D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  'So she simply went into her flat’ said Novello, thinking there was no harm in underlining her innocence.

  'Aye. Let that be a lesson. Don't look for magic when the obvious is staring you in the face.'

  The Fat Man spoke without force, or at least not with a force aimed in her direction. He brought up the woman's image again (he was, noted Novello, despite his assertive Ludditism, a quick learner) and sent his mind back to his encounter with Charley Penn in Hal's. As he'd approached the writer's table, a woman approaching from the opposite direction had veered off. She had been unmemorable - except as a niggle which made the unremarkable face of Myra Rogers ring a very faint bell when he first met her. Man who didn't listen to bells could end up late at his own funeral, he told himself scornfully.

  Another thing popped into his mind, the dedication in the Hacker novel he'd bought - An Mai ~ wunderschon in alien Monaten! - and Penn's suspicious glance as he saw which book it was. Bugger must have thought I was on to him! Well, I am now, Charley!

  Novello picked up the CV print-out which Dalziel had dropped on to his desk and read it again. Then she said thoughtfully, 'Funny, though. This doesn't look like her kind of story at all, does it? It's the big political stuff she usually goes for, cock-ups in Cabinets, corruption in high places. Mid-Yorkshire CID might have got it wrong isn't exactly going to be syndicated round the world, is it? So why put in so much time and effort when there's not much in it for her, even if she does find out whatever there is to find out?'

  It was Dalziel's turn to shoot a suspicious glance but she met it boldly. She wasn't about to ask him direct what it was he didn't want anyone to find, but after a lot of deep thought she'd come to the conclusion there had to be something and she'd made a pretty good guess at what it might be. Being on Dalziel's team meant you often had to put up with being treated like a personal slave, but the upside of this was that his pride of possession was second to none, and if anyone tried to mess with one of his cubs, they found themselves messing with Daddy Bear too. Finding a wounded officer and dead suspect after a struggle, and being persuaded the suspect had it coming, Fat Andy wouldn't hesitate to tidy things up to remove any ambiguity about the killing. She'd now looked at every photo and read every bit of paper relating to the affair, and marvelled at how cleverly the selections offered to first the coroner then the Board of Enquiry had underlined the proper roles of the trio involved - Maiden in Distress, Noble Rescuer Sorely Wounded and Foul Fiend Slain With a Single Blow. Had a case ever come to court, then a good defence counsel would surely have picked up on this manicure job. But dead men didn't get tried.

  'So what do you think got Richter interested, clever clogs?' he growled.

  'Money? Penn must be worth a bob or two, all this telly stuff.'

  'She sound to you like someone who'll do owt just for the brass?'

  'Not really,' admitted Novello.

  'Look at her list of publications.'

  Besides her major investigative articles, there were several books listed on what seemed to be social or socio-literary topics. The title of one was translated as Heine's Apostasy: the German Choice.

  She said hesitantly, 'Isn't Penn doing a book about someone with a name like that?'

  Dalziel looked upon her with the approval he saved for those of his staff whose minds weren't cluttered up with all kinds of art-farty lit. crit. nonsense.

  'Aye. This Heinkel or whatever his name is. I'll lay odds they've met before and when Charley started getting these daft ideas in his head about digging up some dirt, he thought of Fraulein fucking Richter straight off!'

  'But it still doesn't explain’

  'Does if they'd had a roll in the hay first time they met,' said Dalziel. 'Nay, don't look surprised. I know he's no oil painting, but there's no accounting for taste, is there?'

  She looked at the huge bulk slumped before her, thought of Cap Marvell, and said, 'No, that's right, sir,' realizing too late she'd not slammed down the visor over her thoughts quickly enough.

  He gave her a promissory glare, then said, 'I reckon she'd spent the night at Charley's place, sorting out his irregular verbs, and he were dropping her off so she could become dear Myra, best mate, again.'

  She said, 'Looked as if they might have been having a bit of a row.'

