Dialogues of the Dead

29

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Pascoe would have paid cash money for the pleasure of stretching out in his favourite armchair and letting the inanities of weekend television lull him to sleep.

The call of duty demanding his presence at the short story result ceremony was growing ever fainter. Nothing was going to happen relevant to the Wordman enquiry and, in any case, Edgar Wield would be there to keep an eye on things. Even Ellie generously encouraged him to stay away.

“As a judge, I’ve got to go,” she said. “No need for you to suffer though. Put your feet up. I’ll cancel the baby-sitter.”

He thought of all the tedious police social occasions she’d endured on his behalf and his conscience pricked him mightily.

“No, I’ll go,” he said. “It’s not like it’s the Oscars with acceptance speeches going on forever. How long is the TV spot? Half an hour?”

“That’s it. Plus there’s drinks before for distinguished guests and their undistinguished partners. Few snorts of the hard stuff and a bit of lively conversation might be just the thing you need.”

“We’d better take a taxi then,” said Pascoe.

But to start with, it looked like Ellie had got it entirely wrong. If anything, the atmosphere at the drinks party was slightly less lively than the university church that morning. The last time most of those present had been gathered together in the Centre, Councillor Steel had been murdered. And enough of them had attended Sam Johnson’s funeral for his death to darken their thoughts too.

But as with most wakes, two or three drinks eventually brought light and a dawn chorus of chatter, and though the first person to laugh out loud looked a little apologetic, soon the gathering was indistinguishable in jollity from any other party which isn’t going to last long and where somebody else is paying for the booze. Who exactly, Pascoe didn’t know. Probably the Gazette. It occurred to him that the only person to ask the question out loud would have been Stuffer Steel, keen to ensure the ratepayers weren’t being ripped off. And Johnson might have been a little satirical too, though both of them would have made sure they got their share of what was on offer.

Not that anyone else seemed to be holding back. Nothing like the awareness of death for making folk grasp at life, thought Pascoe, looking round and counting heads. Yes, all the preview luminaries seemed to be here. Except of course those who were dead. And the dancing Dalziel. And the Hon. Geoffrey, or rather Lord Pyke-Strengler of the Stang, his full title now being due since, according to the papers, the sharks had left enough gobbets of his father to merit a small burial.

“So who’s the winner, Mary?” Ambrose Bird asked the newspaper editor.

“I’ve no idea,” said Agnew.

Bird cocked his head on one side, very bird-like, and said sceptically, “Come on, I’m sure you and dear Percy here have made damn sure no one’s going to win who might bring a blush to your maiden cheeks.”

This certainly made Follows flush, with irritation rather than embarrassment, but Mary Agnew laughed and said, “I think you’re confusing me with some other Mary, Brose. It’s true the winning story is a charming modern fairy tale, fit for children of all ages, but the two runners-up are a lot more gutsy. And it was Charley and Ellie here who selected them without interference from either Percy or myself.”

“No interference from Percy? That must have been a blessing,” said Bird.

“Some of us are capable of doing our designated jobs without sticking our long bills into other people’s business,” snapped Follows.

“Children, children, not in front of the adults,” said Charley Penn.

Bird glowered at Follows, then forced a smile and said, “Charley, you certainly must know the name of the winner. How about a hint?”

“Wrong again, Brose,” said Penn. “I know the name of the winning story and the pseudonym of the winner, but not his or her real name. Couldn’t have found out even if I wanted to. Mary could make Millbank look like Liberty Hall, she’s such a control freak. Seems every entry had to be accompanied by a sealed envelope with the story title and a pseudonym printed on the outside and the writer’s real name and address inside. She kept the envelopes well away from the judges. In fact she’s made rules about the rules. What it said in the Gazette was that no envelope would be opened till the decision had been made. But since the whole farce has turned into a mini-Booker with the results being announced live on the box, she and Spielberg there”-nodding towards John Wingate-“decided to screw up the tension by directing that none of the envelopes would be opened till tonight.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances. It wasn’t strictly true. After the recognition that the Dialogues were fact, not fiction, every entry to the competition had been matched with its envelope, and in the half-dozen or so cases where the chosen type-face seemed to correspond with that of the Dialogues, the envelopes had been opened and the writers checked out. It had proved as fruitless an exercise as Pascoe had guessed it would be, but, like the PR handouts say, behind the apparent glamour of detective work lie hundreds of tedious hours spent in such necessary humdrum elimination.

