Asking for the Moon (30 page)

'I have said so in my statement!' she cried. 'There was nothing till the moment when he made water. Then pouf! it is finished. No one can say it was my fault! There were two of us watching. It was a systems malfunction I think, no one to blame. Who has been blaming me. . .?'

'Calm down, woman!' bellowed Dalziel. 'You'll be gabbling away in Spanish again just now, and then where will we be? Have another drink. That's it, straight down. If you buggers drank more of this stuff and less of that gangria, you'd mebbe not need to run around screaming like banshees and slaughtering bulls. Now, get it into your noddle, nobody's blaming you, least of all me. So, just a couple more questions . . .'

Pascoe and Dalziel had agreed to confer between interviews.

'Anything?' asked Pascoe.

'She's been bonking either the Italian or the Frog or mebbe both, and she doesn't much care for the Dane, so mebbe she got in on the act too. And she says that Albertosi and Lemarque didn't much hit it off.'

'She volunteered all this?'

'I prodded a bit. Told her I suspected they were a couple of poofters.'

'Oh Andy. Any more disinformation I should know about?'

'I told her you were a right bastard, and I said she weren't on my list of suspects.'

'And isn't she?'

'You know me, lad.
You're
on my list till I get the evidence to cross you off. She certainly had less chance than the others of fiddling with Lemarque's suit. Mind you, she got very agitated when she thought I was hinting she were to blame for not monitoring the TEC transmissions properly. That electrical storm checked out, did it?'

'Happens all the time, evidently. And there were two of them doing the monitoring.'

'Aye. I take it, from what you're saying, you haven't clamped the Kraut in irons? Not even for spying? He is a spy, I take it?'

'Oh yes, no question. He doesn't deny it.'

Dalziel considered, then said gently, 'Now that should be a great big plus for the Yanks' theory that he knocked the Frog off. So why do I get the feeling it's nowt of the sort?"

Pascoe regarded him blankly. Time was when Dalziel reckoned he could have followed most of his old colleague's thought-processes along a broad spoor of telltale signs, but not any more. Perhaps time had dulled his perception. Or perhaps it had honed Pascoe's control.

Then the younger man smiled and was his old self again.

'I'm glad to see the nose is getting back into shape, Andy,' he said. 'The truth is, I knew all about Kaufmann's relations with the Arabs long before Druson told me. As usual, the CIA have only managed to get half a story. The more important half is that Kaufmann's a double, always has been. Oddly enough, that's partly the reason he got into the Fed's space programme in the first place. He's a high flier in every sense and was due a promotion. The Arabs were licking their lips as the logical career step would have taken him into a very sensitive area of missile guidance. His own people recognized how hard it would be to keep up his act with duff info at this level, so someone came up with the bright idea of nominating him for the moon shot. That way, he kept his cred with the Arabs by passing them what is in their terms a lot of relatively antiquated space technology. The Yanks were right about that at least!'

He laughed, inviting Dalziel to join in his amusement. But the fat man was not to be manipulated so easily.

'Fuck me rigid!' he said angrily. 'Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?'

'
'Need-to-know,
remember, Andy? Look, for all I knew, the Americans had got it right, Kaufmann was the killer, and I

was into damage-limitation. I didn't see a need to load you down with classified stuff that wasn't necessary.'

Dalziel swallowed his irritation with difficulty and said, 'Meaning, now you've talked, he's definitely off your list?'

'Ninety per cent, I'd say. But I'd still like your opinion, Andy, and it'll be a better opinion now you know this spy business didn't really figure as motive.'

'Because if Lemarque
had
threatened to tell the Fed that Kaufmann was an agent, it wouldn't be much of a threat, as they know already?'

'Right.'

'But suppose he was threatening to tell the Arabs that Kaufmann was a double?'

'In that case,' said Pascoe quietly, 'Kaufmann would have told us and Lemarque would have been taken care of much more discreetly.'

Dalziel digested this, then shook his head unhappily and said, 'Oh, Pete, Pete. Listen,.lad, I'm far too old a dog to be learning new tricks. If this is a good old-fashioned killing because some bugger's been dipping his hand or his wick where he shouldn't, that's fine. But if it's spies and politics and that kind of crap, better beam me down to the twilight zone.'

