Death's Jest-Book (16 page)

'There's that not as such again,
Wieldy,' reproved the Fat Man, sinking into a chair and taking his
glass from Novello.

He drank half of it like a
traveller in an antique land who hadn't seen liquid for many a hot
day, and said, Thanks, Ivor. Now what's the crack?'

Wield hesitated. He'd already
begun to suss there was something not quite right about this burglary
report. The youngster had escorted his girlfriend home after what had
been (if Wield read the signs right) a sexually and emotionally
successful holiday and had found her flat had been burgled.
Naturally, being a DC, the boy would have promised to kick-start a
thorough CID investigation. Which a phone call would have done.
Instead of which Bowler had turned up at the Bull and, what was even
odder, a couple of hours must have lapsed since the burglary.

There were other things too, and
Wield would have been happy to let the full story emerge at the DC's
own pace. But now the case was altered.

He said, 'DC Bowler was just
reporting a burglary to me, sir.'

'Ee, that's champion. On the job,
off the job, back on the job, all in the twinkle of an eye. That's
the stuff a good detective's made of. So, fill me in, lad.'

With all the enthusiasm of a
politician admitting a bribe, Hat began his story again.

Dalziel soon interrupted, picking
up points Wield had not yet commented upon.

'So nowt taken. She says. You
believe her?'

'Of course.' Indignantly. 'Why
should she lie?'

'Summat she was embarrassed by.
Sex aids. Pictures of her six illegitimate kids. Summat she didn't
care to tell a cop about. Bag of shit. Bundles of used notes she'd
got on the black and wasn't going to let on to the Revenue about.
Summat she didn't want her employers to hear about. Expensive books
she'd liberated from the reference library. Why should a woman lie
about anything, lad? Mebbe just because they've got a talent for it!
Am I right or am I right, Ivor?'

Shirley Novello said, 'You know I
think you're always right about everything, sir.'

Dalziel looked at her
suspiciously, then his face lit up and he exploded into laughter.

'There, young Bowler, see what I
mean! Fortunately us fellows have got a talent for sussing out lies,
or ought to have. So, I'll ask you again. You believe your lass?'

'Yes’ said Hat sullenly.

‘That your head or your
hormones speaking?'

'My head.'

'Grand. No sign of forced entry,
you say?'

'Couple of little scratches round
the lock, but nothing positive.'

'Never mind, we'll know for sure
when we take the lock to pieces.'

Hat looked even more unhappy, but
the Fat Man was in full spate.

'So, just this message on her
computer then. OK, what's it say?'

'Bye bye Lorelei.'

'Lorelei? What's that? Hang
about. Weren't Lorelei the name of someone in a film

'Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes.
Marilyn Monroe,' said Wield.

'You been checking on the
opposition, Wieldy? Lovely girl. Shame about yon fellow.'

Whether Dalziel's objection was
to baseball players, playwrights or Kennedys wasn't clear, nor about
to be made so as he pressed on. 'So what's its significance here?
Come on, lad. Don't tell me you've not got a theory. When I were your
age I had as many theories as I had erections, and I couldn't go
upstairs on a bus without getting an erection.'

Hat took a deep breath and said,
'Well, sir, Lorelei's a sort of water nymph in this German fairy
tale. There's this big rock or cliff on the Rhine, that's called the
Lorelei too, and she sits there singing, and it's so beautiful that
fishermen sailing by get distracted listening to her and run their
boats on the rock and drown.'

'Used to feel like that about
Doris Day’ said Dalziel. 'Sounds like one of them sirens.'

'They're Greek I think, sir’
said Wield.

'All in the
bloody European Union, aren't they?' said the Fat Man, his geniality
beginning to fade like morning dew. Airy-fairyness he could put up
with from his DCI when more down to earth approaches were looking
unproductive, but it wasn't something he encouraged in DCs making
preliminary reports about burglaries. 'So we're into a German fairy
tale now. Hope it's got a
happy ending, lad.'

Bowler, who was beginning to
learn that life with Dalziel meant having to put up with four
injustices before breakfast, pressed on manfully.

'I looked it up. Seems this
German poet, Heine, wrote a poem about this Lorelei

'Hold on. This yon Heinz that
Charley Penn's always going on about?' said Dalziel suspiciously.

