Dialogues of the Dead (51 page)

This reaction cheered him up more than the DCI's reassur43z

ances. Time to forget about himself and ask about Rye, put some i detail on Wield's assurance that she was OK. He heard her screams and saw again her naked body being mauled by that i bastard Dee and wondered how much detail he was ready for. But he had to find out. • Not yet, though. Pascoe was still speaking. 'And the things you were shouting...' The DCI shook his ; head as if still unable to believe them. 'Like what?' 'Don't worry, we've got them all taken down so they can be used in evidence against you when you get back to work.' 'i:;! Comforting words. He was good, Pascoe. Nice bedside manner. Should have been a GP. But not a Georgie Porgie, no, couldn't.see him as that... j 'This morning Sergeant Wield said you were back with us. Said > you were asking about Ms Pomona.' ?' Wield. Knew what you were thinking before you thought it. He said, 'The sarge said she was OK, right?' | 'She's fine. A few bruises and scratches. Nothing else.' 'Nothing?' ^ 'Nothing,' said Pascoe emphatically. 'You got there in time,;' Hat. He didn't have time to do anything to her, believe me.' i,| He's telling me the bastard didn't rape her, thought Hat. Why ^ doesn't he just come out and say it? ' Maybe because I don't just come out and ask it. And what if Dee had raped her? What difference would it have ( made? To me? Or to her? he asked himself with angry revulsion. A , hell of a difference to her. And who gives a toss if it makes any ; difference to me? It's because I'm ill, he tried to reassure himself. Being sick makes you selfish. He said, 'Is she in hospital too?' ' 'No way. One night for observation. Then she discharged her self. She doesn't seem fond of hospitals.' 'No, I think she had a bad time once ... so she wouldn't want to hang around .. .' 'She's been in to see you every day,' said Pascoe, grinning. 'And I gather that the first thing she does every morning and last thing at night is ring to check you're OK. So you can get that neglected look off your face. Hat, that's some girl you've got yourself there. When you were rolling around with Dee she broke a bottle of wine over his head. He'd dropped his knife, we gather, and was trying to beat your brains in with this crystal dish that weighed a ton. She got it off him and started to give him some of what he was giving you. Some girl.' 'And I got the knife,' said Hat, frowning with the effort of memory. 'And I ... what's happened to Dee? Is he.. . ?' He wanted him dead, yet he wanted him alive, because if he were dead .. . He recalled the knife rising and plunging, rising and plunging. Minimum force. 'He's dead,' said Pascoe gently. 'Shit.' 'Saves the cost of a trial,' said Pascoe. 'And saves Rye the trauma of a trial.' 'Yeah.' 'There'll be an enquiry, of course,' Pascoe went on lightly. 'Always is when an officer is involved in a death. Nothing to worry about in the circs, just a formality.' 'Sure,' said Hat. He knows as well as I do that nowadays there's no such thing as a formality, thought Pascoe. Dead man, cop involved, sod the circumstances, there's a whole percussion band out there ranging from civil rights activists through religious nuts to fuck-you-all anarchists waiting to beat their different drums in the hope that when the cacophony stops, a cop's career will lie mortally wounded. With luck in this case the media would be blaring out the triumphant notes of celebration loud enough to drown the dissenters. The Wordman erased. The killer of at least seven people himself killed. Damsel in distress rescued by heroic young officer. Rumours of romance in the air. This boy deserves a medal! Pascoe hoped he'd get it. One thing none of the interested parties on either side had seen was that room in Stangcreek Cottage as he saw it when he'd finally burst through the door. Blood everywhere. Hat, wounded in his side and his head, lying unconscious on his back. The naked girl, stained with gore like an ancient pict with woad, kneeling by him, cradling his bleeding

