Dialogues of the Dead

16

“Rosebud?” said Andy Dalziel. “Go to the pictures a lot, young Boiler, does he?”

“No, sir,” said Pascoe, relieved not to have to make the decision whether to explain to Dalziel that rosebud was the mysterious last utterance of the dying millionaire in Citizen Kane. The Fat Man could be brutally sarcastic if he felt his underlings were patronizing him. “Bowler’s never seen the movie so it meant nothing to him. More important, of course, is whether it meant anything to the councillor.”

“Mebbe. But I can’t see Stuffer going to the flicks unless there was free popcorn. You say young Bowler gave him the kiss of life?”

“So I understand,” said Pascoe.

“Braver man than me,” declared Dalziel. “I’ve had me doubts about the lad, but I reckon anyone who can give Stuffer Steel the kiss of life ought to be put up for the Queen’s Medal!”

Pascoe glanced nervously around in case there was anyone in earshot ready to be offended, but the mezzanine floor which included Hal’s café-bar and a book and souvenir shop was deserted except for a couple of uniforms. He’d been reluctant to close the Centre completely, but Dalziel had had no such qualms on his return.

The Fat Man was staring up at a security camera as if contemplating ripping it off the wall.

It wouldn’t have made any difference if he had.

One of the first things Pascoe had done was send Wield up to the security office on the top floor in the hope that there’d be something on video. His own expert eye had told him that the system was far from the state-of-the-art set-up you might have expected in such a new complex. Old-fashioned fixed cameras, and not a lot of them. But he hadn’t been prepared for the news that Wield returned with.

“You won’t credit this,” he said to Pascoe. “System’s not on during the day.”

“What?”

“No. Theory is that the sight of the cameras is deterrent enough. Wouldn’t have been on at night either if Stuffer had had his way.”

“Stuffer?”

“Aye, ironic, isn’t it? Every penny they spent on building this place, they got a battle from Stuffer over it. They had to let him win a few small victories else they’d never have got it finished. Security was one of them. He got the budget for installation, use and maintenance cut by eighty per cent. It was either that or lose a couple of staff.”

“Shit,” said Pascoe. “But it does mean that whoever did this probably knew he wasn’t on Candid Camera. That’s something.”

“Not much consolation to Stuffer, wherever he is, knowing if he’d not been so penny-pinching, he might still be here,” Wield had mused.

“How long’s yon sodding quack going to take?” demanded the Fat Man, turning his attention from the useless camera to the side corridor where the Gents was situated. “What’s he doing in there, for God’s sake? Going through Stuffer’s pockets for change?”

Yon sodding quack was the police medical examiner who was presently examining the councillor’s body. When Bowler’s judgment that Steel was definitely dead was confirmed by the paramedics, Pascoe had made them leave the body where it was, both to prevent further contamination of the scene and to please the imminent superintendent who had been heard to aver that looking at a murder site without a corpse was like eating an egg without a waxed moustache.

“I’m sure he’ll be out shortly,” said Pascoe.

“Talking of bogs, where’s our Boghead at now?”

“Up in the gallery with Wieldy, taking statements.”

There’d been some muttering when he’d told the remaining preview guests that they could not leave till they’d been interviewed, but he’d been adamant. The near certainty that the murder weapon was Jude Illingworth’s lost burin made everyone in the gallery a potential witness. Pursuing the departed guests was going to soak up a lot of man hours, so it made good sense to hang on to those still in the gallery.

“Not that bright when he’s a key witness himself, Pete. It’s his statement I want to hear. Get him down here, will you?”

Pascoe had learned not to defend himself against Dalziel’s reproofs. No way you could win even when you were entirely in the right. Also there was a trade-off, which was that if anyone else dared reprove you, the Fat Man was usually ready to interpose his own body, even if you were entirely in the wrong.

In this case, Pascoe, seeing how shook up the young detective had been by his discovery of the body, had thought it best to keep him fully occupied. Now he went personally to fetch him. It was an act both kind and professional. Bowler must know he wasn’t the Fat Man’s favourite son at the moment and could easily be intimidated into stupidity. So a bit of tender loving reassurance would be timely, both to cheer him up and to make him a better witness.

In the gallery he found the previewers had adopted a defensive huddle round the priapic totem pole, like a herd of antelope scenting a marauding lion. An exception to this was Edwin Digweed who was patrolling round the group with a look of repressed rage on his face, more leonine than cervine. Bowler and DC Dennis Seymour had set up tables by the doorway, presumably to prevent flight, and were busy taking down details. Bowler’s witness was a man so nervously prolix that Pascoe stood around for several minutes before finally intervening by placing one hand under the man’s elbow, easing him out of the chair, and guiding him through the exit, the whiles murmuring the platitudes of gratitude.

