Dialogues of the Dead (14 page)

in Bowler, slightly punch-drunk, said, 'Have we met? I don't remember you . ..' 'No, you're right. In fact we haven't actually met, though I think we may have come close to an encounter recently. Roote. Francis Roote. Franny to my friends.' 'So how do you know me, Mr Roote?' 'I'm not really sure. A mutual friend could have pointed you out, I suppose. Sergeant Wield, perhaps. Or Mr Pascoe. There he is now.' He gave a little wave. Bowler followed its direction and found himself looking straight into DCI Pascoe's accusing eyes. He couldn't blame him for not looking happy. To come to something like this and find the guy you suspected was stalking you chatting merrily to the DC instructed to check him out with maximum discretion was enough to give anyone a touch of the Dalziels. Roote said, 'Excuse me. Time to get down to business, I think. Jude Illingworth the engraver's here demonstrating her tech niques and I don't want to miss that.' He moved away towards an alcove in which Bowler could see a tall woman with no hair talking to a knot of people. At the same rime out of the corner of his eye he saw Pascoe heading in his direction and prepared to be defensive. 'Sir,' he said pre-emptively as the DCI arrived, 'I've no idea what he's doing here. Shall I check the invite list? Or maybe he came with a friend ...' 'Relax,' said Pascoe. 'I've a good idea how he got in. What I'd like to know though is how come you're so friendly with him?' Bowler explained what had happened. 'I've no idea how he got on to me, sir,' he concluded unhappily. 'I really did tiptoe around . ..' 'The man's a spider,' said Pascoe. 'Not the kind that builds a web but one of those who leaves trailing threads drifting in the breeze. Slightest touch and he knows you're there.' This was almost as airy-fairy as Roote's spiel, thought Bowler. 'Anyway, glad you've made it, Hat. I won't keep you any longer. You'll be keen to look at what's on offer. And if you see something you fancy, grab it, that's my advice. Don't waste time.' Jesus, why did the sight of young love provoke even sensible cops like Peter Pascoe into the jocularity of maiden aunts? Hat asked himself resentfully. Then he glimpsed what he'd been looking for: Rye, appearing with a newly laden tray of nibbles. 'No, sir,' he said, moving away from Pascoe. 'I'll not waste any time.'

Time was still here and 1 was still in it, but as I moved around and regarded those isho are its unwitting servants, my aura was coming in waves, or rather pulses, as if its source were a great beating heart like the sun. Twice, three times, its heat and brightness grew almost unbearable as I encountered first this face, then that. Could they all be marked down? Perhaps ... but their time, or rather their time-out, was not yet.. . and in any case could surely not be here ... And then you brought us face to face.

'Councillor Steel, I'd like a word with you,' said Charley Penn. 'Oh yes? Normally I'd say words come cheap, but not from you writers, eh? I saw the price of one of your books in Smith's the other day. Feed a family for a week, you could, on that money.' 'Not your family, I shouldn't have thought,' said Penn, glancing at the nibble-loaded plate in the councillor's hand. The?' Steel snorted contemptuously. 'Don't have no family except meself, Mr Penn.' 'That's what I mean.' Steel laughed. One of his political strengths was that he was uninsultable. He said, 'You mean I like my grub? Fill up while you can, that's what growing up rough taught me. Mebbe if I'd gone to a posh school like you, I'd eat more dainty. Not that a man's going to get fat on this bird-seed they feed you here. And who's paying for it, eh? And the vino, too. The ratepayers, that's who.' 'Well, they can afford it, can't they? Out of those millions they'll be saving once you get my literature group grant axed. Feeling pleased with yourself now you've kicked that bunch of

