Dialogues of the Dead (20 page)

164 an R, while that thing that you called a badly formed M could be a Cyrillic P. And if the scratch in between is just a shorthand I which is rather a complex letter in Russian and not easy to do in a hurry on a head with an engraving tool, this could simply be RIP in the Cyrillic alphabet. Gerrit?' Dalziel shook his head as if to clear it of the after-effects of long slumber and rose slowly to his feet. 'Gorrit,' he said in a mild, long-suffering voice. 'Right joker, this Wordman, ain't he? What's it they say? Laugh and the world laughs with you. Thanks, gents. That's definitely it. Sergeant Wield will show you out.' Pascoe, clearly feeling that this expression of appreciation fell some way short of warm, said, 'It's been really useful. Many thanks for giving us your time this morning. We'll look forward to hearing from you again as soon as you've had time for mature reflection, won't we, sir?' 'Can't wait,' said Dalziel. 'And Sergeant Wield; be sure to arrest Dr Urquhart if he starts smoking that stuff afore he leaves the building.' The linguist, who had once more taken his leather pouch from his pocket, paused in the doorway, smiled at Dalziel and said, 'Away play wi' yersel', Hamish.' It wasn't often his underlings had the pleasure of seeing their Great Master nonplussed but for a moment after the door closed behind Pottle, Urquhart and Wield, this was an experience Pascoe and Bowler enjoyed. Then he turned his gaze on them and they both smoothed away all signs of anything but alert intelligence from their faces. 'So, Peter, you happy now?' demanded Dalziel. 'I think it was a very useful meeting, sir, and with luck we'll get a great deal more help from the pair of them.' 'You reckon? And mebbe I'll join the Women's Institute. Jesus, you'd think on the Sabbath, we could get just a little bit of real help in taking things forward. Owt 'ud do. Just a name with enough justification for me to go and kick shit out of it.' 'There's always Roote.' 'Still whistling that tune, Pete? Thought your dog here had sniffed him out and found nowt.' First Wield, now the Fat Man. Not forgetting, of course, Roote

165 himself. Did the whole world know about his so-called secret surveillance? wondered Hat. 'And there weren't owt in his statement nor anyone else's to put him in the frame for the councillor, were there?' 'He's a clever fellow,' said Pascoe. 'Ah, I see. That means the cleaner he looks, the guiltier he obviously is, does it? Tell you what, minute you see him walking on water with an angelic choir singing "Jerusalem", you pull your wellies on and put him under arrest. Bowler, how about you? Are you good for owt more than kissing strange men in public lavatories?' It wasn't a very inviting invitation, but Hat guessed it was the only one he was likely to get. He said, 'I checked out one or two people, and something came up, probably nothing . ..' 'You'd best not be wasting my time with it if it's probably nothing, lad,' growled Dalziel. 'No, sir. It's this writer fellow, Charley Penn. He was at the preview, and it's reported that he had a bit of a set-to with Coun cillor Steel, so that's why I ran him through the computer. And it turns out he has a record.' 'For writing crap?' said Dalziel. 'No, sir. For assault. Five years ago he got bound over in Leeds for assaulting a journalist.' 'Oh aye? Should have given him the George Cross. Pete, you know owt about this bugger's homicidal tendencies?' 'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe almost apologetically, not wanting to sound like he was putting Hat down. 'I mean, I've heard a story, though I wasn't sure how apocryphal it was. Version I heard, Penn got pissed off with a review and crowned said journalist with a slice of gateau, so not exactly a deadly weapon.' 'Way my missus baked, it was,' said Dalziel. 'That it then, Bowler? You reckon we should pull Penn in and wire his bollocks to a table lamp just because he shampooed some miserable reporter with a cream cake?' 'No, sir. Not exactly . . . what I mean is, I thought he might be worth a chat. . .' 'Oh aye? Give me half a good reason.' 'The journalist's name was Jacqueline Ripley, sir.' Dalziel's jaw dropped in exaggerated amazement. 'Jax the Ripper? By God! Pete, why'd you not tell me it was Jax the Ripper?' 'Didn't know, sir. Sorry. Well done, Hat.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Bowler, blushing faintly. 'I even managed to get a copy of the article.' 'How on earth did you manage that?' said Pascoe. 'Well, I rang the Yorkshire Life office. Chances of finding anyone there on a Sunday didn't seem good, but I hit lucky and got the editor, Mr Macready, and he was very helpful and dug out the piece and faxed me a copy . ..' 'You mean you've alerted a journalist to the fact that we're trying to make connections between Charley Penn and a murder victim?' snapped Pascoe. 