Dialogues of the Dead

43

“They were still-how shall I put it? — coupled when we got there,” said Peter Pascoe.

“Fused together,” growled Dalziel. “Don’t be mealy-mouthed.”

“Coupled,” repeated Pascoe. “The maintenance man claims that he disconnected the soldering iron from the extension lead and disconnected the extension lead from the socket on the floor above, which was where he’d had to plug it in because of course all the electrics in the basement had cut out when the fault down there developed. He admits, because he can hardly deny it, that after going upstairs to check the repaired circuits at the main power box, he omitted to return to collect the iron. He says he left it in situ because he intended doing another check on the basement circuitry first thing this morning to make sure all was well for the official opening. A conscientious worker.”

“A lying bastard,” said Dalziel. “He switched the iron off at the switch on the extension plug, went upstairs, checked the power box, then one of his mates yelled, ‘Coming for a pint, Joe?’ and he forgot all about it.”

Pascoe gave him a tightly weary smile and wondered why, as they’d both had the same sleep-curtailed night, the Fat Man looked so alert and vigorous while he felt ready to keel over?

But keeling over wasn’t an option when he was giving a briefing to his CID team, plus the Chief Constable who’d decided that in view of the seriousness of the situation, he himself would monitor the next conference, plus the Doctors Pottle and Urquhart, whose presence had also been Trimble’s idea as soon as he heard that the Seventh Dialogue had been found next morning in one of the Centre mailboxes-not the library box which the police were monitoring, but the unmonitored Heritage box on the far side of the building.

Dalziel had objected, making the point that details of advanced investigative procedures and likely suspects ought not to be made available to civilians, to which Trimble had replied somewhat acidly that if he did not trust his co-opted experts then perhaps he shouldn’t have recruited them in the first place, and if they were to be of any use to the team, then they must be as fully briefed as everyone else. The Fat Man had got a bit of his own back when the Chief had commented on the presence of DC Novello. “CID rule, sir. If you’re fit enough to drink, you’re fit enough to work,” he’d said. He’d answered Pascoe’s own reservations on the DC’s presence rather more humanely by saying, “I gave her a ring, asked if she felt up to sitting in for an hour. Break her in gently’s best after what she’s been through. Also, could be useful getting a female slant on things. Can’t be any dafter than the crap we’re likely to get from Oor Wullie and Smokey Joe.”

“Maybe they won’t have much to say,” Pascoe tried to reassure him.

“They never do. Doesn’t stop the buggers from prattling on, but. Just try not to encourage them, eh?”

But it was Trimble who gave the first cue.

In response to Dalziel’s interjection, he asked, “Does it really matter at this juncture if the maintenance man is trying to cover his back or not?”

“Not really,” said Pascoe.

“Except,” said Dr. Pottle, “insofar as what he says throws doubt on to the Wordman’s version in the Dialogue.”

He paused, weighed Dalziel’s menacing glower against the Chief Constable’s encouraging nod, decided that in this case rank counted, and went on, “The Wordman’s version as always stresses his sense of being the instrument of some superior power, a very active instrument of course, but nonetheless one whose certainty of invulnerability is based on the provision by his guiding power of that conventional trinity of crime investigation: motive, means and opportunity.”

“What motive?” demanded Dalziel. “There ain’t none, that’s the point when you’re dealing with madmen!”

“You’re wrong, Superintendent, though I won’t irritate you with psychological analysis at this juncture. But motive in the sense that these killings are clearly sequential not even you will deny.”

“Meaning he only kills people who fit some crazy pattern he’s working to? Well, thanks for that insight, Doctor. It ’ud be a lot more useful if you could work out the pattern for us, but I dare say that’s not on offer yet?”

“I regret the basis of the sequence still escapes me, but I’m working on it,” said Pottle, lighting his fifth cigarette since arrival. “What is clear is that the Wordman looks to his guiding power to point out his next victim or victims, then to bring them into the killing situation, and finally to provide the means.”

“Took his own knife along to sort out Jax Ripley,” said Wield.

“True, but he still makes it clear that the weapon was somehow provided for him in some manner he could fit into his grand plan. And similarly with the drug used to poison Sam Johnson.”

“So what are you saying, Doctor?” enquired Trimble.

“Only that, if the maintenance man’s version is true, it means that the Wordman is rearranging the facts of the incident to fit in with his fantasy, or even to persuade us of its reality. Which would be very interesting.”

