'He was trying to say Omerta!' said the Dutchman. 'The Mafia's code of silence.'
For a long moment Dalziel stared into van der Heyde's grave, unyielding face.
Finally he said, 'Are you taking the piss?'
Another long moment, then…
'Yes,' said van der Heyde. And his face crazed like an overtired Delft plate into a myriad lines of laughter.
The pod spun round the moon in a climbing orbit and Earth swam into view like a schoolroom globe. It was easy for Dalziel to pick out Africa and India, but Yorkshire was invisible under a cloud. He felt a sharp pang of homesickness.
'Long way back, huh?' said Druson, observing him sympathetically.
'Long way to come just to hear a Dutchman crack a joke, right enough,' said Dalziel.
He had rewarded van der Heyde with a glass of Scotch. One glass led to another and he'd finally emerged from the interview with a feeling of childish self-satisfaction at having so blatantly ignored Pascoe's repeated instruction to hurry things along. Logically he had no cause to feel irritated when he found that Pascoe had joined Silvia Rabal in the pod taking her up to Europa, but he did. Even the return of Druson with the nightwatch and the message that his 'boss' wanted him up there too didn't mollify him.
'Boss'. He couldn't recall the last time he had acknowledged a boss, and he certainly wasn't about to start with a jumped-up detective-sergeant who'd struck lucky!
Mistaking his irritation, Druson said, 'Don't take it to heart, Andy. So the German still looks the man most likely, so what? Let the politicians work it out.'
'Eh? What makes you think I give a toss about politics?'
'You don't?' Druson looked at him shrewdly and said, 'I almost believe you, Andy. So what do you care about?'
'A fair measure in a clean glass,' said Dalziel. 'That'll do me.'
'And Commissioner Pascoe, is that how he feels too?'
'Peter? Straight as a donkey's shaft,' said Dalziel. 'Too honest for his own good sometimes.'
He spoke with a force he didn't quite understand the need for.
'He's done well for an honest man,' observed Druson neutrally. 'But at least he brought you along, so that's a point in his favour, I'd say.'
Dalziel tried to work out the drift of Druson's comments as they came in to dock with Europa, but once aboard he needed all his concentration to keep him from bouncing around like a ball in a bingo jar. On the US lunar shuttle he had been safe in the embrace of his wrap-around couch, so this was his first true experience of untrammelled weightlessness. Pascoe watched with open amusement, but Silvia Rabal showed a deal of concern which Dalziel found flattering till he realized she was more worried about her delicate instruments than his delicate body.
Finally, having discovered that the basic art was to reduce his energy output by ninety per cent, he gained sufficient control to follow Pascoe on a tour of the ship.
The fact that every dimension was usable made it feel surprisingly large. There were three main compartments: the bridge, which was the principal control area in the bow; the deck, which was the large central section housing most of the accommodation facilities; and the hold. This was basically a narrow cylinder walled by storage lockers, seven of which had the crew's names stencilled on them.
Dalziel almost filled the central space.
'You'd need to be a bloody contortionist to muck around with one of them TECs down here,' he said, pulling at the door marked van der Heyde. 'Locker' proved a misnomer. It was held shut only by a magnetic catch and flew open. A framed photo came floating out and he grabbed it.
'These people are highly trained pros,' said Pascoe, behind, or above, or underneath him. 'Also they're very fit and fairly thin. What's that you've got?'
'Family snap,' said Dalziel, passing back a photo of two very plain girls and a scowling woman. 'You can see why he took to space. They're allowed personal stuff, then?'
'Within reason. Weight's not the problem it was.'
'Not for some,' said Dalziel. 'Let's have a shufti.'
He began opening other lockers. This felt more like real police work! But he soon began to feel that these souvenirs of Earth were better material for a psychiatrist than a simple bobby.
Surprisingly, only the Dutchman had brought a family photo. Perhaps he didn't trust his memory and was insuring against the shock of reunion. Marco Albertosi obviously felt he could not live without a set of AC Milan's European Gup Programmes. Silvia Rabal's trust in technology did not extend to nourishment and her talisman was a soft leather bag containing sachets of camomile tea and various other pods, seeds, and dried herbs. Dalziel recalled her spicy breath and inhaled deeply. Marte Schierbeck's memento was more mysterious. An old tinder-box. Perhaps she was worried about being marooned? He opened it and found it contained a small tube of contraceptive pills. Perhaps it was who she was marooned with that bothered her! Kaufmann had brought with him a miniature score of Beethoven's Emperor concerto. Dalziel marvelled that these squidges could echo as music in some men's minds. Or perhaps it was just a spy's code book after all. The only other book he found was in O'Meara's locker, an ornately bound New Testament with a brass catch.
'Didn't strike me as religious,' observed Dalziel.
'What's that?' said Pascoe.
'New Testament in O'Meara's locker.'
'Oh, you know the priest-ridden Irish. Never shake it off. Bring it out anyway.'
'Hang on. Just one to go.'
It was Lemarque's and it was completely empty. Presumably it had contained nothing except the journal and that had been removed as evidence.
He gave a gentle push and floated backwards out of the hold into the deck area.
'So. One New Testament. Not quite the kind of testament I was hoping for,' said Pascoe glumly.
Dalziel undid the catch and opened the book. On the fly leaf, a book-plate had been stuck headed Holy Cross Youth Club: Award for service. Under this was a handwritten inscription To Kevin (K. 0.) O'Meara. Western District featherweight champion, 1993, 1994- Well done! It was signed, Father Powell (i Tim vi, 12).
'All his success since, and this is what still matters to him!' said Pascoe reflectively.
'You reckon?' said Dalziel, turning to the First Epistle to Timothy.
The page containing Chapter 6 verse 12 was folded in half and when he straightened it out he saw that either deliberately or by chance some flakes of white powder had been trapped there. Some, of them floated free. Dalziel licked his finger and stabbed at them, then cautiously put it to his mouth.
'What are you after, Andy? Coke? Forget it. Druggies don't make it on to the space programme, believe me!'
'Why not? They let in spies and killers,' said Dalziel. 'It's not coke anyroad. But I know that taste…'
'Probably dandruff. Sorry. All right, pass it here and I'll take it back for analysis just to keep you quiet.'
Dalziel, who didn't think he'd been making any unusually loud fuss, folded the page back to retain the rest of the powder. As he did so he glanced at Verse 12. Fight the good fight of faith. No wonder young K. O. O'Meara had won his titles; he'd had the referee in his pocket. His eye strayed a few verses up the column. For we brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out. Now there's where Paul had got it wrong. He hadn't given God credit for space travel. Unless, as seemed not improbable, it wasn't a work of God after all.
He fastened the catch and gave Pascoe the book. The taste was still in his mouth, its source both figuratively and literally on the tip of his tongue.
Druson, who was reclining or hanging on the deck, depending how you looked at it, said, 'You guys gonna be much longer?'
'As long as it takes,' said Pascoe with an authoritative snap which made Dalziel smile and Druson look sour.
'What's in here?' asked Dalziel, examining a couple of doors in the bulkheads.
'Galley and the heads,' said Pascoe.
'Heads?'
'Loos.'
