Dialogues of the Dead (8 page)

59 Hat Bowler yawned widely. He'd had a restless night, his bed afloat on a turbulent ocean of lager and Campari and the sky full of dull red stars each glowing down upon him with the accusing intensity of Andy Dalziel's gaze. He'd risen very early and made his way to work where he ordered his notes into the report which, not without malice aforethought, had so upset George Headingley. Franny Roote's name hadn't been on the Taverna reservation list. He examined his reasons for not mentioning him, decided albeit uneasily they were as good this morning as they'd appeared last night - better maybe after that encounter with Dalziel's glowering glare - then, partly to avoid being present when the DI read his report, and partly to reassure himself that Pascoe was getting his knickers in a twist over nothing, he'd driven out to the suburb where Franny Roote had his flat and resumed surveillance. There was, he was glad to confirm, nothing here to wake a young DC up. In fact, for a convicted felon and a suspected stalker, Roote really led an incredibly boring life. The guy got up in the morning, got into his old banger (correction: it looked like an old banger but the engine sounded remarkably sweet), drove to work, and worked hard all day. Most evenings he spent reading and taking notes in the university library. His social life seemed to consist of attendance at a Stjohn Ambulance class and occasional visits to a restaurant (like the Taverna, bugger it!) or a cinema, always alone. No, this was one very dull character. And Wield had said he'd got an eye like a hawk! The sergeant was a man to admire and listen to, but he didn't know much about birds, thought Bowler complacently as he watched Roote pruning a rosebush with such methodical concentration that he'd probably not have noticed if a full-scale film crew had turned up to take pictures. Time to move before he fell asleep. As he drove away from the university, Bowler let his thoughts drift to Rye Pomona. Now that he'd reported on his investigations to the DI, he felt obligated to bring her up to speed too. He had convinced himself that she hadn't got his message last night. Probably Dee, through indolence or inadvertence, or, more likely, simple indisposition, hadn't made contact with her. He pulled over and dialled the library and asked for Reference. He recognized her voice at once. She on the other hand didn't recognize his and seemed to require an effort of memory even to register his name. 'Oh yes. Constable Bowler. Message last night? Yes, I believe I did get a message, but I had other plans. So how can I help you now?' 'Well, I thought you might like to hear how I got on.' 'Got on? With what?' 'With looking into these Dialogues you gave me.' 'Oh yes. The Wordman ofAlcatraz.' She sounded more amused at the memory of his attempted joke than she'd been at the attempt. He decided this was a positive sign. 'That's right. The Wordman.' 'All right. Tell me. How did you get on?' 'Actually it's quite complicated,' he said cunningly. 'I'm a bit rushed now. I wondered if you could spare a few minutes at lunchtime, say?' A pause. 'I don't have long. One of us has to be here. And I usually eat a sandwich in the staffroom.' A staffroom was not what he had in mind. 'I thought perhaps a pub .. .' 'A pub?' As if he'd suggested a House of Assignation. 'I don't get long enough to spend time in pubs. I suppose I could meet you in Hal's.' 'Hal's?' 'The cafe-bar on the Centre mezzanine. Don't policemen get asked the way any more?' 'Yes, yes, I'll find it.' 'I won't hold my breath. Twelve fifteen.' 'Yes, twelve fifteen would be fine. Maybe we can . ..' But he wasn't talking to anyone but himself.

At twelve thirty Dick Dee was perched behind the Reference enquiry desk, peering pensively at a computer screen when he heard a sexy cough. It is not everyone who can cough sexily and he looked up with interest to see a young woman with blonde hair and sparkling

