Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  121 reached his majority, only the unassailable entail remained, con sisting of the ancestral house (let as a corporate rest home), plus large chunks of Stangdale containing a few tumbledown farms. Little wonder perhaps in view of his parents' predilections that the Hon. Geoffrey should have declared war on the natural world, and in the Great Outdoors developed those predatory skills for which he was justly famed. Indoors, however, though sdll as destructive, his depredations tended to be accidental. As he approached he kicked over a table bearing a display of wooden bowls, moved sharply to his left to avoid treading on them, jostled a girl bearing a trayful of wine glasses, ducked away from the resultant shower of chardonnay and caused a nasty friction burn down the arm of the Lady Mayor with his ancient hacking jacket which was cut from the most spikily horrent tweed known to man. Finally he made it and smiled benevolently on the group. He had a rather attractive doggily-trusting sort of expression. In fact he gave the impression that with the slightest encouragement, he'd have placed his paws on your shoulders and licked your face. Mary Agnew introduced him. When she mentioned the short story competition, he nodded knowingly and said, 'Stories, eh? Picture's worth a thousand words, isn't that what they say? And a pair of Purdys are worth a thousand pictures, that's what I say. But could be worse. Could have been a novel competition instead of stories. God, now that would have been really hard.' 'Wasn't it Chekhov who said that people only write novels because they don't have time to write short stories?' saidjohnson. 'Think you may have got that the wrong way round, old boy,' said the Hon. helpfully. 'Geoffrey,' said Mary Agnew, 'I was thinking, maybe you could use a bit of help judging these stories .. .' 'No need. Just talking to Dick about it. He says he'll steer me right. Good man, Dick,' said the Hon., beaming confidence. 'Anyway, man who can judge a good terrier shouldn't have any problems with a few scribbles.' Pascoe noted with mild interest this apparent familiarity with Dee who, from his own limited knowledge, didn't appear the huntin' shoorin' fishin' type. 'Nevertheless,' said Agnew with the firmness of one who is certain of her absolute authority, 'I've decided that you shouldn't have to cope alone and I've just been asking Dr Johnson here, and his colleagues, if they would form a judging committee. With you, of course.' 'No, count me out,' said the Hon. 'Would have done it myself, noblesse oblige, honoured my commitment sort of thing, but this is different. Can't abide committees. Good luck with it, old boy.' (This to Johnson.) 'Make sure she pays you the going rate.' Johnson looked surprised at the mention of money, but Penn's eyes lit up and he said, 'Just what is the going rate then?' 'No idea,' said the Hon. 'Didn't apply to me. I'm sort of staff, you see. Was, anyway.' 'Was?' echoed Agnew, looking at him as if she didn't object to the idea. 'Yes. Going to tell you. Heard this morning. The old man's dead. Boat accident. Sad, but haven't seen him for twenty-five years, so ... well there it goes. Anyway, means the bits and bobs he couldn't get his hands on come to me, so I shan't need to do the column any more. And now you've got yourself a committee, don't need to do the judging any more, do I?' Still the benevolent smile, but Pascoe had a sense he was enjoying this. Ellie said, 'So that means you're Lord Pyke-Strengler now?' 'Of the Stang. Yes. But normally don't use the tide till the previous holder's been buried.' 'Which is when?' 'Well, could be a bit of a problem there, actually,' said the Hon. reflectively. 'Seems the sharks were a bit faster getting to him than the rescue boats, you see.'

  Oh, what fun it is to look at their faces and see that they are seeing what you want them to see but completely missing the many-splendour''d thing. They think we are all moving forward along the same broad highway, all crowded together, all jostling for the best position, some congratulating themselves on having outdistanced those they started with, others feeling themselves pushed to the edges, even trampled into

  123 the gutter, but none of them denying that the choice lies between striving forward along that road or stepping off it into annihilation. And all the time I am following the twist and turns of my own path whose existence they are only just beginning to believe in, and whose route they cannot hope to track because its purpose is so far beyond their comprehension. 1 look at them looking at these so-called works of art and laugh because I know that that the true artists in this life use brush strokes too delicate and colours too bright for the ordinary eye to detect or to tolerate...

