Dialogues of the Dead

12

The good thing about Pascoe was that he didn’t nurse grudges, or at least didn’t seem to, which might of course be the bad thing about Pascoe.

Hat had volunteered to go and interview Roote about his visit to the Taverna but the DCI had said no, and then, as was usual with him though unusual in most senior officers, gone on to explain his reasoning.

“Roote doesn’t know your face-unless you’ve alerted him?”

“No way, sir,” said Hat confidently.

“Let’s keep it that way then. I’ll send Sergeant Wield to do the interview. He is, of us all, the most …how shall I put it? …unreadable. If anyone can convince Roote he’s just a possible witness like everyone else who dined at the Taverna, then it’s Wield. Of course, that’s all that Roote probably really is. A possible witness.”

Oh yes, thought Hat. But you’re hoping like mad he’s a lot more than that!

“Meanwhile,” said Pascoe, “you get yourself round to the Gazette. Ripley was killed late last night. Unless the Dialogue was written in advance, and it certainly doesn’t read like that, it must have got into the bag some time in the ten hours before nine this morning when it was found. I want to know how. I’ll double check the library end. Meet me there when you’re done. And, Hat, play it cool, eh? All hell’s going to break loose when the press get on to this story. Let’s stretch out the calm before as long as we can!”

Hat’s visit to the Gazette office didn’t last long. Pascoe’s hopes for a breathing space proved vain. News of the latest Dialogue had already reached here, and Mary Agnew was more interested in trying to get information than in giving it. Eager to be out of her reach, Hat stonewalled stubbornly till he got what he’d come for. It wasn’t very helpful. Friday night was always hectic with preparation for the Saturday edition, and Jax Ripley’s broadcast had made it even more so, giving Mary Agnew a last-minute lead story she couldn’t ignore. This meant that no one had noticed a secondary effect of Ripley’s revelations which was that for some reason they seemed to have reinforced her reminder of the closing date for entries to the story competition. Early next morning the post-boy who, having better things to do than watch television on a Friday night, remained blissfully ignorant of all the excitements, discovered the dozen or more late entries, shoved them into the sack with all the others which had turned up during the day on Friday and, glad to see the end of what he found a very tedious task, delivered them post haste to the Centre. Mary Agnew, who’d naturally checked everything in the sack after watching Ripley’s show, was furious when she now realized for the first time that more had been added later and Hat sneaked away under cover of the fire and fury she was raining on the post-boy’s bewildered head.

As he reached the Centre, which was only a couple of minutes’ walk away, he saw the DCI’s lean and rangy figure pushing through the glass doors and hurried to catch up with him.

“You’ve been quick,” said Pascoe accusingly.

Hat, who’d been expecting compliments for his speed, gave what he thought was a very professional almost Wield-like summation of his findings, but found insult added to injury when Pascoe seemed inclined to believe he must have let the cat out of the bag about the Dialogue. He defended himself vigorously but it turned out unnecessarily, for when they entered the Reference, evidence that Agnew already knew everything was there in the shape of the spare, stooping nicotine-impregnated figure of Sammy Ruddlesdin, the Gazette’s senior reporter.

He was in the middle of what seemed a heated exchange with Percy Follows and a short stocky man wearing a check suit bright enough to embarrass a bookie and a ponytail like a donkey’s pizzle. Standing to one side like adjudicators at a livestock show were Dick Dee and Rye.

Dee, noting their arrival first, said, “Visitors, Percy,” in a quiet voice which somehow had sufficient force to cut through the debate. The three men looked towards the newcomers. Follows’ mouth stretched into a smile almost too broad for his small face and with an equine toss of his luxuriant mane he made a bee-line for Pascoe, thwarting the attempts of ponytail to interpose his own body, but unable to prevent the man from interposing his own voice which was astonishingly deep and resonant, as if issuing from the depths of a cavern.

“DCI Pascoe, isn’t it? I have the pleasure of your wife’s acquaintance, sir. Ambrose Bird. This is a dreadful business. Dreadful.”

So this was Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor-Managers. Hat recalled what Rye had said about the rivalry between Bird and Follows for the proposed overall directorship of the Centre. This, it became clear, was the reason for his presence. As news of the murder and the Dialogue had run round the building (no prizes for guessing its source, thought Hat, looking at the still vainly chirruping librarian), Bird had decided that his self-assumed status as Director Apparent if not yet Elect would be enhanced by appearing as the Centre spokesperson to the media. He was probably the one who’d picked up the phone and tipped off the Gazette.