The thought provoked a yawn and Wield said, “You should try sleeping a bit more often.”

“I’d like to, but it’s not in my job description,” said Pascoe. “I’ll maybe catch up when I retire.”

“Like old George?”

“I think he’s kept in practise. Sorry. That’s not very charitable. And he’s not been looking so well recently, has he? I hope he’s not going to be one of those poor devils who look forward to retirement then when it comes, pffut!”

“Me too. I always had him down for a natural pensioner. Cottage in the country, potter around with his roses, write his reminiscences. Duck to water, I’d have said.”

“Maybe it’s started to hit him. Thirty-odd years it’s been. Where did he see it all leading back then? Now here he is, wondering where it’s all gone and how come all those paths of glory haven’t led him to the gravy. He can’t have planned to stop at DI.”

“There are lower peaks,” said Wield. “Like DS.”

“Wieldy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …hey, why am I apologizing, you know exactly what I meant and didn’t mean! Like I know that some DSs are where they are because that’s where they want to be.”

For a long time it had been a matter of puzzlement to him that someone with Wield’s abilities should show no enthusiasm whatsoever for promotion. He’d put the point to Dalziel many years back and got the terse answer, “Authority without exposure, that’s what being a sergeant means,” which only made sense when belatedly he became aware that Wield was gay.

“Mebbe George wanted to be where he ended,” said Wield. “He’s been a good cop. In fact, hearing what Mary Agnew said about them envelopes reminded me of what George said about the Wordman and the library. The Steel Dialogue was the first that didn’t show up in a story bag sent round from the Gazette, right?”

“Yes, because the competition closing date had passed and there weren’t going to be any more bags.”

“But since then both the Steel and the Johnson Dialogues have been delivered direct to the library,” persisted Wield, as if making a telling point.

“Which is why we’ve now installed our own state-of-the-art cameras to give us round the clock coverage of the library mailbox,” said Pascoe, puzzled.

“I know that,” said Wield patiently. “What I’m saying is we’ve assumed till now that the early Dialogues were all sent to the Gazette and only turned up at the library because they were taken to be entries for the story competition. If that’s the way it was, and the Wordman’s true choice of addressee for his Dialogues was the Gazette, why not keep on sending them there?”

“What’s your point, Wieldy?”

“If George is right and there’s a positive rather than just an accidental link between the Dialogues and the library, perhaps the early Dialogues were placed in among the entries after the bag got there.”

“Maybe,” said Pascoe. “But so what? Can’t keep a watch on the bags now, can we, because there aren’t any.”

“No, but I’m thinking-the story competition closed on the Friday that Ripley did her broadcast and got killed. According to the Gazette post-boy, the last sack of entries was dropped off here about eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Yon lass with the funny name that Bowler fancies found the Dialogue in it at nine fifteen. Did anyone check the security videos for the time between?”

“Not on my instruction,” admitted Pascoe. “Shit.”

“Shit on all of us,” said Wield. “But not a lot. If the Dialogue was put in the sack after it got here, chances are it was done during working hours by which time, courtesy the late Councillor Steel, most of the cameras would be switched off.”

“Still should have checked, Wieldy,” said Pascoe.

“Well, mebbe it’s not too late. Think we’d be missed for a couple of minutes?”

Pascoe glanced round. Ellie was deep in conversation with John Wingate (probably kick-starting a telly career, he thought), while Edwin Digweed was refereeing what looked like the beginning of yet another schoolyard scrap between prancing Percy and the Last of the Actor-Managers.

“Shouldn’t think so,” he said.

