They parted. Pascoe went back to his office and tried to settle to some work but his head was overcrowded with Hiller's words and speculation about what was being said up in the Chief Constable's office. At last he heard the approaching beat of Dalziel's step accompanied by a bravura humming of
Colonel Bogey.
Sometimes he came at you like Queen Mab and sometimes like the band of the Coldstream Guards.
'There you are, then,' cried the Fat Man as he came through the door. 'Come on. I'll need you around when I clear up so you can see where things are.'
'Clear up . . . ?'
'Aye, lad. It's your chance to shine. You'll be looking after the shop while I'm away. On your feet,
jildi!’
Pascoe hurried along behind the retreating figure, catching up with him only when he halted at his own desk.
'Right. Where to start? Let's see. Good Scotch in this drawer, best at the back of yon cabinet. I've marked the levels and tested the specific gravity. That apart, I don't think there's owt else to say. You'll find everything in order.'
'What's happened? Have you been suspended?' demanded Pascoe.
'Don't be daft! Two things Desperate Dan doesn't like. One is twats like Adolf shouting the odds at him, t'other is spooky sods in the Smoke trying to pull his strings. When you're my size, you can afford to be flexible, bend with the wind. But a little chap like Dan needs to show he's the boss.'
'So you've not been suspended?'
'There's them as would like to see it. Some twat - he didn't mention names, but it'll be yon bugger Sempernel likely - rang up and went on about this fellow turning up at Kohler's hideout. Big fat sod with an uncouth northern accent, he'd said, so Dan could see it were no use trying to pin it on me. Anyway, the long and short of it is, he asked me if I had some leave coming, suggested I might like to take it. You don't look happy, lad? Not feel up to the job, is that it?'
Pascoe was recalling the last time Dalziel's embarrassing presence had been removed by 'leave'. All his absence had meant was that he popped up at even more unexpected times and places than normal.
He said, without much hope, 'Will you actually be going away? I mean, far away?'
'Eh?' Dalziel laughed. 'Oh, I see what's bothering you. No. I've learned my lesson. You won't find me hanging around here, getting under your feet. I'm going to put myself as far as I can get from all this crap.'
'Oh yes? And where's that?' said Pascoe, hesitating to experience relief.
'Hang on,' said Dalziel who had picked up his phone and dialled.
'Hello! Mr Foley, please . . . Come on, luv, bank managers aren't busy with clients at this time of day, they're busy putting on their British warms afore they head off to treat other bank managers to expensive grub at my expense. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel . . . Jim, lad! What fettle? Look, two things, first off I want to buy some shares. Glencora Distillery ... I don't give a toss if you've never heard of it, you didn't know they'd privatized water till it started running green . . . How many? All I can afford and a few more besides. And don't hang about. Second, I want some travellers' cheques. US dollars. That's right, American. You've heard of America? Well, I'm going there the day after tomorrow . . . Very droll . . . I'll be in later on, then . . . Cheers.'
He put the phone down and contemplated Pascoe's dropped jaw with undisguised glee.
'America?' said Pascoe. 'You're not going after ... oh shit! Look, sir, do you think it's wise? Do you think it's
possible
? It's a long way, and bloody expensive, and I doubt if you'd even get a flight at such short notice.'
'All fixed,' said Dalziel, producing an airline ticket. 'Heathrow to New York. Sorted it out on my way back from Inkerstamm.'
'But you didn't know then that the Chief would suggest...’
Pascoe let his words fade to nothingness. He thought of mind and matter, will and law, and then of Hiller's warning against letting himself be used. But why listen to warnings from a man incapable of following his own precept?
'What was all that about shares?' he asked.
'Stamper gave me a tip.'
'Why'd he do that, for God's sake?'
'Didn't mean to, but you know these self-made buggers, can't resist showing off. Hello!'
The phone had rung and Dalziel had scooped up the receiver at first ping with the speed of an Australian slip fielder.
'Percy, how are they hanging? No, you're dead right, not funny. Sorry . . . Right, I see. Look I'm going to be away for a few days, so why don't you give Mr Pascoe a ring when she gets back? Aye, he'll talk to her. Full authority. That's grand. Take care of yourself.'
The phone went down.
'That was Percy Pollock,' said Dalziel. 'Mrs Friedman, her who worked at Beddington Jail, she's away on holiday just now, but expected back shortly. I said you'd deal with it, OK?'
'I suppose so,' said Pascoe unenthusiastically. 'What am I supposed to do with her?'
'You'll think of something, lad,' said Dalziel. 'Now I'd best go out and buy myself a phrase book, unless there's owt else you want to say?'
Pascoe shook his head.
'Nothing,' he said. 'Except bon voyage. And God Save America.'
PART THE THIRD
Golden Apple
ONE
'Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means
of travelling, a disorganized country, a city that may
not be even safe for you.'
The Immigration queue snaked before him like an Alpine pass with its head almost hidden in the clouds.
Dalziel took a pull from a half-empty flask of duty-free malt.
'How long do you reckon, luv?' he asked the woman he'd been sitting beside since Heathrow. Her name was Stephanie Keane. She was in her thirties, comfortably but elegantly dressed in a loose-fitting organdie blouse and skirt, quite pretty in an anorexic kind of way. Her first response to Dalziel's conversational gambits had been frosty, but once she caught on that he was a tyro at this kind of trip, she'd thawed and let herself be elected Beatrice to his lost soul. She was, he had learned, co-owner of a Midlands antiques firm, and a frequent transatlantic traveller in pursuit of her profession.