61 blue eyes smiling at him. She was small and slightly built, but exuded the kind of energy a man could imagine being put to very good use. 'Hello,' he said. 'Can I help you?' 'I hope so,' she said. 'I'm Jax Ripley.' 'And I'm Dick Dee, Miss . .. Ripley, was it?' Jax thought, the bastard's pretending not to remember me! Or, worse, she emended, looking into those guileless eyes, he really doesn't remember me! She said, 'We met the other week. On the council tour . .. when the shelf collapsed ... I did want to interview you but wherever we pointed the camera, dear old Percy seemed to be in shot, talking about the way he'd like to see the Centre develop . . .' She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to join in her amusement at Percy Follows' well-known appetite for publicity, especially with the council considering the appointment of an overall Centre Director. Dee let his gaze run up and down her body, assessingly but without lubricity, and said, 'Of course. Miss Ripley. Nice to see you again. How may I help?' 'It's about the short story competition. I gather you're in charge of the judging panel.' 'Far from it,' he said. 'I'm merely one of the preliminary sorters.' 'I'm sure you're more than that,' she said turning her charm on full blast. She knew men and thought she'd detected beneath his politely neutral examination a definite effervescence of interest along the arteries. 'When do entries close?' 'Tonight,' he said. 'So you'll have to hurry.' 'I'm not thinking of entering,' she said sharply, then saw from his faint smile that he was taking the piss. Come to think of it, he wasn't a bad-looking guy, a long way from a hunk but the kind who might grow on you. She laughed out loud and said, 'But tell me, if I did want to enter, is the standard high?' 'There's a great deal of promise,' he said carefully. 'Promise as in politicians, marriage or the Bank of England?' she asked. 'You'll need to wait till the result is announced to decide that,' he said. 'Which is when?' she said. 'I'd be interested in doing a piece on Out and About, maybe interviewing the short-listed authors. Or perhaps we could even have the result announced live on air.' 'Nice idea,' he said. 'But I suspect Mary Agnew will want the news of the winner to be announced in the Gazette. Sell more newspapers that way, you see.' 'Oh, I know Mary well. I used to work for her. In fact I was just talking to her earlier this morning and I'm sure we can come to some arrangement,' said Jax with the confidence of one who takes as read the superiority of television over newsprint. 'What I was after was a bit of preliminary information. I might even do a trail on tonight's show. Do you have a few moments? Or maybe I could buy you lunch?' Dee was beginning to refuse politely when the library door burst open and a tall willowy man with a mane of golden hair framing a face as small as a monkey's came in and approached them with arms outstretched. 'Jax, my dear. They told me you were loose in the building. Your face is too famous to pass my sentinels unremarked. I hope you were going to come and see me, but I couldn't take the risk.' He rested his arms on Jax's shoulders and they exchanged a three-kiss salute. Jax at her very first meeting with Percy Follows had marked him down as a prancing prat. But in the world of men, being a prancing prat didn't necessarily mean he was either stupid or incapable of rising to heights from which he might be able to extend a helping hand to an ambitious woman, so she said sweetly, 'I assumed you'd be far too busy at some important working lunch, Percy, which incidentally is where I'm trying to take Mr Dee here, but he was just telling me you work him far too hard for such frivolities.' 'Do we?' said Follows, slightly nonplussed. 'It seems so. He doesn't even seem to have time for a working fast. And I'm desperate to pick his brain for a series of pieces I'm planning to do on this short story competition you thought up. It's the kind of cultural initiative we really need in Mid-Yorkshire. I'll want to interview you later on, of course, but I always like to start at factory-floor level. ..' She's very good, thought Dee as she flashed him a smile and the hint of a wink from the eye furthest from Follows.

63 'Is that so?' said Follows. 'Then of course you must go, Dick. I hereby unlock your chains.' 'I'm by myself,' said Dee. 'Rye is on her lunch break.' 'No problem,' said Follows expansively. 'I'll mind the shop myself. We're a true democracy here, Jax, everyone ready and able to do everyone else's work. Go, Dick, go, while the giving mood is on me.' Dee, Harold Lloyd to his boss's Olivier, cleared the computer screen, put on his leather-patched tweed jacket and with an oldfashioned courtesy took Jax's arm and ushered her through the door. 'So where are you taking me?' he enquired as they walked down the stairs. Her mind printed out the alternatives. Pub? Too crowded. Hotel dining room? Too formal. His hand still rested lightly on her arm. To her surprise she found herself thinking, rest it anywhere you like, darling. This was quite the wrong way round, this feeling that he would be easy to like, easy to talk to. That was how he was supposed to be feeling! She recalled the wise words of Mary Agnew when she'd worked for her. You'll recognize a good story by what you're willing to do to get it. One thing though . .. lay yourself on the table by all means, darling, but never lay your cards. Knowing more than other people know is the only virginity in our game. Keep it. Still, nothing wrong with enjoying yourself along the way. 'You call it,' she said. 'My treat. But I make a lovely open sandwich if I can find the right topping.'