Pascoe smiled and said in a kindly tone, 'I think you're mixing your programmes, Andy. And if you're going to try for pathos, better lose a bit of weight. Look, why do you think I brought you along? I've learnt enough new tricks to deal with the politics, but some of the old tricks may have gone a bit rusty. If it
is
just a good old-fashioned killing, and it could be, I'm relying on you to sort it out. You're my fail-safe, Andy. OK? Now let's get on. I've got the Irishman and you've got the Dane. And try to hold back on the Hamlet jokes, won't you?'

Marte Schierbeck was a very different proposition from Silvia Rabal. The atmosphere had changed from Mediterranean heat to Nordic coldness, but a native Yorkshireman knows

better than to trust in mere weather. A fragment of hymn from his distant Sunday School days drifted through Dalziel's mind as he met the woman's cool grey eyes.

A man who looks on glass

On it may stay his eye,

Or if he pleases through it pass . . ,

He said, 'Was Emile more jealous of Marco than the other way round, do you think?'

She expressed no surprise but simply asked, 'What has Silvia said?'

'Does it matter?'

'The truth matters. We must tell the truth, mustn't we? Especially to policemen.' She spoke with no apparent irony.

'That's how it works in Denmark, is it? Do you do lecture tours?'

'Sorry?'

'Just my little joke. So what about Marco, then? Was he very jealous of Emile?'

'All men are jealous of their successors. That is why they hate their sons.'

'Jesus,' said Dalziel.

'There too,' said the woman.

A man who looks on glass . . .
Dalziel made a determined effort to refocus.

'Was it you who broke off the affair, then?' he asked.

'Affair,'
she echoed.

Not even his gout had made Dalziel feel older than the delicate way in which she savoured the old-worldliness of the word.

'Yes,' she went on. 'I broke it off. That is perhaps why Marco was jealous, not because he cared about having me, but because I let him see I did not care about having him. But I think what you are really asking is, "Was he jealous enough to kill?" Perhaps. He is Italian, and their self-image permits crimes of passion.'

'Not much passion in fixing a man's space suit so that first time he passes water he drops down dead,' sneered Dalziel, suddenly keen to pierce this icy carapace.

It was like spitting on a glacier.

She said, 'To the Latin mind, it might seem . . . apt.'

Dalziel didn't reply at once and the woman, mistaking his silence, tried to help him over his repression.

'Because the electrical connection which killed him would be through his sex organ,' she explained.

'Aye, lass,' he said irritably. 'First thing they taught me at Oxford was to know when a tart's talking dirty. What I'm trying to work out is, how come you're so keen to fit this randy Eyetie up for murder?'

'Please?'

'Forget it. You're not about to tell me, are you? I see from your file that you were the module pilot?'

'Yes. That surprises you?'

'I stopped being surprised by lady drivers a long time back,' he said. 'And you landed safely? No bumps?'

'No bumps.' She almost smiled.

'Then what?'

'I extended the outside arm to set up the external camera to record this historic moment for posterity. Then Emile activated his TEC and entered the airlock. I opened the exit door and he began to descend. The rest you have seen.'

'Why was he the first out?' asked Dalziel. 'Did you draw lots, or what?'

Now she definitely smiled.

'Certainly we drew lots,' she said. 'Being first is important. Everyone remembers Armstrong, but who can remember the others? Can you, Mr Dalziel?'

'Nowadays I can't remember to zip me flies till I feel a draught,' said Dalziel. 'Lemarque won when you drew lots, then?'

'Oh no. He did not even bother to take part. He knew it was pointless. Next day the decision came from above. He was chosen. No arguments.'

'Oh aye? How'd they work that out, then?'

She said, 'Who knows? But perhaps you remember from your schooldays, in the playground there was always one little boy or girl who had to have first turn at everything. In Europe that child is France.'

'Was anything said in the module before he left?'

'Only trivial things, I think.'

'My favourites,' said Dalziel.

'Emile said something like, I hope the Yankees have built a McDonald's. Even American coffee must be better than the dishwater we have to drink. Something like that.'

'What do you think he was trying to say before he died?'

She shrugged and said, 'Who can know?'