“Thanks,” said Hat with a smile that faded when Pascoe told him the superintendent would like a word.

“Just tell him what you told me,” said Pascoe. “You know Mr. Dalziel, he likes to hear things from the horse’s mouth. I’ve already told him that in my opinion you acted with good sense and dispatch and did everything by the book.”

The youngster looked a little reassured and Pascoe asked, “Where’s Sergeant Wield, by the way?”

“He’s through there,” said Bowler, indicating one of the small side-galleries running off the main exhibition area. “There were a few people who’d left the preview but we managed to catch them before they got out of the Centre and he thought it best to keep them separate from this lot as they might be able to tell us something about the councillor’s movements downstairs.”

Plus, having left the gallery, as well as possible witnesses they were potential suspects, thought Pascoe. He strolled across the gallery and peered into the side-room. Among those gathered there he spotted Sam Johnson and Franny Roote, engaged in close conversation; also Dick Dee and Rye Pomona, similarly occupied. He thought of wandering in and suggesting to Wield that he took a specially close look at Roote, then cancelled the idea, partly because it felt neurotic, but mainly because he was sure Wield wouldn’t need any prompting.

“You OK on your own here for a while, Dennis?” he said to Seymour.

“No problem,” said the redheaded DC cheerfully. “Oh, by the way, I processed Mrs. Pascoe first and she said to tell you she’d see you at home later.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Pascoe sincerely, knowing that in Seymour’s case the thought would not have included the possibility of ingratiating himself by doing the DCI’s wife a favour. “I would suggest you take Mr. Digweed’s statement soon otherwise I think he’ll explode.”

“Right,” he said as he left the gallery with Bowler, “you might as well take me through the sequence en route.”

“Fine. Well, we came out and down the stairs like we’re doing now …”

“We being …?”

“Me and Rye, that’s Miss Pomona who works in the reference library.”

“Good. And were there others coming down the stairs at the same time?”

“Oh yes. Quite a lot, in front and behind.”

“Did you notice anyone in particular? I know I asked you before, but as we’re actually on the stairs now …”

Bowler shook his head.

“Not really. Like I said earlier, we were pretty deep in conversation, me and Rye-Miss Pomona, I mean …”

“For heaven’s sake, call her one or the other. I’m not interested in your romantic life,” said Pascoe.

“Sorry,” said Bowler. “Well, when we got here, people started going off different ways.”

They were approaching the mezzanine level which had the huge disadvantage from an investigative point of view of being the hub of the Centre. From here you could get to anywhere else within, or head for either the underground car park or main shopping precinct without. Even the fatal loo itself was situated in a corridor running between the mezzanine and a landing from which stairs ran up and down to the rest of the Centre. Dalziel had put his finger on the problem straight off. “Place is a fucking maze,” he’d said. “You’d need to be a trained rat to find your way to the cheese round here.”

Talking of Dalziel, there was no sign of him. Probably got impatient and went in to hurry the sodding quack along.

“Did you see Councillor Steel at all?” said Pascoe.

“I think I might have noticed him, his bald head, I mean, going down the stairs a bit in front of us, but I couldn’t swear to it,” said Bowler. “I was, you know …”

“Yes, deep in conversation with Miss Pomona,” said Pascoe. “How long was it before your own call of nature grew strong enough to drag you away from her?”

“Couple of minutes, no, probably a bit more. Sorry,” said Bowler, clearly irritated at his own vagueness. “Rye went off to pick up her coat and things that she’d left in the reference library …”

“Ah. Did she go down the corridor with the toilet in it, by any chance?”

“No, she went that way,” said Bowler, pointing to a door inscribed STAFF ONLY. “It would be quicker, I suppose.”

“And you …?”

“Like I say, I pootered around the book shop for a couple of minutes …”

“Or maybe a bit more?”

“Or maybe a bit more. Then I thought I’d take the chance to have a leak and I went to the toilet. …”

“Why that one?” said Pascoe. “If you were down there by the book shop, there’s another Gents, very clearly signed, just outside.”

“Well,” said Bowler uncomfortably, “to tell the truth, I’d just seen Mr. Dalziel going in there. …”

Pascoe laughed out loud. He could recall a time shortly after his arrival in Mid-Yorkshire when he’d found himself standing alongside the terrifying figure of the Fat Man in a urinal, quite unable-despite a very full bladder and the usually mimetically encouraging sound of a vigorous flow hitting the next basin-of producing a drop. It wasn’t displeasing to see that today’s laid-back youngsters weren’t entirely free of such hang-ups.

“So you went down the corridor,” said Pascoe. “Anyone else in sight, either end?”