'This is nice,' said Bowler. 'Why's it called Hal's?' They were sitting opposite each other at a table on the balcony of the cafe-bar which gave a view down the length of the main shopping precinct. On a clear day you could see as far as Boots the Chemist. The disadvantage of the situation was that the prurient youth of the town had discovered that a seat on the edge of the fountain in the atrium below gave them with luck an excellent view up the short skirts of those sitting above. But on entering

64 Hal's, she had discovered Bowler at an inside table next to one occupied by Charley Penn. Had to be coincidence, but preferring the prying eyes of youth to the flapping ears of age, she'd suggested they move outside. 'Think about it,' said Rye. 'Heritage, Arts and Library complex? H. A. L.' 'Disappointing,' said Bowler. 'I thought it might be named after an artificial intelligence which had gone wrong and was trying to control our lives.' She laughed and said, 'You could be right.' Encouraged, he said, 'You know what I thought the first time I saw you?' 'No, and I'm not sure I want to know,' said Rye. 'I thought redwing.' 'As in Indian Maid?' 'You know that song? Odd company you keep, or do you play rugby? Don't answer. No, as in turdus iliacus, the smallest of the common thrushes.' 'I hope, for your sake, this is an extremely attractive, highly intelligent bird.' 'Naturally. Also known as Wind Thrush or Swine Pipe from its sharp voice.' 'And iliacus because it comes from Troy? The resemblances to the way I see myself don't seem to be multiplying.' 'Helen came from Troy.' 'No she didn't. She got abducted and ended up there. So forget the soft soap and tell me, where's the connection, Constable?' 'Simple really and entirely soap-free,' he murmured. 'The redwing is a bird with lovely chestnut colouring and a prominent pale strip over the eye. So when I saw this, I thought redwing.7 He reached over and brushed his index finger against the tongue of silvery grey running through her hair. That's enough, buster, thought Rye. Verbal jousting is one thing, but stroking my hair's a familiarity too far. 'So you really are a bird nerd,' she said. 'And here's me thinking it was just a cover story. Ah well, each to his own anorak.' She saw she'd scored a palpable hit and should have felt gleefril but didn't.