'Oh mer . . .
How about,
Oh Marte?'
said Dalziel.

'The vowel sound is not right,' she observed indifferendy.

'Dying Frenchman pronouncing a Danish name,' he said. 'What do you want? Professor Higgins?'

She took the reference in her stride and said, 'It would be touching to believe his thoughts turned to me at such a time.'

Touching,
thought Dalziel. Aye, mebbe, A hand on the shoulder in an identity parade,
that's
touching!

But he didn't bother to say it.
Or if he pleases through it pass . . . Silly bugger who wrote the hymn can't have heard of
frosted glass, he thought.

'You don't look happy,' said Pascoe.

'You do. Found the Paddy amusing, did you?'

'Oh, he's a broth of a boy, sure enough. More froth than a pint of Guinness.'

'Get you anywhere?'

Pascoe said uncertainly, 'I'm not sure, I got a feeling he was trying to manipulate me . . . but you know how Irishmen love to wind up the English. We'll see what you think in the

reverse singles. Who do you fancy now. Van der Heyde or Albertosi?'

Dalziel said, 'How come I suddenly get a choice? You made out the list and I'm down for first stab at the Eyetie.'

'Sorry. I got worried in case you thought I was being a bit rigid, pulling rank, that sort of thing.'

'Oh aye? Word of advice,' said Dalziel gravely. 'Pulling rank's like pulling bollocks; once you start, you'd best not let go.'

'Oh aye?' mocked Pascoe. 'You've been at your Rochefoucauld again, I see. Well, one good maxim deserves another. Look before you leap on top of a touchy Italian. Albertosi's psych report says he's got a short fuse. He probably wouldn't have made the trip if the other Italian nominee hadn't fallen off his scooter and cracked his skull. So tread carefully.'

'No need to warn me, lad,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a changed man these days. No more clog dancing. It's all tights and tippie-toe now, believe me!'

'Here's something that'll make you laugh, Marco,' said Dalziel. 'From what's been said so far, you're looking the man most likely to have knocked off Emile Lemarque!'

The Italian's English was nowhere near as good as the two women's, but he had no difficulty with the idiom.

'Who has said this? What have they said?' he demanded angrily.

'General notion seems to be you and him were bonking rivals. You know, jealous of each other's success with the ladies.'

'What? Me jealous of Lemarque? More chance I am jealous of a flea because he bites the woman I love!'

'Flea, you say? You want to watch where you get your women,' said Dalziel kindly. 'But you were both after Silvia Rabal, weren't you?'

'What? Oh yes, he bothers her. Is always flapping round her, calling her his little cockatoo, making jokes. But is all

words like with all these Frenchman, talk, talk, talk, so much talk, so little action. Women like men who act, real men, big men. He is no bigger than she is, a midget almost! When a true man comes along, his little cockatoo soon jerks him off the nest!'

Dalziel hid a grin and said, 'So what you're saying is, Lemarque wasn't worth bothering about, right? But he did bother you, didn't he? So why was that?'

Albertosi grimaced and said, 'You are right. I will not lie. I did not like the Frenchman. But not because of Silvia.'

'Why, then?'

'Because he has a poison tongue! Because he makes slander about me.'

'They're like that, these Frogs,' said Dalziel sympathetically. 'Think yourself lucky you've still got the Alps between you. We've let the buggers build a tunnel so they can come hopping across any time on a day return. What was it he said about you?'

'He said that I have injured my comrade, Giuseppe.'

'Eh?'

'Giuseppe Serena. We are Italy's team for the moon shot, but only one of us will go, it is not yet decided which. Then my friend is riding back to the base on his scooter when a car forces him off the road. He is not badly injured but bad enough to put him out of the running, you understand. Then this pig, this Frenchman, he says it is I who drive the car, I who hurt my friend so that I will be selected!'

It came out in a volcanic rush, flaring (as with Silvia Rabal) into a violent spout of his own language which did not need a dictionary to translate.

'So you wouldn't be too unhappy about Lemarque's death?' said Dalziel.

'What do you say? I am not happy that a colleague dies, does not matter how I feel personally. But, how is it in English? - pride comes, then a fall. He was so boasting he was to be the first to step on the moon. Only he doesn't step, he falls!'