Dialogues of the Dead (43 page)

361 'Sorry?' 'Her with the silver flash and the funny name.' 'Rye. I assumed it was Rye you were referring to. It was the participle I had difficulty with.' 'There's these tablets you can take. I said, are you banging her? whanging her? slipping her the yard of porridge? stirring her custard with your spoon? twiddling with her twilly-flew?' That got a reaction but it was only a faint almost complimentary smile. 'Am I having a relationship with Rye, you mean? No.' 'But you'd like to?' 'She is an attractive woman.' 'That a yes?' 'Yes.' 'Got anything going at the moment?' 'A sexual outlet, you mean? No.' 'So how do you manage?' 'Manage what?' 'Manage not to embarrass yourself every time you stand up. Man in his prime, all parts working, getting horny whenever'! you look at your assistant, and you and Charley have grown; out of giving each other a helping hand, so what do you do? Pay'ii for it?' | 'I don't get the drift of your questions, Mr Dalziel.' , 'We never said owt about drift, just that I could ask anything I wanted and you'd answer truthfully. You got a problem with' that?' J 'Only an intellectual one. I understood there'd been no sexual; overtones in these killings, so I'm curious why you seem concerned | to focus on my sexuality.' .f 'Who said there'd been no sexual overtones?' ^ '» 'You'll recall I have in fact read three of the five Dialogues so'; I can draw my own conclusions from them. Only one woman;' has been attacked and there was nothing in what I read in thati episode which suggested a sex motive. In fact there is, how shall; I put it, an almost sexually sterile atmosphere about the whoW' affair.' ^ 'You're sounding a bit defensive.' | 'Am I? Ah, I'm with you. You're being provocative again. If I^ am the Wordman and my motive is completely non-sexual, then all these questions about my sex life might trigger a reaction at being so grossly misunderstood, is that the idea?' 'Reaction like this one, you mean?' 'Not being the Wordman, I could not be so precise. But I should say the impression I got from my reading was of someone clever enough to see through your little stratagem earlier than I did, and not let himself be provoked.' 'Or clever enough to appear slightly less clever than he really is.' 'Now that would be really clever. But surely such a paragon of cleverness would never let himself fall into your clutches for close questioning anyway?' 'Put your finger in it there, Mr Dee. Let himself/all. Seems to me the fellow I'm thinking of might actually enjoy a little chat like this, face to face with the enemy and running rings round him.' 'It would, I think, be a long run. I speak metaphorically, of course. Forgive me if I seem to have erred towards overfamiliarity, but I do feel that anyone trying to run rings round you, Mr Dalziel, had best come equipped for a marathon. But how am I doing in my puny effort to persuade you I am not your man? I must confess I feel my strength failing.' He did a little mime of exhaustion and, as if in sympathy, all the lights went out and the hubbub of sound effects which had provided a foil to their conversation ceased. The ensuing silence was short. The voices of Bird and Follows rose in angry unison demanding what the hell was happening, then parted into contrapuntal duet as each sought to find a way of off-loading responsibility on to the other. Dalziel and Dee felt their way out of the dark tabema into the market place where people were striking matches or flashing torches to give a dim illumination. The door of the calidarium opened and a man wearing swimming trunks and dripping water stepped out followed by a puff of smoke. 'Enter Dagon, downstage, left,' murmured Dee. 'What the hell's going on?' demanded the man angrily. 'Something electrical blew up in there and I'm sitting over my arse in racking water!'

363 He had good reason to be angry, thought Dalziel as he made his way back towards the market centre where Bird and Follows were positioned. En route he stubbed his toe against various objects which he kicked aside with great force. 'Who's in charge?' he demanded. For once, neither of the two men seemed eager to assume the primacy. 'Well, I'll tell you both summat for nowt - you'd best get this sorted else I'll make sure the local Fire and Safety Officer closes you down permanent. That bastard in the bath could have been electrocuted. And why's it so fucking dark? Imagine what it 'ud be like down here with a few dozen people, a lot of them kids, milling around. Where's your back-up system, for God's sake? Get it sorted quick or I'll start thumbing through the big book to see what I can find to charge you with. And if I'; can't find owt serious enough, I'll mebbe just bray you with the ". book!' He strode away, finding the stairs and the exit back to the' regions of light and air by dead reckoning. When he got there, he paused and found Dee at his side. 'You know, Mr Dalziel,' said the librarian with a smile, 'after; that performance, I think if I were the Wordman, I'd put my ' hand up now and confess.' 'That right, Mr Dee?' said Dalziel indifferently. 'And I'll tell [ you what I think, shall I? I think you're fuller of crap than a knackered septic tank.' ' Dee pursed his lips and looked pensive as if this were a statement worthy of close examination then said, 'I'm sorry to hear that. Does it mean our little game of Truth, Dare, Force or Promise is over?' 1 'Your little game. When there's folk lying dead, I don't play1 games. I'll see you around, Mr Dee.' f He moved away with mastodon tread. Behind him, still as a ' primeval hunter, Dick Dee watched till he was out of sight. '. Chapter Forty-one

