on, raised his eyebrows as if to invite her comment. She moistened her lips nervously. At least it started as nervousness, but the tiny pink tongue flickering round the full red lips carried a sensual jolt like an electric shock, and when she saw his reaction, she smiled and let the tongue slowly repeat the soft moist orbit.

And then it was he heard that question for the first time.

'So, tell me, Dalziel,' she said. 'What are you going to do about it?' '

They were facing each other across the desk, resting against the bulkheads. If there was an up and a down on the Europa, this configuration came closest to what Dalziel thought of as 'standing up'. Perhaps that's what made him take the step.

One small step.

Indeed, hardly that. On Earth it would have been a mere shuffling of the feet, a rather nervous adjustment of a man's weight as he wondered what the hell to do next.

Only here there was no weight to adjust, and the small forward movement of the left foot provoked a counterbalancing backward movement of the right; and as this was against the bulkhead, it caused an equal and opposite reaction, thus doubling his forward movement; and now his arms swung back to grab for support, but, finding nothing to get hold of, merely struck hard against the surface, and this energy too was translated into forward momentum.

And so it was that one small step for Dalziel became in a split second a mighty leap.

She came to meet him. In her eyes a deal had been offered and enthusiastically accepted, and she was no niggard in a bargain. There was perhaps a moment when she became aware that the thin black plastic device spinning in the asteroid belt of clothing that soon surrounded them was not a recorder but an electric razor, but by then it was far too late to abort the blast-off. Far too late… far, far too late

…

'Andy? Andy! Are you OK?'

'What? Oh aye. Sorry. What was it you said?' 'I thought we'd lost you there,' said Pascoe. 'I asked you: What are you going to do about it?'

Dalziel regarded Pascoe with the exasperated affection he had bestowed on him ever since their first almost disastrous encounter. He'd thought then that mebbe the bugger was too clever for his own good, and now he'd got the firm evidence. The lad had sat down and worked out everything, method, motive, the lot. Jealous resentment, a jape that went wrong, the use of a diuretic in the coffee, everything had been there in his theoretical model. Only, that was all it had been to Pascoe. A model theatre into which he could dangle his puppets and watch them dance as he pulled their strings. He hadn't been able to take the next small step and see that if a model works, then mebbe the reality works too, and perhaps there was no need of puppets, because there was a real culprit out there, waiting to be caught.

And because he was so obsessed by clever trickery, he had thought to authenticate it all by dropping fat old Andy Dalziel into the play, a figure so obviously real that not even the suspicious and distrustful Druson could believe he was anyone's puppet.

So what was he going to do? In a way, the ultimate disappointment was that the lad needed to ask. Dalziel didn't believe in practising everything he preached, but the golden rule he'd recently reproached Pascoe with was twenty-two carat. You don't drop your mates in it.

And anyway, whether he'd intended it or not, a deal had been struck back there on Europa.

'Do?' he growled. 'What can I do? You're in with the dirty tricks mob now, lad, and I don't want to end my days with a poisoned umbrella up my gunga!'

'Andy, you don't really believe that?' protested Pascoe. 'No threats. It's what you think right that matters.'

'I think it right to go on living as long as I can,' said Dalziel. 'All right, all right. For Christ's sake, take that hang-dog look off your face before the RSPCA puts you down. I'll keep stumm. And I'll forgive you. It's my own fault, I suppose. Teach a fledgling to fly and you've got to expect he'll crap on you some day. But I'm not going to kiss and make up, if that's what you're after!'

Pascoe's face split in a smile of undisguised, uncontrived relief.

'I should have known better than to mess around with you, Andy,' he said. 'I thought… well, to tell the truth, I thought you'd be so rusty, I wouldn't have any bother. And I wanted to see you again, and to work with you. Honestly, that was part of it. But I underestimated that nose of yours. It must be the weightlessness that got it back working at full power.'

'Not just the nose,' muttered Dalziel.

'Sorry?'

'Nowt. Summat I meant to ask. Europe, it doesn't just mean Europe, does it?'

'No. It's the name of a Phoenician princess who got ravished by Zeus in the form of a bull.'