Dialogues of the Dead

25

The dialogue had been found in its usual buff envelope, once more addressed Reference Library, tucked away behind a pile of books reserved for collection on the reception counter close by where the morning mail basket was placed.

Whether it had fallen there by accident or been placed there by design was impossible to say as no one on the staff could assert with absolute certainty that it hadn’t lain there unnoticed since Monday. Even worse, from Dalziel’s point of view, was the fact that the young female librarian who’d found the envelope had excitedly shared her suspicion of its contents with her nearest colleagues and a couple of eavesdropping members of the public before calling the police. Keeping the Fourth Dialogue out of the public domain had been easy with only the Centre security firm who’d handed over the unopened envelope to threaten into silence. But with rumours of the Fifth already starting to circulate, sitting on the Fourth could rapidly turn into a public relations disaster, and Dalziel found himself ordered from above to get his revelation in first. So a statement was put out and a press conference promised for a later date.

Pascoe, after digesting the new Dialogue, saw no reason to change his tack.

“This alters nothing,” he said. “Except maybe now we know why Roote’s been sitting there crying murder. Why pretend it’s anything else when you know the Dialogue admitting all is on its way? Or maybe he thought we’d seen the Dialogue already and were trying to do a bluff on him by ignoring it, and that really got up his nose.”

“But, sir,” said Bowler, “the Wordman describes seeing Roote go in with Dr. Johnson, then he had to wait till Roote came out.”

“Jesus,” said Pascoe in exasperation. “If Roote wrote the Dialogue, that’s exactly what he would say, isn’t it? I mean, he knows we know he was there. You two saw him going off with Johnson on Sunday, we’ve got witnesses who recall seeing them going into the block of flats-but none, incidentally, who recall noticing anyone else unaccounted for hanging around the place-and forensic have picked up traces of him all over the apartment.”

“That it?” said Dalziel.

“And there’s the poem Sam was reading. It took someone pretty familiar with both Beddoes and Sam’s Sheffield background to make sure the book was open at something so appropriate.”

He had told Dalziel about the alleged reasons for Johnson’s move. The Fat Man had yawned. Now Pascoe concentrated his arguments on the potentially more sympathetic ear of Bowler.

“And if we look at the Dialogue, see here, there’s a reference to the poem, this bit about his breath being so light it wouldn’t have shaken a rose-leaf down. That’s almost a direct quote from the first stanza, don’t you see?”

“Yes, sir, I see, sir,” said Bowler. “But …”

“But what?” Doubt from Dalziel was one thing, but from a DC it came close to mutiny!

“But it’s all a bit …convoluted, isn’t it, sir?”

“Convoluted?” echoed Dalziel. “It’s fucking contortuplicated!”

That sounded like a Dalziel original, but Pascoe had been caught out before and made a note to look it up before making comment.

Dalziel went on, “It’s bad enough having this bugger sitting out there, laughing at us, without going looking for trouble. You’ve had Hawkeye here give Roote the once-over already, and I dare say you’re so obsessed with the nasty little sod that you’ve checked him out against every bit of nastiness that’s gone on since he arrived in town. And you’ve not come up with owt, else you’d have him banged up, preferably underground and in shackles. Any other ideas? Anyone?”

Hat took a deep breath and said, “If we’re looking for someone with a strong connection to all the victims, except the first two who seem to be random, well, there’s Charley Penn. And he drives an old banger which would fit in with the First Dialogue.”

“Oh God,” said Dalziel. “Do I smell another obsession? I know Charley is mooning around after your bit in the library, but sooner or later, lad, you’ve got to start thinking with your head not your dick.”

Hat flushed and said, “You said yourself, sir, he’s something else!”

“Aye, he is, but that doesn’t make him a killer,” said Dalziel, rifling through his case file. “Here we are. Charley Penn. Asked as a matter of routine where he was Sunday afternoon. Said he went as usual to visit his mother who has a cottage on Lord Partridge’s estate at Haysgarth …that checked out, did it?”

Pascoe said, “More or less.”

Dalziel gave him a long look and said, “If I ask a lass, ‘Did you enjoy that, luv?’ and she answers, ‘More or less,’ I get worried.”

Pascoe said carefully, “It was Hat here who checked.”