  'So what do you think of this?' asked Rye. 'Rather good, wouldn't you say?' She had come to a halt before a watercolour of a rather tumbledown house on the bank of a lake with the evening sun turning the water into wine. Or blood. 'It's OK, but I'd rather look at you,' said Hat. 'Watch a lot of old Gary Grant movies, do you?' said Rye, eyes firmly on the picture. 'Not if I can help it. OK, let the dog see the rabbit.' He moved her gently to one side, enjoying the excuse for contact. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'Stangcreek Cottage.' Now she looked at him then down at her catalogue. 'You've seen it already,' she said accusingly. 'No. I've seen the cottage and you'll see it tomorrow. That's Stang Tarn, which, unsurprisingly, like Stang Creek and Stangcreek Cottage, is in Stangdale. As close with their words as they are with their money, these Yorkshiremen. If you like the look of it so much, we'll take a photo, save you the bother of buying the painting.' If she wanted to play the connoisseur, he was quite happy to play the philistine. 'Is that all paintings are to you? Just some form of record?' 'Nothing wrong with records, is there? Here's a place I liked the look of on such and such a date at such and such a time?' Ts that all it says? Doesn't the light and the colouring and the time of day tell you anything?' 'Sure. It's getting dark, and maybe the painter's run out of blue and green but he's got lots of red. Or maybe he's just better at blood than water. Yes, I'd say he should stick to blood.' 'OK, so let's stick to blood. Any leads yet on the Wordman?' This pulled him up short and he said, 'Hey, I'm off duty here, remember?' 'Are you? Clearly you don't want to talk about Dick's painting, so I thought you must be one of those sad bastards who can't relate to anything outside his job.' 'Dick's painting? You mean, Dick Dee painted this?' 'Didn't you realize? I thought that maybe that was why you were being so resistant.' Clever clogs. She'd picked up on his antipathy to her boss even though he'd scarcely acknowledged it to himself. He said, 'No, I didn't realize ... sorry. I just thought we were playing a game. Actually, I think it's very striking, you know .. . atmospheric.. .' 'You like playing games, do you?' 'Oh yes,' he said. 'Anything but solitaire.' Let her twist and turn as much as she liked, she wasn't going to shake him off. 'So what about the Wordman? What game is he playing?' 'What makes you think he's playing a game?' 'Those Dialogues. No reason to write them except to involve someone else.' 'They could just simply be a record.' 'Like this painting?' 'You've persuaded me it's more than that.' 'Then look at the Dialogues .. . surely they've got a subtext, too ... an atmosphere .. .' 'Like blood on the tarn, you mean?' said Hat, staring at the painting of Stangcreek Cottage. 'Blood on the tarn? Why didn't I think of that for a tide?' said Dick Dee. He had come up behind them. 'Hello, Dick,' said Rye with the welcoming smile Hat had not received. 'We're just deconstructing your opus.' 'I'm flattered. You remember Ambrose Bird?' 'Who could forget the Last of the Actor-Managers?' said Rye

  125 fluttering her eyelashes in a manner which Hat, not without relief, identified as ironical. 'Yes, of course, we met in Dick's office. Alas, with the dreadful news of Miss Ripley's death weighing on us, the normal courtesies went out of the window, but distracted though I was, I recall making a mental note to improve our acquaintance,' said Bird, matching her mock admiration with his own histrionic gal lantry. 'Let's start afresh. Dick, a formal introduction, if you please.' 'This is Rye Pomona, who works with me in Reference,' said Dee. With not for, acknowledged Bowler grudgingly. 'Pomona .. . you're not related by any chance to Freddie Pomona?' 'He was my father.' 'Good lord. He must have had you late, I think. Dear old Freddie. He was Titinius when I carried my first spear in Caesar. I recall how well he died, too well indeed for the director who had to get him to tone it down a bit. Can't have the support out-Brutusing Brutus.' 'He was a ham,
you mean?' said Rye. Bird laughed and said, 'I mean he belonged to an older school of acting than that which now prevails. In any case, a well-cured jambon is the tastiest of meats. Who knows better than I? But dear Freddie is sadly missed. And your mother too . .. Melanie, wasn't it? Of course it was. I recall dear Sir Ralph at a cast lunch given by some unusually generous management saying, "I think I shall start with a slice of Melanie accompanied by the merest morsel of Pomona Ham." Such a wag, dear Ralph.' Dick Dee, who had been regarding Rye with some concern, said sharply, 'I think, to persuade us of that, you might have found a better example of his wit.' 'I'm sorry,' said Bird, acting being taken aback. 'Perhaps it wasn't dear Ralph. Sir John, perhaps? G, of course, not M. Not his style at all.' 'I was commenting on the matter rather than the manner,' said Dee, glancing significantly at Rye. 'What? Oh, I see. My dear, I'm so sorry. No offence intended. I recall dear Freddie laughed like a drain.' 'No offence taken,' said Rye, smiling. 'There, you see, Dick. You're far too sensitive. Now is no one going to introduce me to this fine-looking young man whose face also looks strangely familiar?' 'That's because he is Detective Constable Bowler, who was so ably assisting DCI Pascoe on that same day you met Rye,' said Dee. 'Well, well. Di Caprio eat your heart out,' said the actormanager, taking Bowler's hand and squeezing it hard. 'Nice to meet you,' said Hat, pulling his hand away. 'I hope we may improve our acquaintance also,' murmured Bird. Then, like a grand duchess signalling an audience was over, he turned abruptly to the painting and said, 'So, Dick, this is one of your masterpieces, is it? Hmmm.' The hmmm was the first thing that Hat had liked about the man. It spoke a whole hiveful of reservations. The two men stepped closer to the painting and Hat took Rye by the arm and steered her away, saying, 'Why don't we take a look at that engraver woman?' 'Because it sounds like metalwork?' said Rye. T bet at school you were hot on metalwork.' 'You bet. Straight A's. Talking of which, that asshole Ambrose is a bit over the top, isn't he?' 'Bird? He's harmless. Just an act.' 'Acting being a great actor, you mean?' 'It happens all the time. Of course, if you can't hack it on the stage, you soon get found out. But Bird's acting being an old-fashioned actor-manager which is a much meatier role. To give him his due, he does a pretty good job. Have you seen any of his productions?' 'Not yet,' said Bowler, wondering if he was going to have to brush up his Shakespeare as well as his art to get near this girl. He was fall of curiosity over the revelation that she came from a theatrical family, but a close study of the psychology of interrogation had taught him the supreme importance of rhythm and timing in getting a result. So another place, another time .. . 'Is he acting being gay as well?' he said. 'Think he fancies you? Now that's really vain,' she said.

