Dialogues of the Dead (24 page)

Smart ass, thought Pascoe. He reminds me of me. He said, 'What the devil were you doing in that gallery anyway?' The form of the question might have puzzled Bowler a little if the content hadn't disconcerted him a lot. 'I was having a coffee, sir.' It occurred to Hat that he'd no idea

W at what point Pascoe had first observed him and he went on, 'In fact, I'd been having a coffee with Miss Pomona. There was something I wanted to ask her and she suggested we met outside the library.' 'Oh?' said Pascoe, smiling. 'Discretion in this case being the better part o amour, eh?' Hat's French was up to this and he shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. Strictly business.' 'In that case, presumably it's my business too. So do tell.' For a second Hat thought of coming clean about George Headingley, but off-loading his problem felt pretty naff and certainly wasn't going to win him any Brownie points, so instead he told the DI about his unease in re Charley Penn. 'You seem to have it in for Charley,' said Pascoe. 'First Jax Ripley, now Cyril Steel. Nothing personal, I hope?' 'No, sir. Just that he keeps popping up.' Then, batting the ball firmly back he added, 'Like Roote.' Pascoe glanced at him sharply but detected nothing but proper subordinate deference. ' Oh you do remind me of me, you cocky sod, he thought. The rest of the journey passed in silence. The plate-glass windows of the Ivory Tower which housed the English Department were flashing what might have been an SOS as the scudding clouds intermittently masked the autumn sun. They found Roote in the foyer talking to a maintenance man who was protesting that he couldn't open up a member of staff's room just because a student asked him. 'Now I'm asking,' said Pascoe, showing his warrant card. Ascent was via a paternoster lift, so called in Pascoe's opinion because even a practising atheist (and especially a practising atheist with claustrophobic tendencies) was ill-advised to use such a con traption without resort to prayer. The maintenance man stepped in and was translated. The next platform rose and Pascoe motioned Bowler in while he summoned up all his aplomb. Two more platforms passed and there was still no sign that his aplomb had heard the summons. He took a deep breath, felt a gentle pressure on his elbow, then he and Franny Roote stepped forward in perfect unison. The pressure vanished instantly. He glanced sharply at the young man in search of signs of amusement or, worse, sympathy. But Roote's eyes were blank, his expression introspective, and Pascoe began to wonder if he'd imagined the helping hand. Bowler's legs suddenly came into view. 'Here we are,' said Roote, and Pascoe, determined not to be assisted again, exited with an unnecessarily athletic leap. It took only a few seconds to establish thatjohnson's room was empty and, from the evidence of a series of notes pushed under the door in which students recorded their vain attempts to keep appointments, had been empty since the weekend. 'You say you've been round to his flat?' said Pascoe. 'Yes,' said Roote. 'I rang the bell. No reply. And no reply on the phone, either. His answering machine's not on. He always left his answering machine on when he went out.' 'Always?' said Hat. 'That's a bit precise.' 'In my experience,' emended Roote, frowning. 'So let's go and see,' said Pascoe. Back at the paternoster, he hurled himself on to the first platform. That way at least he was able to make his flustered exit unobserved. Outside a problem arose because there was no way they could get three into Bowler's MG without breaking the law. Roote said, 'I'll go in my own car. Care to join me, Mr Pascoe? Could be more comfortable.' Pascoe hesitated then said, 'Why not?' The car turned out to be a Cortina of some antiquity. But it was certainly easier to get into than the MG and the engine sounded sweet enough. 'Thought you said it was an old banger?' said Pascoe. Roote glanced at him and smiled his secret smile. 'I had the engine tuned,' he said. He drove with the exaggerated care of a man undergoing a driving test. Pascoe could almost feel Bowler's exasperation as he trailed behind them. But he also felt that there was more than just mockery in Roote's mode of driving. He was going slow because he was reluctant to arrive. The flat was on the top floor of a converted townhouse in a Victorian terrace which had gone down and was now on its way up again. They gained entry by ringing all the bells till a man