“Bowler?” He looked at Hat with a predatory speculation. “You thought it worth a couple of hours of valuable CID time sending the lad out to Haysgarth rather than using the local woodentop? This one of your hunches, Pete?”

“I sort of volunteered, sir,” said Hat nobly.

“I see. One of your hunches then. So what did the old lady say?”

“Not much, at least not much I could understand,” said Hat ruefully. “Seemed to think I was a member of the Stasi, rattled away in German, and when I finally got her to speak English, her accent was so thick it was almost as hard to understand. All I got out of her was that her Karl was a good boy and loved his old mutti and the lovely cakes she makes so much he was hardly ever away from her. I asked about that Sunday and she said that he was with her every Sunday and every other day he could manage. And then she started in German again.”

“Said he likes her cakes, did she?” said Dalziel thoughtfully. “So, no written statement then?”

“It didn’t seem an option, sir,” said Hat uneasily.

“Nor indeed a necessity,” said Pascoe. “I think we’ve wasted enough time on Penn unless anyone knows of any real reason for putting Penn in the frame?”

“If you can fit Roote in, there’s lots of room for any bugger,” said Dalziel. “How about you, Wieldy? You got anyone you’d like to fit up? No? Good. Then let’s all start pulling in the same direction and see if we can’t plough this murdering bastard into the ground. Bowler, I reckon soon as I take my eye off you, you’ll go swanning round to that library you’re so fond of, so why don’t you go there officially and don’t come back till you’ve found out how and when this envelope was delivered, right? Even if it means stamping some of them dozy buggers overdue.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”

He vanished.

Dalziel said, “Nice to see someone so happy when I give ’em a job. Let’s see if I can’t do the same for you two miserable sods!”

Hat was indeed happy to have an excuse to visit the library. He’d thought of ringing Rye last night but decided it would be a wrong move. Progress was steady but a wise strategist knew when to press, when to hold back. That was the way the Jack-the-lad part of him analysed the situation. But there was another more shadowy area of thought and feeling which acknowledged that the more he saw of Rye, the more important it became to keep on seeing her. This wasn’t just another skirmish in that unremitting sexual campaign which all Jack-the-lad young men enter upon at puberty-approach, lay siege, negotiate terms, occupy, move on. This was …well, he didn’t quite know what it was because he belonged to a generation conditioned to mock the idioms of romantic love, and what we don’t have words for, we find it hard to think about. But he knew that to lose her by crowding her would be a folly he’d never forgive himself for.

But now, with new secret information to share, he anticipated being made very welcome. Jesuitically, he had worked out that the decision to go public about the existence of the two latest Dialogues permitted him to use his own best judgment about who he passed on the details to. And of course he’d swear her to secrecy. This too was a kind of intimacy, the Jack-the-lad strategist pointed out gleefully; and each such move was a move in the right direction. Which was, of course, bed. But more than bed. Breakfast and beyond. Even the bed bit was different. He’d always looked forward to sex with a healthy young appetite, but never before like this, for imagining it with Rye Pomona made the marrow bubble along his bones and pushed him into a languorous swoon which almost made him drive up the exit lane of the Centre car park.

Retreating under a chorus of protesting horns conducted by a flurry of abusive fingers, he found the correct entrance, parked and made his way to the main library.

With the image of a roused Dalziel fresh in his mind, his investigation was painstakingly thorough to a degree which brought the two women and one man involved to a state of mutiny. But by dint of forcing them to recall which of the reserved books had been collected earlier in the week, he managed to establish that the weight of probability lay on the side of the envelope not having been there on Monday morning. Tuesday, which was yesterday, the day that Johnson’s body had been found, was less certain. And today, Wednesday, it had of course been found.

Satisfied he could get no more out of them, he left and headed upstairs to the reference library. By now it was lunchtime, and he peered into the staffroom as he passed in case Rye was eating her sandwich there. No sign of her, nor at first glance in the deserted reference library.

He went up to the desk and through the partially opened door of the office behind the counter, he glimpsed Dick Dee, his head bent over something on the desk which absorbed him so much that he was oblivious to Hat’s silent approach.

He was playing Scrabble …no, not Scrabble, it must be that funny game, Paronomania. Hat felt pleased with himself for recalling the word, but his pleasure was quenched almost instantly by a jealous certainty that Dee’s opponent was Rye.

