Dialogues of the Dead (23 page)

189 Chapter Twenty-one

'So what are you going to do about it?' asked Rye. 'If I knew that I wouldn't be sitting here spoiling your coffee break,' said Hat. He should have gone to Dalziel straightaway, or Pascoe at least, or even Wield. Off-loaded his suspicions, let them earn the extra money they got for being in positions of authority and responsibility. In fact he wouldn't even have needed to point the finger himself, merely handed over the copies of Jax Ripley's email which her sister had given him and let them draw their own conclusions. Instead he'd gone back to the station, found that George Headingley was still off sick, and persuaded himself that it could do no harm to sleep on it. It hadn't done any good either. The first person he'd seen when he entered the CID office the following morning was Headingley. He was a very different man from the relaxed, rather genial figure who'd been navigating his way serenely into the imminent harbour of retirement, and unrecognizable as the sexual athlete described in the e-mails. Jax had told her sister that she first detected her GP's interest at a media briefing when she'd caught him eyeing her, not with the calculation of a sexual predator but with the yearning of a small boy outside a sweet shop whose only calculation is that he can't afford to go in. She'd stayed behind and when he asked, 'And what can I do for you, Miss Ripley? Something you want to chew over?' she'd replied, 'Yes, as a matter of fact. I was wondering about chewing over your dick and my pussy,' and watched his face turn such a vein-bulging puce that she feared their relationship might be about to end before it had begun. But these symptoms, she soon discovered to her amusement and also to her pleasure, were merely the facial expression of a sexual arousal which turned the whole of his body into an erogenous zone. Now his portly figure seemed to have collapsed in on itself, his clothes hung baggily on his sagging frame and he looked a good ten years older than before. It was easy to trace the earth-slide of emotions which had been carrying him along for the past ten days. First the shock ofRipley's TV revelations and the fear that his own involvement might soon come out. Then her death, a second shock, accompanied by an initial great surge of relief followed almost immediately by a still greater surge of self-disgust that he could find comfort in the death of someone he'd been so intimate with. After that he'd headed for home, to the security of the undemanding domestic comfort which he probably expected to be ripped from him at any moment. It must have seemed impossible that the close and detailed investigation ofjax's affairs following her murder plus Dalziel's natural desire to find out who'd been leaking CID secrets to her, wouldn't rapidly bring the Fat Man to his door. And then everything would go. Pension ... marriage . .. reputation . .. character . .. the rest of his life as he had planned it... And now with Jax Ripley buried, he was perhaps beginning to allow himself to hope that, despite his sins, all manner of things could still be well. At the very least it must have seemed better to come into work and check for himself what was going on. He'd greeted Hat like a prodigal son and then questioned him about the course of the investigation in a manner which was both probing and hesitant, like a man who fears he may have cancer but does not dare ask his doctor direct. In the end, Hat had pleaded an urgent appointment and left the office. He had to talk to someone and almost without conscious decision he found himself ringing the library number. At first Rye had sounded rushed and faintly irritated, and, fearful she might be about to ring off, he said, 'Sorry to trouble you, but you did say you would like to be kept in the picture about the Wordman.' 'The Wordman? Has he . .. ? You mean .. . ? Look, if you fancy a coffee, I'll take my break early at Hal's.' Which was where they were now, at the same balcony table as before. News of the Fourth Dialogue hadn't been made public yet, but it couldn't be long before it was. At least so Hat assured himself