^9 responded. Pascoe identified himself and they went in. There was no lift and the stairs were steep enough to make him almost nostalgic for the paternoster. At Johnson's door, he rang the bell and could hear it echoing inside. Then he tried knocking, regis tering that the door was pretty solid and didn't feel like it would yield easily to even a young man's shoulder. He called down to the elderly man who had let them in and was lurking curiously a little way down the stairway, and asked who the flat agents were. It was a well-known firm with their office only a mile or so away. He dialled the number on his mobile, got a girl who seemed disinclined to be helpful, advised her then to call a carpenter and a locksmith to make good the damage that usually resulted from opening a door with a sledgehammer and rapidly found himself talking to the firm's general manager who assured him he'd be there within ten minutes. He made it in five. Pascoe took the key from him and turned it in the lock. He opened the door a fraction, sniffed the air, and closed it again. 'I'm going to go in now,' he said. 'Bowler, you make sure nobody else comes in.' 'Yes, sir,' said Bowler. He opened the door just enough to let his slim frame slip through, then closed it behind him. There was death here, he'd known that as soon as he first opened the door. The blast of warm air that hit him carried its odour, not yet unbearably pungent but still unmistakable to any one who'd had cause to be around corpses as often as Peter Pascoe. If it hadn't been for this, he might have thought Sam Johnson was simply asleep. He sat in an old wing chair, his feet stretched out on to the fender of a fireplace tiled in the high Victorian style, like a scholar made drowsy by draughts from the whisky bottle standing by his arm and the lulling rhythms of the volume which lay open on his lap. Pascoe paused to take in the room. First impressions were important. The old grate had been replaced by a modern gas fire which was the source of the heat. On the mantelshelf an ormolu clock had stopped at twelve. Beside the clock lay what for an unpleasant moment Pascoe thought was a turd but on closer examination proved to be some blocks of melted chocolate. Alongside the whisky bottle and empty glass on the low table next to the chair stood a cafetiere and a coffee mug. On the other side of the fireplace was a small sofa with a broken leg 'repaired' by a hefty tome and another low table with an empty tumbler on it. He turned his attention to the body and confirmed by touch what he knew already. There was nothing to show how Johnson had died. Perhaps after all it would turn out to be a simple heart attack. He looked at the open book without touching it. It was open at a poem called 'Dream-Pedlary'. He read the first verse.

If there were dreams to sell What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy?

Dreams to sell. His eyes prickled. Detectives don't cry, he told himself. They do their jobs. He retreated to the door as carefully as he'd advanced. There was a lot of noise outside on the landing, Roote's voice raised angrily, Bowler's at first reassuring, then stern. Better to get the machine rolling before he went out there to restore order. He took out his mobile and dialled. He was halfway through issuing his precise instructions when the voices outside suddenly reached a climax of screaming and the door burst open, catching him in the back and throwing him forward into the room. 'Sam! Sam!' screamed Franny Roote. 'Oh, Jesus. Sam!' He rushed forward and would have flung himself on top of the corpse if Pascoe hadn't grappled one of his legs, then Hat Bowler arrived in a flying tackle which ended with all three sprawling on the carpet in a heaving, swearing tangle of bodies. It took another couple of minutes for the two of them to drag

201 Chapter Twenty-three

>From the start it was Franny Roote who cried murder. Which, as Dalziel pointed out, was odd, as at the moment if they wanted a suspect, he was the only one on oner. 'Then we'd be silly not to take him,' said Pascoe, too eagerly. 'Nay, lad. First thing you do with a gift horse is kick it in the teeth,' said Dalziel. 'Four possibilities. Natural causes, accident, suicide, murder. Post mortem report will give us a line mebbe, but at the moment what we've got is a guy with a heart condition looking like he died peaceably by his own fireside. God send us all such a nice exit.' This pious sentiment was offered with the unctuous smile of a TV evangelist looking forward to getting out of the studio back to his hotel bedroom where a trinity of booted ladies stood ready to mortify his sinful flesh. 'Look, sir, I know we're under pressure with this Wordman business...' 'Wordman? What the hell has this got to do with the Wordman?' demanded Dalziel, moving from unction to abrasion with no perceptible interval. 'That's why I'm sitting on the Stutter Dialogue. Once that gets out, they'll all be like you. Every little old lady falling downstairs will have been shoved by the sodding Wordman!' This was so manifestly unjust that Pascoe untypically allowed himself to be provoked. 'Well, I think you're making a big mistake there, sir. OK, there's nothing to suggest Sam's death has anything to do with the Wordman, but if there is another Wordman killing, you're going to have a lot of explaining to do.' 'Nay, lad, that's why I keep clever sods like you, to do my explaining.'

