Dialogues of the Dead (7 page)

51 at the earliest. He'd never eaten there - young detectives got used to eating on the hoof and became uneasy if they found themselves spending more than ten minutes on a meal - but he had followed Franny Roote there one night last week, watched him go inside, thought, Sod this, it's unofficial and Pm not on overtime, and headed home to a takeaway and a soccer match on the telly. That was when? Suddenly he felt uneasy. Wednesday, Pascoe had given him the job, so it had to be ... He pulled over and took out his pocketbook to check the date. Shit! It was Friday, the same night that young Pitman had had his 'accident'. Best not to mention it, he decided. It would just muddy the waters. He hadn't gone inside, he hadn't seen any other customers, he hadn't done anything except sit in his car for a minute watching Roote go into the building. If his own bad vibes about the two deaths were translated by the brass into a fall-scale investigation - which he doubted, given George Headingley's determination not to let his boat be rocked with the harbour of retirement in sight - then he might speak. Or perhaps not. Somehow he sus pected from the way Dalziel had been looking at him lately that the fat bastard would be glad to put a black mark against his name simply for being in the vague vicinity of a possible crime. For a moment he even thought of scrubbing his plan to visit the Taverna, but only for a moment. Wanting to cover his back didn't stop him from being conscientious. Then, because he was a positive thinker, much happier looking on the upside of things than contemplating possible downsides, he suddenly grinned as he saw a way of getting something good out of the situation. He took out his mobile and dialled the Central Library number. It rang for a long time before someone answered. He recognized the voice. 'Mr Dee? Hi, it's DC Bowler. Listen, is Rye there?' 'I'm sorry, she's gone home, like all sensible people,' said Dee. 'The only reason you got me was that I often stay on after closing time to do some work.' 'That's very noble of you,' said Bowler. 'I fear you credit me with more virtue than I possess. I don't mean work for the public weal. This is private research for a book I'm writing.' 'Oh yes. Detective story, is it?' Dee laughed, picking up the irony. 'I wish. No, it's a history of semantic scholarship. A sort of dictionary of dictionaries, you might call it.' 'Sounds fascinating,' said Bowler unconvincingly. Dee said, 'I think I should work on your projection of sincerity if you fancy trying your hand at undercover work, Mr Bowler. Now, is there any way that I can be of help to you?' 'Only if you've got a number I can reach Rye at,' said Bowler. There was a pause then Dee said, 'Well, I do have her home number, but I'm afraid we're not allowed to give such things out to the public at large. But I could pass on a message, if you like.' Bastard! thought Bowler. He said, 'It was just about my enquiries. I'm going to the Tavema this evening to check out a few things and I thought as Rye was so interested she might care to join me. I'll be there at seven.' 'Now that does sound fascinating. I'll pass your message on. I'm sure Rye will be as intrigued as I am.' But you're not invited, Dick-head Dee, thought Bowler. Then, being both a fair and a self-analytical young man, he asked himself, Am I jealous? But quickly, because he was above all a young man, he went on to dismiss as absurd the idea that in matters of love a dotard of at least forty years could give him any cause for jealousy. Showered, shaved, and arrayed in his sharpest gear, he was in the Taverna by six forty-five. He ordered a Campari soda because he loved the colour and it gave him a sense of sophistication. At seven ten he ordered another. A third at seven twenty. At seven thirty, tired of sophistication, he ordered a pint of lager. At seven forty-five he ordered a second pint and asked to see the manager. This was Mr Xenopoulos, short, fat and genuinely Greek though he spoke English with a disconcerting Liverpool accent. Suspicious at first that Bowler was an Environmental Health snoop, he became more helpful when he learned that his enquiries were to do with Dave Pitman, though he did wonder mildly whether it might not have been more sensible for the detective to have started interviewing his staff an hour earlier when he first arrived rather than now when the restaurant was getting busy. Both he and the waiters expressed what seemed like genuine