They found the duty security man in his office which smelled strongly and illegally of tobacco smoke. At first he seemed disinclined to put himself out.

“Fortnight back, you say? No chance,” he said. “Unless there’s a reason not to, we just let the tapes run their course, then they rewind and get recorded over.”

“Yes,” said Pascoe. “But there’s several hours of recording time on each tape, and unless there’s something going on, like tonight”-he indicated the screen on which they could see a low-quality black and white image of the drinks reception they’d just left-“any individual camera might not be activated for days at a time.”

“Yes, they will be,” the officer defended. “We do our rounds, you know. Then there’s the cleaners, they’re here before the morning switch-off.”

“Nevertheless,” said Pascoe.

Beside him, Wield sniffed deeply and began coughing.

“You OK?” said Pascoe. “Funny how dry the air can get in these no-smoking buildings.”

Five minutes later the security man had returned with a selection of tapes.

The tape covering the staff entrance to the Centre which was where the post-boy had delivered the sack was no help. This camera got activated so frequently-by people leaving the building late in the evening, and in the morning by cleaners, delivery men and early arrivals-that it only covered the previous week.

But they struck lucky with the tape from the reference library camera. The first date shown was over a fortnight ago, in the middle of the week running up to Ripley’s murder. Pascoe watched the flickering screen closely and thought that Councillor Steel would have been pleased to see how conscientiously the security men and the cleaning staff performed their duties. The ratepayer was getting value for money here. And also from Dick Dee, it seemed. Twice he triggered the alarm as he emerged from his office well into the evening, once on the Thursday night and again on the Friday night when Ripley had been killed.

And now they were watching the cleaners on Saturday morning. They left. The camera switched itself off. And usually at some point shortly thereafter, as the security man explained, the whole system would be switched off till evening. But this time they struck lucky. When the picture crinkled back into focus, it was still Saturday morning, time 8.45.

“Sometimes the night-duty man forgets,” said the security officer. “And it stays on till the day man notices. Doesn’t happen often, but you get some dozy old boys in this game that really ought to be at home in bed.”

He looked through the duty sheets, then hastily shoved them into a drawer. Pascoe guessed he’d found he was the dozy old boy in question.

But this could be a case of felix culpa, he thought as he watched the screen and saw Dick Dee appear with a mail tray in one hand and a plastic sack in the other. He put them on the counter and went into the office. The screen went blank.

“You still haven’t got a camera in that office,” he said accusingly.

“Not our fault, mate. Economies. Anyway, no one can get in there without going through the ref library. No windows, see?”

The picture returned as Dee emerged from the office. He pulled open the plastic sack, peered inside, made a wry face and turned his attention to the mail. But before he’d even begun to open anything, Percy Follows appeared. He didn’t look pleased.

Pascoe recalled Rye Pomona’s statement. The two men had been in the office, discussing Jax Ripley’s broadcast when she arrived, she’d said, and she’d thought it best not to disturb them. Clearly the girl was a diplomat. Even without sound it was evident from Follows’ expression that this was no friendly discussion. Dee on the other hand was unruffled and ushered his boss into the office, pushing the door almost shut and the camera was once more deactivated.

Then back to life. And now they hit paydirt. It wasn’t, as he’d expected, Rye’s arrival which started the tape rolling again. It was another figure, whom he recognized with what he was ashamed to acknowledge was a pang of delighted hope.

Franny Roote.

He stood by the counter, presumably listening to the heated debate going on within.

Now he reached into the battered briefcase he was carrying, took something out-hard to see because it was on the wrong side of the camera-glanced round as if to check there were no witnesses, pulled open the plastic bag, and thrust it inside. Then he left. Total time elapsed, fifty-one seconds.

“Calloo callay, oh frabjous day!” said Pascoe.

“Hang about,” said Wield.

The picture had cut off. Now it came on again, time only a minute or so later.

This time it was Charley Penn who’d triggered the camera.

He too seemed to listen, he too glanced round, less furtively than Roote, his customary sardonic smile in place, then he too produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase and placed it gently into the open plastic sack.