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head. And Dee, sprawled across the Paronomania board like somesacrificial ox, his body rent by so many wounds that the blood' from them had joined to cover him in a scarlet cloak, and alt, across that body, gleaming like stars in some alien red sky, and scattered across the floor like the Milky Way, were the game's letter tiles, bearing some arcane message for any who could readi.. To a neutral observer it might look as if it was Dee who'd been the victim of a maniacal attack. ;; Dalziel when he arrived hot on Pascoe's heels had taken this't in at a glance. 'l After they'd called for an ambulance and ministered to Hat and' Rye as best they could, the Fat Man had said, 'Best try somaj resuscitation here.' 'Nay, sir, he's gone,' said his driver with the authority of one; who'd attended more major traffic accidents than he cared t@; recall. W 'Even so, can't have folk saying we didn't try,' said Dalziel' firmly. 'Pete, give us a hand.' Pascoe knew what they were doing. It was called interfering' with a crime scene. It was also called making sure that when the enquiry team sat in judgment in some nice clean conference room with pads of pristine paper to make notes on and jugs of crystal water to refresh their throats when they became dry from askingi 2 too many dusty questions, no one would be able to pass around. photos of an abattoir, i, No way they could alter the pathologist's report, of course^ But verbal description of the wounds wrapped in formal medical j language, or even photographs of the cleaned-up body on a mor"^ tuary slab did not begin to convey the scene at Stangcreek Cottage. ;i These morbid reflections were driven from his mind by a dis^S; turbance in the corridor. •' 'Where's he hiding at?' cried a familiar voice. 'In here? Keep; it quiet, tha says, luv? Nay, I've dealt with more malingerers than,| tha's had hot flushes.' ', The door burst open and Dalziel filled the room. ' ; 'I knew it. Up and talking. No wonder the NHS is short of,' beds with fit buggers like you filling them.' Behind him an indignant staff nurse fluttered till Dalziel put her out of sight and mind by shutting the door. 'So, howst'a doing, lad? What fettle?' said the Fat Man, sitting on the edge of the bed which responded with the outraged squeak of a goosed matron. 'I'm OK, I think, sir,' said Hat. 'He will be OK in a few weeks, I imagine,' said Pascoe firmly. 'A few weeks?' said Dalziel incredulously. 'No, honestly, I think I'll be out and about before that,' said Hat. Dalziel regarded him closely, then shook his head. 'No you won't,' he said. 'The DCI's right. Couple of weeks at least. Then a couple more convalescing.' 'No, really. ..' said Hat this volte-face taking him by surprise. 'Fuck really,' said Dalziel. 'Listen, lad, out there while you're in here, you're a wounded hero. So in here you'll stay till we get that made official. Then when you do come out, them as wonder why you needed to stab Dee the Dick thirteen times can mutter all they like. Can't touch a hero.' 'Why did you need to stab him thirteen times, Hat?' asked Pascoe. 'Wasn't counting,' said Hat. 'And maybe I didn't need to, but I certainly wanted to.' 'First bit, good answer. Second bit, lousy answer,' said Dalziel. 'Best is no answer. Look pale, little wince of pain, then say it's all a blur, you remember nowt but this monster trying to kill this helpless innocent lass. All you knew was you had to stop him, even if it meant putting your own life on the line. And if you get a gong, say you reckon it's the lass as should have it, all you did was your job, they'll love that.' 'Yes, sir,' said Hat. 'Sir, what about Penn?' 'What about him?' 'He alibi'd Dee for the Stang Creek killing, remember?' 'Maybe he got the night wrong. Maybe he was doing his mate a favour. Or maybe Dee bamboozled us about what he were doing the other possible times. Not your worry, lad. Leave Charley Penn to me.' 'Yes, sir,' said Hat, closing his eyes momentarily and wincing. 'You OK?' said Pascoe, concerned. 'Fine,' said Hat. 'Didn't realize it was such hard work being a hero.'

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'Expensive work too,' said Dalziel. 'First round in the Black Bull's on you when you get back. Come on, Pete. Lad needs his rest and some of us have got work to do.' Out in the corridor, Pascoe said, 'Do we need to worry about Penn?' 'Only if he feels he donj,t need to worry about me. Hello, what's this? Don't usually see folk running into these places, just out.' The door at the end of the corridor had burst open to admit Rye Pomona at a run. She didn't look as if she would have stopped, but Dalziel's body was an obstacle not easily ignored. 'I got a message saying he's awake,' she gasped. : 'Awake, compos mentis, and asking about you,' smiled Pascoe. 'He's OK? Truly OK?' She spoke to Dalziel. Fair enough, thought Pascoe. I'm good enough for reassurance, but for assurance. Fat Andy's your only man. 'He's grand, luv. Bit weak still, but sight of you'll have him standing up in no time. How about yourself? You OK?' She looked OK. Indeed, with her golden skin flushed from running and her rich chestnut hair with its distinctive silver flash becomingly dishevelled, she could have modelled for a pre-Raphaelite picture of Atalanta diverted from her race by Aphrodite's golden apples. Except there were only three of them and with Andy Dalziel as diversion, the artist would have need to paint a whole barrelful. 'Yes,' she said impatiently. 'I'm fine. Went back to work today.' 'What? Miserable buggers. Should have thought they'd give you a month at least.' This indignation from one who believed that wheelchair access to police stations had been provided in order that convalescing cops could get back to their desks as soon as possible amused Pascoe. He saw it amused the young woman too. 'To do what?' she said. 'I've seen the quacks and the counsellors, I've taken the long country walks, I've got the victim T-shirt. I'm better off at work, and they're a bit short-handed there at the moment. We lost a couple of librarians recently, or haven't you heard? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and see Hat.' She pushed past and went into the room. 'Good lass, yon,' said Dalziel. 'Bit lippy, but I don't mind that in a woman long as she's got the tits to go with it. Reminds me a bit of your Ellie when she were a lass.' Making a note to pass this intimation of senescence on to Ellie, Pascoe glanced through the glass panel. Rye was kneeling by the bed, clasping one of Hat's hands in both of hers and looking into his eyes. They weren't speaking. Pascoe did not know where they were, did not know about that magic mist which had wrapped itself round them the rime they walked along the margin of Stang Tarn, but he knew they were far away in some private place where even his distant gaze was an intrusion. 'Takes you back a couple of years, eh?' said Dalziel, who was peering over his shoulder. 'Further than that,' said Pascoe. 'Takes you right out of rime. Come away. We're strangers here.' 'Nay, lad. Not strangers. Just too busy to visit very often,' said Andy Dalziel.

