Death's Jest-Book (34 page)

He clapped his hands together
then threw them apart in a gesture which momentarily cleared the veil
of smoke that hung before his face.

Pascoe knew from old experience
that this signalled the end of the session and for a second he felt
some sympathy with Andy Dalziel's most printable reaction to trick
cyclists and their works. 'Any other bugger made my brain hurt like
that, I'd kick him in the goolies till his eyes popped out of their
sockets.'

But only for
a
second.

'Thank you kindly. Doctor,' he
said. 'That's been a great help. I think.'

'Good. Till next time then, when
perhaps we can start looking at you.'

After
its terrible start, Hat Bowler's Christmas had really taken off.

He had rung Rye later on
Christmas Day as promised, expecting to find she'd taken to her bed
once more. To his surprise and delight, she greeted him brightly and
in the background he could hear music and voices.

'You having a party?' he asked.

She laughed and said, 'No, idiot,
it's the TV movie. It turned out Myra was on her own too, so when she
said she'd better be getting back to her own flat, I asked her what
she was going to do, and she said watch the movie probably, so I said
,. . Why on earth am I going on like this? I think it's just because
I feel so much better.'

'Great. You had anything to eat?'

'God, you're a real mother hen,
aren't you? Yes, I have. We each applied our special talents to
preparing a Christmas meal. To wit, I opened a bottle of wine, two in
fact, and Myra made cheese omelettes, really great, the best I've had
in ages, so you needn't worry that I'm dying because I turned down
your offer of beans on toast.'

Hat didn't recall specifying
beans on toast, but he was too glad at the improvement in Rye to
protest. With Myra Rogers on one side and Mrs Gilpin on the other,

Rye now had a double line of
defence in the event piss-artist Penn returned to the fray.

When he got to see Rye again on
the evening of Boxing Day he'd found the recovery was complete and
all the delights of Christmas, traditional and individual, that he'd
been looking forward to tasted all the better for being delayed.

This is all I want, Hat’
she whispered as she clung on to him after they made love. This is
where I want to be, here, you, me, warm, snug, safe, forever.'

She lay across him, her arms and
legs grappling him to her in an embrace so tight it was painful, but
nothing in the world would have made him admit that pain. He had
known from early on in their acquaintance that she was the one.
Without her, life would be ... he had no words to describe what life
would be. All he knew was that whatever she wanted from him was hers
without question. Even when she fell asleep she did not slacken her
grip on him, and when she awoke in the small hours of the morning and
began to explore his body again, she found his limbs locked in cramp.

'Jesus,' she said. 'Hat, love,
what have I done to you? Why didn't you push me off?'

'Didn't want to,' he assured her.
'I'm fine. Oh shit!'

This in reaction to the stab of
agony that followed his attempt to stretch his left leg.

She flung back the duvet, climbed
astride his body and began to give him a comprehensive massage, which
brought first relief then arousal.

'Here's a bit that's still
stiff,' she said, running her hand down to his groin. That's going to
need some real work.'

'Yeah, that's been bothering me
for years,' he said. 'Don't think you'll have much luck there,
Doctor.'

'At least we can wrap it up and
keep it warm,' she said. 'Like this And Christmas was merry all over
again.

Rye
was back at work the next day. While many employers bow to the
inevitable and close down for the whole of the holiday period,
Mid-Yorkshire Library Service was of sterner mettle, recognizing that
after the penal sociability of Christmas, many people would be keen
to get back to the solitary confinement of books.

On the twenty-seventh the
reference library was fairly busy, but there was one notable and
unregretted absentee. Charley Penn.

But midway through the morning,
the door opened and Penn came in. He headed for his usual seat but
without giving her the benefit of his usual glower and after five
minutes looking at an unopened book, he rose and came to the desk.

Without preamble he said, 'Wanted
to say I'm sorry about kicking up that fuss on Christmas Day. I were
right out of order. Won't happen again.'

'Fuss?' she said. 'Oh yes,
someone did say something about a drunk on the landing. I didn't
actually notice, but I'm glad to hear of your resolution to reform,
Mr Penn. Is that with immediate effect or do we have to wait till the
New Year?'

Their eyes engaged, hers wide and
candid, his deep-set and watchful. Neither blinked, but before it
became a playground contest, Penn said, 'Work to do’ and turned
away.

Behind him Rye said, 'Going well,
is it?'

If he was surprised, it was
hidden by the time he turned back to her.

Two steps forward, one step back,
you know how it is with research’ he said.

'Not really. I suppose I've never
been interested enough in a complete stranger to want to know
everything about him.'

'You don't start with a stranger.
You start with someone you're acquainted with, if only through their
works. That's the contact makes you want to know them better. And
sometimes they turn out very different from what you imagined.
There's the fascination.'

'I see. And is it harder or
easier if they're dead?'

'Both. They can't answer
questions. But they can't lie either.'

She was silent long enough for
him to wonder if this unexpected exchange were at an end, then she
said, 'And they can't object to someone sticking an unwanted nose
into their private affairs. That must be an advantage.'

'Think you might be confusing my
line of work and your boyfriend's,' said Penn.

'Parallel lines that sometimes
intersect, aren't they?'

'That's a bit too clever for a
simple soul like me,' said Penn.

'Simple, Mr Penn? With all those
books to your name?'

'There's nowt clever in making
things up about folk you've invented,' he said with the harsh
dismissiveness of success.

'But you haven't invented Heine.
And I hope you're not making things up about him.'