"3 sheep on your committee into recommending it, are you?' 'Nowt personal, Mr Penn. You've got to treat the symptoms till you can cure the disease.' 'And what would that disease be?' 'Civic melogamania,' said Steel, mispronouncing the word carefully. 'That would be, what? An over-enthusiasm for music?' said Penn. 'Got it wrong, did I?' said Steel indifferently. 'Doesn't matter, you know what I mean. Building Fancy Clan centres like this when they've cut the council house budget by sixty per cent in ten years. That's melogamania, however you say it. You want to complain about a few trendy trollops not getting paid to read mucky books, you should speak to the mayor. Or his missus. She's a big fan of yours, I hear. Not big enough to save your class, but, not even rationing his oats. Not to worry, more to go round the rest, eh? Talk of the devil, there he is. How do, Your Lordship! Who's looking after the maggots?' The mayor was passing by. He gave Steel a nasty look, while across the room his wife turned her head to send Steel a promissory glare which turned to a lionizing smile when she saw Charley Penn. Steel appropriated the smile to himself, and called, 'How do, Margott? Looking well. Hey, luv, don't pass a starving man without throwing a crumb.' This change of direction was caused by Rye Pomona's approaching within hailing distance with her tray which the councillor proceeded to lighten with more speed than discrimination.

'Shall I get you some more, Mr Steel?' enquired Rye sweetly. 'No, lass. Not unless you can lay your hands on something a bit more substantial.' 'Such as?' 'A few slices of rib beef and a couple of roast spuds wouldn't come amiss.' 'Rib beef and roast spuds. I'll mention it in the kitchen,' said Rye seriously. 'I bet you will,' said Steel, laughing splutteringly. 'You work in the library, don't you, luv?' 'That's right.' 'So tell me, this waitressing job you're doing, you getting paid library rates plus overtime, or skivvy rates plus tips?' 'Watch it, Steel,' grated Penn. 'That's offensive even by your low standards.' Rye looked at him coldly and said, 'I think I can speak for myself, Mr Perm. In fact I'm doing it on a purely voluntary basis, so there's no charge to the public purse. But of course, if you care to leave a tip ...' 'Nay, lass,' laughed Steel. 'Only tip I'll give you is, I like my spuds roasted almost black. But I don't suppose I'll be getting any here, so I'll just have another handful of these to put me on till me lunch.' He reached towards a plateful of cocktail sausages but Rye pushed the whole tray towards him so that he had to grasp hold of it to keep it off his chest. 'Tell you what, Councillor,' she said. 'Why don't you take the lot, then you can pick through them at your leisure. And I can take a look at the art.' She let go of the tray, nodded at Steel, ignored Penn's congratulatory smile, and turned to meet Hat Bowler. 'So you made it, then?' she said. 'Come on, there's something I want you to see.'

There are some revelations which are certain without being clear. For a fraction of a second - though I knew without doubt that this was the one - I didn't understand why, and I could not foresee how. But even before I could commit the blasphemy of asking why and how, my averted head let my eyes see the single answer, and all that remained was when. Though whether-when? is appropriate for an event which takes place outside of time is a question to scotch a Scotist. Perhaps, the fancy came to me, time suspended would permit me to perform my duty, and when time resumed, all these people, policemen and journalists included, would find to their uncomprehending horror that one of their number lay dead among them, and no one had noticed a thing!

II5 But it was not to be. My aura still burned bright but the flow of time was not yet slowing. I was still here and now. But soon ... Oh yes, I knew it must be soon ... Chapter Fourteen

As Pascoe watched Bowler move away, making a bee-line for the girl from the library, he found he was smiling. Who was it said that middle age began when you started looking fondly on the young, and old age when you started really resenting the bastards? Probably Dalziel. Time to check out the art. He'd been checking for several minutes without much enthusiasm when someone touched his shoulder and said, 'Peter, how're the muscles? Recovered enough for another go?' He turned to see Sam Johnson grinning at him. 'You've got to be joking,' he said. 'Nice to see you, though. I wanted a word. I spotted Franny Roote earlier. He with you?' It was hardly a subtle approach but Johnson was too sharp for obliquities, as Pascoe had discovered when he'd checked out Roote's story with him. Now the lecturer emptied his wine glass, seized another off a passing tray, and said, 'Yes, I got Franny an invite. Is that a problem?' 'No problem. Just an occupational reflex,' said Pascoe lightly. 'You see him as a bright student, I see him as an old customer.' 'I also see him as a friend,' said Johnson. 'Not a close friend maybe, but getting that way. I like him very much.' 'Well, that's all right then,' said Pascoe. 'Can't be much wrong with a bright student whose supervisor likes him very much.' It came out a bit sharper than he intended. Something about Johnson acted on him as a mild irritant, the same thing probably which had provoked him into that farcical non-game of squash from which his shoulder was still aching. Not that there was anything obviously irritating about the young academic. Boyish without being childish, good-looking this side of matinee idol,

