'All right, then. Here's the story of me fascinating life and hard times. I joined the Air Force at sixteen, not out of any sense of patriotism, you understand – Nor law nor duty made me fight, Nor public men nor cheering crowds – you'll know your Yeats? No, the only reason I had was to learn to fly so I could become a commercial airline pilot, and make a lot of money, and spend me spare time pleasuring hostesses in palatial hotels. Now isn't that a reasonable ambition for a randy young buck?'
'Sounds fair enough to me,' said Dalziel. 'What happened?'
'I grew up. Or at least I grew older. Young men should be given their heart's desires straight away. If you wait till you've earned them…'
He threw back his head and carolled, 'Oh, the youth of the heart and the dew in the morning, you wake and they've left you without any warning.' ^1
'Don't ring us,' said Dalziel. 'So you just more or less drifted into the space programme, is that what you're saying?'
'Isn't that the way of most things? You now, I dare say you just drifted into being a policeman.'
'No,' said Dalziel. 'It was what I wanted.'
'Was it now? OK, I'm sorry to hear that. I like my cops to be ordinary chaps like myself who can look at some poor devil in trouble and think: There but for the grace of God go I.'
'If I'd fancied the mercy business, I'd have trained as a nun,' said Dalziel. 'From your file, I see you had a longish period of sick leave about four years back.'
'Is it me file you've got there? Then you'll know more about meself than I'll ever want to know.'
'It was after your wife died, right?'
'Let me think. Yes now, you'll be right. Or was it after the budgie escaped? Drat this memory of mine!'
'Not much to choose between a wife and a budgie, I suppose,' said Dalziel. 'All bright feathers and non-stop twittering. Your missus flew away too, didn't she? Funny, that. You need to be a very cheeky sod to apply for sick leave 'cos the tart who dumped you's got herself killed.'
'That's me all over,' said O'Meara. 'More cheek than Sister Brenda's bum, as the saying is.'
'She'd run off with a Frog, hadn't she?' persisted Dalziel. 'Died with him in a car accident. Terrible bloody drivers, these foreigners.'
'Aha!' said O'Meara. 'At last I'm getting your drift! And here's me thinking you were just showing a friendly interest! Because me wife ran off with a Frog, as you call him, every time I see a Frenchman, I feel an irresistible desire to kill him, is that it? Sure now, it's a fair cop. Except it happens in this case, the Frog she ran off with was a Belgian!'
'Let's not split hairs,' said Dalziel.
'You're right. Many things I am, but not a hair-splitter Do I get a choice of wearing the cuffs in front or behind And what happens if I want to go to the little boys' room while I've got them on?'
'You pray no one's been mucking about with your wiring This sick leave you had, exactly what was it that was supposed to be wrong with you?'
'Oh, women's trouble, you know the kind of thing.'
Dalziel slapped the file down on his knee with a crack that made the Irishman flinch.
'End of happy hour,' he snarled. 'Let's have some straight answers, right?'
'Oh God!' cried the Irishman, clenching his fists in a parody of a boxer's defences. 'You don't mean you're after fighting with the gloves off, is that it? I never could abide bare fists. Bare anything else you care to name, but not the bare fists!'
Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully and said, 'Yes, I'd heard summat about you being a boxer. And about the little Frog taking the piss.'
'Now that's what I call an unfortunate choice of phrase,' said O'Meara.
'I told you, lad. Cut the comedy! Let's just talk about you and Lemarque and the boxing ring, shall we?'
'I thought we agreed to whip this lot through double quick,' said Pascoe irritably.
'Sorry. He bothered me, that one. Something not right.' 'Ah, the famous nose again. What kind of not- rightness?' 'Too many jokey answers and I got the feeling he was trying to steer me around all the time.'
'So what did you end up not getting answers about that you asked questions about?'
Dalziel considered, then said, 'Hard to say exactly. One thing was why he got sick leave after his wife snuffed it, but that can't have owt to do with anything, can it?' 'Unlikely. What was wrong with him, anyway?'
'Don't know. That's the point I'm making,' said Dalziel
'There should have been a medical report in his file. Hang about, I've still got it here. Sorry. Let's see. Emotional trauma, blah blah; physical symptoms, insomnia, slight hypertension blah blah; treatment, counselling and unpronounceable drugs; passed fit for duty, 7.10.06. Nothing there that's relevant, I'd say. Maybe he just doesn't like talking about that time. Stick this in his file, will you?'
Dalziel glanced at the medical report, shrugged and said, The bugger's still not right. How'd you do with Danish bacon? Fancy a slice?'
'I don't think so.'
'You don't fancy her or you don't think she's in the frame?'
'I don't think that Miss Schierbeck would judge any man worth killing,' said Pascoe. 'So. One each left. We're not doing too well, Andy.'
'Come on,' said Dalziel. 'You've scuppered the Yanks' motive for Kaufmann being the killer, haven't you?'
'Because he's a double? We knew that before I left Earth. It would still be very embarrassing to have to make that public in his defence. No, the only thing that's going to please my masters and cut the ground right from under the Americans' feet is for us to come up with the undeniably genuine perpetrator. There can't be any cover-up or fit-up. We need the real thing and, we need it fast!'
After thirty minutes with Adriaan van der Heyde, Dalziel was convinced that either the Dutchman wasn't the real thing or if he was, it would take thumbscrews, rack and Iron Maiden to prise it out of him. He'd heard Pascoe's door open and shut after only ten minutes, signalling that the Commissioner was following his own precept of speed. It annoyed Dalziel to be accused of dragging his feet, annoyed him even more to suspect that perhaps it was age that was making him take so long.
'Look,' he said in desperation, 'let's say you're in the clear, right? Which of the others do you reckon most likely?'
The stolid Dutchman scratched his nose, then said very definitely, 'Albertosi.'
'What?' It occurred to Dalziel that, though it seemed unlikely, it would be nice to pin this on the Italian, not least because Pascoe obviously felt able to dismiss him so quickly.
'Why do you say that?' he asked. 'You reckon mebbe he was jealous of Lemarque?'
'Jealous? Sexually, you mean?' The Dutchman shook his head. 'That's all the British can think of. Sex!'
'Must be something to do with living above sea-level,' said Dalziel. 'All right, tulip. What do you say his motive was?'
'Revenge.'
There was an unnerving certainty about the man's manner and delivery.
Even Dalziel who was not easily impressed by the trappings of honesty couldn't help feeling he had better pay close attention here.
'You'd best explain,' he said.
The Dutchman nodded, took a deep breath and began to speak in a measured didactic tone which for a while disguised the incredible content of his allegations.
'Lemarque was approached by a consortium who wanted his help to take over the holy water bottling business in Lourdes. It is a multi-million-franc industry, you understand. He pretended to agree but went to the police. Unfortunately behind this consortium are people who decree that the price of betrayal of their confidence is death. Marco Albertosi was instructed to carry out the sentence.'
For a second Dalziel was reduced to a rare speechlessness. Then he burst out, 'For Christ's sake, are you telling me Albertosi is a Mafia hit man?'
'His family is Sicilian, did you know that?'
'No, I bloody didn't! Come on, lad, where's your hard evidence for all this? For any of it!'
'Lemarque's last words. They were incomplete.'
'Oh mer… So?'