Pascoe, with a diplomatic ease that Hat could only admire and hope to learn, quickly relegated the trio to the public area of the reference library while Hat ushered Rye Pomona and Dick Dee into the office.

Pascoe closed the door, checked on the trio of men through the glass panel, then murmured to Hat, “Keep your eye on that lot. Any of them come close, especially Sammy, get out there and break their legs.”

The office had a lived-in feel about it. Coffee machine, tin of biscuits, one old armchair that didn’t look like municipal issue, a square of Oriental carpet the same, and the walls crowded with pictures, some prints, some photos, all of men. Maybe Dee was gay, thought Hat hopefully. But he didn’t feel gay, though this was a dangerous touchstone to be applied by anyone who worked with Edgar Wield. Looking for evidence that the librarian was a family man, he spotted on the desk a silver-framed photo of three schoolboys. The one on the right looked like it might be Dee junior. Or perhaps, indeed, Dee senior when junior. Also on the desk was a box containing small plastic tiles with letters and numbers on, plus three wooden tile racks, standing on a large folded board. Presumably this was Paro-whatsit, the crazy word game Rye had told him about.

He caught her eye and risked a smile.

She didn’t smile back.

Pascoe took her and Dee through the events of the morning with clinical precision while Hat took notes, glancing through the panel from time to time to make sure the journalist was keeping a safe distance.

When she said that the first thing she picked out of the open sack had been Charley Penn’s translation of one of Heine’s poems, Hat felt yet another pang of this silly jealousy.

“So Mr. Penn was in the library already when you arrived?”

“Oh yes.”

“And saw everything?”

“Mr. Penn doesn’t miss much,” said Rye carefully.

“I didn’t notice him when we arrived just now,” said Pascoe.

“No,” intervened Dee. “Charley said that there would probably be so much fuss in the library that he’d be better off working at home.”

From the faint smile that accompanied this, Hat guessed it was a paraphrase of what Penn had actually said.

“And home is where?”

Dee stumbled over the address and Rye came in and recited it correctly. Did this mean she’d actually been there? wondered Hat, jealousy once more bubbling up, without, he hoped, showing on his face. She’d already picked up he was jealous of her fondness for Dee. Let her get the impression he was some kind of possessive nut and that could really fuck up his prospects.

Finally Pascoe was satisfied.

Leaving the two librarians in the office, he moved out with Hat. Near the library door, Bird and Follows were continuing their running row while Ruddlesdin, chewing on an unlit cigarette, spectated with world-weary indifference. The dispute stopped when Pascoe called, “Gentlemen!” and all three moved to join him.

He stepped aside to usher them into the office.

“I’m finished here,” he said. “Thank you for waiting so patiently.”

Then, to Hat’s delight and admiration, he gently closed the door behind them and moved towards the exit at a pace which stopped just short of running.

Ruddlesdin caught up with them just before the door of the car-park lift closed.

“Quote, Pete,” he gasped. “Give us a quote.”

“Smoking can seriously damage your health,” said Pascoe.

“Where are we going, sir?” asked Hat as they got into the car.

“To talk to Charley Penn, of course,” said Pascoe.

Penn’s flat was on the top floor of a converted Edwardian townhouse which was corralled in scaffolding and resonant with the shouts, crashes, clangs and radio music which proclaim to the world that the British workman is earning his pay.

They found Penn on his way out. With a resentful glower, he turned round and led them back into his apartment, saying, “Would you bloody believe it, I fled the library, thinking it was soon going to be echoing to the heavy plod of constabulary feet, making it impossible to work, and came back to this hell?”

“But you must have known that work was going on,” said Pascoe.

“They hadn’t started when I left and I thought, Saturday morning, maybe the buggers refuse to get out of their pits unless they get quadruple time.”

“So what are they doing?”

“My landlord’s tarting the building up, reckons he can get five times what he paid for it a couple of years back if he sells it as a single dwelling.” The writer showed his uneven teeth in a canine grin. “But he’s got to get shut of me first, hasn’t he?”