20^ 'Then perhaps you should listen when I say that Roote's not crying murder without a reason.' 'Double bluff, you mean? Because he did it? Nay, I'll give you he may be feeling guilty, but there's all kinds of guilt. What if him and Johnson had got a thing going . ..' 'A thing?' 'Aye. A thing. Buggering around with each other. I were trying to save your blushes. That Sunday they go to the flat for a quick bang then have a tiff. Roote flounces out. Johnson thinks he'll be back any minute and settles down with his book and a coffee, then this dicky ticker you told me about reacts to all the excitement of the row and whatever else they'd been getting up to, and he snuffs it.' The preliminary medical examination hadn't got any further than suggesting heart failure as the cause of death. The examiner reckoned that Johnson had been dead at least two days which took them back to Sunday when Roote was the last person to admit to seeing him alive. The full post mortem examination would take place the following morning. Roote's prints were on the glass by the other armchair but not on the coffee mug or whisky bottle which had been sent to the police lab for further examination and analysis. 'Meanwhile Roote's really taken the huff,' continued Dalziel. 'He doesn't go back, reckoning that Johnson will come running after him some time in the next couple of days. When he doesn't, Roote starts to get worried, and naturally when he sees him dead, he doesn't want to blame himself so he cries murder. What do you think?' I think, thought Pascoe, you're feeling the pressure, Andy, and you'd kill someone if it meant not having another murder on your patch. 'I think if there was much more assumption in what you're saying, they'd make this a feast day,' he said forcefully. 'For a start, Sam's heart problem wasn't life-threatening. And what makes you think either of them's gay?' 'Well, blind man on a galloping horse can see there's summat very odd about Roote. Bit of a swordsman back in yon college, by all accounts, but it didn't stop him getting tangled up with that lecturer who died, the one who topped himself. Funny, now I think back, weren't he called Sam too? Which brings us to this Johnson, I only met him the once at yon preview, but he's another of your arty-farty intellectuals, isn't he?' 'For God's sake!' exclaimed Pascoe. 'Is that the mil menu, then? Big slice of guesswork topped up with prejudice?' 'I'll let you be the judge of that, Pete,' said Dalziel. 'I mean, I'm no lover of Franny Roote, but it seems to me you can't look at the guy without wanting to blame him for everything in sight. That's what I call prejudice.' Feeling he had been set up, Pascoe said stubbornly, 'All right, I've got no evidence that Roote's directly involved in this. But one thing I know for certain, Roote's not crying murder because he feels guilty. That bastard never felt guilty about anything in his life!' 'First time for everything, lad,' said Dalziel genially. 'I might start putting Ribena in my whisky. Who the hell's that?' The phone had rung. He picked it up and bellowed, 'What?' As he listened, he looked increasing less genial. 'Fucking champion,' he said banging the receiver down. 'They've traced Johnson's next of kin.' Following usual procedure in suspicious deaths, the police had checked to see if anyone profited. They found Sam Johnson had died intestate, which meant his next of kin got what little he had to leave. Pascoe recalled Ellie asking the lecturer about his family when he came to dinner. He had replied tipsily, 'Like Cinderella, I am an orphan, but I am fortunate in having only one ugly step-sister to avoid,' then refused, with a pantomimic shudder, to be drawn further. 'The step-sister, is it?' said Pascoe. 'So?' 'So you know who she turns out to be? Only Linda Lupin, MEP. Loopy bloody Linda!' 'You're kidding? No wonder he didn't want to talk about her!' Linda Lupin was to the European Parliament what Stutter Steel had been to Mid-Yorkshire Council, a thorn in the flesh and a pain in the ass. So right wing she occasionally even managed to embarrass William Hague, she never missed a chance to trumpet financial mismanagement or creeping socialism. A lousy linguist, she could nevertheless cry / accuse! in twelve languages. Deeply religious in an alternative Anglican kind of way, and passionately

20J opposed to women priests, Loopy Linda, as even the Tory tabloids called her, was not the kind of relative a trendy left-wing academic would care to admit to. And she was certainly not the kind of crime victim's next of kin an investigator under pressure wanted knocking at his door. 'As if things weren't bad enough with Desperate Clan and all the tabloids on my back,' groaned Dalziel, 'now I'm going to have Loopy Linda sitting on my face.' Pascoe tried turning the words into a picture but its grotesqueries required a Cruikshank or a Scarfe. But at least the entrance of Loopy Linda on the scene had the good effect of ending the Fat Man's brief flirtation with the role of Wise Old Sensible Cop. 'Right, Pete, I'm converted,' he declared, pushing himself to his feet. 'Whatever that bastard Roote's guilty of, let's start pulling out his fingernails till he confesses!' But this pleasant prospect had to be postponed till the following day as, whatever Roote's real state of mind, he had convinced the medics that he was too distraught to be questioned.