Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  225 'Is your errand avian, amoristic or authoritarian?' said Dee. 'Sorry?' said Hat. Penn was grinning at him. Hat felt, unusually for one not natur ally violent, like wiping his clock. 'Do you require information about birds? Or do you wish to ask after Rye? Or have you come to quiz us about the latest Dialogue?' Hat forgot about Penn and said, he hoped neutrally, 'What do you mean by that, Mr Dee?' 'I'm sorry,' said Dee. 'Is it confidential? Of course it is. Forget I spoke. It was crass of me, and certainly not a subject to be flippant about.' The apology came across as sincere rather than an empty for mality. 'Mr Dee, I'm not saying there has been another, but if there was, I'd like to know what you know about it,' insisted Hat. 'All I know is what all the library staff know, that a suspicious envelope was found this morning and handed over to the police and as it hasn't been returned since - though of course that too might be the purpose of your visit - then it seems likely it con tained matter of interest to you. But please, forget and forgive my curiosity. I have no desire to embarrass you professionally.' 'Doesn't bother me, though,' said Penn in his grating voice. 'My guess 'ud be that you've heard from yon loony again and it's something to do with Samjohnson. Right?' 'That just a lucky guess, Mr Penn?' said Hat. His gaze engaged the writer's and locked for a while, then fell. Never get into a fight it's not worth winning. He found himself looking down at the Paronomania board. It was the same star shape as the one he'd seen in Penn's flat, but the designs on it were different. These seemed to have been taken from an old map, with wind-puffing cherubs, spouting whales, towering ice-cliffs, disporting mermaids. The game was well advanced with numerous tiles laid out, going in all directions, but none of the letter combin ations made any sense to Hat. And there were three tile racks in use, one before each of the two facing players, the third between them. Only two can play, he recalled Rye telling him. Why should she lie? Unless she was the third player, involved in some weird menage a trois with these two? It was a thought as disgusting as silverfish in a salad bowl, but before he rinsed it from his mind, he found himself looking to see if there were anywhere Rye could have retreated to at his approach. There wasn't. There wasn't even a window to climb out of. Jesus, Bowler! What kind of nutty creep are you turning into? he asked himself angrily. Charley Penn was answering his spoken question. 'Not lucky, by any standards, and hardly a guess, Constable. First thing we all thought when we heard about poor Sam yesterday was, it has to be this Wordman. Then folk started whispering suicide. Well, it seemed possible. Too much Beddoes could drive anyone down that road. But the more I thought, the less likely it seemed. I'd not known him long, but I'd have put him stronger than that. I'm right, aren't I? If this envelope Dick mentioned does contain another Dialogue, it has to be about Sam Johnson, right?' 'No comment,' said Hat. 'Mr Dee, is Rye here?' 'Sorry, you're out of luck,' said Dee. 'She's got a touch of this flu-bug that's around. She looked so ill yesterday, I sent her home and told her not to come back till she was better and our readers were safe.' 'Right. Thank you.' As he turned away, Dee said, 'Would you like her phone number? I'm sure she would be comforted to know you were asking after her.' This was kind, thought Hat, recalling that not so long back, the librarian had felt unable to pass Rye's number on. She must have said something to suggest their relationship had taken a step forward. Before he could respond, Penn sneered, 'Not got her number yet, lad? You're not making much progress, are you?' Hat resisted the urge to reply that he'd made a lot more progress than some geriatrics not a million miles away and she'd given him her number unasked. Instead he took out his notebook, said, 'That would be kind, Mr Dee. I seem to have mislaid my pen. May I borrow a pencil?' He stepped forward to the desk, picked up a pencil, and stood with it poised.

