Dialogues of the Dead (29 page)

241 'French, German - Penn's fluent in that, of course - bit of Spanish, Italian, the usual stuff. But it doesn't matter. They don't have to know a language to play in it so long as there's a dictionary in the library. That's part of the fun, it seems. It's like poker. One will produce a word which looks like it might be Slovakian, say, then defy the other to challenge him. Is it a bluff or has he swotted up a bit of Slovak the day before, and is now trying to provoke a challenge? Then out comes the dictionary and it's lose a go and fifty points if it's a false word, and the same if it's an unsuccessful challenge.' 'What a pair of sad plonkers,' muttered Hat. 'Why do you say that?' she asked, looking at him curiously. 'Two consenting adults, and they play in private, they're not trying to impress anyone.' 'They seem to have impressed you. Ever try it yourself?' 'Wouldn't have minded, but I've never been asked,' she said. 'Story of my life, really. Lots of interesting games going on, but nobody asks me to play.' Was this a hint? An invitation? Or just a tease? He drank some coffee to moisten his suddenly dry throat as he tried to work out whether the time was ripe for a move. His body certainly thought it was. He could feel his flesh beginning to overheat. 'You all right, Hat?' said Rye, looking at him with some con cern. 'You're looking very flushed.' 'Oh yes, I'm fine,' he said. But even as he spoke, it occurred to him he was far from fine and that this heat had more to do with debility than desire. 'You don't look fine, not unless you always start flushing in patches at this time in the evening,' she said. 'In fact you look like what I felt like at work yesterday.' 'You mean I've caught your lurgy?' said Hat, choking back a cough. 'I knew we had a lot in common.' 'Please. I hate a plucky trooper. You feel OK to drive home?' It occurred to Hat that if he played his cards right, he could claim sanctuary here, then he recalled that Rye herself was only just recovering from the bug. In romantic fiction, the patient often got the nurse on to his bed. On the other hand, he suspected that all a pair of patients would get on was each other's nerves. 'Yeah, no problem. So what's the prognosis?' 'Well, you'll feel a lot worse before you begin to feel better, but the good news is that it may be nasty but it's short.' 'So I should be OK for the weekend then?' She smiled at him and said, 'It's your show, Hat. But if we have to cancel again, I may start wondering if fate isn't trying to tell us something.' 'You leave fate to me,' he said, stifling a cough as he headed for the door. 'Good night's sleep and I'll probably be back keeping Yorkshire safe for civilians first thing in the morning.' 'I believe you,' she said, kissing her index finger and placing it gently on his burning forehead. 'I feel safer already. Goodnight, Hat. Take care.' And such is the power of a good woman's touch that he believed it himself as he went out to his car. Love can conquer everything and he knew he was truly, madly, deeply in love.

243 Chapter Twenty-seven

Sometimes even a good woman can get it wrong and next day Hat felt truly, deeply, madly lousy. His first impulse was to go to work so that they could see how bad he was, but when he fell over trying to pull his underpants on, he abandoned the idea and rang in instead. He got through to Wield who sounded if not sympathetic, at least neutral; then he heard in the background Dalziel's voice demanding who he was talking to and Wield explaining that it was Bowler who wasn't coming in because he was ill. 'Not coming in because he's ill?' said Dalziel with the amazement of a man who rated illness as an excuse for absence well below abduction by aliens. 'Here, let me speak to him.' He grabbed the phone and said, 'What's going off, lad?' 'Sorry, sir,' croaked Hat. 'You were right, I've got that flu-bug.' 'Oh. My bloody fault, is it? What's that music I can hear? You're not in a night club with some totty, are you?' 'No!' cried Hat indignantly. 'It's the radio. I'm in bed. By myself.' 'Don't get uppity. Remember Abishag and David. Or mebbe not. He died, if I recall right.' 'That's what I feel like,' said Hat, playing for the sympathy vote. Then the faint bell he'd heard at Rye's rang louder. 'Sir, there's something . . .' 'No last requests, lad. That's just gilding the lily.' 'No, sir. It's just that, in that last Dialogue, wasn't there a bit about death at the end? Something about the best thing of all being never to be born?' 'Aye, that's right, got it here. So?' 'So, I know it probably means nothing, but I think that guy, Heine, the one Penn's translating, said something like that.' It was remarkable how distance lent courage. After Pascoe's discomfiture, he probably wouldn't have dared bring up poetry again to the Fat Man's face. 'Didn't realize you were a German scholar,' said Dalziel. 'I'm not, sir. It's just that Rye ... Miss Pomona at the library, well, Penn sometimes leaves stuff lying around where she can see it, by accident on purpose, so to speak...' 'Aye, I read that in the DCI's report. But I thought that were romantic stuff, trying to get his end away. How'd he get on to death?' 'Trying for the sympathy vote, maybe,' said Hat. This tickled the Fat Man's fancy and he laughed so loud Hat had to distance his earpiece. 'Aye, you can get a long way with the sympathy vote,' said Dalziel. 'But it only works on lasses, not on superintendents. Get well soon, lad, else I may come visiting with a wreath.' He put the phone down and returned to his office without speaking to Wield. There he sat for a little while deep in thought. He had to admit he was floundering. Well, he'd floundered before and always reached the shore, but this was more public than usual, and there were too many buggers out there eager to celebrate his drowning. Time to grasp a few straws. He picked up his phone and dialled. 'Eden Thackeray, please. Nay, luv, don't give me crap about important meetings. He'll have just got into his office and he'll only be there 'cos it's quieter than home and he can smoke a cigar without his missus throwing a bucket of cold water over him. Tell him it's Andy Dalziel.' A moment later he heard the urbane tones of Eden Thackeray, Senior Partner though now officially semi-retired of Messrs Thackeray, Amberson, Mellor and Thackeray, Mid-Yorkshire's most prestigious solicitors. 'Andy, you've been frightening my new receptionist.' 'Part of the learning curve. How're you doing, lad? Still pulling the strings?' 'It gets harder. It's all right knowing, as you might put it, where all the bodies are buried, but the trouble is at my age it gets harder to remember.' 'Trick is, not letting any bugger know you've forgot. Any road,