  'Good. Mebbe she's decided there's nowt in it for her and is giving Charley his cards,' said Dalziel. 'Off you go, lass. Got no work to do?'

  She felt dumped. At the door she paused. Nothing like a Parthian shot, was there?

  She said, 'One thing, sir. How long has Rogers been living next door to Rye?'

  'At least since a week before Christmas. Why?'

  So, three weeks at least. And she'd stayed around over Christmas too. Either her passion for Charley Penn was very strong. Or she thought she was definitely on to something worth spending a lot of time on. She thought of saying this to see if she could get a flicker of unease into those relentless eyes. But was it worth the effort?

  She didn't know much about the Parthians but she had an impression that despite all their farewell shots, they'd never made the World Cup finals.

  'Just wondered, sir,' she said, heading for the door.

  'Don't forget your camera. Here, I didn't realize you knew Sol.'

  'Sol?' She turned, puzzled, then saw that the image now showing on the screen was the man in her flat with the nerve-tingling smile.

  'Aye. Sol Wiseman. Rabbi at the Progressive Synagogue on Millstone Road.'

  'Rabbi. A Jewish Rabbi?' said Novello, gobsmacked,

  'A lot of them are’ said Dalziel, eyeing her sharply. 'Known him long?'

  'No, not really .. . hardly at all... just trying out the camera.'

  She was thinking with horror of her next confession. 'Father, I've screwed a rabbi

  Dalziel grinned suddenly as if she'd spoken her fears out loud, unplugged the camera and handed it to her.

  Once more she headed for the door.

  As she opened it, his voice said, 'Another thing, Ivor. You keep this quiet. And I mean quiet. No exceptions, not even Father Joe. Right?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  She went out into the corridor and was shutting the door when, without looking up, he added, 'Nice work, lass. You did right well.'

  Suddenly things didn't seem so bad after all.

  Biting her lip to stop herself grinning like an idiot, Novello went on her way.

  Rye Pomona watched out of her window as Novello drove away.

  Her appointment was at nine thirty. At nine forty a grim-faced man came out of the consulting room.

  'Do we need another appointment, Mr Maciver?' asked the receptionist.

  'What for?' he snarled. And left. A great start.

  Chakravarty appeared in the doorway, casually dressed in a shirt so white it dazzled the eye and knife-edged cream-coloured slacks. All he needed was a bat to be opening in a test match. He ushered her in, full of apology and charm.

  Rye listened to him stony faced, then glanced at her watch and said, 'So let's not waste any more time.'

  He blinked as if a bouncer had just whistled past his nose and said, 'Of course. I have your records here. The tests are scheduled. But first let's see things from your point of view.'

  He was a good listener, and a good questioner, though after half an hour Rye felt slightly irritated that he seemed to be focusing less on what in her eyes was the most significant event of her medical history, the accident which had killed her brother and left her with her silver blaze, and more on the events out at Stang Tarn the previous autumn which had left Dick Dee dead.

  Suspecting his interest was merely prurient, she said dismissively, 'I don't see how this can be relevant. I only suffered a few minor injuries.'

  'So I observe, it must nevertheless have been a tremendous shock to your system. And it would seem your symptoms have appreciably worsened since that event.'

  'Aren't you jumping the gun?' said Rye. 'You're talking as if everything you've asked about or I've mentio
ned is part of a single syndrome. Surely until you've examined the results of all the necessary tests, this is mere hypothesis?'

  'I prefer to think of it as diagnosis,' he said with a quick flash of the charming smile. 'So far you've given me a history of severe headaches over many years increasing in frequency, occasional bouts of dizziness or disorientation also becoming more frequent, and mood swings if not violent enough to be called manic-depressive, certainly remarkable enough for you to feel they were worth a mention. These begin to form a pattern which may give a pointer to what I should be looking for in the test results.'

  'So why don't we get down to the tests?'

  He blinked again. Probably every blink means another hundred on his bill, thought Rye. Well, that's what the private patient paid for, the right to be ruder than the doctor.