53 sorrow at the dreadful accident which had overtaken their bazouki player, but were unable to recall anything pertinent about the patrons that night. Solitary diners were not unusual, attracted by the sense of communal jollity which often developed as the evening wore on and the dancing began. 'But why're you asking all these questions?' enquired Xenopoulos finally. 'It was an accident, wasn't it?' 'So far as we know,' said Bowler carefully. 'But it's possible one of the diners that night could have been a witness. You keep a record of table bookings, I suppose?' 'Natch. Like a copy of that page in the reservation diary, would you?' said the manager, pre-empting Bowler's next request. 'No sweat. Have a seat at the bar and a drink on the house, I'll be with you in a jiff.' Bowler had another pint of lager and was sitting staring into the empty glass like Frank Sinatra about to burst into 'One More for the Road' when a hand tapped gently on his shoulder, a musky perfume rubbed seductively against his nose and a voice breathed in his ear, 'Hi. Whatever you lost in that glass, I think you've swallowed it.' He span round on his stool smiling, and found himself looking at a small, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a generous mouth whose smile matched his, except that it did not fade as his now faded. 'Oh, hi,' he said. 'Jax. How're you doing?' Jax Ripley considered the question for a moment then said, 'Well. I'm doing well. And you, Hat. How are you? All by yourself?' 'Yeah. That's right. I am. You?' 'With friends, but when I saw you at the bar, I thought no one so good looking should be so sad so early in the evening and came across. So what are you here for, Hat? Business or pleasure?' Discretion vied with ego. She was wearing a dress which didn't offer much hope of concealment to even the smallest of microphones, but with Jax the Ripper, you never could tell. He said, 'Pleasure. Or it would have been if I hadn't got stood up.' 'My favourite policeman? Tell me her name and I'll let the world know what a stupid cow she is.' 'Thanks, but maybe not. I'm a great forgiver,' he said. She regarded him quizzically for a moment then her gaze drifted over his shoulder. 'Mr Bowler, here's that page you wanted. Hope it's useftil, but a lot of our customers just come in off the street on the off chance.' He turned to find Xenopoulos proffering a photocopied sheet. 'Yes, thanks, that's great, thanks a lot,' he said, folding it and shoving it into his jacket pocket. He turned back to the woman to find her expression had shifted from quizzical to downright curious. 'Just improving the not so shining hour,' he said. 'Yes? Anything that would improve mine?' she asked. 'Over a friendly drink?' 'Don't think so,' he said. 'Really, Jax, it's nothing.' Her unblinking eyes made him feel like a guilty child, so he let his gaze drift over her shoulder. And found himself looking straight at Andy Dalziel who had just come into the restaurant with the well-rounded woman rumour had it he was getting it on with. But the expression on the Fat Man's face suggested he had slaughter rather than sex on his mind. Bowler jerked his gaze back to Jax Ripley whose eyes by comparison were soft and kind. 'That drink,' he said, 'make it a tequila sunset.' 'You mean sunrise?' 'I know what I mean,' he said.

55 Chapter Seven

Detective Inspector George Headingley was a stickler for punctuality. With the end of his career in sight, he might have decided he wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to be unpunctual not doing it. He was due at his desk at eight thirty the following morning and at eight twenty-nine he was approaching it with the measured tread which made his footsteps recognizable at fifty paces. He could see that the cleared top which he prided himself on leaving at the end of every shift had been sullied by a document. At least the sullier had taken care to place it dead centre so that in many ways it enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of perfect order which Headingley was always at pains to achieve. He hung his coat up, removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then sat down and pulled the document towards him. It was several pages thick and the first of these declared that its author was DC Bowler who, as requested, had gathered together all available information which might help DI Headingley to assess whether anything in the deaths of Andrew Ainstable or David Pitman required his, that is DI Headingley's, further investigation. Why was it that something legalistic about this form of words made his heart sink? He opened it and began to read. And soon his heart was sinking deeper, faster. He'd wanted firm no-no's so that he could consign these daft Dialogues to the waste bin, but all he was getting was a series of boggy maybe's. When he finished he sat for a moment, then gathered all the papers together and set out in search of Bowler. There was no sign of him. He encountered Wield and made enquiry after the young DC. Wield said, 'Saw him earlier. Think he went off to do something for Mr Pascoe. Was it urgent?' 'Was what urgent?' said Andy Dalziel, whose approach was sometimes audible at twice the distance of the DI's but who could also exercise the option of materializing like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, moving silent as mist over the ground. 'The DI's looking for Bowler,' said Wield. 'And the bugger's not in yet?' 'In and out,' said Wield reprovingly. 'Aye, like Speedy Gonzales,' said Dalziel with a lip curl like a shed tyre. 'What do you want with him, George?' 'Well, nothing ... just a query about a report he's done for me,' said Headingley, turning away. 'About those deaths, was it?' said Wield. 'The library thing.' Headingley shot him a glance which came as close to malevolence as a man of his amiable temperament could manage. He still had hopes of squashing this bit of awkwardness or, in the unlikely event of there being anything in it, at least shelving it till such time as he was long gone. To that end, the less Dalziel knew, the better. 'Library thing?' said Dalziel. 'Not a body-in-the-library thing, I hope, George. I'm getting too old for bodies in libraries.' Headingley explained, playing it down. Dalziel listened then held out his hand for the file. He scanned through it quickly, his nostrils flaring as he came to the end of Bowler's report. 'So that's what the bugger were doing at the Taverna,' he muttered to himself. 'Sorry?' 'Nowt. So what do you reckon, George? Load of crap or a big one for you to go out on?' 'Don't know yet,' said Headingley as judiciously as he could manage. 'That's why I want to see Bowler. Check through a couple of points with him. What do you think, sir?' Hopeful of dismissal. The? Could be owt or nowt. I know I can rely on you to do the right thing. But while you're thinking about it, George, mum's the word, eh? Go off half-cocked on summat like this and we'll look right wankers. Don't want them blowflies from the media