“Interesting!” groaned Dalziel. “Like it’s interesting if you’re waiting for a bus and a giraffe walks down the street, only it doesn’t get you anywhere!”

Pascoe hid a smile and went on, “Whatever the truth of that, the two men were certainly electrocuted in the Roman Experience …”

“Sounded more like a Greek experience, from what I heard,” grunted Urquhart who looked even more wrecked than Pascoe felt and had been struggling to find a dormitory position on an upright plastic chair.

“As always, I bow to expertise,” said Pascoe. “Anyway, they were in the Centre basement area-”

“Sir,” interrupted Hat Bowler, “had they arranged to meet there to, you know, do it? Like a date, I mean. Or had it just happened? Or was it a sexual assault?”

“I think, in view of the dressing-up element, and unless we discount the Dialogue completely, it was all planned and voluntary,” said Pascoe. “The duty security man says that Bird had warned him that he would be testing the basement effects early that evening for about an hour to make sure that all was well. The security videos were as useless as ever. A fire door wedged open at the head of the main stair down to the Experience effectively cut out the corridor along which Follows must have approached from the library and therefore cut out the pursuing Wordman too. There is no video camera in place yet in the Experience area. I presume Bird and Follows knew this otherwise they’d hardly have rendezvoused there. You look doubtful, Hat.”

“It’s just that, well, those two didn’t seem the type …”

Pascoe raised an eyebrow, Wield scratched his nose, and Hat stumbled on, “… sorry, I didn’t mean not the type to be gay, because I don’t know what that would be, but they didn’t seem to like each other, in fact the few times I saw them, they seemed to be getting right up each other’s noses.”

“Not their noses you should have been watching,” muttered Dalziel.

Pottle said, “This apparent antagonism was almost certainly their way of concealing the relationship, though it may well be that a real antagonism actually played a significant role in it too. There are certain kinds of lovers’ quarrels which add a positive spice to heterosexual relationships. The vigorous verbal battles we so often find being joined between men and women in Shakespeare are nearly always a prelude to their eventual coupling.”

“I should add,” said Pascoe, “that the security man does recollect other occasions when Bird used the theatre for what he called lighting rehearsals, just him and allegedly the lighting director, though the security man once glimpsed what he called this lanky blonde in an off the shoulder dress before a door was shut in his face. I suspect they had been taking advantage of Bird’s access to props and costumes to play out their fantasies for some time and the completion of the Roman Experience had seemed like an opportunity not to be refused.”

Trimble said hopefully, “This killing couldn’t be just a bit of good old-fashioned gay-bashing, could it? That would make things such a lot simpler.”

Pascoe opened his mouth to make a sharp response to this crass comment, but Wield came quickly in with, “Sorry, sir, but there’s nothing in the Dialogue to suggest the Wordman disapproves. He may be mad but that doesn’t mean he’s got to be bigoted.”

Then he glanced at Pascoe and dropped an eyelid as if to say, I’m a big boy now, I can look after myself.

Pottle added, “I agree with the sergeant. Indeed so far I have found little to suggest that the Wordman disapproves in moral terms of any of his victims. Certainly there are no traces of homophobia.”

“Yes, of course. Sorry,” said Trimble. “Mr. Pascoe, please go on.”

“Yes, as I was saying, the pathologist has confirmed that death was by electrocution. After death the bodies were interfered with in a curious way …”

“After!” grunted Dalziel.

“… with Follows having a mark scratched on his fore-head. Scratches on skin are difficult but the best guess is it was intended to look like this.”

Pascoe went to the drywipe board and drew: $

“It’s a dollar sign,” said Trimble.

“Possibly,” said Pascoe. “And certainly if that’s what it is meant to be, there is a link of a kind with what was found in Ambrose Bird’s mouth.”

He produced a plastic evidence bag in which a small metal disc was visible.

“It is a Roman coin, copper or bronze. We showed it to Ms. Carcanet, the Heritage Director. As you may know, she’s been unwell and the news of what had happened in the Roman Experience didn’t do her state of mind any good. But she managed to tell us that the head stamped on the coin is probably that of the Emperor Diocletian, though it’s very worn, far too badly for the inscription to be legible.”

“But it is genuine?” asked Trimble.