MS I don't believe you. I'll give you a test. You're Lord Partridge's lawyer, right?' 'Indeed I am, but, Andy, as you well know, professional ethics do not permit...' 'Nay,' interrupted Dalziel. 'No need to lock your door and switch on your scrambler, I'm not after His Lordship. But, know ing you, I'd bet you'd know everything worth knowing about a big client like old Budgie, right down to his domestic staff, right?' 'Old Budgie? I didn't realize you were on such close personal terms with His Lordship, Andy.' 'Old mates from way back,' said Dalziel. 'Now, what I'm inter ested in is, there's this German woman lives on the estate, used to be some kind of maid or cook or housekeeper. . .' 'You mean Frau Penck, mother to our own literary lion, Charley Penn?' 'That's the one. So, from your knowledge of her, how's she get on with Charley? OK to tell me that?' 'I suppose,' said Thackeray judiciously, 'that, as I act for neither of them, I am able, without commitment and off the record, to entertain such a question. Let me see. A fraught relationship, I would say. She thinks that Charley should be living with her, taking on the job of the head of the Penck household, vacated when her beloved husband died some twenty years ago. This would be the good old German way. She feels that he has forgotten his heritage and gone native. Not even his success as a writer counts too much. His books are not what in Germany is known as "serious literature", and besides, they are in English.' 'She does speak English?' 'Oh yes, fluently, though with a strong accent which grows stronger if she does not wish to understand what you say.' 'She got money?' 'Not that I know of. But she doesn't need any. The family place a high value on her, and she on them. She lives in a grace-andfavour cottage and seems content to remain there for the rest of her days.' 'So how come Charley went to yon posh school, Unthank Col lege? Old Budgie pay, did he?' 'His Lordship is not quite so profligate of his money,' said Thackeray drily. 'The boy won a scholarship. I'm not saying strings might not have been pulled, but he was, by all accounts, a bright child.' 'And a rich one now, I dare say. Could easily set his old mam up in a nice house somewhere.' 'Which I believe he has offered to do. I gather he regards the Partridge's grace and favour as cause for resentment rather than gratitude. His mother, however, tends to look upon England outside of the Haysgarth estate as an extension of the old East Germany, with people like yourself as lackeys of the English branch of the Stasi.' 'So if a cop turned up asking questions about her Charley, how would she react?' 'Uncooperatively, I would guess. He would be transfigured into the perfect devoted son against whom she would not hear a word said, in English or in German.' 'But if old Budgie or one of his chums spoke to her about Charley .. . ?' 'If it was implied that she should feel herself lucky to have mothered a son who'd done so well in the great outside world, she would very forcibly point out his shortcomings as a good German boy. I know this because when I first encountered her, I fell into this error.' 'That's grand,' said Dalziel. 'Remind me I'm in the chair next time I see you at the Gents.' This was a reference not to an assignation in a public toilet, but to their common membership of the Borough Club for Professional Gentlemen. 'I don't suppose there's any point in my asking what you are up to, Andy?' 'Right as always, Eden. Cheers!' Dalziel put the phone down, thought for a moment, then picked it up again and dialled. 'Cap Marvell.' 'Hello, chuck, it's me,' he said. 'Again? This is twice in a fortnight you've rung from work. Could I claim harassment?' 'No, them as I harass know they've been harassed,' he said. 'Listen, luv, got to thinking, I'm a selfish sod, not good for a relationship.'