57 sniffing around till we know there's dead meat, and it's not us.' A mobile rang in Headingley's pocket. He took it out and said, 'Yes?' He listened then turned away from the other two men. They heard him say, 'No, not possible ... of course ... well, maybe ... all right .. . twenty minutes.' He switched off, turned back and said, 'Need to go out. Possible information.' 'Oh aye. Anything I should know about?' said Dalziel. 'Don't know, sir,' said Headingley. 'Probably nowt, but he makes it sound urgent.' 'They always do. Who'll you take? We're a bit shorthanded with Novello still off sick and Seymour on leave.' 'I can go,' said Wield. 'No, it's OK. This one's not a registered snout,' said Headingley firmly. Registered informants required two officers to work them for protection against disinformation and attempted set-ups. 'I'm still working on him. He's a bit timid, and I reckon that seeing me turn up mob-handed might put him off for ever.' He turned and began to move away. Dalziel said, 'Hey, George, aren't you forgetting something?' 'Eh?' 'This,' said the Fat Man, proffering the Dialogues file. 'You don't get shut of it that easy.' The bugger's a mind reader, thought Headingley, not for the first time. He took the file, tucked it under his arm and headed out of the office. Dalziel watched him go and said, 'Know what I think, Wieldy?' 'Wouldn't presume, sir.' 'I think it was his missus reminding him to pick up her drycleaning. One thing you've got to say about George, he's been real conscientious helping us break in his replacement.' 'Thought we weren't getting a replacement, sir.' 'That's what I mean,' said Andy Dalziel. He returned to his office, sat looking at the phone for a minute, then picked it up and dialled. 'Hello,' said a woman's voice which even on the phone was filled with a husky warmth which communicated itself straight to his thighs.

58 'Hi, luv. It's me.' 'Andy,' said Cap Marvell. 'How nice.' She made it sound like she meant it too. 'Just rang to say how're you doing. And sorry you didn't enjoy that place last night.' She laughed and said, 'As you well know, it wasn't the place I didn't enjoy, it was you going on about that handsome young officer and the very pretty TV girl. I thought we had an agreement. No shop till after sex when you can unburden yourself to your heart's content and I can go to sleep.' 'Chance would have been a fine thing,' he grumbled. 'Chance went out of the window with my pleasant night out. I'm game to experiment with most kinds offoreplay, but police politics I find a real turn-off. But I accept your apology for an apology.' 'Grand. Then let's fix summat else up. Your choice. Anything you say and I promise you'll think I'm a civilian.' 'You say so. OK, couple of invitations I've got this morning. One is to my son's regimental ball. It's being held a fortnight on Saturday out at Haysgarth, that's Budgie Partridge's country seat. He's the regiment's Colonel-in-Chief...' Cap's son by her dissolved marriage was Lieutenant-Colonel Piers Pitt-Evenlode ME of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, known to Dalziel as The Hero. 'Budgie? That's Lord Partridge to us commoners, is it?' 'Sorry. I knew him in another life.' This other life had been the period of marriage into the landed gentry which had lead to the Hero, self-knowledge, disillusionment, rebellion, divorce, and ultimately Dalziel. 'Met him once myself in this life,' said the Fat Man, 'but I doubt he'd remember me. What's the other invite?' 'That's to the preview of the art and craft exhibition in the Centre Gallery. A week on Saturday.' 'That it? No one want you to open a new brewery or summat?' 'Choose,' she said unrelentingly. 'It's either tin soldiers and champagne cocktails or nude paintings and cheap white wine.' He thought then said, 'Don't know much about art but I know what I like. I'll pick the mucky pictures.'