  She'd come as clean as she could in answering his questions, stopping short of telling him about her conversations with Serge, of course, and not getting within screaming distance of her involvement in the Wordman killings. She had told him about her sense of responsibility for the accident that had caused Serge's death, though without admitting that she was indeed responsible. And she'd gone on to describe how, after her recovery, lines she knew by heart had vanished the moment she set foot on a stage, thus bringing to an end her hope of an acting career. She'd been worried in advance that baring so much of herself to an impersonal expert might tempt her to go the whole confessional hog and let everything spill out. But in fact she was finding that the process was causing a distancing between herself and the self who'd done those dreadful things, turning that other into the killer you read about in the paper or see being taken into court on the telly, then you close the paper or switch off the set, and though you may retain a residual impression of the monster for a while, it isn't strong enough to spoil your dinner or trouble your sleep.

  Only the sepulchral confinement of the brain scanner brought it all back to her, brought Sergius too, his flesh disintegrating as it strove to rid itself of all that fluff and dust, his eye accusing, as if all her efforts to contact him had only heaped purgatorial coals upon his spirit. As she rolled back into the by comparison cathedral vastness of the hospital room, she wondered how her turbulent mental activity had registered on the scan. Would it be possible for the expert eye to read a full confession in the message scrawled by all those electronic impulses on the wall of the brain?

  After the initial consultation and examination, Mr Chakravarty had vanished, presumably to see another lucrative private client, or maybe glance at a dozen or so National Health patients, while she spent the rest of the morning undergoing tests, some of which she understood, others of which were impenetrably arcane.

  Finished, she was told that she should present herself at the peacock throne again at four thirty, by which time Chakravarty, his busy schedule permitting, should have had time to make some preliminary assessments of the test results.

  She had no desire to go back to her flat. Hat was working today, but that didn't mean he wouldn't bunk off at some point to visit her at the library. There he would be met by the story she'd fed her colleagues, that she was taking the day off to do the January sales in Leeds. Being a cop, and knowing her attitude to sex and shopping was that they were fine except for the shopping, he might be a little more sceptical than her colleagues and head straight round to Church View. To head him off from doing something stupid like kicking her door down, she'd confided in Myra Rogers who'd promised to listen out for any visitors and confirm that she'd seen her friend set off, hopes high, in search of bargains first thing that morning. Worried that she'd be keeping Myra stuck in Church View, she'd been reassured that her bookkeeping work could for the most part be as easily done at home as in her clients' often cramped offices.

  It seemed a good idea too to avoid the chance of an accidental encounter in the town centre so when she got into her car, she drove out into the country. Whether directed by accident or by subconscious choice, she did not know, but she suddenly realized she was driving along the Little Bruton road, and there ahead was the tiny humpback bridge where she'd broken down and sat in despair till she saw the yellow AA van driving towards her like the answer to a prayer. Here it had all started, here the first of her victims had died - no, not a victim, not this one ... his death had been an accident ... an accident which she had interpreted as a sign .. .

  She stopped on the bridge. Time had stopped for her on that occasion and all those subsequent occasions when deaths had occurred which by no stretch of the imagination could be called accidental. She'd told Chakravarty something about these timeless episodes, not with any detail, of course, but just in an effort to convey her feeling of separation from the chronology of everyday life, her sense of otherness. Now she longed for the experience again . . . time slowing .. . stopping . .. only this time when the flow started again, perhaps instead of the AA man lying dead in the water, he'd be climbing into his van and driving merrily on his way . . .

  But nothing happened. She stood on the bridge and looked down over the shallow parapet. The stream flowed, and so did time. She got back into the car. The past was past and never changed. The dead were dead and the only way to see them again was to join them. Her eyes filled with blinding tears. She kept on driving, faster and faster, but when her eyes cleared, she was still alive, still bowling along this narrow bendy country road as if hands other than hers were turning the wheel.

  At four twenty-nine she was back in Chakravarty's office. At four thirty prompt he appeared. So she'd taught him one lesson. But when he didn't make any charmingly humorous reference to his good timekeeping, she guessed he was not the bearer of glad tidings.