  227 From this angle he could see the tiles in the third rack. There were six of them. JOHNNY. Dee, with a faintly conspiratorial smile as if he recognized a charade when he saw one, gave him the number. Carefully Hat wrote down Johnny. 'Thank you, Mr Dee,' he said. 'I'll certainly be enquiring after Rye's health. Good day.' He left without looking at Penn. He could see, though he rather resented being able to, why Rye got so defensive of Dick Dee. There was something almost naively amiable about the man. However, any slight revision of his feeling towards the librarian was more than balanced by the steady augmentation of his antipathy for the novelist. Puffed-up prick! And he found himself imagining how nice it would be to prove that Penn was the Wordman and have the fingering of his collar. Such feelings were dangerous, he admonished himself sternly. Having got back to something like an even keel with the super, it would be foolish to risk rocking the boat by letting personal dislike cloud his judgment. As he left the library he took out his mobile, intending to dial Rye's number, but before he could start, it rang. 'Bowler,' he said. 'Pascoe. Where are you?' 'Just leaving the library, guv.' 'You get anything?' 'Not really.' 'You've been there a long time for nothing,' said Pascoe accus ingly. 'You've not been in the Reference chatting up that girl again?' 'No, sir,' said Hat indignantly. 'She's off sick.' 'Oh yes? And how do you know that? Never mind. Listen, some one's ringing wanting to speak to you urgently. Name ofAngie. I wondered, is she some snout you haven't bothered to register? Or just one of your other conquests that you've got into trouble?' Angie? For a moment his mind was blank, then he remembered. Jax Ripley's sister. 'No, sir. But it's personal.' 'Is that so? Wasn't that sister we met at Ripley's funeral called Angie?' 'Yes, sir,' said Bowler, thinking shit! 'I told her if ever she wanted to chat about Jax, just to give me a ring.' 'Maybe you should have been a social worker,' said Pascoe. 'But if she says anything you feel might be relevant to the case, you won't forget you're drawing your pay as a cop, will you? Back here soon as you can, OK?' 'Yes, sir,' said Bowler. He switched off thinking Pascoe sounded in an untypically sour mood. He thumbed through his wallet till he found the piece of paper he'd scribbled Mrs Ripley's phone number on. Angie answered on the first ring. 'Look,' she said, 'I've got to head back to the States at the weekend and I just wanted to check what you've done with that stuff I gave you.' 'I'm still working on it,' he prevaricated. 'It's a delicate business ...' 'The bastard who stuck a knife in my sister wasn't being delicate,' she snapped. 'This Georgie Porgie guy, is he being questioned?' 'Well, no ... I mean, we don't know who he is for sure, do we?' 'How many cops have you got that fit that description?' 'More than you'd think,' said Hat. 'Believe me, Angie, if there's anything here that helps us find Jax's killer, I'll leave no stone unturned.' He spoke with all the vibrant sincerity he could put into his voice but she still sounded less than persuaded as she replied, 'Well, OK. You'll get in touch? I'm relying on you, Hat.' 'You can do. Take care,' he said and switched off. He stood outside the Centre, trying to work up a head of indignation because there was nothing he could do except help deprive a middle-aged detective of his dignity and perhaps even his pension, but all he felt was a rat. He felt a strong need to talk to Rye about the affair again, but not on the phone. Anyway, it didn't seem such a good idea to ring her any more. If, as seemed likely, she was deep beneath the bedclothes feeling lousy, she wasn't going to be very well disposed to the idiot who got her out to ask how she was. Better to go

  229 round later with a bunch of grapes and a box of chocolates. That way if he got her out of bed .. . He had a sudden vision of the door opening and Rye standing there, all bed-tousled in a loosely tied robe which permitted tantalizing glimpses of firm round flesh, like sun-warmed fruit seen through shifting leaves ... A yearning groan slipped through his lips and an old bag-lady passing by looked at him anxiously and said, 'Are you feeling all right, son?' 'I hope so,' he said. 'Just hunger pangs, ma. But thanks for your concern.' And dropping a handful of change into her nearest bag, he walked briskly on. Chapter Twenty-six

  Pascoe was indeed in a sour mood. Wield had contacted Sheffield as requested and got the bare bones of the dead student business. 'Seems this lad wasn't doing too well. Johnson was his main tutor and it fell to him to warn the boy that if his work didn't improve, he was out. There was a vital piece of work, some kin
d of dissertation, due in early in the summer term but the lad didn't show up with it and a couple of days later he was found dead in his room. Drug overdose. No suicide note. In fact his dissertation papers were all over the floor and it looked like he'd been trying to keep himself sharp in order to get the thing finished and he'd overdone it. The inquest jury brought in accident. But Johnson seemed convinced it was suicide and took it very personally, so much so he wanted a change of scene at any price, and in the end, got a special dispensation to take up this job at MYU even though he couldn't give the required amount of notice.' 'And that's it?' said Pascoe. 'No mention ofRoote?' 'They didn't mention him and I wasn't going to, was I?' 'You could have dug a bit deeper,' suggested Pascoe ungraciously. 'Still could.' 'Look, Pete, I got what they had to give me. This was supposed to be about possible state of mind in a possible suicide case, right? That was just about plausible. But now we know that Johnson's death was definitely a Wordman killing, state of mind doesn't come into it. If you find something to tie Roote into all these killings, the super will give you a medal. But you've got to keep an open mind. No joy at the hospital either. If they lost any Midazolam, they've covered it up and are keeping it covered. So my advice is, forget Sheffield.' There had risen to Pascoe's lips a sharp reproof based on