“Oh yes. Most of the coins in the tourist bags like the one Follows was carrying are replicas, but for authenticity they decided to include a few examples of the real thing, well-used Roman coins too worn to have any value to a collector. Did the Wordman select it deliberately because he wanted the real thing, I wonder. And perhaps too we should recall that the classical Greeks used to place an obolus or small coin in the mouth of the dead so that they could pay Charon to ferry them over the Styx.”

“Karen?” said Dalziel. “Over the sticks? Grand National’s not been the same since they invented women jockeys.”

Pascoe, who’d heard it all before, ignored this provocative philistinism and concluded, “Anyway there we have it, a dollar sign and a Roman coin. I suppose it could be some kind of statement about money being the root of all evil?”

He looked hopefully towards the two doctors.

Pottle shook his head.

“I doubt it. As I say, I find little evidence of any warped moral schema here. He’s not killing people because they are prostitutes, or black, or Arsenal supporters. No, I’d guess that the coin and the sign are riddle elements rather than psychological indices. Perhaps our semiotic expert can help.”

He blew a wraith of smoke towards Drew Urquhart who had apparently overcome all the gymnastic problems inherent in going to sleep on a hard office chair.

The linguist opened his eyes, yawned, and scratched his stubbly face.

“Thought about it,” he said. “Not a fucking clue what they mean.”

Dalziel rolled his eyes like ten-pin bowls but before he could knock the Scot over, he continued, “But there is a couple of wee things that did strike me. I’ll go through the Dialogue bit by bit if that’s OK, Mr. Trimble?”

He looked deferentially towards the Chief Constable. The sly sod’s sending Andy up! thought Pascoe. With an embarrassed glance at his Head of CID, Trimble nodded.

“First para takes the form of a question, establishing a dialogue between him and us. Second starts biblically, ‘me of little faith,’ version of Matthew 14.31. Then note ‘a quarter of the way.’ Eight deaths so far, implying another twenty-four to go, though not necessarily, as I shall explain later.”

“Can’t wait,” said Dalziel.

“Cross your legs and think of Jesus, my old gran used to say,” said Urquhart. “Something else here, same para, you must have noticed it with your guid Scots ancestry, Mr. Dalziel. ‘Braggart step.’ Now how does it go?”

He started humming a tune, then interpolated the odd word as though having difficulty remembering, the whiles looking imploringly at Dalziel who suddenly amazed them all by breaking forth in a not unpleasing baritone and singing, “If you’re thinking in your inner hairt the braggart’s in my step, ye’ve never smelt the tangle o’ the Isles!”

“Bravo,” said Urquhart. “Guid to see you’ve not gone completely native.”

“So the Wordman knows the song. So what?”

“By heather paths wi’ heaven in their wiles,” murmured Urquhart. “It all builds a picture. Next para: ‘Happy word.’ Presumably followed because of course he is following Follows. Well, we knew he was a word freak, but more interestingly, note the bit which says that Follows is equally part of the plan, ‘though his time seemed some way removed.’ Question, how so? Presumably it means that Follows wasn’t the next in sequence. The next but one, maybe? Then why say some way removed? Also notice half a dozen paras on, ‘the middle step still not clear.’ As if to say that even with the real next target, which must be Bird, available, there’s still an intermediary step between Bird and Follows.”

“Like last time,” said Pascoe, who’d been listening with intense interest. “He talked about three steps, didn’t he? Even though there was only the one body.”

Urquhart nodded approvingly as though at a favoured pupil and went on, “Makes me wonder if the coin and the dollar sign might not have something to do with this middle step. But fuck knows what. Let’s move on. Next para, nothing. Then they start talking. This felt literary to me. I checked it out with my wee hairie. ‘What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights,’ is Julius Caesar, Act One Scene Three. But Diomed and Glaucus don’t seem to be in Shakespeare.”

“Bulwer Lytton, Last Days of Pompeii, Chapter One,” said Dalziel. “Thought everyone knew that.”

It was a show-stopper for everyone but Pascoe, who knew that this volume was a pretty well permanent feature of Dalziel’s bedside table. His knowledge did not come from any personal acquaintance with the Fat Man’s sleeping arrangements but because on one of the rare occasions Ellie had been in his house, she had “inadvertently” wandered into the bedroom when looking for the bathroom, an “error” she repeated on the next two rare occasions. The book remained in place, but the bookmark she noticed in it had changed places, suggesting either a very slow or a cyclic reading.