'Heine, yes’ said Hat.

'I thought I heard you mention
Charley when I came into the room’ said Dalziel. 'I hope this
isn't leading where I think it's leading?'

It was time to get this out in
the open, thought Wield.

He said, 'Yes, sir, DC Bowler was
just telling me of three links he made putting Penn in the frame. The
message was one, the second was . . . remind me, Hat.'

'Because he hates Rye, and me’
said Bowler.

'Charley Penn hates every bugger’
said Dalziel. 'What makes you two so special?'

'Because we were both involved in
the death of his best friend, Dick Dee’ said Hat defiantly.
'I'm sure he doesn't believe Dee was the Wordman. And he reckons that
I killed Dee because I was jealous that he was getting it off with
Rye, and that the pair of us covered it up by fitting Dee up with
responsibility for the Wordman killings. And you all went along with
it because it meant you could tell the media you'd got the bastard’

Now Dalziel was right out of
Santa Claus mode.

'You reckon that's what Charley
thinks?' he said. 'He's not said it to me, but you'll know that,
seeing he's not walking round with his head shoved up his arse.
Wieldy?'

'He said some pretty way-out
things to start with,' admitted the sergeant. 'But since then I've
not heard him sounding off.'

'That could be because he thinks
it's pointless making a fuss and he's planning to do something,' said
Hat.

'Like breaking into your
girlfriend's flat?' said Dalziel. •Why?'

'Looking for something to support
his story, I suppose. Or maybe he thought he'd find her there and . .
.' Hat tailed off, not wanting to encourage them to follow him down
the alleys of his more lurid imaginings.

Then, seeing the scepticism on
their faces, he burst out, 'And he was round there a couple of days
ago, I'm ninety-nine per cent sure of it. I went and knocked at some
doors in Church View. And I got two witnesses, Mrs Gilpin who lives
on one side of Rye and Mrs Rogers on the other. They both saw a
strange man outside Rye's flat last Saturday morning, and the
description they gave fits Charley Penn to a T.'

This was stretching things a bit.
True, Mrs Gilpin, a voluble lady who had lived in the block long
enough to regard it as her personal fiefdom, had described a skulking
villainous creature who with only a little prompting had been shaped
into Penn. But Mrs Rogers, a younger but much more retiring woman,
had at first said that, having only just moved in, she didn't really
know which people she saw were residents, which visitors. At this
point Mrs Gilpin, who unbeknown to Hat had followed him to Mrs
Rogers' door, came in with a graphic description which the other
woman, perhaps in self-defence, admitted put her in mind of someone
she thought she might have seen perhaps on Saturday morning. Upon
which Hat, fearful that the sound of Mrs Gilpin's voice, which a
town-crier would not have been ashamed to own, might bring Rye to her
door, had swiftly brought the interviews to a conclusion.

Wield's face didn't show much,
but his words made it clear he was starting to feel annoyed.

'You're admitting that you
discovered a crime and, instead of ringing it in and getting a proper
investigation under way, you wasted time poking around, disturbing
the ground and probably making sure anything you did find will get
tagged as inadmissible in court?'

'No, Sarge. Well, yes, in a way.
But not really.'

'We'll be into not-as-such land
just now,' said Dalziel. 'I'm a fair man, young Bowler, and I'll not
see someone hanged without giving him a chance for an explanation, so
why don't you have a stab at one while I tie this knot?'

'The thing is, there isn't a
crime, sir. I mean, there's a crime, but there isn't a complaint.
Rye, Miss Pomona, says she doesn't want to pursue it.'

Now all was clear to Wield. The
love-sick lad's investigation had to be unofficial because officially
there was nothing to investigate. He'd come to the Bull in search of
a sympathetic ear, and while the sergeant felt faintly flattered that
he'd been the sympathetic ear that Hat had come in search of, he
wondered what it was the boy had expected him to do. Nothing,
possibly. Maybe the sympathy would have been enough.

Dalziel said, 'Well, God's jocks,
now I've heard it all. Wasting police time on a load of nowt

I'm still on sick leave, sir, so
it's my own time I'm wasting,' snapped Hat unwisely.