  2JI their difference of rank but fortunately he had caught it before it slipped out. Wield's friendship was important to him and he knew how punctilious the sergeant was never to overstep police hier archical lines in public. His part of this unspoken accord must be never to insist upon them in private, else something would go forever. But his mood stayed sour and when Bowler returned, he said, 'Get your private business with Ripley's sister sorted, then?' Yes, sir. She was just ringing to tell me she had to get back to the States at the weekend and wanted to say goodbye.' 'You must have made a strong impression on her, considering you'd never met till the funeral,' said Pascoe. 'It was just me knowing Jax so ... quite well,' emended Hat, thinking, Jesus, this is just confirming all their suspicions that I was Deep-throat. Perhaps it was time to speak. The door opened and George Headingley came in. He was looking a lot more at ease than he'd done for some time. With just a few more days to do, he's beginning to think there's a light at the end of the tunnel, that he's got away with it after all, thought Hat. Well, he may get a shock yet! But observing those naturally jovial features starting to regain something of their old colour and form, he knew he couldn't be the one to pull the plug. 'I've been thinking about these Dialogues,' said Headingley. 'Kind of you to take the time, George,' said Pascoe on whose crowded desk had spilled most of the extra work caused by the DI's absence, whether bodily or mental. 'And?' 'They keep turning up at the library even now the story comp's finished. Could be not even the first one was really among the stories sent to the Gazette. Maybe they always got put into the bag after it arrived at the library, by someone who works there or uses the place a lot. I mean, what better place to find a Wordman?' A sound like the crack of canvas in a typhoon made them all turn to the door where Dalziel stood applauding. 'Bravo, George. Glad to see you're not sending your mind into retirement ahead of your body. Let that be a lesson to you, lad ...' (addressing Hat)'... good detective never takes time off, it's either in the blood or it's nowhere.' It wasn't altogether clear to Hat whether there was an element of satire in this or not, but as the others seemed to be taking it at face value, he nodded and tried to look grateful. 'So, George, all set for the big send-off? Next Tuesday, isn't it? With a bit of luck we'll see to it that you spend the first twenty-four hours of your retirement unconscious!' 'No change there then,' muttered Pascoe as Headingley, looking a little flushed at all this attention, left the room. 'Now then, Chief Inspector,' said Dalziel sternly. 'Who's been rattling thy cage? Lot of sense in what George said. Wordman, library, the two things go together.' 'Like needle and haystack,' said Pascoe. 'Your boy, Roote, must use libraries a lot,' said Dalziel. 'More the university than the Centre,' said Pascoe with reluctant honesty. 'Same difference,' said the Fat Man, 'Man likes to be whipped, you don't worry which knocking shop. Charley Penn's another, never away, so I hear. From libraries, I mean. Then there's the staff. Mebbe we should take a closer look at them. Could be a cushy job there for you, young Bowler. Fancy taking a closer look at the staff, do you?' The Fat Man smacked his lips salaciously and Hat felt himself flushing, out of both embarrassment and anger. 'All right, lad?' said Dalziel. 'You're looking a bit fevered. Not getting this flu-bug, I hope.' 'I'm fine, sir,' said Hat. 'You were saying about the library staff ,.. anyone in particular?' 'Aye, yon Follows. Man who spends so much time crimping his hair must have something wrong with him. Check the Offenders' List. Then there's yon guy Dee. His name rings a bell.' 'Perhaps you're thinking of that Dr Dee who got done for necromancy,' said Pascoe. 'Very like,' said Dalziel. 'Check him out too, Bowler, see if there's a connection. And if you can manage deep thought and mashing tea at the same time, I'd love a cup.' 'Sir ...' said Hat hesitantly. He looked at each of the trio of faces in turn. Curiously it was Wield's, normally the most unreadable, which by some slight

  133 contraction of the left eyebrow confirmed that he was being sent up. Which felt much the same as being put down. If a riposte that was smart as well as being angry had risen to his lips, he would probably have uttered it. But to exit on, 'I'm not your bloody tea-boy, fatso. Make your own!' didn't seem wise, so he muttered, 'I'll get right on to it,' and went out. 'Hat.' He turned. Wield had followed him. 'Just because they're taking the piss doesn't mean they don't take you seriously.' 'No, Sarge.' 'And just because you're pissed doesn't mean you shouldn't take them seriously either.' 'No, Sarge,' he repeated, feeling for some reason slightly cheered up.