'For God's sake, man, what were you thinking of?' Hat Bowler, who had produced the fax sheet with the flourish of a Chamberlain announcing peace in our time, looked aghast at the speed with which war had been declared. But help came from an unexpected source. 'Nay, never fear,' said Dalziel, plucking the fax from his nervous fingers. 'I know Alee Macready, big church man, big swordsman too. He'll be no bother, not if he wants to stay on the Bishop's Christmas card list. Well done, young Bowler. It's good to know there's still someone round here willing to do a bit of oldfashioned police work. Charley Penn, eh? Now, if I recall aright, his chosen place of worship on a Sunday morning is The Dog and Duck. Let's go and find him.' 'Sir, wouldn't it be better to ask him to come here perhaps . . . I mean, it's a bit public . . .' 'Aye, that's why they call them pubs, lad. For God's sake, I'm not going to arrest him. Hit Jax the Ripper with a slice of cake, did he? Good old Charley! I'll mebbe buy the bugger a drink.' 'I think,' said Pascoe, 'in view of the fact that Ripley has just been murdered it would be undiplomatic to take that line in the pub, sir.' 'Bad taste, tha means? Likely you're right. I'll not buy him a drink then. Bowler, got your wallet? You can buy us both one!'

i6'j Chapter Nineteen

Charley Perm said, 'Aye,' into his mobile phone for the second rime, switched it off and replaced it in his pocket. 'Interesting,' said Samjohnson. 'What?' 'You answer your mobile without that expression, or at least grimace, of apology with which most civilized men of a certain age usually preface its use, then you have a conversation, or should I say transaction, to which your sole contribution is the word Aye, used once as an exordial interrogative and once as a valedictory affirmative.' 'And that's interesting? You lecturers must lead very quiet lives. Cheers, lad.' Franny Roote, just returned from the bar, placed a pint of bitter in front of Penn and a large Scotch in front of Johnson, then pulled a bottle of Pils out of his duffel-coat pocket, twisted off the top, and drank directly from the bottle. 'Why do you buggers do that?' asked Penn. 'Hygiene,' said Roote. 'You never know where a glass has been.' 'Well, I know where it's not been,' said Penn through the froth on his pint. 'It's not got the shape.' Roote and Johnson exchanged smiles. They'd discussed Penn's self-projection as a hard-nosed northerner and come to the conclusion it was a protective front behind which he could write his historical romances and pursue his poetical researches with minimum interference from the patronizing worlds of either the literary or the academic establishments. 'On the other hand,' Johnson had said, 'it may be he's gone on too long. That's the danger with concealment. In the end we may become what we pretend to be.' Which was the kind of clever-sounding thing university teachers were good at saying, thought Roote. He himself had got the patois off pat and didn't doubt that when the time came to move from the economically challenged freedom of student life to the comfortable confines of an academic job, he would be accepted as a native son. Meanwhile there were worse things to be doing on a Sunday morning than sitting having a drink with this pair of, in their different ways, extremely entertaining and potentially useful men, and worse places to be doing them than in the saloon bar of The Dog and Duck. 'So Charley, did you settle on a satisfactory honorarium with the dreaded Agnew?' asked Johnson. 'Nothing's settled with a journalist till it's down on paper and witnessed by a notary public,' said Penn. 'But it will be. Not that I was helped in my negotiations by the evident willingness of you and Ellie Pascoe to offer freebies.' 'Strictly speaking, it can be viewed as part of my work,' said Johnson. 'And of course Ellie is still in that happy state of feeling so nattered to be treated as a real writer, she'd probably pay for the privilege. I believe we're being landed with fifty possibles. You're content with the preliminary sorting, I hope? I'm not well enough acquainted with Mr Dee and his amiable assistant to comment on their judgment, but I get the impression the task was thrust upon them, not because they were qualified but because they were there.' 'I've known Dick Dee since he were a lad, and he's probably forgotten more about the use of language than most of you buggers in English Departments ever learnt,' retorted Penn. 'Which I take it means you're definitely not inclined to read any of the submissions he's rejected,' laughed Johnson. 'Can't say I'm looking forward to reading them he hasn't,' said Penn. 'You pick the best of crap, it's still crap, isn't it?' 'Careful,' murmured Johnson. 'Never speak ill of a man whose drink you are drinking.' 'Eh?' Penn's gaze turned on Roote. 'You've not entered a story, have you?' Franny Roote sucked on his bottle again, smiled his secretive smile, and said, 'I refuse to comment on the grounds I may be disqualifying myself.'