  She said, 'Mr Chakravarty, before you begin, please understand there is no need to wrap things up. I require clear explanation. No jargon, no concealing technicalities and certainly no euphemism.'

  A blink.

  'Fine’ he said. 'Then I am sorry to tell you that you have a brain tumour. This is the cause of your recent headaches and of the convulsive episode you suffered at New Year.'

  He went on talking, smoothly, eloquently. She registered the drift - that he was advising immediate hospitalization and the commencement of a vigorous combination of radiotherapy and chemotherapy - and she got the message - that the tumour was inoperable and treatment likely to be merely palliative. But she wasn't really listening. Out on the Little Bruton road she had longed for a return of that sense of timelessness, and now she had it. She felt as if she could stand up and take her clothes off and dance on the consultant's desk then get dressed and resume her seat, and all the time he would go on talking, unaware that she had escaped from the dimension that he was trapped in. Or perhaps, being a wise and experienced doctor who had spent too much of his life looking into the human brain and the human psyche to be easily deceived, he knew very well that she had left him and was elsewhere and elsewhen, and was merely talking on and on to fill the time until she, as she must do, rejoined him in the cage.

  One thing she knew now for certain. She had to re-enter at the same point as she went out. There was no escape to the past.

  She sighed and stepped back into the middle of one of his well-balanced sentences.

  'How long will I live without treatment?'

  A blink. Not an indicator this time of an increase in his fee, she gauged, but perhaps a mental bookmark to remind his secretary to make sure Ms Pomona's bill was placed in her hands immediately.

  'At best months, but it could be much less. Tumours of this kind are very fast-growing and . . .'

  'With treatment, how long?'

  He looked at her, looked down, took a breath as if in preparation for a long speech, looked into her unblinking eyes again, and said, 'Longer.'

  'Much longer?'

  'Who knows?' he said. He sounded unhappy. Was it because of her future or his ignorance?

  'Long enough to ... do things.'

  'Like what?'

  'Like prepare yourself for ... I mean, it might n
ot happen ... so quickly, I mean . . . and there are things, practical and personal. . . nowadays there's a whole raft of strategies . . . it's possible to be ready . . .'

  Strange how her insistence on directness should in the end drive him to hesitant obliquities.

  'Ready for death?'

  He nodded.

  'Death?' she repeated, determined to make him say it.

  'Death,' he said.

  'OK. You haven't said anything about my old injury.'

  He looked bewildered, then relieved. He was being offered an escape route from her short future into her slightly longer past.

  He said, 'Well, I thought about it, of course, in terms of the whole range of symptoms you described. Indeed, I had a chat with a colleague of mine who specializes in neuropsychology and has produced a couple of highly regarded papers on various categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur as a long-term result of brain injury. Not that I was thinking of you in terms of serious psychiatric disorder, of course, but merely exploring the possibility that some of your physical symptoms might be explicable in terms of some minor affective disorder

  He was getting away from her again behind those defences of verbiage and syntax which must have done such sterling service for him over the years.

  Rye said, 'So what did he say, your colleague? Just the gist will do.'

  'Of course, yes. Though you realize this is not at all relevant to your current condition.'

  The tumour that has been giving me headaches and made me have a fit and is eventually going to kill me, you mean? Yes, I realize that, and I understand that once you knew about the tumour you would naturally lose interest in my old head injury. But seeing as you did include it initially in your hypothesis . . . sorry, diagnosis ... I might as well get full value for my money, mightn't I?'

  'Well, there is a wide range of categories of psychiatric disorder which can occur after a brain injury such as you clearly experienced when you were fifteen. I mentioned affective disorders, which include conditions like mania and depression, plus obsessive compulsive and panic anxiety disorders. Associated with these may be arousal and motivational disorders. Psychotic disorders may also present, and there can be an associated inclination to violence and aggression, but none of this really has any relevance to your condition, Miss Pomona