Oh shit, thought Pascoe. It never rains but it pours!

Now Penn moved out of shot, presumably to one of the work cubicles, and the screen went black till it was re-energized by the arrival of Rye Pomona.

She went behind the enquiry desk, paused as if listening to the row in the office, stooped to place her shoulder bag under the counter, then started opening the mail.

There didn’t seem to be anything there which interested her and she turned her attention to the sack. From it she took a single sheet of paper which she examined for a moment before turning to look into the off-shot body of the library. Her face was expressionless but she let the sheet slip from her fingers which she then rubbed together, as if trying to rid them of the traces of something noxious.

The picture went again with Rye still in shot and when it returned they’d leapt forward to the security round on Saturday night.

“The day guy switched off,” said the officer apologetically. “But you look like you got what you wanted.”

So much for my poker face, thought Pascoe.

“It’ll do to be going on with,” he said noncommittally. “Let’s take another look.”

They went through it again twice. It seemed quite clear that Roote had put a sheet or sheets of paper into the sack, and with the kind of computer enhancement available to them back at the station, they should be able to establish this beyond all doubt.

“Right, we’ll take this with us, OK? You’ll get a receipt.”

“Sir,” said Wield, as always sticking to protocol in face of even a single member of the public, “think we ought to be on our way.”

Pascoe followed his gaze. It led to the screen showing the pre-awards reception. The room was now empty except for a couple of catering staff clearing up the glasses.

Pascoe’s first instinct was to send Wield down to the studio to explain things to Ellie while he headed out in search of Roote, but as they hurried along the corridor away from the security room, the sergeant tried to dissuade him.

“You know what Roote’s like, Pete,” he said. “At least give Andy a bell first, get him on board. And there’s Charley Penn to look at too, remember.”

“Yes, but that looked like the sheet that the Pomona girl took out first and read,” argued Pascoe. “Then she dropped it to the floor. She said something in her statement about finding some poem that Penn had translated, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. And Penn said he must have accidentally left it on top of the sack when he went up to the counter. But it didn’t look very accidental to me. And who’s to say he couldn’t have slipped the Dialogue in too and used the poem as a cover-story in case anyone did spot him?”

“Possible, I suppose, but unlikely. Anyway, we know where Penn is, he’s here. It’s the thought of Roote wandering round loose that bothers me.”

But determined to show he was being sensible, Pascoe diverted to a part of the Centre where his mobile got a good signal. He tried Dalziel’s home number. Nothing.

“Didn’t he say something about going dancing?” said Wield.

He tried the Fat Man’s mobile, still without success.

“Probably can’t hear it over the clicking of the castanets,” said Pascoe.

“He’ll have to sit out some time, else the floor won’t take it,” said Wield.

This was calumny as they both knew that Dalziel’s ability to trip lightly on the dance floor was indeed fantastic.

“We’re wasting time,” said Pascoe. “Roote could be out there killing somebody.”

“What if he is? Where are you going to look?” asked Wield reasonably. “Best thing is to call up the station and get them to send someone round to check if he’s in his flat and to keep a watch on it if he isn’t. At least that ’ud save you a wasted trip.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Wieldy,” said Pascoe. “What you’re really saying is I’m too partial and prejudiced to be allowed near him.”

“No, but that’s pretty well what Roote will be suggesting, isn’t it?” said Wield. “Look, Pete, he’s definitely got questions to answer. Maybe you shouldn’t be the one asking them, not to start with, anyway.”

“Bollocks,” said Pascoe.

But he rang the station and did as Wield suggested, urging that he be contacted as soon as the officers sent had reported from the flat.

It took another ten minutes during which he and Wield didn’t speak.

“No one there, sir,” came the report. “How long do you want them to stay on watch?”

“As long as it takes,” said Pascoe.

He switched off his phone, looked at the unreadable face of the sergeant and said with a sigh, “OK. You win. Let’s go and make our apologies.”