  127 'The way he shook my hand, either he fancies me or he's a member of some Lodge I don't know about.' 'So it's true. You do have to be a homophobic mason to get on in the Filth,' she said. But she said it with an affectionate smile and he smiled back as he replied, 'I thought everyone knew that. Now why don't we go and look at some etchings?' Chapter Fifteen

  All good things come to an end. Provincial previews take a little longer but even they have their natural term. The guests had their various reasons for coming - some to see, some to be seen; some out of obligation, some out of love; ,some out of interest, some out of boredom - but they needed only one of two reasons for going - they had either got what they came for, or it wasn't there for the getting.

  Getting the weapon was so easy I hardly noticed that I'd taken it and certainly no one else did. Then Ibidedmy time, in every sense of the phrase. Eventually people began to drift away, and when I saw my particular piece of flotsam join the drift, 1 followed close behind, but not so close as to draw attention. My aura was strong now, so strong I felt myself borne along on its brightness like a piece of debris on the wind -which follows a nuclear blast. Breathe on me breath of God, I sang inside, for this surely must be what His breath feels like. I was aglow with its gloriole, but still time flowed strongly around me. Then I saw him turn away from the main drift and at the same moment 1 felt time begin to ebb.

  'Well, it's time we were off,' said Andy Dalziel. 'Ars longa-' he gave the ess its full sibilance ' - and if I stay here much longer, me belly'll think me throat's cut.' Cap Marvell let her gaze linger on the quercine throat in question and said, 'You must have a very imaginative belly.' But the Lord Mayor who felt he had stayed far beyond the requirements of duty was on Dalziel's side.