“Definitely not, sir,” said Bowler, pleased to be on firm ground at last.

“And you went inside and saw Councillor Steel,” said Pascoe. “Well, that’s twice you’ve told me. You should be word perfect for Mr. Dalziel. Anything else you’d like to add?”

“Don’t think so. Except, well, you don’t think this could have anything to do with these Wordman killings, do you, sir?”

“At the moment there’s nothing to suggest it has,” said Pascoe. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason really. Just, well, when you’ve had three deaths and there comes a fourth …”

“That’s the kind of mistake it’s easy to make,” said Pascoe. “The Wordman murders are one case, this is another. Try to put them together without evidence and all you do is risk buggering up both investigations. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Good lad. One more thing just in case the super asks. You said you’d noticed him going into the other loo. When you found the body, didn’t you think of getting hold of him? He must have still been in the vicinity.”

“It did cross my mind, sir,” said Bowler. “But by the time I’d tried resuscitation and called up assistance and alerted the Centre security staff, he was probably long gone, whereas I knew you and the sarge were still up here and I just thought it would be best to be sure.”

Meaning that, uncertain he’d done everything by the book and aware that he was a little shook up, he didn’t fancy running breathless down the street to put himself at the judgment of Fat Andy.

“I think perhaps it might be simpler to say nothing about seeing the super going into the other Gents,” said Pascoe. “So far as you knew, he was long gone. Ah, that sounds like him now.”

The Gents’ door opened and a short ochrous-complexioned man who looked as if he’d rather be playing golf, for which he was indeed dressed, emerged, followed by Dalziel.

“And that’s it, Doc, he’s dead? Well, I’m sorry I interrupted your game. How’d it go, by the way?”

“As a matter of fact I was dormy three against my revolting brother-in-law whom I haven’t beaten for five years and he was in a bunker and I was on the green when my pager went.”

“Moral victory then.”

“In dealings with my brother-in-law, there is no moral dimension. The game is void. As to the unfortunate councillor, I’m sorry, I cannot tell you what I do not know. He was killed, certainly within the past hour and probably as a result of a blow at the base of his skull from a narrow sharp weapon. The wounds to the top of his head are slight and appear more likely to have been inflicted after rather than before the fatal wound, though for what purpose I cannot even speculate. You must await the post mortem for a more considered view. Now, I bid you good day.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Caligari,” said Dalziel to his retreating back. “DC Bowler, nice of you to drop by. Step in here and show me what things looked like afore you and every other bugger who came near him started chucking poor Stuffer around.”

Bowler went through the toilet door. He avoided looking down at the figure on the floor, uncomfortably aware that Dalziel was watching him closely in the mirror which ran along the facing wall.

“He was slumped down in front of the washbasins, slightly over to his right side. I got the impression he must have been washing himself when he was attacked.”

“Oh aye? That a wild guess or do you hear voices?”

“No, sir. I noticed his hands were wet and his face too, I noticed that when I tried to give him the kiss of life.”

“Aye, I heard about that. So, he’d had a pee, washed his hands and was splashing a bit of water on his face. What do you reckon happened next?”

“The door opened, the assailant came in. It’s only two or three paces across the floor, and with the councillor washing his face, the assailant could have been right up behind him before he looked up and saw him in the mirror. Then it would be too late.”

“Might have made no difference anyway,” said Pascoe. “You see someone come into a public toilet, you don’t think, That guy’s going to attack me, not unless he’s foaming at the mouth and carrying a bloodstained axe. Something the size of that burin, you wouldn’t even notice he had it in his hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowler. “That was something I’ve been thinking about. A weapon like that directed against the head, from what I recall of anatomy, you’d have to be very expert or very lucky to kill somebody or even incapacitate them with a single blow.”

He paused and Dalziel said impatiently, “Come on, lad, don’t arse about like Sir Peter Quimsby, make your point.”

“Well, it might make sense if we assume this was unpremeditated, I mean, like someone wandered in here who just happened to have a burin in his hand and he saw Steel stooping down and thought, Hello, I think I’ll have a stab at him. But our perp didn’t just happen to have a burin, he had to steal it. That was risky in itself. I mean, who knows, by the time we interview everybody who was in the gallery, we might find somebody who saw something suspicious around Jude Illingworth’s display, not suspicious enough to cry, Stop thief! but something they recall when we start asking questions.”

“Perhaps he didn’t steal it as a weapon but for some other reason,” said Pascoe. “And it just came in handy when he suddenly decided to attack Councillor Steel.”