117 bright but not in-your-face smart ass, entertaining in a selfmocking rather than self-congratulating style, totally nonmenacing, he had somehow contrived to ripple the Pascoe pond. The DCI had thought about it long and hard. Jealousy? A man might be forgiven for feeling a little jealous of someone who could make his wife laugh so much. But Ellie Pascoe had been through experiences in recent months which might have crushed a lesser woman and to Pascoe the sound of her laughter was a blessed affirmation that all was well. He heard it now and over Johnson's shoulder glimpsed her with a trio consisting of Charley Penn, Percy Follows and Mary Agnew. Which of them had made Ellie laugh wasn't clear, but Pascoe felt nothing but gratitude. Not that either of these men looked possible candidates for jealousy. Penn with his cavernous eyes and sunken cheeks was hardly a romantic threat, while Follows was of the type Ellie unkindly categorized as prancers, with his mane of honey gold hair, his flamboyant gestures, his flowery language, his bow ties and garish waistcoats. 'I don't mind if he's really gay,' Ellie had said, 'but I can't be doing with it as a fashion statement.' So, no jealousy there, and not even in the case of the much more desirable young lecturer. Then what was it in Johnson that stirred him up? Eventually and reluctantly he'd come to the conclusion that he felt Johnson as a challenge to, or more accurately perhaps, a comment on his way of life. There'd been a point years back at the end of university when he'd stood uncertainly at a fork in the track; then, with a deep breath and many a half-regretful backward glance, he'd set his foot on the road that had brought him to his present state. The other path, he guessed, might well have led him to some condition not unlike that of Johnson. They were, roughly speaking, of the same generation, but Sam looked younger, dressed younger, talked younger. On campus, the casual observer would probably find it hard to distinguish him from the students he taught. Yet he could take his place among his seniors at conferences or in the senate as a respected equal, even a potential superior, with a bright beginning behind him and the promise of glittering prizes ahead. At the very least he had the prospect of spending the years of his maturity in comfortable old rooms look ing out on a smooth razed lawn running down to a river gay with punts in term time and serene with swans through the long vacations .. . OK, that was probably a pie-in-the-sky picture of academic life which didn't exist or, if it did, had no appeal to Johnson. But in his own career, not even his most way-out fantasies could devise any comparable pastoral idyll. Toil and trouble, trial and tribulation, till he was put out to grass, which was the only version of pastoral his future seemed to offer. On the other hand, he didn't have a drink problem, and his heart, so he'd been told on his annual medical check-up, was in perfect condition. Johnson was looking at him as if expecting a response. 'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Hard to hear with all this noise.' Enunciating very clearly as if in a large lecture hall with a bad acoustic, Johnson said, 'I was saying, we all make mistakes, Peter. Happily, most of us come to terms with them and get on with our lives.' For a moment Pascoe felt like he'd been thought-read, then the lecturer went on, 'And it can't be pleasant for Franny, feeling he's under constant observation.' How about not being pleasant for me either? wondered Pascoe. But it was a blind alley of a conversation so he said lightly, 'Depends on who's doing the observing. I think one of us is being summoned.' Ellie was beckoning. He gave a little wave and she replied by pointing her finger towards Johnson. 'You, I think,' said Pascoe. He followed in Johnson's wake. Charley Penn gave them both a nod and Ellie smiled a welcome and said, 'Sam, do you know Percy Follows who runs the library service? And Mary Agnew, editor of the Gazette?' 'Hi,' said Johnson. 'Percy was just telling me about this short story competition the library and the Gazette are running together. It seems they're having a bit of bother with the judging.' 'Yes,' said Follows. 'To be quite honest, I don't think that Mary or myself realized the degree of interest there was going to be.