  There were several Follows in the computer, but none called Percy and none bearing any resemblance to the librarian. A few Dees, but no Richard, no librarian. And no doctor either. That had been a Pascoe crack, which meant it was likely to be what Dalziel would call arty-farty clever. Worth finding out what it meant just to show that the DCI wasn't the only one here who'd got past his 0levels. But first things first. It was time to impress the Fat Man with his tea-making abilities.

  By the time he left work that evening, Hat had fully recovered his normal cheerful spirits and persuaded himself that on the whole the signs were good. In the first months after his arrival, as his star rapidly sank, he had watched rather enviously as that ' of Detective Constable Shirley Novello steadily rose. But part of that rising he seemed to recollect had involved a deal of fetching | and carrying and gentle mockery, so why should he now resentis treatment which, doled out to her, he had once envied? | Plus he was going to see Rye and that was a prospect that ;ij automatically raised his spirits. It's not often in this existence that a man's fantasies move, precise in every detail, out of his mind's eye into plain view, and the shock is often counterproductive. So it was when the door of Rye's flat opened to reveal her standing before him in a loosely tied robe through whose interstices shone tracts of smooth flesh, both soft and firm, and all as richly golden as barley ripe for harvest. He stood there, motionless and speechless, more like a man confronted by Medusa than his heart's desire, till she said, 'Do words come out of your mouth or does it just hang open to give the flies somewhere to shelter from the rain?' 'Sorry ... I just didn't... they said you were ill and I thought ... I'm sorry to have got you out of bed ...' 'You haven't. I'm feeling a bit better and I'd just got up to have a shower, which I thought a man in your line of business might have worked out for himself.' She pulled the towelling robe firmly shut as she spoke, and now he raised his eyes he saw that her hair was dripping water down her face. Sodden wet, the rich brown had darkened almost to blackness against which the streak of silvery grey shone as if composed of electric filaments. 'Those for me or are they evidence in your latest big case?' He'd forgotten he was holding a bunch of carnations in one hand and a box of Belgian chocolates in the other. 'Sorry, yes. Here.' He proffered them but she didn't take them, only grinned and said, 'If you think you're getting
me to leave go of this robe, you're sadly mistaken. Come in and put them down somewhere while I get myself decent.' 'Hey, don't let decent trouble you,' Hat called after her as she went out of sight. 'I'm a cop. We're trained to cope with anything.' He set his gifts on a coffee table and looked around the room. It wasn't large, but it was so neat and uncluttered that it felt more spacious than it was. Two small armchairs, a well-ordered bookcase, a standard lamp, and the coffee table, that was it. He went to the bookcase. You could find out a lot about people from their books, or so he'd read somewhere. But only if you knew a lot about books in the first place, which he didn't. One thing he could see was that there were a lot of plays here, reminding him that Rye came from a theatrical family. He

  ^5 plucked out a complete Shakespeare and opened it at the flyleaf. There was a date, i.'j.<) i, and an inscription, To Raina, Happy fifteenth to the Queen from the Clown Prince, with love from Serge xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Fifteen kisses. Was that a pang of jealousy he felt? Of someone he didn't know who could be any age giving a prezzie to Rye years ago when she was still a child? You'd better watch it, my boy, he admonished himself. As he'd worked out before, any sign of his interest becoming obsessively possessive was going to be a real turn-off to Rye. 'Improving yourself?' she said behind him. He turned. She'd put on a T-shirt and jeans and was still towelling her hair. He said, To Raina. I'd forgotten your full name.' 'Rye-eena,' she corrected his pronunciation. 'Otherwise I'd be called Ray.' 'Rye's better.' 'Whisky rather than sunshine?' 'Loaves rather than fishes,' he said with a grin. She considered this then nodded approvingly. 'Not bad for a plod,' she said. 'Thank you kindly. Where's it come from anyway, you never told me.' 'I don't recall you asking. It's a play.' 'Shakespeare?' he said, hefting the anthology. 'Next along,' she said. She went to the bookshelf and plucked out a volume. He replaced the Shakespeare and took it from her hands. 'Arms and the Man by G. B. Shaw,' he read. 'You know Shaw?' 'Nicked his brother once. GBH Shaw,' he said. 'Sorry.' 'Police-type joke. Funny title. Why'd he call it that?' 'Because he lived in an age when he could assume that most of his audience wouldn't need to ask why he called it that.' 'Ah. And that was because ... ?' 'Because a classical education was still regarded as the pedagogic summum bonum by the moneyed classes. And if you hadn't read at least the first line of Virgil's Aeneid, you'd clearly wasted your