They’d arrived at the door of the studio. The tiered seats rose up steeply on three sides from the brightly lit shallow stage and it looked like a full house. Indeed the only empty seat he could see was at the front next to Ellie. She did not look pleased.

The length of time he’d been absent without explanation became apparent when suddenly there was a burst of applause and a cry of delight exploded at the back and a woman who didn’t look much over sixteen jumped out of her seat crying, “It’s me!” as the beam of a tight-focused spot swung across the audience till it picked her out.

She’d won third prize it emerged during a rambling and tearful thank you speech which out-Oscared the Oscars.

Wield said urgently, “Pete. End of row, left-hand wing, five rows back.”

Pascoe counted.

“Thank you, God,” he said.

Franny Roote was sitting there, dressed as always in black so that his pale face seemed to float out of the semi-gloom of the auditorium. An image came into Pascoe’s mind from some poem read long ago of a condemned prisoner being led to his death through a press of spectators. Even at a distance it was impossible to mistake that pale face. So it was with Roote; except, if Pascoe had got it right, here was the executioner, not the executed.

On the acting floor, Mary Agnew was announcing the runner-up who had written a story which, if the judges were to be believed, plumbed the depths of man’s inhumanity to man. The title and the pseudonym were read out, the envelope ripped open, and from the balcony came another delighted cry as a second woman, this one old enough to be her predecessor’s great-grandmother, saw fame descend.

“Come on,” said Pascoe as the audience applauded the newcomer onto the stage.

He hoped to slip unnoticed past Ellie, but failed. Her accusing gaze hit him like a sling-shot. He winced, smiled weakly, and pressed on up the aisle steps towards Roote.

“Mr. Roote,” he murmured. “Could we have a word?”

“Mr. Pascoe, hello. Of course, always glad to talk with you.”

The young man gazed up at him expectantly, the usual faint smile on his lips.

“I mean, outside.”

“Oh. Couldn’t it wait? This will be over soon. It’s going out live, you know.”

“I’d rather …”

Pascoe’s voice faded under an outbreak of irritated shushing, and he realized the second-place winner was into her thank you speech. Fortunately age had taught her the value of economy and it had twice the style in half the length of number three’s.

As she left the stage to renewed, and relieved, applause, Pascoe said firmly, “Now, please, Mr. Roote.”

“Just a couple more minutes,” pleaded the man.

Pascoe glanced round at Wield who shook his head slightly as if in answer to the unspoken question, How about I put him in an arm-lock and drag him out?

Below, Agnew was saying, “And now to our winner. The judges were unanimous in their choice. They said feel-good stories may not be popular in an age preoccupied with the seamier side of human experience, but when they are as beautifully crafted as this one, with a depth of humanity and a lightness of touch rarely found outside the great classical masters of the genre, then they are a reassuring affirmation of all that is best and most worthwhile in human experience. With a testimonial like that, I bet you can’t wait to read the story-which you’ll be able to do in the next issue of the Gazette. Its title is ‘Once Upon a Life,’ and its author’s very fitting pseudonym is Hilary Greatheart, whose real name is …”

Dramatic pause while the envelope was torn open.

Roote stood up.

Pascoe, a little surprised by this sudden capitulation, said, “Thank you. Let’s head out of the back door, shall we?”

Roote said, “No, no, I don’t think you understand,” and tried to push past.

Pascoe seized his arm, feeling a surge of deplorable pleasure that at last he was going to have an excuse to pass on some positive pain.

Then Wield seized his arm and said, “Pete, no.”

And at the same time a great light exploded in both his face and his mind as the prize-winner’s spot found them out and it registered that Mary Agnew had just proclaimed, “… Mr. Francis Roote of 17a Westburn Lane. Will you please come up, Mr. Roote?”

He let go and watched Franny Roote run lightly down the steps to accept his award.

“You OK, Pete?” said Wield anxiously.

“Never been better,” said Pascoe, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the brightly lit stage below. “At least we’ve got the bastard where we can see him. But I’ll tell you one thing, Wieldy. If he mentions me in his thank you speech, I may run down there and kill him.”