  129 'You're right, Andy,' he said. 'If we show the way, then all these other good folk can be off to their lunches, eh?' His touching belief that, as with royalty, nobody ate dll he ate or left before he left, was contradicted by the steady flow of exiting guests as one o'clock approached. But his eagerness to join them was not shared by his wife, who had recovered from her brush with the Hon.'s jacket and was now displaying the oenological expertise recently acquired on a Sunday Times Wine Society week end. Having expressed the opinion that over-oaked chardonnay had had its day, she had been brought a newly opened bottle of red by Percy Follows. 'Don't tell me what it is,' she cried, sniffing deeply at the glass cradled in her hands. 'Ah, this is good, this is interesting. I'm getting exotic fruit, I'm getting mangrove swamps, I'm getting coriander, I'm getting cumin, I'm getting jaggery.' 'Shouldn't let it bother you, luv,' said Dalziel. 'After fifteen pints of best, I sometimes get a bit jaggery meself. Now are we going, or what?' 'It's a Shiraz Merlot blend, I'd say. Western Australia? About '97?' said Margot. All eyes turned on Follows who, keeping his hand clamped firmly over the bottle's label, said, 'Spot on, my dear. What a nose you have there.' It was indeed a nose to be proud of. If you were a macaw, thought Cap. She saw a similar thought form on Dalziel's lips, got him in a restraint-lock disguised as an affectionate linking of arms, and said, 'You're right, dear. Time to be on our way.' They moved off, closely followed by the mayor and his triumph ing wife. Ambrose Bird approached Follows, prised the bottle from his fingers, examined the label which read St-Emilion, and said mag nificently, 'Creep!' And now the gallery really did begin to empty fast. Soon, of the hundred or so guests who'd attended, only a couple of dozen remained. Among them was Edgar Wield, the glass of chilled white wine he'd received on arrival now warm in his hand. He had little interest in art but his partner, Edwin Digweed, had wanted to come. Sensing Wield's reluctance he had said acidly, 'Very well. I shall remember this next time you want me to attend an autopsy.' Any more realistic argument might have made Wield dig his heels in, but this made him smile and give in with a good grace, neither of which would have been detectable to a stranger but both of which Digweed spotted and appreciated. Now he waited with ironic patience for Digweed, who couldn't sharpen a pencil without cutting his finger, to finish a deep discussion he was having with a hunky young wood-turner about the relative merits of elm and yew, and looked forward to the rest of the day which, with luck, would give him the pleasure of his partner's company away from any disruptive crowd. He saw Pascoe and Ellie by the exit talking to Ambrose Bird, or rather Ellie and the Last of Actor-Managers were talking. Wield knew that if Ellie had a weakness, it was a tendency to be star-struck by fully paid-up luwies. Pascoe, who wore the sweet smile with which he masked impatience, caught Wield's eye, made a wry face, then moved towards him. Wield watched him approach, noting with approval the grace of movement, the pleasant manner with which he greeted acquaintance, the general sense of ease and tightness which emanated from that slim figure. The boy was good, would have still been good if this had been a top-level diplomatic reception rather than a provincial arty-farty piss-up. Others must have noticed too. He'd done well, but not too well, or rather not too quickly. Others had flown to DCI and beyond a lot quicker than Pascoe, but those who hit the top too soon always posed the question, Did you hang around anywhere long enough to get your hands dirty? You've made the climb but have you done the time? Looking ahead when he was a sprog, setting out on the steep ascent laid out before a graduate entrant, if Pascoe had been able to foresee his long sojourn in Mid-Yorkshire CID, he'd probably have fe
lt his career must have stalled. But not now. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, not even with his closest friends, but he had said enough for Wield to know he was aware of his true worth. And aware even more that there were things in his life more important far than ambition. If he had pushed, gone hunting for the glittering prizes, he could probably have been up and away long since. But now he had other agendas. Hostages to fortune, that's what some clever bugger had called wife and family, probably

  131 meaning it cynically. Well, Pascoe had come close to losing both his child and his missus in jthe past few years, and now he knew beyond any doubt what ransom he was willing to pay to keep them safe, which was everything he had or could expect to have. So nothing was going to happen without the imprimatur of their happiness. Young Rosie's move to secondary school a few years ahead was going to be the testing time, Wield guessed. The old days of bully-boy tactics from above - Take the job or you're off to Traffic! - were, if not passed, at least passing. Others would be aware of this window too and poised to haul the lad up through it as soon as it was fully open. Of course they'd need to get King Dalziel's approval. 'Wieldy, you've been standing here so long, I'm amazed someone hasn't bought you.' 'You know me, Pete. Always find people more interesting than pictures.' Behind them, they heard an upraising of voices which seemed to emanate from the alcove in which the engraver had been displaying her craft. Then it was drowned by the more distant but to their sensitized ears more disturbing sound of sirens. 'The meat wagon?' said Pascoe. 'Yes. And our boys too,' said Wield. 'You switched on?' 'No. I'm off-call,' said the sergeant firmly. The too.' 'Sounds close, but.' 'Probably some poor old girl in the precinct's shopped till she dropped,' said Pascoe, knowing that Ellie, alert to the dangers signalled by police alarums, was watching him keenly for sign of any inclination to get involved. 'Excuse me,' said a broad Yorkshire voice behind him. 'Somebody said you were a copper, is that right?' He turned to see a lanky woman in a red smock and black tights, with a razored haircut that gave her a look of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3. He recognized her as Jude Illingworth, the engraver. 'Yes,' he admitted reluctantly. 'Is there something wrong?' 'Aye, is there. You expect it out of doors at a craft fair, mebbe, somewhere open to everybody. If it's not nailed down, it'll go. But at a posh do like this .. .'