“Yes, sir, possibly, though on a scale of improbabilities, I’d say …not that I mean it’s not possible, only …”

“Nay, we don’t stand on ceremony in murder investigations,” interrupted Dalziel. “If you think the DCI’s talking crap, just spit it out.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that …”

“Well, I would. I think you’ve got the right of it, lad. Chummy made up his mind to stiff old Stuffer, he wanted a weapon and the burin was the best he could come up with in a hurry.”

“Which would mean it was premeditated, but not all that much pre,” said Bowler. “Something must have happened at the preview to make it necessary to kill the councillor.”

“You mean like someone saw him eating for the first time and got to worrying about kids starving in Ethiopia?” said Dalziel.

“Or maybe it was something he said,” interposed Pascoe, feeling sidelined by this unexpected rapprochement between the Fat Man and Bowler. “The councillor was a great one for stirring things up, as we know to our cost.”

“Aye, happen it’s a good job we’re investigating this,” said Dalziel. “I mean, with Jax the Ripper and Stuffer being shuffled off in quick succession, if you start looking for someone with a motive for shutting them up, I reckon we’d come high up the list.”

Pascoe glanced at Bowler, recalling his recent lecture on making illogical connections and said, “You’re not really suggesting there could be a connection with the Wordman here?”

“Wash your mouth out, lad!” exploded Dalziel. “Yon daft business is the kind of thing that gets CID a bad name. No, with a bit of luck, what we’ve got here is a good old straightforward killing, and once we’ve interviewed all the preview guests, we’ll have it all tied up, neat and tidy, afore Match of the Day.”

But for once Dalziel’s prognostication was wrong. By mid-evening all the guests had been tracked down and interviewed. None of them had noticed anything suspicious in regard to the theft of the burin. Councillor Steel’s conversation, though as full as ever of complaint and accusation, did not seem to have broken any new ground. The nearest thing to an altercation was Charley Penn’s annoyance at Steel’s efforts to shut down his literature group. But, as the novelist pointed out, if you took that as a motive, then everyone employed in the HAL Centre must be suspect as the councillor proposed to make half of them redundant and slash the salaries of the rest. Mary Agnew recalled descending the stairs from the gallery with him, during which short interlude she got a quick-fire summary of her newspaper’s major failings. On reaching the mezzanine, he’d said, “Got to spend a penny,” and turned away, presumably towards the men’s toilet. She hadn’t noticed anyone else going after him.

Pressure applied by Dalziel to the Chief Constable had been passed on and a preliminary post mortem report was available by early evening. It stated that Steel had died as a result of a single blow from the burin (now confirmed as the murder weapon by Forensic), which had cut right through to the medulla and pons of the brainstem, and had been, as Bowler had said, either very lucky or very expert. The burin had been wiped clean of prints.

Andy Dalziel read the report, said, “Sod it,” and went home.

He checked his phone for messages. There was just one, from Cap Marvell. She regretted again the ruining of their planned afternoon by Steel’s untimely death and would have been happy to sit around like Marianna of the moated grange had she not received an invite from some old radical chums to go out on the bevvy and maybe check out the latest Full Monty act at Jock the Cock’s Nite Spot.

Dalziel sighed. He could not fault the wisdom of her choice, but he missed her. On the other hand, left to his own devices, there were certain refined pleasures a man could enjoy without fear of comment or complaint.

He went into the kitchen, emerging a few moments later equipped with what he thought of as The Four Last Things, viz a fork, a jar of pickled herring, a half-pint mug and a bottle of Highland Park. He poured the fourth into the third, plunged the first into the second and settled back to enjoy Match of the Day which was a poor substitute for a real game like rugby football, but Manchester United were playing Leeds, so the violence factor ought to come close.

Two yellow cards later the phone rang.

“Yes!” he bellowed.

“It’s me,” said Pascoe.

“Oh shit.”

“That’s a pretty fair description,” said Pascoe. “Security man at the Centre doing a sweep heard the main letter box rattle and when he checked he found an envelope marked ‘Reference Library.’ Normally he’d have left it, but because of the murder, they’re very much on the qui vive, and he reported to his Control and they got on to the factory.”

“And you were still there?” said Dalziel. “What’s up? Ellie locked you out?”

“No, sir. I was at home. Seymour rang me. I think he didn’t want to disturb you …”

“Glad there’s someone who’s got some consideration. All right, lad, the music’s stopped, the parcel’s in my lap. Tell me I’m guessing wrong.”

“Doubt it,” said Pascoe. “You know you were hoping the Steel case would turn out a nice straightforward murder? Forget it. The envelope contained a Fourth Dialogue. Looks like the Wordman has uttered again.”

There was silence, then a great anguished cry.

“Sir? You there? You OK, sir?”

“No, I’m bloody well not,” said Dalziel. “First you tell me my unfavourite loony’s still at it, then, to cap it all, Man, United have just scored!”