i6<) 'Sorry?' 'Well, suppose I had entered and suppose I won, then it came out I had been seen buying prominent members of the judging panel a drink, how would that look?' 'I don't think they'd hold the front page on the Sun. Or even the London Review of Books.' 'None the less.' Roote turned his gaze on Johnson. 'And what makes you think I may have entered anyway?' 'Just that I recall seeing the page from the Gazette announcing the competition lying around your flat when I had coffee there a couple of weeks back,' said Johnson. 'It's an occupational hazard of literary research, as Charley and I well know, and you yourself must be finding out, that your eyes are irresistibly drawn to any thing with print on it.' 'Aye, like the sign on that pump over there which says Best Bitter,' said Penn, setting down his empty glass with a significant crash. Johnson tossed back the rest of his Scotch, picked up the pintpot and headed to the bar. 'So you've got literary ambitions, have you, Franny?' said Penn. 'Perhaps. And if I had, what advice would you offer?' 'Only advice I ever offer young hopefuls,' said Penn. 'Unless you can pass for under sixteen and an infant prodigy, forget it. Go off and be a politician, fail miserably or at least turn into a grotesque, then write your book. That way, publishers will fall over themselves to buy you and newspapers to review you and chat shows to interview you. The alternative, unless you're bloody lucky, is a long haul up a steep hill with nowt much to see when you get up there.' 'What's this? Philosophy?' said Johnson, returning with the drinks. 'Just advising young Fran here that the shortest way to literary fame is to become notorious for something else first,' said Penn. 'I need a slash.' He rose and headed to the Gents. 'Sorry about that,' said Johnson. 'Sorry that I've achieved a happy anonymity?' said Roote with a smile. 'That was always my hope. Mind you, I was tempted to draw myself up and say not to know me argues yourself unknown, but he might have taken that the wrong way.' 'Not unknown. Half-known, which is probably worse. Neither owt nor nowt, as Charley would say, suffering equally from the gross familiarity of complete strangers when your name is recognized and their blank look of incomprehension when it isn't. So you prepare yourself to meet either by pretending that neither matters.' Roote sucked at his new bottle and said, 'We are still talking about Charley Penn, aren't we? Not some minor poet whose name I forget?' 'What a sharp little mouse it is,' said Johnson with a grin. 'Like the man said, misery still delights to trace its semblance in another's face.' 'You saying that the placid waters of academia are a rougher sea than real life?' said Roote. 'My God, yes. The indignities Charley may have to suffer are on the whole accidental whereas the ivory towers are crowded at every level with bastards plotting to pour boiling oil on those below. Often it's just a little splash. Like wondering at High Table if I've ever thought of doing any creative writing myself. But sometimes it's a whole barrelful. That shit Albacore at Cambridge, the one who paid me back for helping him with his Romantics book by ripping off my idea for Beddoes' bicentennial biography, well, I heard on Friday that he's brought forward his target publication date by six months to pre-empt me.' 'It's a hard life,' said Roote. 'You ought to take up gardening.' 'What? Oh yeah, sorry. Me with my worries and you've got all that winter pruning. Seriously, it's working out OK, is it?' 'Fine. Healthy outdoor life. Lots of time to think. Talking of thinking, I've got a few ideas I'd like to try out on you. Can we fix a time?' 'Sure. None like the present. Why don't we head back to my place when we're done drinking? We can pick up a couple of sandwiches en route. What's up, Charley? Been propositioned in the loo?' Penn had resumed his seat, shaking his head sadly. 'No such luck. Did you know there's a machine in there that will sell you crispy-bacon-flavoured condoms?'