While these pleasantries were being exchanged, Hat took a look around.

The flat, so far as he could work out without being too obvious, consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and the room they were in. High-ceilinged and with a deep bay window which gave a good view (even framed in scaffolding) over the interesting roofscape of the older part of town, it had a sense of spaciousness which not even the detritus of a determined bookman could disguise. There was a huge desk in the bay, its surface completely hidden by papers and books which overflowed on to the floor a couple of metres in all directions. At the other side of the room stood a green-baized antique card table with a rotatable top on which very neatly laid out was a large board in the shape of a five-pointed star, marked in squares, some coloured, some bearing strange symbols, flanked by a dish full of letter tiles and three wooden tile racks.

They really must enjoy this game, him and Dee, thought Hat. A board each! Maybe there were more. Presumably there’d be one in Dee’s home too, and God knows where else.

Then his attention was diverted to the wall directly behind the table on which hung a framed photograph. It showed three boys standing close together, arms round each other. It was the same picture he’d seen on Dick Dee’s desk, except that this print was much larger. The enlarging had exaggerated the fuzziness caused by the poor focus to produce a strange otherworldly effect, so that the boys appeared like figures seen in a dream. They were standing on grass and in the background were trees and a tall castellated building, like a castle in a misty forest. The two outer boys were almost of a height, one perhaps two or three inches taller than the other, but they were both a good six inches taller than the boy in the centre. He had a mop of curly blond hair and a round cherubic face which was smiling with undisguised delight at the camera. The shorter of the other two, the one who looked like Dee, was smiling also, but a more inward-looking, secretively amused kind of smile, while the third wore an unambiguous scowl which Hat saw again as a voice snarled, “Having a good poke around, are you?” and he turned to look at Charley Penn.

“Sorry, it was just the game,” he said, indicating the board. “Rye-Miss Pomona, mentioned it …some funny name …para something …”

“Paronomania,” said Penn, regarding him closely. “So Ms. Pomona mentioned it, did she? Yes, I recall her taking an interest when she saw me and Dick playing one day. But I told her that like all the best games, only two could play.”

He smiled salaciously, his gaze fixed on Hat, who felt his face flush.

“Some kind of Scrabble, is it?” said Pascoe.

“Oh yes. Like chess is some kind of draughts,” sneered Penn.

“Fascinating. My young daughter loves board games,” murmured Pascoe. “But we mustn’t detain you any longer than necessary, Mr. Penn. Just a couple of questions …”

But before he could begin there was a loud knock at the outer door.

Penn left them and a moment later they heard the outbreak of a loud and increasingly acrimonious discussion between the writer and the foreman of the renovators, who required access to the windows of Penn’s flat and seemed to think some written instruction from his employer gave him a legal right to this.

Pascoe moved across to a tall bureau and examined the books on the shelves. All of Penn’s Harry Hacker series were there.

“Read any of these, Hat?” enquired Pascoe.

“No, sir. Better things to do.”

Pascoe regarded him curiously then said, “Maybe you should. You can learn a lot about a writer from his books.”

He reached up and took from a shelf not a book but one of two leather-cased files marked SKULKER. Opening it, he found bound inside copies of a magazine with that name. It was clearly an amateur production, though well organized and laid out. He opened a page at random.

A Riddle

My first is in Dog House, though not in demand:

My second’s incrassate until it’s in hand:

My whole is in Simpson when it isn’t in Bland

(Answer on p.13)

Hat was looking over his shoulder.

“A riddle,” he said excitedly. “Like in the Second Dialogue.”

“Don’t get excited,” said Pascoe. “This is a different kind of riddle, though it is not the kind of riddle it at first appears to be. It sounds as if it should be one of those simple spelling conundrums. But in fact it isn’t.”

“So what is it?”

“Let’s look at the answer and see, shall we?”

He turned to page thirteen.

Answer: Lonesome’s loblance

“What the hell does that mean?” said Hat.

“I would guess it’s a schoolboy joke,” said Pascoe.

But before he could speculate further, Penn came back in.

“Make yourselves at home, do,” he snarled. “I keep my private correspondence in the filing cabinet.”

“Naturally, which is why I did not anticipate finding anything private on your bookshelves,” said Pascoe urbanely. “But I apologize.”