Now she cast her expert eye over the queue.
'Three hours minimum,' she said.
'You're joking,' said Dalziel incredulously. 'I'd not queue that long to watch England stuff Wales.'
She gave him the look of amused condescension with which liberated woman views the futile muscle-flexing of prehistoric man.
'So what are you going to do about it?' she inquired satirically.
Pensively Dalziel took another drink. Then he screwed the cap back on and slipped the bottle into his shoulder- bag.
'Sorry about this, luv,' he said.
And, stooping down behind her, he put his right hand between her legs, grasped the front hem of her skirt and jerked it up hard against her crotch, at the same time twisting her left arm behind her back.
'Right, sunshine,' he said, 'consider yourself nicked.'
Stephanie Keane screamed and tried to swing at him with the briefcase in her free hand but she might as well have whipped a bull with daisies. Jerking her skirt tighter so that she was on tiptoe, he forced her forward through the ranks of passengers who scattered before them like sheep in a meadow, till finally their way was barred by an armed and uniformed man.
'What's the trouble here?' he asked.
'No trouble,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a cop, and this here's a smuggler. Why don't we have a word with your boss before you do summat daft like ruining your career?'
Five minutes and several more uniforms later, he finally reached a grey business suit. In it was a fortyish black man with a boxer's scarred and flattened face and teeth perfect enough to please a monumental mason. He gently removed the furious woman from Dalziel's grip, handed her over to a couple of uniforms, invited her to accompany them to a nearby room where she would be taken care of, then ushered Dalziel into a carpeted office, presumably to take care of him.
'Passport, please,' he said.
'Help yourself. You pronounce it Dee-Ell.'
'How else?' said the man. 'I'm David Thatcher, by the way.'
'Oh aye? I think I knew your auntie.'
The man smiled and said, 'So how can I help you. Superintendent?'
'Depends what you are.'
'I guess I'm a sort of superintendent too, though I don't know if it means the same on your side of the pond.'
‘It means I can do owt I like, so long as I don't let them catch me.'
'Then for once our common language unites us. This woman you say is a smuggler, have you had her under surveillance long?'
'Just since I got sat next to her at Heathrow. Never saw her before that.'
'Oh. So how come you think she's a crook?'
'I've been talking to her for six hours,' said Dalziel. 'She were very helpful, very laid back about everything, Immigration was tedious but no hassle, Customs were a doddle as long as you weren't wearing ragged jeans or a turban. She knew it all.'
'So?'
'So it was herself she was reassuring,' said Dalziel grimly.
'Did you tell her you were a cop?' asked the black man.
'Don't be daft. I said I were a publican on a visit to my daughter who'd married a Yankee airman.'
Thatcher regarded him steadily, then said, 'OK. Wrongful arrest suits can be very expensive over here, Mr Dalziel, but we'll take a close look at this lady. Anything I can get you while you wait?'
Dalziel delved into his flight bag and produced his bottle of Scotch.
'Glass, mebbe. Two if they'll not let you stay for the strip search.'
Thatcher grinned broadly and went out.
*
In the event Dalziel probably spent almost as much time in the room as he would have done in the queue, but at least he was sitting comfortably drinking from the glass one of Thatcher's men brought him. Finally the black man himself appeared, carrying another glass and a big bag of something called pretzels.
'Any luck?' said Dalziel.
Thatcher shrugged and said, 'These things take time. You said something about some Scotch?'
They sat and talked in an apparently desultory fashion, but Dalziel soon realized he was being interrogated by an expert. He didn't mind. It made a change being on the receiving end. His first instinct was to throw up a smokescreen but after a while he found himself telling quite a lot of the truth.
'So Kohler's back home, but you think she really was guilty and they're going to do a shit job on your old boss, right?'
'That's how it looks to me.'
'So what's your game plan, Andy?'
'To catch up with Kohler and have a little chat. Also to talk with the rest of the American connection, see what I can squeeze out of them. Oh aye, there's plenty for me to do.'
He spoke confidently. Thatcher grinned, sipped his Scotch and said, 'That's what Stephanie Keane sounded like, I guess.'
'You what?'
'Talking laid back to reassure herself. Andy, to coin a phrase, this is a big country. How the hell are you going to find Kohler for a start? And what's the rest of this American connection you mentioned?'
'Well, there's Marilou Stamper, she's a Yank. Got a divorce, so likely she's living here somewhere. And there's Rampling, he was at the US Embassy back then, and now he's something important, at least I've seen his name in our papers so I shouldn't have any problem tracing him . . .'
He was whistling in the dark, but it didn't bother him. He'd been in the dark before and if you whistled loud enough, something usually came snuffling along to see what all the noise was.
Thatcher said, 'Rampling? You don't mean Scott Rampling?'
'Aye, yon's the bugger. Stocky blond lad, could have been another young Kennedy, leastways that's how he looked twenty-seven years ago.'
'That's not how he looks now. You're right, you'll have no problem tracing him, but I doubt you'll find it easy to see him. In fact I'm not sure it would even be wise to try.'
'Why's that?'
'The reason you've read about him is he's in line to be Deputy Director of the CIA, which is an appointment that needs clearance from the Senate. He knows where all the bodies are buried, which means he's got a lot of friends, or, put it another way, he's got a lot of smiling enemies who wouldn't be sorry to see something nice and dirty dug up in his background. It wouldn't take much - politically we're a neurotic society - so even if Scott Rampling's pure as the driven snow, he might not take kindly to an unofficial English cop linking him with an ancient murder case.'