There was a click of tiles being moved and Dee shook his head, smiling in admiration at some adept move, and said, “Oh, thou crafty Kraut, well done indeed.”

And Bowler just had time to feel puzzled as to why Dee should be addressing Rye as Kraut, when a most unfeminine voice replied, “Thank ’ee kindly, whoreson,” and his tentative knock at the well-oiled door pushed it open sufficiently for him to see the distinctive profile of Charley Penn.

“Mr. Bowler, do step inside,” said Dee politely.

He went into the office. The men on the wall all seemed to be examining him critically like a candidate for a job they didn’t think he was going to get. On the other hand, the teenage trio in the photo on the desk seemed to look straight through him at a world which, united, they did not doubt their capacity to deal with.

“Is your errand avian, amoristic or authoritarian?” said Dee.

“Sorry?” said Hat.

Penn was grinning at him. Hat felt, unusually for one not naturally violent, like wiping his clock.

“Do you require information about birds? Or do you wish to ask after Rye? Or have you come to quiz us about the latest Dialogue?”

Hat forgot about Penn and said, he hoped neutrally, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Dee?”

“I’m sorry,” said Dee. “Is it confidential? Of course it is. Forget I spoke. It was crass of me, and certainly not a subject to be flippant about.”

The apology came across as sincere rather than an empty formality.

“Mr. Dee, I’m not saying there has been another, but if there was, I’d like to know what you know about it,” insisted Hat.

“All I know is what all the library staff know, that a suspicious envelope was found this morning and handed over to the police and as it hasn’t been returned since-though of course that too might be the purpose of your visit-then it seems likely it contained matter of interest to you. But please, forget and forgive my curiosity. I have no desire to embarrass you professionally.”

“Doesn’t bother me, though,” said Penn in his grating voice. “My guess ’ud be that you’ve heard from yon loony again and it’s something to do with Sam Johnson. Right?”

“That just a lucky guess, Mr. Penn?” said Hat.

His gaze engaged the writer’s and locked for a while, then fell. Never get into a fight it’s not worth winning. He found himself looking down at the Paronomania board. It was the same star shape as the one he’d seen in Penn’s flat, but the designs on it were different. These seemed to have been taken from an old map, with wind-puffing cherubs, spouting whales, towering ice-cliffs, disporting mermaids. The game was well advanced with numerous tiles laid out, going in all directions, but none of the letter combinations made any sense to Hat. And there were three tile racks in use, one before each of the two facing players, the third between them. Only two can play, he recalled Rye telling him. Why should she lie? Unless she was the third player, involved in some weird ménage à trois with these two?

It was a thought as disgusting as silverfish in a salad bowl, but before he rinsed it from his mind, he found himself looking to see if there were anywhere Rye could have retreated to at his approach.

There wasn’t. There wasn’t even a window to climb out of.

Jesus, Bowler! What kind of nutty creep are you turning into? he asked himself angrily.

Charley Penn was answering his spoken question.

“Not lucky, by any standards, and hardly a guess, Constable. First thing we all thought when we heard about poor Sam yesterday was, it has to be this Wordman. Then folk started whispering suicide. Well, it seemed possible. Too much Beddoes could drive anyone down that road. But the more I thought, the less likely it seemed. I’d not known him long, but I’d have put him stronger than that. I’m right, aren’t I? If this envelope Dick mentioned does contain another Dialogue, it has to be about Sam Johnson, right?”

“No comment,” said Hat. “Mr. Dee, is Rye here?”

“Sorry, you’re out of luck,” said Dee. “She’s got a touch of this flu-bug that’s around. She looked so ill yesterday, I sent her home and told her not to come back till she was better and our readers were safe.”

“Right. Thank you.”

As he turned away, Dee said, “Would you like her phone number? I’m sure she would be comforted to know you were asking after her.”

This was kind, thought Hat, recalling that not so long back, the librarian had felt unable to pass Rye’s number on. She must have said something to suggest their relationship had taken a step forward.

Before he could respond, Penn sneered, “Not got her number yet, lad? You’re not making much progress, are you?”

Hat resisted the urge to reply that he’d made a lot more progress than some geriatrics not a million miles away and she’d given him her number unasked. Instead he took out his notebook, said, “That would be kind, Mr. Dee. I seem to have mislaid my pen. May I borrow a pencil?”