Detective Inspector George Headingley may not have scaled the promotional heights, but he had performed the feat unusual in police circles of achieving his modest eminence without standing too hard on anyone's face. Therefore as his colleagues, CID and Uniformed, gathered in the Social Club that night to say their farewells, the atmosphere was more than usually cordial. Pascoe had been to farewell parties where the attendance had been meagre, the jokes sour, and though the banners read Good Luck! the body language spelled Good Riddance! But tonight everyone had made an effort to attend, the contributions to the leaving present had been generous, and the laughter already rising from the assembled men, especially those at Headingley's crowded table, was good humoured and full bellied. There'd been a special cheer of welcome and some spontaneous applause when the door had opened to admit Detective Constable Shirley Novello. This was her first public appearance since the shooting which had put her out of commission since the summer. She looked pale and didn't move with her usual athletic spring as she advanced to take the seat offered her next to George Headingley, who won another cheer by standing up and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. Pascoe went to the table and leaned over her chair. 'Shirley, it's good to see you. Didn't know you were coming.' 'Couldn't miss the chance of making sure the DI really was leaving, could I?' she said. 'Well, don't overdo it,' he said. 'You know what they say about too much too soon.' 'Yes, dead before twenty,' said Headingley. Beneath the roar of laughter which this evoked, Wield said in his ear, 'Pete, Dan's here, but still no sign of Andy.'

365 'Great.' Though Headingley's popularity was great enough for Uniformed to be there in numbers too, this was essentially a CID party, and Dalziel's absence meant the duties of host devolved upon him. He went forward to welcome the Chief Constable. 'Glad you could make it, sir,' he said. 'Looks like everyone's determined it's going to be a great night.' Even as he spoke his eyes told him that he was wrong. Trimble's features had the cast of a man who'd come to bury someone rather' than praise him. 'Where is he?' asked the Chief curtly. 'George?' 'No. Mr Dalziel.' ,, 'On his way,' said Pascoe. 'Let me get you a drink, sir.' ' On his way wasn't a positive lie as, presumably, wherever Dalziel was, he purposed at some point to arrive at the Social Club, therefore, whatever he was doing, he could be said to be on his way there. But the positive truth was that Pascoe hadn't the faintest idea where the Fat Man was. He had seen him briefly on his return | from the Centre but a phone call had taken him away before he;, could enlarge upon his comment in response to the question of how he'd got on with Dee: 'Yon bugger's too clever by half.' ' While being too clever by half was not in itself a guarantee of;' criminality, it was certainly true that several men so categorized by Dalziel were currently doing The Times crossword before breakfast in one of Her Majesty's penitentiaries. Bowler hadn't been able to add much more about Dee, but he was voluble about his own discoveries and was clearly hurt just this ; side of the sulks by Wield's reduction of them to a self-mutilating lexicographer and a German poet who changed his name 'cos he; got the piss taken out of him, neither of whom seemed to have any discernible relevance to the case in hand. For a small man, Clan Trimble had an authoritarian way with'' a large drink and had downed three of these with no apparent^ effect on his frame of mind when Pascoe glanced at his watch. and murmured, 'Show time, I think, sir. The natives are getting a little restless.' 'What? No, no, what's your hurry? The DI seems to be enjoying himself. Another few minutes won't hurt. No word from Andy yet?' 'Fraid not, but any moment now, I'm sure . . .' And as if he'd been waiting for his cue, the Fat Man erupted through the main door, emanating good cheer like the Spirit of Christmas Present. Making his way across the room towards Trimble, he paused to smite Headingley on the shoulder, ruffle Novello's hair, and utter some good thing which set the table on a roar. Then he arrived at the bar, accepted the large Scotch which materialized there, downed it in one, and said, 'Made it then! Would have hated to miss your speech, sir.' 'Miss my. .. ? Andy, you said you'd ring.' 'I know I did, and I would have done, only things got a bit complicated ...' He put his arm round Trimble's shoulders and drew the Chief aside and spoke earnestly in his ear. 'Like Lord Dorincourt giving some friendly advice to Little Lord Fauntleroy,' murmured Pascoe to Wield. 'At least it's stopped him looking like he'd had his budget cut,' said Wield as Trimble's expression first of all relaxed, then eased itself into a positive smile as the Fat Man smote his hand to his breast in a histrionic gesture of reassurance. 'I think he's just sold him a used policeman,' said Pascoe thoughtfully. Dalziel came to join him as the Chief Constable wandered over to Headingley's table and put his hand on the DI's shoulder and made a joke which won a laugh as loud as Dalziel's had. 'Dan's going to make the presentation then?' said Pascoe. 'Always was,' said Dalziel. 'Am I going to find out what's being going on?' 'Why not? Read that.' He pulled some creased papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Trimble had moved into the centre of the room, there were cries for order, and after the inevitable responses of 'Mine's a pint' had won their inevitable laughs, he began to speak without notes. He had an excellent public manner and as he rehearsed the highlights of the retiring detective's career with wit and eloquence, it was hard to believe that he'd had any reluctance to be doing so.