65 'Anyway, it's a better come-on than the guy who said it reminded him of Silver Blaze,' she went on. 'Sorry?' 'Silver Blaze. The racehorse in the Sherlock Holmes story? Don't you all get issued those at Hendon, or is being a detective a cover story too?' 'No, that's for real too, I'm afraid.' 'Oh yes? So prove it.' 'OK,' he said. 'First off, this Wordman stuff is confidential, OK?' 'Confidential? It's me who brought you these Dialogues, remember? And now you're telling me just because you've invented a nickname for him, it's confidential.' 'What I've found out in the course of my investigation is police business and I can't share it with you unless you accept its confidentiality,' he said, deliberately ponderous. She thought, nodded, said, 'OK. So let's hear it.' 'First, all that stuff about Ainstable - the tropical fish and the Greek holiday - is true. As is the story about where the bazouki came from. Plus there's a witness who might have seen a car's headlights just before the motorbike crash. And there could have been a car on the humpback bridge in front of where the AA van was parked.' 'Oh, shit. So this lunatic really did kill them!' exclaimed Rye, horrified. 'Not necessarily. There are other ways the Wordman could have got the information and there's no way of knowing for certain if Ainstable stopped to help someone. And my witness who saw the lights is going senile and isn't a hundred per cent sure what he had for breakfast.' 'Great! And this is what I've been sworn to secrecy over?' Bowler said seriously, 'It's important either way. If there's nothing in it, then we don't want to be spreading alarm and despondency about a possible serial killer on the loose, do we? And if there is something in it. ..' 'Yeah, yeah,' she said. 'So you're right, which could be an irritating habit. All right, Sherlock, what's your professional opinion?' The? I'm far too junior to have opinions,' said Bowler. 'I just pass things up to my superiors and they've got to decide what to do next.' He smiled as he spoke and Rye said coldly, 'You think it's something to joke about?' 'Hell, no. I'm not laughing at that. I'm just thinking about my DI who's only interested in sailing into retirement peacefully and just hates the idea of having to make a decision about something as difficult as this.' 'I'm glad to know the public weal's in such safe hands.' 'Don't worry. He's not typical. You should see the guy at the top.' His expression turned sombre at the thought of Andy Dalziel. Why did the guy dislike him so much? Couldn't just be because of his degree. Pascoe was a graduate too and he and the fat Man seemed to be able to work together without too much blood on the carpet. 'Hello?' said Rye. 'You still with me or are you getting messages from Planet Zog?' 'Yes. Sorry. Just the thought of our super does that to me. Look, I'll keep you posted about any further developments on the Wordman front, I promise. I assume there's been nothing more at your end?' 'Any more Dialogues, you mean? No, of course not, or we'd have called you. And the closing date for entries is tonight so there's not much time left.' He regarded her gravely and said, 'Maybe if our Wordman really is killing people, he won't be much bothered by a closing date for a short story competition.' She looked irritated but with herself not him and said, 'Thanks for making me feel stupid. That part of your job?' 'No. Is it part of yours?' 'When did I do it?' 'When you and Dee started using long words you assumed, rightly, I wouldn't understand.' 'Such as?' 'When I told you what people called me, you said something about that being very paranoidistic or something.' 'Paronomasiac,' she said. 'Sorry. You're right. It's just the adjecve from paronomasia which means any form of word-play, like a pun.' 'And what Dee said?' 'Paronomaniac.' She smiled and said, 'From paronomania, mean67 ing an obsessive interest in word games. It's also the name of a board game Dick's very fond of. Bit like Scrabble, only harder.' He didn't really want to hear about Dee's cleverness or anything which hinted at intimacy between Rye and her boss, but couldn't help saying, 'You've played this para whatsit, then?' She gave him a cool smile which seemed to say she understood precisely the direction of his thoughts and said, 'No. It seems only two can play and those two are Dick and Charley Penn.' 'The writer?' 'Is there another?' He decided this was leading nowhere and said, 'So now we've both made each other feel stupid, what about this Sunday?' She didn't pretend not to understand but said, 'I don't know if I'm that stupid. What's the E stand for?' 'What E?' 'E. Bowler. On your library card. That E. Come on. What are you hiding under your hat, Hat?' He looked at her doubtfully then took a deep breath and said, 'Ethelbert.' 'Ethelbert,' she repeated, savouring the name like a jam dough nut, then running her tongue round her lips as if to pick up the residual sugar. 'I like it.' 'Really?' He examined her closely in search of ambush. 'You'll be the first. Most people fall about laughing.' 'When you've got a name that makes you sound like an alcopop, you don't laugh at other people's names,' she said. 'Rye Pomona,' he said. 'I see what you mean. But it's nice. Isn't Pomona a place in Italy?' 'No,' she said. 'But it is Italian. Pomona was the Roman goddess of fruit trees.' She watched to see if he would lumber into a joke or ooze into a compliment. He nodded and said, 'And Rye, is that a nickname, or what?' 'Short for Raina,' she said. 'Sorry? Never heard that one.' She spelt it for him, and pronounced it carefully, stressing the three syllables, Rye-ee-na. 'Raina,' he echoed. 'Raina Pomona. Now that's really nice. OK, it's unusual, but it's not naff, like Ethelbert Bowler.' She found herself pleased that he didn't make a big deal of asking where the name came from but just took it in his stride. 'Don't undersell yourself,' she said. 'Think positive. Ethelbert Bowler ... it has an artistic ring .. . makes you sound like a minor Victorian watercolourist. Are you interested in art, Ethelbert? Under any of your hats?' 'I could probably dig out an old French beret,' he said cautiously. 'Why?' 'The Centre's new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There's a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?' He said, 'Are you going by choice or because you're on the payroll?' She said, 'Does it matter? OK, it's sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn't be interested.' 'Try me till I yawn,' he said. 'OK. The Centre's tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery op Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it's all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?' 'No, just breathing deeply with excitement.' 'Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders' digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing - you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?' Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly. 'I believe you,' she said, not bothering to sound convinced. 'Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she's on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone's had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there's a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines