Dialogues of the Dead

41

Detective Inspector George Headingley may not have scaled the promotional heights, but he had performed the feat unusual in police circles of achieving his modest eminence without standing too hard on anyone’s face.

Therefore as his colleagues, CID and Uniformed, gathered in the Social Club that night to say their farewells, the atmosphere was more than usually cordial. Pascoe had been to farewell parties where the attendance had been meagre, the jokes sour, and though the banners read Good Luck! the body language spelled Good Riddance. But tonight everyone had made an effort to attend, the contributions to the leaving present had been generous, and the laughter already rising from the assembled men, especially those at Headingley’s crowded table, was good humoured and full bellied.

There’d been a special cheer of welcome and some spontaneous applause when the door had opened to admit Detective Constable Shirley Novello. This was her first public appearance since the shooting which had put her out of commission since the summer.

She looked pale and didn’t move with her usual athletic spring as she advanced to take the seat offered her next to George Headingley, who won another cheer by standing up and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

Pascoe went to the table and leaned over her chair.

“Shirley, it’s good to see you. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Couldn’t miss the chance of making sure the DI really was leaving, could I?” she said.

“Well, don’t overdo it,” he said. “You know what they say about too much too soon.”

“Yes, dead before twenty,” said Headingley.

Beneath the roar of laughter which this evoked, Wield said in his ear, “Pete, Dan’s here, but still no sign of Andy.”

“Great.”

Though Headingley’s popularity was great enough for Uniformed to be there in numbers too, this was essentially a CID party, and Dalziel’s absence meant the duties of host devolved upon him.

He went forward to welcome the Chief Constable.

“Glad you could make it, sir,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s determined it’s going to be a great night.”

Even as he spoke his eyes told him that he was wrong. Trimble’s features had the cast of a man who’d come to bury someone rather than praise him.

“Where is he?” asked the Chief curtly.

“George?”

“No. Mr. Dalziel.”

“On his way,” said Pascoe. “Let me get you a drink, sir.”

On his way wasn’t a positive lie as, presumably, wherever Dalziel was, he purposed at some point to arrive at the Social Club, therefore, whatever he was doing, he could be said to be on his way there.

But the positive truth was that Pascoe hadn’t the faintest idea where the Fat Man was. He had seen him briefly on his return from the Centre but a phone call had taken him away before he could enlarge upon his comment in response to the question of how he’d got on with Dee: “Yon bugger’s too clever by half.”

While being too clever by half was not in itself a guarantee of criminality, it was certainly true that several men so categorized by Dalziel were currently doing The Times crossword before breakfast in one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries.

Bowler hadn’t been able to add much more about Dee, but he was voluble about his own discoveries and was clearly hurt just this side of the sulks by Wield’s reduction of them to a self-mutilating lexicographer and a German poet who changed his name ’cos he got the piss taken out of him, neither of whom seemed to have any discernible relevance to the case in hand.

For a small man, Dan Trimble had an authoritarian way with a large drink and had downed three of these with no apparent effect on his frame of mind when Pascoe glanced at his watch and murmured, “Show time, I think, sir. The natives are getting a little restless.”

“What? No, no, what’s your hurry? The DI seems to be enjoying himself. Another few minutes won’t hurt. No word from Andy yet?”

“’Fraid not, but any moment now, I’m sure …”

And as if he’d been waiting for his cue, the Fat Man erupted through the main door, emanating good cheer like the Spirit of Christmas Present. Making his way across the room towards Trimble, he paused to smite Headingley on the shoulder, ruffle Novello’s hair, and utter some good thing which set the table on a roar. Then he arrived at the bar, accepted the large Scotch which materialized there, downed it in one, and said, “Made it then! Would have hated to miss your speech, sir.”

“Miss my …? Andy, you said you’d ring.”

“I know I did, and I would have done, only things got a bit complicated. …”

He put his arm round Trimble’s shoulders and drew the Chief aside and spoke earnestly in his ear.

“Like Lord Dorincourt giving some friendly advice to Little Lord Fauntleroy,” murmured Pascoe to Wield.

“At least it’s stopped him looking like he’d had his budget cut,” said Wield as Trimble’s expression first of all relaxed, then eased itself into a positive smile as the Fat Man smote his hand to his breast in a histrionic gesture of reassurance.

“I think he’s just sold him a used policeman,” said Pascoe thoughtfully.

Dalziel came to join him as the Chief Constable wandered over to Headingley’s table and put his hand on the DI’s shoulder and made a joke which won a laugh as loud as Dalziel’s had.

“Dan’s going to make the presentation then?” said Pascoe.

“Always was,” said Dalziel.

“Am I going to find out what’s been going on?”

“Why not? Read that.”

He pulled some creased papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Trimble had moved into the centre of the room, there were cries for order, and after the inevitable responses of “Mine’s a pint” had won their inevitable laughs, he began to speak without notes. He had an excellent public manner and as he rehearsed the highlights of the retiring detective’s career with wit and eloquence, it was hard to believe that he’d had any reluctance to be doing so.

Pascoe, who didn’t need to be told of Headingley’s virtues, glanced down at the papers Dalziel had given him. His glance soon became fixed, and after the first reading he went through them again, then gave Dalziel’s ribs, or at least that stratum of subcutaneous fat beneath which he guessed they were situated, an insubordinate poke and hissed, “Where the hell did these come from?”

“You recall Angie, Jax Ripley’s sister, at the funeral? These are copies of e-mails from Jax to her.”

“I’d gathered that. I mean, how did you get hold of them?”

“Angie rang Desperate Dan afore she left for the States on Sunday. When she told him what she were on about, he said he’d like to see copies so she put ’em in the post. No lift on Sunday so he got ’em this morning.”

Their muttered conversation was attracting attention so Pascoe took the Fat Man’s sleeve and drew him away from the bar to the back of the room.

“Watch it,” said Dalziel. “That’s as nice a piece of worsted you’re pulling as you’d see on the Lord Mayor of Bradford.”

“You see what this means? Of course you bloody well see. Georgie Porgie. A fat, cuddly senior officer. Ripley’s Deep-throat was Headingley not Bowler!”

“Aye,” said Dalziel complacently. “Always a bit of a swordsman, George. Hung like a donkey. Resemblance didn’t end there, but.”

The Chief Constable was warming to his task and talking about old-fashioned virtues like loyalty to one’s colleagues and utter reliability.

“You knew!”

“Not till he went sick after she got topped. Then I got to thinking, maybe I’d done young Bowler an injustice. I mean, Ripley were a smart lass. If it’s information you’re after, you don’t start snogging the office boy.”

“And the Chief …no wonder he was having kittens about making the presentation. Doesn’t look good if the officer you’ve praised up to the heavens one day goes down for corruption the next!”

“Corruption? Now there’s a big word for a little thing like dipping your wick. Have you clocked George’s missus lately? Like a bin liner stuffed with frozen broccoli. Man like George was sitting there, just begging to be taken for a ride by owt with big ambitions and tits to match. I should have taken greater care of him.”

This display of paternalistic guilt should have been comforting, but Pascoe wasn’t in the market.

He said indignantly, “He’s been selling us out for a quick jump!”

“Lots of jumps, if you read between the lines, and some on ’em not so quick either. Teach us all a thing or two, could George.”

“I’ll skip the lesson, thank you,” said Pascoe primly. “What on earth made Angie Ripley want to share these rather sordid details with the Chief? I mean, they don’t exactly reflect well on her sister.”

“She weren’t thinking of her sister’s reputation, she were thinking of her murder,” said Dalziel.

“Her murder …Jesus! You mean she reckons that wanting to shut her up could have been a good motive for killing her? George Headingley killing her? She must be crazy!”

“She didn’t know George, did she? In fact after we met at the funeral, it seems she decided the description fitted me! Minute Dan read them but, he knew it must be George. Silly cow.”

He sounded indignant. On the other hand, thought Pascoe, having mistaken the Fat Man for her sister’s lover, it was very easy to see how she took the step of suspecting him to be her sister’s killer!

He kept the thought to himself and asked, “But what’s going to happen …? In fact, what has happened? What did you tell the Chief to make him so happy?”

Trimble was retailing George Headingley stories with great zest and rolling his audience in the aisles. He did not sound like a man who had any fear that his valedictory encomium might one day be presented as evidence of his poor judgment and lack of managerial control.

“Told him that in my opinion any resemblance between Jax Ripley’s roly-poly Georgie Porgie and our George were purely coincidental, or at worst, Ripley based the fantasies she invented for her sister’s entertainment on George because he was the officer who did a lot of our media briefings. Told him that I’d checked out George personally and that I could give my personal assurance there were nowt in it. And finally I told him that the stuff about a motive for killing Ripley was totally irrelevant and there’d be no come-back from sister Angie because in a very short while we’d be charging someone with the Wordman killings, including Jax’s.”