^7 Pascoe, who didn't need to be told of Headingley's virtues, glanced down at the papers Dalziel had given him. His glance soon became fixed, and after the first reading he went through them again, then gave Dalziel's ribs, or at least that stratum of subcutaneous fat beneath which he guessed they were situated, an insubordinate poke and hissed, 'Where the hell did these come from?' 'You recall Angie, Jax Ripley's sister, at the funeral? These are copies of e-mails from Jax to her.' 'I'd gathered that. I mean, how did you get hold of them?' 'Angie rang Desperate Clan afore she left for the States on Sunday. When she told him what she were on about, he said he'd like to see copies so she put 'em in the post. No lift on Sunday so he got 'em this morning.' Their muttered conversation was attracting attention so Pascoe took the Fat Man's sleeve and drew him away from the bar to the back of the room. 'Watch it,' said Dalziel. 'That's as nice a piece of worsted you're pulling as you'd see on the Lord Mayor of Bradford.' 'You see what this means? Of course you bloody well see. Georgie Porgie. A fat, cuddly senior officer. Ripley's Deep-throat was: Headingley not Bowler!' 'Aye,' said Dalziel complacently. 'Always a bit of swordsman, George. Hung like a donkey. Resemblance didn't end there, but.' The Chief Constable was warming to his task and talking about, old-fashioned virtues like loyalty to one's colleagues and utter reliability. 'You knew!' 'Not till he went sick after she got topped. Then I got to: thinking, maybe I'd done young Bowler an injustice. I mean,! Ripley were a smart lass. If it's information you're after, you don't;; start snogging the office boy.' I 'And the Chief ... no wonder he was having kittens about;; making the presentation. Doesn't look good if the officer you've;; praised up to the heavens one day goes down for corruption the; next!' j1 'Corruption? Now there's a big word for a little thing like' dipping your wick. Have you clocked George's missus lately? Like a bin liner stuffed with frozen broccoli. Man like George was sitting there, just begging to be taken for a ride by owt with big ambitions and tits to match. I should have taken greater care of him.' This display of paternalistic guilt should have been comforting, but Pascoe wasn't in the market. He said indignantly, 'He's been selling us out for a quick jump!' 'Lots of jumps, if you read between the lines, and some on 'em not so quick either. Teach us all a thing or two, could George.' 'I'll skip the lesson, thank you,' said Pascoe primly. 'What on earth made Angle Ripley want to share these rather sordid details with the Chief? I mean, they don't exactly reflect well on her sister.' 'She weren't thinking other sister's reputation, she were thinking of her murder,' said Dalziel. 'Her murder . . . Jesus! You mean she reckons that wanting to shut her up could have been a good motive for killing her? George Headingley killing her? She must be crazy!' 'She didn't know George, did she? In fact after we met at the funeral, it seems she decided the description fitted me! Minute Clan read them but, he knew it must be George. Silly cow.' He sounded indignant. On the other hand, thought Pascoe, having mistaken the Fat Man for her sister's lover, it was very easy to see how she took the step of suspecting him to be her sister's killer! He kept the thought to himself and asked, 'But what's going to happen .. . ? In fact, what has happened? What did you tell the Chief to make him so happy?' Trimble was retailing George Headingley stories with great zest and rolling his audience in the aisles. He did not sound like a man who had any fear that his valedictory encomium might one day be presented as evidence of his poor judgment and lack of managerial control. 'Told him that in my opinion any resemblance between Jax Ripley's roly-poly Georgie Porgie and our George were purely coincidental, or at worst, Ripley based the fantasies she invented for her sister's entertainment on George because he was the officer who did a lot of our media briefings. Told him that I'd checked out George personally and that I could give my personal assurance there were nowt in it. And finally I told him that the stuff about