119 My staff are doing the preliminary sorting and it's turned into quite a task for us, I can tell you. We've had well over seven hundred entries, a very high standard, and we want to be sure that our winners really are la crime de la creme.' 'To cut a long story short,' said Ellie brutally, 'Mary and Percy were looking for an expert panel. They naturally turned to Charley here as our most distinguished local lion who was kind enough to mention my own imminent elevation to the pride, then naturally your name came up.' 'Yes,' said Agnew. 'This writing course of yours, seems to me that many of the entrants to the competition must be potential customers. You could almost look upon it as a recruitment campaign.' Sam Johnson, if he'd had a quiz-glass, looked as if he'd have used it. Pascoe didn't blame him. Ever since MYU's creative writing course had been started, the Gazette had debated whether this was a sensible use of educational time, staff and money when the country was full of young people desperate for qualifications in subjects with some relevance to the real world. It wasn't hard to work out what had changed. Agnew and Follows had initially taken the short story competition so unseriously that the librarian had wished the initial sorting out on Dick Dee, while Agnew had dumped the final judging into the lap of the Hon. Geoffrey Pyke-Strengler. Two things had happened. First, they'd probably been genuinely surprised by the number of entries. And secondly, after Jax Ripley's final broadcast and subsequent death at the hands of the Wordman, the short story competition had entered the public consciousness in a big way. OK, it had little real connection with the investigation, but the national media, as always greedy for any crumb falling from such a richly set table, would be focusing in on the result. There'd already been a feature on PykeStrengler in one of the colour supplements. He was just the kind of anachronistic, sub-Wodehousian aristocrat the British love. His answers to his interviewer's questions had been tinged with a vague bafflement at all the fuss, a quality which also informed his photographed face. One thing, though, had shone quite clearly through the vagueness - this was a man singularly unqualified to judge of literary merit. So old pro Agnew was suddenly keen to have a judging team whose literary credentials wouldn't make her paper look totally stupid. Charley Penn was an obvious choice. He'd passed the parcel to Ellie who in turn had involved Sam Johnson, who now said, 'But surely you already have a judge in place: Mr Pyke-Strengler. He's here, isn't he? I was admiring some of his wildlife watercolours earlier, painted I presume before he shot the creatures. Has he been consulted about the proposed changes?' 'If he hasn't,' said Ellie, 'now's your chance. There he is talking to Mr Dee. Perhaps they're discussing the competition.' Dick Dee and his companion were certainly deep in discussion of something and that's how, or so it seemed to Pascoe, Agnew would have liked to leave them, but Ellie in mischief-making mood was not to be denied and she called loudly, 'Hello! Mr Pyke-Strengler! Do you have a moment?' She winked at Johnson who grinned back. Then all gazes turned to watch the Honourable Geoffrey Pyke-Strengler come shambling towards them. In the Great Outdoors, remote from human habitation, on mountain, moor or riverbank, the Hon. was by most accounts, certainly his own, a creature at one with the environment, soft of foot, sharp of ear and eye, endlessly ingenious in devising methods of getting close enough to the far, fish and fowl he so loved to make easy the task of slaughtering them. He had been the kind of child who, if his parents had opted for the once popular upper class alternative to an expensive boarding school of staking him out on a cold mountain, would probably have dispatched the first wolf or bear that came marauding with his bare hands, then eaten it. In fact, as the supplement article had informed Pascoe, by the time he was ten his parents had abandoned him even more completely than by exposure to the elements. His father, Baron Pyke-Strengler of the Stang, a famous defender of animal rights in the Upper Chamber, had run off to Tahiti with an Australian anthropologist, as a consequence of which his deeply if idiosyncratically religious mother had entered a vegan cult's Californian commune from which she had not emerged for twenty-five years, leaving the Hon. Geoffrey to grow up watching most of his inheritance steadily eroding under the very different but uniformly large financial demands of his absent parents. By the time he