She’d also noted that the volume was stamped Property of the Longboat Hotel, Scarborough and the bookmark was a folded copy of a bill for a week’s stay directed to the account of Mr. and Mrs. A.H. Dalziel. Little was known, or perhaps self-preservation ensured little was said, about Dalziel’s ex-wife. But Ellie, noting the date on the bill, declared, “This must have been their honeymoon! And he’s kept the book he stole by his bed all these years. How romantic!” and immediately went out and bought a second-hand copy. Pascoe had tried to read it but gave up after a couple of chapters so had to be content with his wife’s psychological exegesis.

All this flitted across his mind, plus an epiphanic revelation of the significance of that second initial which he’d never known the Fat Man use anywhere else as he heard Urquhart say, “Don’t know it, Hamish. What’s it about?”

“About the eruption of Vesuvius that destroyed the city way back in Roman times.”

“Well, that fits with all that stuff about lava later on. And the Julius Caesar quote might suggest that a tyrant is about to be overthrown …”

“Hang on,” said Pascoe. “These aren’t the Wordman’s words but what Follows and Bird said to each other.”

“We only have the Wordman’s word for that,” said Urquhart. “And I did say might suggest. I’m just trying to strike a few ideas here. On a bit. ‘Middle step, lava,’ done that. Ah yes, the para about them getting down to it in the water. Bit of excitement here. No moral disapproval, I’d agree with Pottle there, but I think the Wordman got a wee bittie titillation here, maybe. ‘Like a full-acorned boar, a German one …’”

He looked invitingly at Dalziel who said, “Nay, lad. Tha’s had all the help tha’s going to get from me. I don’t keep pups and yap.”

“Shakespeare again. Cymbeline. Posthumus imagines the suppositious coupling of his wife, Imogen, with her alleged lover, Iachimo.”

“Like a full-acorned boar, eh?” savoured Dalziel. “Not bad. So what do you make of that, dominie?”

Urquhart grinned at the appellation and said, “Fuck all. On we go. Para starting ‘Like a surgeon,’ note the little play on hand and foot. This cunt really lives in a world where words and their relationships mean more than people and theirs. ‘Questing vole’ is a bit odd …”

“Evelyn Waugh,” said Pascoe.

“Oh, her,” said Dalziel.

“Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole. Scoop,” said Pascoe.

“Significant?” wondered Urquhart.

“It’s parodic. And of course comic. I suppose it reinforces what you said about the Wordman’s preference of words to people. Yet wasn’t there in the first couple of Dialogues anyway some sense of genuine, I don’t know, almost affection for Mr. Ainstable and young Pitman?”

They all considered for a moment then Novello said, “Maybe the difference was, he didn’t know them. Not personally.”

This was her first contribution. She really didn’t look well, thought Pascoe, determined that she was going to be dispatched home the minute this lot was over.

Hat Bowler checked out his colleague’s pallor with less sympathetic eyes. What the fuck was she doing here anyway? he asked himself. This case was his big chance to establish himself firmly as a player in the Holy Trinity’s game and he didn’t care to see an old favourite coming up on the rails.

But you don’t shoot old favourites down, not in public anyway.

He said brightly, “That’s right. He seems to have got started on this by chance. But after those two, all the others seem to be connected in some way, either with the investigation or with the library. How about if he knew the others and had reasons for not caring about them?”

“Or reasons for not letting his acquaintance with them get in the way of killing them. Word-play, jokes, quotation can be useful distancing devices,” said Pottle.

Dalziel made a noise like an old iron pier undermined by the suck of the sea and said wistfully, “Are we near done?”

“Not quite. The best is still to be,” said Urquhart. “Last prose para. Thought you might have had something to say about this, Pozzo.”

“His sense of peace, you mean? His belief that he is invulnerable, invincible? I hardly feel it necessary to point out the obvious. As I’ve said before, eventually it is this belief that he can tell us anything about himself and his purposes with no risk of either prevention or detection that will be his downfall. But of course we need your linguistic skills, Dr. Urquhart, to interpret these nods and winks.”

“Well, thank you kindly. OK, the wee bit of verse at the end, it’s a riddle of course. Right wee Jimmy riddler, this guy. And when you find answers, they usually just ask more questions.”

“Which is what the press out there are waiting to do,” said Trimble sourly.