He stepped forward to the desk, picked up a pencil, and stood with it poised.

From this angle he could see the tiles in the third rack.

There were six of them. J O H N N Y.

Dee, with a faintly conspiratorial smile as if he recognized a charade when he saw one, gave him the number. Carefully Hat wrote down Johnny.

“Thank you, Mr. Dee,” he said. “I’ll certainly be enquiring after Rye’s health. Good day.”

He left without looking at Penn. He could see, though he rather resented being able to, why Rye got so defensive of Dick Dee. There was something almost naively amiable about the man. However, any slight revision of his feeling towards the librarian was more than balanced by the steady augmentation of his antipathy for the novelist. Puffed-up prick!

And he found himself imagining how nice it would be to prove that Penn was the Wordman and have the fingering of his collar.

Such feelings were dangerous, he admonished himself sternly. Having got back to something like an even keel with the super, it would be foolish to risk rocking the boat by letting personal dislike cloud his judgment.

As he left the library he took out his mobile, intending to dial Rye’s number, but before he could start, it rang.

“Bowler,” he said.

“Pascoe. Where are you?”

“Just leaving the library, guv.”

“You get anything?”

“Not really.”

“You’ve been there a long time for nothing,” said Pascoe accusingly. “You’ve not been in the Reference chatting up that girl again?”

“No, sir,” said Hat indignantly. “She’s off sick.”

“Oh yes? And how do you know that? Never mind. Listen, someone’s ringing wanting to speak to you urgently. Name of Angie. I wondered, is she some snout you haven’t bothered to register? Or just one of your other conquests that you’ve got into trouble?”

Angie? For a moment his mind was blank, then he remembered. Jax Ripley’s sister.

“No, sir. But it’s personal.”

“Is that so? Wasn’t that sister we met at Ripley’s funeral called Angie?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowler, thinking shit! “I told her if ever she wanted to chat about Jax, just to give me a ring.”

“Maybe you should have been a social worker,” said Pascoe. “But if she says anything you feel might be relevant to the case, you won’t forget you’re drawing your pay as a cop, will you? Back here soon as you can, OK?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowler.

He switched off thinking Pascoe sounded in an untypically sour mood.

He thumbed through his wallet till he found the piece of paper he’d scribbled Mrs. Ripley’s phone number on. Angie answered on the first ring.

“Look,” she said, “I’ve got to head back to the States at the weekend and I just wanted to check what you’ve done with that stuff I gave you.”

“I’m still working on it,” he prevaricated. “It’s a delicate business …”

“The bastard who stuck a knife in my sister wasn’t being delicate,” she snapped. “This Georgie Porgie guy, is he being questioned?”

“Well, no …I mean, we don’t know who he is for sure, do we?”

“How many cops have you got that fit that description?”

“More than you’d think,” said Hat. “Believe me, Angie, if there’s anything here that helps us find Jax’s killer, I’ll leave no stone unturned.”

He spoke with all the vibrant sincerity he could put into his voice but she still sounded less than persuaded as she replied, “Well, OK. You’ll get in touch? I’m relying on you, Hat.”

“You can do. Take care,” he said and switched off.

He stood outside the Centre, trying to work up a head of indignation because there was nothing he could do except help deprive a middle-aged detective of his dignity and perhaps even his pension, but all he felt was a rat.

He felt a strong need to talk to Rye about the affair again, but not on the phone. Anyway, it didn’t seem such a good idea to ring her any more. If, as seemed likely, she was deep beneath the bedclothes feeling lousy, she wasn’t going to be very well disposed to the idiot who got her out to ask how she was. Better to go round later with a bunch of grapes and a box of chocolates. That way if he got her out of bed …

He had a sudden vision of the door opening and Rye standing there, all bed-tousled in a loosely tied robe which permitted tantalizing glimpses of firm round flesh, like sun-warmed fruit seen through shifting leaves …

A yearning groan slipped through his lips and an old bag-lady passing by looked at him anxiously and said, “Are you feeling all right, son?”

“I hope so,” he said. “Just hunger pangs, ma. But thanks for your concern.”

And dropping a handful of change into her nearest bag, he walked briskly on.