Time to pull something out of the hat himself, if he could.
He produced his wallet and from it took the sheet of paper on which he’d copied poem no. 870.
“I wonder if you recognize this,” he said.
She took the paper from his hand, unfolded it, placed it on the table to smooth it out, then read it without any change of expression.
Finished, she said, “It’s Emily Dickinson, of course. I’ve read it but I wouldn’t say I know it.”
“Sorry, I thought being an expert…”
She smiled and said, “I’m only expert enough to know how hard she can be. What’s your reading of it? Andy Dalziel tells me you’re a grad, and bright with it.”
He liked the easy way she brought her acquaintance with the Fat Man in and the mischief in her eyes which suggested that what Dalziel had said was something like, Clever bugger, yon Pascoe. Went to college but he’s turned out not a bad cop despite that.
He said, “It seems to me it’s about delusion, deceit, loss. She seems to be saying that we invent quests for ourselves to give our existence meaning but that the only result of this is to make ourselves as fallacious as the invention.”
She said, “Wow. I see what Andy meant.”
“But I know so little about her,” he went on. “Is she the kind of writer whose references need close exploration? For instance, does she want us to be thinking about Ino who hated her stepchildren so much that they could only escape her wrath by fleeing on a golden ram with wings? Or Medea who killed the kids she’d had with Jason after he betrayed her? Or… well, you see what I’m getting at.”
“She certainly knew all about the complexities of family relationships,” she said. “Mother, brother, sister, sister-in-law-enough material for several Greek tragedies there, with maybe the odd comedy thrown in. She had a wry sense of humour, did you know that? It’s always worth recalling before you take everything she says too seriously.”
She paused, fixing a wide candid gaze on him, then asked, “Why are you so interested in this particular poem anyway?”
“I just happened across it,” he said, meeting the gaze unblinkingly. “You know how it is. Something comes up-some name, some place, something you haven’t thought about for years, if at all-and suddenly you happen on references almost anywhere you look.”
“Yes, I know the feeling. Life’s all about patterns, I sometimes think. Patterns imposed upon us, patterns we impose upon ourselves. Ah, here’s Tony.”
Kafka came back into the room with a tray.
“One espresso-if-at-all-possible,” he said. “Mr Pascoe, you want to talk to me for any reason?”
“I can’t think of any reason offhand,” said Pascoe. “So unless you can suggest one, then no.”
“Good. It’s just that I’m heading down to London shortly. Got a plane to catch first thing in the morning so I’ll be staying out at Heathrow.”
“I haven’t forgotten I’m driving you to the station,” said Kay. ‘But we don’t have to go for an hour at least.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to break up your tete-a-tete,” said Kafka. “In fact it can go on long as you like. Just got a call, I need to get back to the plant. Sod’s law, I’m there all morning, nothing happens. Soon as I come away, I’m needed. It’s OK, I’ll drive myself and leave my car in the station park.”
He spoke perhaps just a shade too casually.
“You sure?” said Kay. “I can easily…”
“No problem,” he said. “Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. Don’t get up.”
He offered his hand again. Then he went to his wife, bent to her, kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, “I’ll ring you from the hotel.”
He went out. After a moment of silence, Kay said, “Excuse me just a moment, Mr Pascoe. Something I forgot.”
She rose and went out after her husband. Watching her move was worth paying money for, thought Pascoe. A grace so understated you hardly noticed it till you realized you were holding your breath.
Outside, Kay caught up with her husband as he tossed his grip into the boot of his car.
“Tony,” she said, “is everything OK?”
“It will be,” he said lightly.
“I wish I were coming with you.”
“To the plant?”
“To the States.”
“Yeah?” he said. “And miss seeing the twins every day?”
“I didn’t mean for good. I meant so that I’d be around when you meet Joe and the others.”
“Honey, there’s nothing to worry about. Like I told you last night after I talked to Joe, he was OK with the way I felt. He said the time had come for a rethink, this wasn’t just about politics any more, this was about patriotism.”
“No. With Joe it will always be about profit, however you spell it.”
“Hey, I thought I did cynicism in this family. I’ll be fine. You stay here, make sure Helen turns into the kind of mom you’d have been. Things are going to be OK.”
“And if they’re not? If Joe won’t listen?”
Kafka’s expression became hard.
“Then it’s golden handshake time. And maybe I’ll crush a few fingers while we’re at it.”
She shook her head as if acknowledging that there was nothing more she could say. Then she put her hands round his neck and drew his head down to hers and kissed him long and passionately.
“Goodbye, Tony,” she said.
He drew back and viewed her quizzically.
“Wow,” he said. “Maybe I should go away more often.”
She turned from him and went back into the house.
Pascoe, who had been watching from the window, hastily resumed his seat.
A moment or two later Kay came back into the room.
“Everything all right?” said Pascoe.
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“No reason. I just thought Mr Kafka seemed a little… rushed?”
“Tony is a good man. He wants to be a good American,” she said, as if this answered him. “Now, Mr Pascoe, where were we?”
“I think somehow we’d got on to critical interpretation of Emily Dickinson,” he said with a smile. “If we could return to the sad matter in hand, I’ll try not to keep you much longer. How would you describe your relationship with your stepson, Mrs Kafka?”
She showed no surprise at the question but after a pause for consideration replied, “It ended better than it started. Though I’m not sure I understand the relevance…?”
“Just looking for details in a picture,” he said. “From what I’ve learned from Mr Dalziel, it seems on occasion to have been a little fraught.”
Let her know that Fat Andy’s my colleague as well as her buddy.
“As a boy he resented me taking his mother’s place. As an adolescent, I think these feelings of resentment got muddled with the kind of sexual fantasies young men have about any personable female within easy reach. Guilt feelings after his father’s death brought everything to a climax and for several years I think his easiest solution was to condemn me as the cause of everything disturbing and distressing in his life.”
“How did this manifest itself?”
“By barring me from re-entering Moscow House. By making allegations about my conduct which I might have had to answer in the courts if he hadn’t been brought to see the foolishness, and the danger to himself, of his actions. By instituting legal proceedings to remove Helen from my custody.”
“But that never came to court?”
“Thanks mainly to Tony. Pal’s objections were based on me being American and the lack of blood relationship. What, he asked, if I decided to return to the States? His father wouldn’t have wanted his daughter