Poor old Dan, thought Pascoe. He came along hoping that rabbits were going to be plucked from hats by the burrowload. Instead, the end of the expert evidence is in sight and he doesn’t feel he’s even glimpsed a vanishing rump!

“Aye, well, if the guid Lord had gi’en us the airt to see the morn today, we’d all be farting through silk, as my auld Kirkcaldy grannie used to say. But dinna despair. Pozzo’s right, he’s giving us clues and I’m the boy to grasp ’em. Anything strike you about this wee doggerel?”

They all looked at their copies of the Dialogue, then Bowler and Novello said simultaneously, “The print,” and looked at each other speculatively.

“That’s right. The print. All them capitals. Could they mean something, I asked myself,” said Urquhart.

“Like he’s a lousy typist,” said Dalziel.

“Not anywhere else, he’s not,” said Urquhart. “No, I reckon this is a chronogram.”

He looked around triumphantly. The returned gazes were blank.

“A chronogram,” he explained, “is a piece of writing in which certain letters are made to stand out to express a relevant date or epoch. Mostly it used Roman numerals because of course they are expressed in letters. For example, Gustavus Adolphus, the Swedish king killed during the Thirty Years War, had a medal struck to commemorate a victory in 1632 with this inscription.”

He went to the drywipe board and wrote:

ChrIstVs DVX: ergo trIVMphVs

“Which of course means …”

He paused expectantly, playing up to the dominie role that Dalziel had mocked him with.

“With Christ in charge, we’d solve this in no time,” said Novello pertly.

They all laughed, even Trimble, and Urquhart flashed her the louche smile which probably pulled any number of female students, thought Hat maliciously.

“That’ll do nicely,” said the linguist. “Now, think Roman numerals and check out the upper case letters. In Latin inscriptions, U’s are normally printed as V’s of course. Which gives us-” he wrote 100+1+5+500+5+10+1+5+1000+5-“which equals 1632. This also works in English. A famous example is …”

He wrote again.

LorD haVe MerCIe Vpon Vs

“Add this up and you will see we get 1666. The reference incidentally isn’t to the Great Fire but to the other great event which Dryden celebrates in his Annus Mirabilis, the naval warfare between Britain and Holland.”

It was interesting, thought Pascoe. The more he got into his teaching mode, the less marked his Scots accent became.

“This one uses U’s as V’s too, though it’s not in Latin,” said Wield.

“A licence carried over from the craft of lapidary inscription,” said Urquhart. “Before they got power tools, it was a lot easier for masons to carve straight lines and angles than curves. Our Wordman, however, is a purist. In his triplet, only V’s count numerically. And you will note that as in all the best chronograms every numerically significant letter is capitalized and therefore counts. It’s much easier if you just pick out those that add up to the sum you want. Anyway, let’s see what we have.”

He wrote:

1+5+1+1+5+50+1+500+500+1+1+1+500+1+5+1+1+1 = 1576

“Well, there you go,” he said complacently, returning to his seat.

They all sat looking at the board like Belshazaar’s courtiers staring at the wall.

“And that’s it?” said Andy Dalziel.

“Unless my arithmetic’s wrong.”

“But what the fuck does it mean?”

“Hey, man, I’m just the language man, you’re the fucking detectives. But when he says ‘a date I have,’ I take that to mean with his next victim, so 1576 has got to be some kind of pointer.”

“I’m sorry, my history’s pretty lousy,” said Peter Pascoe. “Did anything significant happen in 1576?”

“I expect shit happened, it usually does,” said Urquhart indifferently. “Look, that’s it for me. Unless you’ve got any questions I can answer, I’ve got a lecture to give.”

“I too have promises to keep,” said Pottle. “So unless there is anything else …”

“Else!” echoed Dalziel under his breath but not that far.

Pascoe looked around the room then said, “No that looks like it for now. Again, many many thanks, both. I’ll be in touch. And of course, if anything occurs to you, don’t hesitate to contact me at any time.”

The two academics left. After an uncomfortable moment, the Chief Constable said, “Well, that solves at least one problem, Andy. Now we can get down to all those details of advanced investigative techniques and likely suspects you didn’t want to share with civilians.”

“Right,” said the Fat Man. “Peter?”

Well, thanks a bunch, thought Pascoe.