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Chapter Forty-eight

THE LAST DIALOGUE ^ ,a^, :;>; dick dee: Where am I? geoff pyke-strengler; Dick Dee, by all that's wonderful! Hv^^ are you, old chap? ':',, ')'' DiCK:I'm. . .I'm not sure howlam. Geoffrey, is'that'you':'I'm so sorry .. .1.

geoff: What on earth for? Not your fault we're here. . ' ;

dick: Isn't it? I thought that... what is this place ... ? ;. geoff: Hard to explain, old boy. Not really a place at all. If you get', my drift. hots did you get here, anyway? ^ dick; It's all mixed up .. . there was this tunnel with a very bright:' light at the end of it... i sam johns on: How very conventional. I had bells and explosions amt. birdsong, bit like the 1812 re-orchestrated by Messiaen. ; dick: Dr Johnson . . . you too . . . I'm sorry ... i sam: You will be. Oh yes, you will be. it geoff: Ignore him. He's a bit down. The tunnel thingy, that's just^ an impression of the process of getting here. Quite a popular one, as in happens. I meant, what happened to start the process? ^

dick: / can't remember ... there was ... no, it's gone. | geoff: Not to worry. It generally takes a hit of time before memory] comes back. sam: Enjoy it while you can. It's when you start remembering that the pain starts. Oh God, here it comes. We may have left the stage but we still have the pantomime horse.

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PERCY FOLLOWS 1 Hello, Dick. AMBROSE BIRD J percy: How are things back there? Who's got my job? I half expected it might be you. brose: Can hardly be him when he's down here with us, can it? percy: You know what I mean. brose: Only because my powers of interpretation compensate for your inadequacies of expression. How on earth you got to be borough librarian I cannot imagine. percy: By the same process as a pipsqueak blowbag like yourself got to be the Last of the Actor-managers, I dare say. Where do you think we are going? brose: For a walk by the river. percy: But we went for a walk by the river this morning. brose: That was when it was your choice. Now it's mine and I choose to go there again. Anyway, there's nowhere else. Come on, no dawdling. percy: Don't poke. You're poking again. I promise you, if you start poking, I'll start jerking. dick: I wanted to say something to them but they didn't give me the chance to get a word in. And why are they walking so close together like that? geoff: That's how they arrived, sort of joined up. And the way you arrive is the way you stay, it seems, at least till you cross the river. You may have noticed I'm having to hold my head on, for instance.

dick: Yes, I'm so sorry ...

geoff: Bad habit that, always apologizing.

dick: But your poor head... g e o f f : / know. But look, old boy, there 'syou bleeding all over the place and I'm not apologizing, am I? andrew ainstable: 'Scuse me, gents, but I'm looking for a bridge. Couldn't tell me if it's upstream or downstream, could you? I've got a Home Start waiting and I was due there .. . can't recall when exactly, but I know he's waiting.

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g e o f f : Try upstream, old boy. dick: Who on earth was that? geoff: On earth he was an AA man. He's still a bit confused even though he's been down here longer than any of us. Spends all his time. looking for a bridge.

dick; Bridge? I'd say he's tried to swim across, from the look of him. geoff; Not an option, old boy. No, that's the way he came, dripping, wet. He wants to find this bridge 'cos that's where he left his van.

dick; This is very confusing. And I keep on hearing music ... geoff; Oh yes, that's young Pitman. He just lies around on the bank all day playing his bazouki. Seems perfectly happy and he can't frighted' the fish because there don't seem to be any. Disappointing that. I know'^ it's not real - not in the real sense - but if you're going to have a , not-real river, you might as well stock it with not-real fish. Instead .i we've got that odd-coloured mist. Sort ofpurply. Looks industrial to me, like there's some big plant with furnaces and such quite close. And that spells pollution with a big P. That's what I used to love about the tarn. Creek ran into it straight from the hills. Nothing up there to pump chemicals and sewage into the water. Miss it, you know. Hope when we '; get across we might find somewhere a man can cast a line and hope to hook something more than an old bedstead. /.