171 'The modern pub has to cater for all tastes,' said Johnson. 'Aye, and this one must specialize in pork. How're your con sciences? I think one of us may be about to be arrested.' Dalziel and Bowler had just entered the bar and were standing looking towards their table. The Fat Man spoke to the young DC, then began making his way across the crowded room. It looked as if a man of his bulk would have to plough his way through the tables and chairs and drinkers, but somehow people melted aside at his approach and he slipped between the furniture as easily as a champion skier negotiating a beginner's slalom course. 'Well, here we are,' he said genially. 'Mr Penn, and Dr Johnson, and Mr Roote. No wonder the churches are empty when the leading lights of literature and learning prefer a pub chair to a pew.' 'Morning, Andy,' said Penn. 'I'd offer you a drink but I see your minder's well trained.' Bowler was coming from the bar, bearing a pint of bitter and a bottle of lager. 'Aye, he's an off-comer, but you can do a lot with 'em if you catch 'em young.' 'So, Superintendent,' said Johnson. 'Are you here pro fessionally?' 'Any reason I should be?' 'I thought perhaps something to do with that sad business yesterday. ..' 'Poor Cyril, you mean? Aye, like you say, a sad business. These muggers, they don't care how far they go these days, specially when they're on drugs.' 'That's what you think it was?' said Johnson. 'A mugging that went wrong?' 'What else?' said Dalziel, his gaze running over them like a shaft of sunlight from a stormy sky. 'Thanks, lad.' He took his pint from Bowler and reduced it by a third. 'Can't ask you to sit down, Andy. Bit full in here today,' said Penn. 'So I see. Pity, 'cos I'd have liked a crack with you, Charley.' Quick on his cue, Johnson said, 'Have our chairs, Superintend ent. We're leaving.' 'Nay, don't rush off on my account.' 'No, we've got a tutorial arranged, and the atmosphere in here is hardly conducive to rational dialogue.' 'Tutorial? Oh aye. You're Mr Roote's dominie, I hear.' For the first time he turned his gaze foil on Franny Roote who returned it equably. 'An old-fashioned word,' laughed Johnson. 'Best kind for old-fashioned things,' said Dalziel. 'Like study, education, literature, you mean?' said Johnson. 'Aye, them too. But I was thinking more of murder, assault, betrayal of friends, that sort of thing.' Roote stood up so suddenly, the table rocked and Penn had to grab his glass. 'Careful, Fran,' he said. 'You nearly had it over.' 'Oh, Mr Roote's always been very free and easy with other people's booze,' said Dalziel. 'He may have paid his debt to society, but he still owes me a bottle of Scotch.' 'A debt I look forward to repaying, Superintendent,' said Roote, back in control. 'Ready, Sam?' He set off towards the door. Johnson looked at Dalziel for a moment then said quietly, 'Another old-fashioned thing is called harassment, Superintendent. I suggest you refresh your memory about the law in that area. See you, Charley.' He followed Roote out of the pub. Dalziel finished his pint, handed the glass to Bowler and sat down. 'Same again, sir?' said Hat. 'Or you could fetch me a Babycham wi' a cherry in it,' said Dalziel. Bowler headed back to the bar and Charley Penn said, 'Well, that were like a Japanese porno movie, entertaining even though I didn't understand a word of it.' 'No? Thought you bloody scribblers took notes on everything. Don't you recall a few years back when there was all that bother at the old teachers' training college?' 'Vaguely. Principal got knocked off, didn't she?' 'Aye, and some others. Well, yon lad Roote were the one mainly responsible.'