He said, “Sir, we’re throwing everything at this. Forensic, computer records, plus all the manpower we can muster interviewing everyone who got within half a mile of the library yesterday evening. All the library security tapes and all the tapes from everywhere else in the shopping precinct are being gone over inch by inch. And as you’ve seen with Dr. Pottle and Dr. Urquhart, we’re drawing on every kind of outside help we can think of.”

“Suspects?” said Trimble.

“Yes, sir. Immediately upon establishing that a crime had been committed last night, we sent officers to ascertain the whereabouts and movements of the three men we have in the frame.”

“Who are …?”

Pascoe drew a deep breath and said, “Charley Penn, Franny Roote, Dick Dee.”

The Chief Constable had to know there were no others, yet he still managed to look disappointed.

“I see,” he said. “So after eight deaths your thinking doesn’t take you past this trio whom I understand you have already looked very closely at. Charley Penn, the nearest thing we have in the area to a media celebrity. And Franny Roote, in whom I gather you have a strong personal interest, Mr. Pascoe. And Dick Dee, the man who was instrumental in getting us to take this matter seriously in the first place.”

He raised his eyebrows at Pascoe who felt like saying, “Well, thank you kindly, sir, for pointing out the sodding obvious to us poor dumb detectives. Now why don’t you piss off back to your big office and leave us to get on with our underpaid jobs?”

Instead he said mildly, “The Wordman too is a media celebrity. And I have a strong professional interest in Mr. Roote. As for Dee, fire investigators advise taking a close look at the guy who reports the fire, also the main man on the spot when you arrive.”

Trimble considered this, seemed to spot the subtext, smiled faintly and said, “I do hope we’re not anticipating arson attacks too. Any joy when you checked them out?”

“Nothing positive. But none of them had a firm alibi for the early part of the evening.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve got a firm alibi either.”

Trimble stood up suddenly and the others rose too.

“I won’t keep you back from your work any longer. I don’t need to impress on any of you how urgent it is we bring this business to a rapid and satisfactory conclusion, just as I didn’t need our local Member of Parliament impressing it on me this morning. Andy, be sure to keep me up to speed on progress, won’t you?”

“Anything happens, you’ll be the first to know,” assured the Fat Man.

As the door closed behind the Chief, they all slumped back into their chairs and studied the floor and/or ceiling as if in hope that someone else was going to burst forth with an inspired insight.

Finally Dalziel said, “Nowt for it, we’re going to have to arrest Dan. You heard him say he hadn’t got an alibi. Unless young Bowler can help us out.”

“Sir?”

“Well, you’re sitting there pursing your lips like a cat’s arsehole. It’s either wind or words that are trying to get out. So do we listen or duck?”

“Sorry, sir. I was just looking at that date he wrote on the board-1576. Seems it ought to mean something to me.”

“Oh aye? You got O-level history?”

“I took it,” said Hat evasively.

“Good enough. You bugger off down to the library and check out everything that happened in that year. If you do nowt else, you’ll be letting Dee and likely Charley Penn too know we’ve got the message.”

Doing his best to conceal his delight at being given an excuse to see Rye, Hat made for the door.

But his joy was pricked a little when Dalziel called after him, “And make sure that’s the only date that’s on your mind in yon library. Young women can seriously damage a young detective’s career.”

The Fat Man winked at Pascoe then said, “How about you, Ivor? Owt strike you?”

“Sorry, sir, were you talking to me?” said Novello with a histrionic little start.

It had taken her some time to find out why Dalziel called her Ivor and when she did, she affected an isn’t-it-sad indifference to yet another example of male infantilism. But secretly, particularly after the correct Pascoe’s injunction to all others against using this sobriquet left the Fat Man as its sole source, she had to admit a certain pleasure in being so singled out. After all, when Samuel heard God calling him in the Temple, he didn’t retort sourly, “It’s Mr. Samuel to you.”

“That bullet sent you deaf as well? Christ, you look terrible. Time you went home.”

It occurred to her to suggest that if looking terrible were reason for sending people home, Dalziel and Wield would never leave the house, but of course she didn’t. Truth was she didn’t feel too clever but admitting it in this company wasn’t an option.

“There was something,” she said. “The coin in Bird’s mouth. But there wasn’t one in Follows. Maybe the Wordman didn’t mind Bird getting over the Styx to heaven, but disliked Follows so much, he wanted to keep on hurting him beyond the grave.”

Pascoe nodded approvingly. The smart bastard’s been there already, thought Novello, but doesn’t reckon there’s much in it.