'I'm not talking about your
sodding time, which I agree isn't worth much,' grated Dalziel. 'I'm
talking about my time, which is worth millions, and the sergeant's
time, which is worth quite a lot. Tell me this, lad. You're quick
enough to spout accusations against Penn. You find something bad
about your girl, you going to be as quick letting us know?'

Hat did not answer.

'Right. Then sod off out of here
and next time I see you, bedtime 'ull be over and I'll not make
allowances.'

Hat, blank faced, only a certain
rigidity around the shoulders indicating any feeling, left, not
closing the door behind him because he didn't trust himself not to
slam it.

The Fat Man glowered after him
then redirected the glower at Shirley Novello.

'Let that be a lesson to you,
lass.'

'Yes, sir. What about, sir?'

'About the
price of tea, what d'you think? And while you're at it, what
do
you think?'

'I think being in love doesn't
necessarily make a man stupid, sir.'

'Aye, but it helps mebbe. You not
got any work to do, lass?'

'Yes. What about you?' was the
answer that orbited Novello's mind without getting anywhere near
escape velocity. She was also wondering, being the kind of cop who
could think of several things at the same time, whether she should
mention the broken vase containing the ashes of Pomona's twin
brother. Hat had mentioned this as he poured out the story to her,
and maybe her raised eyebrow reaction had kept it out of the version
he gave both Wield and Dalziel. Probably wise. She shuddered to think
what the Fat Man would have made of it. As for herself, the questions
to answer were, was it relevant? And was there any professional
advantage in revealing it?

Answer to both at the moment was,
not so far as she could see.

'Just going, sir,' she said. And
went.

'So, Wieldy, what do you make of
it?'

The sergeant shrugged, 'Owt or
nowt, sir.'

'Aye. Owt or nowt’ said
Dalziel thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have a word with Penn. You
watch Bowler, OK? I think the bugger's given me indigestion. I'd best
have another pint.'

Wield took the hint and stood up.
When he returned, the Fat Man was eating his pie.

'Glad to see that lunch with the
Chief hasn't spoilt your appetite, sir,' he said.

'Watch it! Sarcasm I'll take from
buggers with letters after their name, they can't help it. But
sergeants ought to talk as plain as they look.'

This looked like a cue, so Wield
told him about the Praesidium heist tip.

'Bit vague. No names? Times?
Details?'

'No, sir.'

'Source reliable?'

'Can't say, sir. This is a
first.'

'Aye, but in your judgment?'

Wield considered then said,
'Don't think they'd deliberately jerk me around, but that doesn't
mean they're not just trying to impress.'

'And how much did this excuse for
a tip-off cost us?' said Dalziel.

'Nothing. Down to civic duty.'

'Oh, aye? Don't see much of that
these days. Not getting yourself a fan club, are you, Wieldy?' said
Dalziel, shooting him that keen glance which was one of the few
missiles Wield did not feel his inscrutable features a complete
defence against.

'Just came up in casual
conversation,' he said.

'Bit too bloody casual for me.
Not till Friday, but? That gives you time to see if you can get a bit
of flesh on your new chum's bones then. By God, this pie's good. Jack
must've changed his barber. You not eating, Wieldy?'

'No, sir. Things to do. See you
back at the station.' He rose, intending to make a dash for the door,
when it opened and Pascoe came in.

'My God,' said Dalziel. 'What's
up wi' thee? You look like a hen that got shagged by an ostrich and
feels an egg coming on. And why aren't you in court?'

'Postponed till Wednesday.
Belchamber says his client's too ill to attend. Reckons he's got this
Kung Flu.' 'Kung arseholes! And the beak bought it?' 'Belchamber
produced a doctor's certificate. But give the beak his due, he said,
"All right, same time Wednesday, but take notice, Mr Belchamber.
If your client is still too ill to attend, we shall proceed in his
absence." Which got an unctuous reassurance and a little
apologetic glance in my direction. There's something about that
bastard ... I need a drink.'

'I'll have one with you. Man
shouldn't drink alone.' The Fat Man watched Pascoe go to the bar,
then said, 'Don't often see Pete letting someone rattle his cage, not
unless he's called Roote. What do you think, Wieldy? Yon
greaseball Belchamber up to summat?'

'Wouldn't know, sir.'

'Why not? He's one of yours,
isn't he?'