He replaced the volume and said, “Now, those few questions …”

Penn quickly recovered his equilibrium and readily confirmed Rye’s account of the sequence of events. He explained in unnecessary detail that on his arrival in the reference library, he’d approached the desk in search of Mr. Dee but, seeing he was busy in his office, he’d returned to his seat, inadvertently leaving some of his work on the counter where Ms. Pomona had found it. He even produced the translated poem for them to read.

“I got the impression,” he added, eyes fixed sardonically on Hat, “that she might have mistook it for a billy-doo. Kind of billy-doo lots of lasses would like to get, I reckon. Not enough old-style romance around these days, is there?”

Hat’s hardly suppressed indignation came out as a plosive grunt and he might have got down to some really hostile interrogation if Pascoe hadn’t said, “That’s been very helpful, Mr. Penn. I don’t imagine we’ll need a written statement. We can see ourselves out.”

In the street he said, “Hat, it’s not a good idea to let your personal animosity towards a witness shine through quite so clearly,” adding, to soften the reproof, “I speak from experience.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry. But he really rubs me up the wrong way. I know it’s not evidence, but I can’t help feeling there’s something weird about that guy. Maybe it’s part of his job description, being a writer.”

“I see. Writers have to be weird, do they?” said Pascoe, faintly amused.

Suddenly Hat remembered Ellie Pascoe.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“Of course you didn’t. It’s only elderly male writers who leave romantic poems lying around for impressionable young women to find who are weird, I understand that.”

Laughing, he got into their car.

Well, so long as I’m keeping the brass amused, I must be doing something right, thought Hat.

The first few days of a murder enquiry, particularly one which promised to be as complex as the hunt for the Wordman, are always incredibly busy. At this stage it’s impossible to say what will prove productive busy-ness and what will turn out to be a complete waste of energy, so everything is done with a time-consuming attention to detail. The one positive thing that had come up was a partial thumbprint, not Ripley’s, on her left mule. Dalziel to his credit didn’t even look smug, but maybe this was because the experts said that even if they found a possible match, it was likely to be well short of the sixteen points of comparison necessary for a print to be admissible in evidence. Computerization permitted much quicker checks than in the old days, but so far nothing had come up.

The post mortem had confirmed cause of death as a single stab wound from a long thin knife. The ME’s on-site opinion that he could see no external evidence of sexual assault was also confirmed. She may have had protected intercourse some time on the day of her death, but if it had been against her will, she’d been too frightened to resist.

So the initial PM report had not been very helpful, but later the pathologist had rung up to say that a second examination had produced evidence of a bite mark on her left buttock, difficult to spot because it was right in the area of maximum hypostasis or post mortem lividity. The implication was that it might have been missed had it not been for the pathologist’s devotion to duty. “More likely it was the mortuary assistant or the cleaning lady,” said Dalziel cynically. Photographs were taken and shown to Professor Henry Muller, Mid-Yorkshire’s forensic dental expert, known to his students and the police alike as Mr. Molar. The professor’s diagnosis was as vague as the fingerprint expert’s. Yes, he’d be able to say definitely which teeth had definitely not made these marks, but doubted if he would be able to go beyond a strong possibility if presented with teeth that seemed to fit.

“Experts,” said Dalziel. “I’ve shat ’em. It’s blood, sweat, and good honest grind that’ll catch this bugger.”

From the start Hat Bowler was one of the grinders. On the first Saturday he found he hardly had a minute to spare to ring Rye and confirm what he’d known from the moment he saw Jax’s body, that his free Sunday was free no longer, and their trip to Stangdale had to be cancelled.

To his delight she said, “No sweat. The birds won’t have all migrated by next week, will they?”

“Hell, no,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’ll drop them a line to tell them to hang on.”

“Do that.”

They’d then talked about the case till Hat became aware of Dalziel’s bulk looming in the doorway of the CID room and hastily brought the conversation to a close.

“Witness?” said the Fat Man.

“Yes, sir,” said Hat.

“Things have changed. Talking to witnesses didn’t used to be a laughing matter. I were looking for Sergeant Wield.”

“He’s talking to a witness too, sir.”

“Hope he’s not laughing,” said Dalziel. “Not that any bugger would notice.”

Edgar Wield certainly wasn’t laughing.