“Will we?”

“You want to tell Dan we won’t?”

They were interrupted by a crescendoing round of applause shot through with cheers and whistles as the Chief Constable reached the climax of his address and a flushed and beaming George Headingley rose and went forward to receive the state-of-the-art fishing rod and associated tackle which had been his chosen gift.

“Oh, and one other thing,” said Dalziel as he clapped his hands together thunderously. “Seems that Desperate Dan weren’t the first police officer Angie confided in. Seems she took her suspicions first of all to young Hat Bowler and it were only when she thought he was dragging his feet that she decided to ring Dan afore she took off home.”

“Hat? But he hasn’t said anything, has he?” “No. Gave him plenty of chance to, but he kept mum.”

“But why? When it would have cleared him of suspicion?”

“Mebbe he looked at George and thought, Here’s a guy, long years of honourable service, sailing into retirement, do I want to be the one who torpedoes him? Mebbe he thought that sometime in the future he might be dependent on someone turning a blind eye to something he’d got up to too.”

“And which of these made you decide to keep quiet?” asked Pascoe.

“Me? I didn’t have to decide,” said Dalziel. “Let’s go and congratulate George, shall we? Looks like he’s getting a round in.”

As they made their way back to the bar, Pascoe said, “Have you told Hat yet?”

“Told him what?”

“That he’s off the hook.”

Dalziel roared with laughter.

“Don’t be daft. Why should I do that?”

“Because …well, because he deserves it. He’s got the makings of a good cop.”

“No argument there,” said Dalziel. “He’s bright and he’s keen and he’s proved he’s dead loyal. He could go far with the right incentive, and that’s what I’m giving him.”

“How?”

“Well, every time he thinks he can relax on the job, I’ll just need to give him that fish-eyed look which says I’ve still got doubts about him and he’ll be doing double-overtime without pay just to prove me wrong, won’t he? And one thing I’ll never have to worry about is him letting his gob be ruled by his bollocks rather than his brain.”

Oh, Andy, Andy, thought Pascoe, you think you’re so clever and you may even be right. But you’ve forgotten, if you ever knew it, the absolute power of young love. I’ve seen the way Bowler looks at Rye Pomona and I’m not sure that even the fear of the Great God Dalziel is enough to keep him quiet if she asks something nicely.

The Fat Man, unaware of these treacherous doubts about his infallibility, had gone through the crowd at the bar like Lomu through an English defence.

“George, lad,” he cried, “congrats, you’ve made it at last, out into civvy street, safe and sound.”

“Andy, I was wondering where you’d got to. What are you drinking?”

“Only two minutes out of the job and the bugger’s forgotten already!” declared Dalziel plaintively. “I’ll have a pint and a chaser. So, George, you take care of yourself, eh, it’s a wilderness out there.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Headingley.

“I’m sure you will, wandering round the countryside with that lovely new rod of thine. Just one bit of advice from one old angler to another.”

Dalziel took Headingley’s hand as he spoke and pressed it tight.

“What’s that, Andy?”

The pressure increased till the blood could hardly reach the DI’s fingertips and at the same time the Fat Man stared unblinkingly into his watering eyes as he said softly, “Don’t go dipping it in any forbidden waters, George, or I may have to come looking for you.”

They stood there looking at each other for several seconds. Then behind the bar a phone rang.

The barman picked it up, listened, then called, “Is there a policeman in the house?”

Through the laughter he added, “It’s the station. Would like to speak to someone in CID. Mr. Dalziel or Mr. Pascoe preferred.”

Pascoe said, “I’ll get it.”

He took the phone, listened for a while, then said, “On our way.”

He put the receiver down. Dalziel was watching him. He jerked his head to the door.

Out of the press around the bar, the Fat Man said, “This had better be good. I’ve got a pint and a gill back there surrounded by bastards with the scruples of a starving gannet.”

“Oh, it’s good,” said Pascoe. “It was Seymour.”

DC Seymour had drawn the short straw and been left to look after the CID shop.

“He’s just had a call from the security guard at the Centre,” he went on.

“Oh fuck. Not another body.”

“No,” said Pascoe, pausing long enough for Dalziel to look relieved before going on. “Another two bodies. Ambrose Bird and Percy Follows. Dead in the Roman Experience bathhouse.”

“Oh shit,” said Andy Dalziel. “Shit and double shit. How dead? Drowndead?”

“No. Electrocuted-dead,” said Peter Pascoe.