24-J 'Andy, are you feeling all right? You haven't had a fall, banged your head, seen a flash of very bright light?' 'And what I thought was, this hop of the Hero's out at old Budgie's, why don't we go? Long time since we tripped the light fantastic.' 'Sorry, Andy. I'll have to sit down. I feel my vapours coming on.' 'That's a date then? Grand. See you later.' He pressed the receiver rest, dialled again. 'Hello, Lily White Laundry Service, how can I help you?' 'How do, luv,' said Dalziel. 'Can you do a kilt for Saturday?'

When Pascoe arrived that morning, he reminded the others that Pottle and Urquhart were calling in later to review the latest Dialogue and give their considered judgment of the earlier ones. 'Oh God,' said Dalziel. 'Wish I were ill, too.' Too?' 'Bowler's gone sick,' explained Wield. 'It's a sick world,' said Pascoe. 'Temperatures running high at home, are they?' 'Only metaphorically. Ellie and Charley Penn met to do the final judging for this short story competition last night. Sam Johnson should have been there too, so it wasn't exactly a cheerful occasion. She came home demanding to know why we hadn't got an inch closer to catching this madman.' 'That's what you told her, was it?' 'She tends to go into a fit if I say things like enquiries are in progress and an arrest is expected soon.' 'I thought they might have cancelled the competition,' said Wield. 'Because one of the judges got killed? Doesn't work like that, Wieldy. All those aspiring Scott Fitzgeralds don't give a toss about Sam Johnson, whom they'd never heard of anyway. If it had been Charley Penn, it might have been different. As it is, far from cancelling the comp, Mary Agnew has been using the murder, all the murders, to get it a lot more publicity. Didn't you see last night's Gazette? She published the tides of the long short list that's about fifty stories. And she's done a deal with John Wingate,

248 the telly guy. All the short-list authors have been invited to the studio theatre in the Centre and the result is going to be announced in what used to be Jax Ripley's Saturday-night slot.' 'Ripley's slot? God, bloody media will cash in on owt. They're probably going to charge folk for pissing in the bog where Stuffer Steel got topped!' exclaimed Dalziel. 'I reckon if I live long enough, I'll see them bring back public hangings. Come to think of it, there's a few as I'd pay good money to see hanged.' Pascoe and Wield exchanged that blank glance through which over the years they had come to share amusement at the Fat Man's often outrageous illogicalities. He appeared not to notice and went on, 'Ellie tell you owt about the winner, did she? No doubt it'll be some blood-and-guts story, all about perves and kinky sex.' Putting aside the question as to whether this was a comment on public taste or his wife's predilections, Pascoe said, 'Yes, she said that I'd probably be glad to hear that the winning story was a gently amusing little tale, almost a fairy story, which would leave children and adults alike feeling good about themselves.' 'And Charley Penn went for that? Must have been sniffing lighter fluid. Who's the genius who wrote it?' 'That we shan't know till Saturday night when the winner's sealed envelope is opened. You coming along, sir?' 'You must be joking!' 'Not really. I just thought there could be a chance the Wordman might turn up.' 'That's what you said about the preview.' 'Actually it was Bowler who said that.' 'Well, I hope he's not boasting about it,' growled Dalziel. 'And if chummy does turn up, you think this time he's going to wear his Pm the Wordman T-shirt, do you?' 'Who knows? Pottle said that as he gets more and more convinced of his invulnerability, he'll delight in taking risks. Anyway, I'll definitely be there, with Ellie being a judge.' 'Oh aye? And you're worried the losers might turn nasty? Well, with the Wordman being so easy to spot, one pair of police eyes should be enough.' 'Two pairs,' said Wield. 'You're going?'

M9 'Edwin likes to support local cultural activities.' This time is was Pascoe's and Dalziel's glances that met. 'If it's a local cultural activity,' said Dalziel, 'I've filled my quota for the month. Any road, Saturday night I'm going dancing.' 'Dancing,' said Pascoe, trying to keep all expression or interrogation out of the word. 'Aye. Man. Woman. Music. Rhythmic movement. If you've got your clothes on, it's called dancing.' 'Yes, sir. And would that be salsa? Line? A rave? A hunt ball? A the dansantY 'That's for me to know and you to exercise your imaginations on,' said Dalziel, rising. 'Give us a shout when Pinky and Perky show up, will you? But if I'm dead, don't bother getting out the ouija board.' He went but of the room. 'Not a happy man,' said Wield. 'Probably saw that piece about him in the Sun this morning. Headline was "WHEN DINOSAURS RULED THE WORLD". He needs a result on this one pretty quick.' 'Don't we all? You got any ideas?' 'Apart from herding everyone vaguely connected with the case into a field and beating them with a dead chicken till one of them confesses? No. Perhaps the dynamic duo from Academe will point us in the right direction.' 'You reckon?' said Wield. 'Think my money's on the dead chicken.'