'No, he's real enough. But
finding out the truth about him doesn't need cleverness, just hard
work and a taste for truth.'

'And translating his poems?'

The same.'

'You surprise me. I never seem to
see any of your translations any more, Mr Penn. There was a time when
I was always coming across them.'

She spoke gravely, with no hint
of mockery, but they both knew she was referring to a period when the
writer had paid oblique court by leaving translations of Heine's
amatory verses where she would chance upon them. When she made it
plain she wasn't interested, the poems continued to appear but with a
mocking irony colouring his choice. Dick Dee's death brought a halt
to all such games.

'I didn't seem able to get down
to it for a while’ he said. 'But I'm getting back into the
swing now. Hold on a sec. There's something here I'd value a reaction
to.'

He went to his cubicle and
returned with a sheet of paper which he laid in front of her. It
contained two verses side by side.

The rock breaks his vessel
asunder But when in the end the wild waters

The waves roll his body along
Plug his ear and scarf up his eye

But what in the end drags him
under I 'm certain his last drowning thought is

Is Lorelei's sweet song
The song of the Lorelei.

She read them without touching
the paper.

'So?' she said.

'Two versions
of the last verse of Heine's "Lorelei" poem, you know, the
one that starts
Ich weifi nicht was soil es bedeuten Daft ich so
traurig bin.'

'I've come across it’

'Both very free. I give a
parallel literal translation, but in my metrical version I try for
the spirit rather than just the plain sense of the original. My
dilemma is, does Heine want us to think that Lorelei deliberately
sang to destroy the boatman? Or simply that it's her nature to sing
and the boatman destroyed himself by listening? What do you think?'

'Don't know’ said Rye. 'But
I don't much care for "waters" and "thought is".'

'An aesthetic rather than a moral
judgment? Fair enough. I'll go with the first.'

He nodded, turned on his heel
like a soldier and went back to his seat, leaving the sheet of paper
on the desk.

A woman who
had been observing this scene from the doorway now advanced to the
desk. Rye Pomona looked up and saw a youngish female, rather stockily
built, wearing no make up and a rain-spattered, mud-coloured fleece
open to show a baggy grey T-shirt whose folds did nothing for her
figure and whose colour sat uneasily against her dark complexion. She
was holding a Tesco carrier bag and Rye snap-judged her as housewife
who'd had kids early, let herself go a bit, and today, with the
longueurs and rigours of Christmas behind her, had come to the
library determined to seek some educational route to a life less
tediously forecastable than her current prospects seemed to offer.

Must be Hat's influence, she told
herself. I'm turning into a detective. Which thought, and the thought
of Hat himself, brought a smile of such warmth to her face that the
woman responded in kind, making her several years younger and three
times as attractive. 'Hi,' said Rye. 'Can I help you?' Making sure
her body screened out any observation from the library, the woman
slid an ID card across the desk.

'Hi,' she said. 'DC Novello.
Maybe Hat's mentioned me?'

In fact Hat, to whom love meant
no no-go areas, had talked about his colleagues and his work and
himself with a complete but subjective openness. His account of his
arch-rival, Shirley Novello, had created in Rye's mind a picture of a
smooth svelte sophisticated creature, mobile glued to her left ear,
organizer welded to her right hand, each colour co-ordinated with her
designer power suit. It took a moment to readjust from both that
false impression and her equally flawed attempt at detection and
Novello said reassuringly, 'It's nothing heavy. Mr Dalziel asked me
to look in to see you were all right.'

What the Fat Man had actually
said was, 'Let her know to be careful about some slimy sod oozing his
way into her confidence. At the same time, do a bit of oozing
yourself and make sure she doesn't have owt to hide’

'What a kind man Mr Dalziel is,'
said Rye. 'As you can see, I'm fine.'

'Oh good. Wasn't that Mr Perm who
was talking to you just now? I heard what happened on Christmas Day.
He wasn't bothering you, I hope?'

'No, not in the least. We were
just discussing a point of literature.'

Novello's
gaze
dropped to Penn's sheet of paper. Rye slid it away but not before
Novello had read the lines of verse upside down.

'Lorelei,' she said. 'Wasn't that
what you found on your computer after the break in?'

Done your homework, thought Rye.
This was more in accord with Hat's picture.

'Yes,' she said.

'And you're sure Mr Penn wasn't
bothering you?'

'Honestly, I know when I'm being
bothered’ she smiled. 'I'm sure this was just coincidental. He
came to apologize. I don't think we're going to be best friends, but
if he wants things quiet, I'm not going to quarrel with that.'

'He may have his own reasons for
wanting things quiet’ said Novello.

'Meaning?'

'Mr Dalziel thinks he might have
decided he was getting nowhere barking himself, so he's decided to
find himself a dog.'

‘o bark louder at me?' said
Rye, amused.

'More sniffer dog than barker’
said Novello. Tress.'

'A journalist? But that's stupid.
What would I have to say to a journalist?'

'Nothing, I hope. But as you've
probably gathered, Mr Perm thinks that you .. . that all of us are
hiding something. If he's managed to persuade a journalist there
could be a story . . . point is, it won't be someone coming at you
asking for an interview, it's more likely to be someone coming at you
sideways. Like here at the library, say. Some fellow asking for your
help with something, then striking up an acquaintance ... it can
happen.'

She'd taken the brief smile which
touched Rye's lips as scepticism, but it was caused by her memory
that this was how Hat Bowler had first attempted to get to know her.

'I'll be on my guard,' she
promised.

'So it's not happened yet?'