The smart bastard said, “It’s a thought, though of course we should be careful not to confuse the classical underworld with a Christian heaven. And it still leaves us with the problem of the dollar sign.”

“The almighty dollar, maybe?” suggested Novello. “Could be the Wordman thinks that hell is something like America.”

Pascoe grinned, showing real amusement. Made a nice change from the patronizing encouragement of his smile, thought Novello. Though, paradoxically, she felt encouraged enough to add, “I’ve got this feeling that while the coin might somehow represent the middle step he refers to, the dollar sign has got a significance to do with the choice of victim. I read through all the Dialogues and there was that other instance of scratching something on the head, Councillor Steel, wasn’t it? Only one step there, so far as we can make out, so what did the scratching mean?”

“RIP in Cyrillic script, wasn’t it?” said Pascoe. “A joke, it looked like, given he was called Cyril. The Wordman likes a joke, particularly if it’s to do with words.”

“Yes, sir. That’s something we shouldn’t forget, isn’t it? We should never lose sight of the words, any words, when we’re dealing with the Wordman. I mean, words aren’t just useful labels. Like in religion, when you speak certain words, things happen or are supposed to happen. Magic too. Or in some cultures, you don’t tell people your special name because names are more than labels, they are actually you in a special way. I’m sorry, I’m not putting this very well. What I’m saying is that words, maybe a special arrangement of words, seem to have a special significance to the Wordman, each word marks a step forward, and sometimes he can link separate words to individuals and then they get killed, but maybe sometimes he links more than one word to an individual and then we get only one corpse but a trinity of steps, like he says in the Dialogue where he describes killing Lord Pyke-Strengler.”

She paused, wondering, Am I babbling? Dalziel was certainly looking at her as if he reckoned she was delirious.

She got help from an unexpected source.

Wield said, “You mean his reason for chopping the Hon.’s head off could be something to do with words, with these steps you’re talking about, rather than with the Wordman’s state of mind. External, not internal?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Like he thought, all right, I’ve got a body, that’s a step. Now if I do this and this with it, that would be another two steps. He’s eager to be moving forward along this path he keeps talking about and when something like this occurs, whatever it was, of course he puts it down to divine intervention or something.”

“So what are you suggesting?” asked Pascoe.

“Maybe instead of concentrating on clues in the conventional sense, we should start collecting words. Listing them in every way we can until one of the lists makes some kind of sense.”

“Examples, please,” said Pascoe encouragingly.

Dalziel would have growled, “Money where your mouth is, luv, else keep it zipped.” She felt that she would have preferred that, then glanced at him, saw his expression, and changed her mind.

“Well, Pyke-Strengler’s body was found in the stream, right, and his head in a fishing basket in his boat. So words like stream, water, beck, brook, river, and boat, basket …wickerwork …creel …”

She was starting to feel very tired and these swirling ideas which had seemed on the verge of coalescing into something solid were beginning to dissipate like morning mist, but she pressed on.

“And this latest, Bird and …whatsisname …words like coin …and dollar …and money …”

She felt something like a sob gathering in her throat and tailed off into silence because it seemed a better alternative.

Dalziel and Pascoe exchanged glances then the Fat Man said, “Ivor, that’s grand. You keep working on that, eh? I really appreciate you coming in like this, and the Chief’ll have noted it too. Now I reckon it’s time you headed off home for a bit of a rest.”

Cue to say, No, I feel fine, but speech felt even more treacherous in face of this lumbering sympathy, so instead she stood up, nodded curtly, and made it out of the door without a wobble.

Dalziel said, “Wieldy, see she’s all right. Don’t know what you were thinking of, Pete, pressing her like that when she’s still convalescing.”

“Hang about,” said Pascoe indignantly. “It wasn’t my idea having her here.”

“Wasn’t it? All right. Back to the case. What other ideas are you not having?”

“Keep banging away at Penn, Roote and Dee, I suppose.”

“Sound like a firm of dodgy solicitors. That it?”

“Yup. Sorry. How about you, sir?”

“Me?” Dalziel yawned widely and scratched his crotch like it had offended him. “Think I’ll go home and read a good book.”

And I can guess which one it’s likely to be, Hamish, thought Pascoe.

But being a sensitive man, with a wife, child, child’s dog, and mortgage to support, he didn’t say it.