The witness he was talking to was Franny Roote and Wield was playing this completely deadpan. He didn’t want to give the slightest hint that they’d had Roote under surveillance. Wield thought his friend Peter Pascoe was treading a very narrow line with Roote. There’d been no official complaint against Pascoe after the events which had led to the young man’s so-called suicide attempt, but hints of undue pressure had been made in certain quarters of the press, and notes would have been taken in the Force’s press monitoring division. Another “incident” would probably get a more direct response from both bodies. So Wield had been meticulous in his approach to the Taverna. He needed a reason for knowing Roote had been there on the night in question and it had come as a relief to discover that his bill had been paid by credit card. Sight of the bill also confirmed that he’d been there alone but even with the help of a photo, none of the waiters remembered him particularly.

Wield had then set out to interview everybody else known to have dined there that night, putting Roote well down the list.

Yet, for all this, he found himself greeted by a very faint, very knowing smile, as if the man recognized every inch of the path that had been trodden to his door.

He answered the questions courteously.

Yes, he’d been to the Taverna, just the once, not his kind of food. Yes, he remembered the young bazouki player. No, he couldn’t recollect noticing anyone in particular chatting to him.

“And you, sir, did you talk to the lad?” asked Wield. “Give a request, mebbe?”

“No, not my kind of music.”

“Not your kind of music.

Not your kind of food. If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you choose to visit that restaurant in the first place?”

This got the Roote open shy smile.

“Don’t know, really. I think someone may have recommended it. Yes, that’s it. A recommendation.”

“Oh yes. Someone you can remember?”

“Not really,” said Roote. “Just somebody I met in passing, I think.”

And that was it. He reported back to Pascoe who brought Hat in to listen.

“And none of the other diners we’ve talked to recall seeing David Pitman talking to a single diner?” said Pascoe.

“No. Sorry,” said Wield. “Dead end. Any word yet on that partial they found on Ripley’s mule?”

“No match in the records, Sarge,” said Hat.

Which meant, thought Wield, that it wasn’t Roote’s; as a convicted felon, his prints would be on record.

But he didn’t rub the point in.

As the weekend approached, things slowed down a little, which wasn’t good for the atmosphere in CID but gave Hat hope that he might be able to keep his rearranged date. Also he was determined to make it to the lunchtime preview on Saturday, fearful that if he didn’t show there, Rye might back off from their rearranged Sunday afternoon trip to Stangdale.

On Friday morning he presented his weekly report on Roote to Pascoe. Any hope he’d had that the Ripley murder enquiry would get him off this deadly dull surveillance had vanished when the DCI had used Roote’s visit to the Taverna to make the job official. Dalziel hadn’t looked happy, however, and Wield’s report plus the negative fingerprint evidence gave Hat hope the job wouldn’t last forever.

“And you’re sure he didn’t clock you?” asked Pascoe, still seeking a reason for Roote’s innocent behaviour.

“Stake my life on it, sir,” said Hat confidently. “If I’d been any discreeter, I’d have lost sight of myself in my shaving mirror.”

This had made Pascoe smile. Then he said resignedly, “OK. I think we’d better call it a day. Thanks for all your hard work. You did well.” Which Hat took to mean the Fat Man had finally sat heavily on the surveillance job.

But he was careful not to let his interpretation show, especially as, emboldened by the praise, he seized the chance to ask, with explanation, if he could have time off to attend the preview.

“Why not?” said the DCI. “Everyone else seems to be going. And who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hat. And not wanting to appear too young and frivolous, he’d added, “Sir, it did strike me, with the Wordman using the library to get his Dialogues noticed, and this preview taking place in the Centre, do you think there’s any chance he could turn up there?”

And Pascoe had laughed and said, “You mean, if the two of us keep our eyes skinned and stay ready to pounce on anyone who looks like they’re about to commit murder, we might pull off a real coup! Seriously, Hat, you don’t get much free time in our job. My advice is, forget work, relax. No reason why our Wordman should be there, and, even if he is, he’s not going to be doing anything different from the rest of us, which is to say, looking at what’s on display and enjoying it. Right?”

“Absolutely right, sir,” said Hat. “I’m sorry. It was a daft thing to say.”

“Not daft, just above and beyond the call of duty. Forget the Wordman. Like I say, just relax and enjoy the preview.”