191 as he heard himself whispering the details to Rye. Her interest and the fact that whispering meant they had to have their heads very close together made the risk of Dalziel's wrath if he ever found out seem almost inconsequential. Rye prodded him with questions then when she'd finally got all she wanted, she put her hand over his, squeezed, and said, 'Thanks.' 'For what?' 'For trusting me.' 'No problem,' he said. 'In fact, if you can spare a couple of minutes more, there's something else I'd like to trust you with.' He'd explained his dilemma without any exordium of confiden tiality. She'd listened without interruption, asked if she could see the e-mails, read them, raised her eyebrows at, presumably, the raunchier parts, then asked her question, 'So what are you going to do about it?' And in reply to his answer she smiled and said, 'I wouldn't have come if I'd thought you were going to spoil anything. Look, I don't want to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but isn't your first priority to check if he could have done it?' 'Sorry?' 'Killed Jax Ripley to shut her up. Isn't that why her sister came to you with this in the first place?' She sat back and observed his expression then said, 'Ah, I get it. You've automatically discarded that possibility. This colleague of yours might be an adulterous untrustworthy snake, but being a cop means he couldn't possibly be a killer.' 'Now hold on, I know him, you don't. Honestly, there's no way...' 'There's no way,' she mimicked. 'Should have thought you heard that all the time from wives, mothers, fathers, brothers, husbands, friends.' 'Yeah, but...' He paused, collected his thoughts, then resumed, 'OK, you're right. I still think there's no way the DI could be involved in her death - no, wait, not just because I know him, but because there definitely isn't any way he's the Wordman and that's who killed Jax. OK, you're probably going to say he's seen the Dialogues and he could have faked one, but the next one refers back to the Ripley murder and surely you're not going to say he killed Councillor Steel as well?' Rye, who had been eating a buttery croissant, swallowed and said, 'A girl could get fat talking to you. I mean, I don't need to open my mouth except to put food in, with you telling me all the time what I'm going or not going to say.' 'Sorry,' he said. 'But you see what I mean.' 'Maybe. All right, it doesn't seem very likely, though Steel was in cahoots with Ripley, wasn't he? And maybe your DI thought Jax had let him in on their little secret. But it doesn't matter. What I'm saying is you need to get that possibility entirely out of the way so that all you're left with is the big decision, do you drop this guy in it or not? He's not a friend, is he?' 'No way.' 'And he didn't mind letting that Yorkshire yeti you call your boss go on thinking you were the departmental leak, did he?' 'I don't know if he knew about that,' said Hat. 'There you go, defensive again. Why do you give a toss what happens to this guy? He's cheated on his wife and he's cheated on his colleagues. Sounds like just the sort of scumbag who ought to get his comeuppance.' She looked at him challengingly. He shook his head and said, 'No, he's not a scumbag. He's been in the job for thirty years and by all accounts he's been a good cop. Fat Andy would have seen him down the road a long time back if he hadn't been that. So he's coming to the end of his career and probably wondering what it was all about when this good-looking bird half his age makes herself available . ..' 'Her fault then?' 'No one's fault, but you read the e-mail. Mid-life crisis, lastchance saloon, call it what you like, but he was a sitting duck. As for the stuff he seems to have told her, well, it wasn't exactly earth-shaking stuff...' 'It shook Jax Ripley into the earth.' 'She took a risk. And she really egged the mix! All we had then were two doubtful deaths and she made it sound like Hannibal the Cannibal was roaming the streets! Not his fault, though I reckon he blames himself. Anyway, one life gone. Is it worth another, I ask myself.' 'And how do you answer yourself?' He grinned at her and said, 'Well, you'll be pleased to hear

m I'm going to take some excellent advice I just received. I'll check out his alibi for the night ofjax's death and once I've got that sorted, then I'll make up my mind.' She grinned back and said, 'You know, we might make some thing of you yet. Is that it? Because I'm running on library time already.' 'Tell them you were dealing with a ratepayer's research prob lem. That should ease your conscience. And to ease mine, a little bit of official business - when you were waiting to be interviewed by Sergeant Wield in the gallery, did you chat with anybody?' 'I expect so. There wasn't a rule of silence, was there? Why are you asking?' 'Well, it was just that when you went back to the library for your things, you didn't specify anyone you saw, and I wondered if you mentioned that's where you'd gone to anyone else while you were waiting.' She was lightning quick. 'So they could give themselves some kind of alibi by mentioning they'd seen me, you mean?' 'That kind of thing.' And now she was angry and he could see all his good approach work going for nothing. 'Is this about Dick? It is, isn't it?' 'No,' he protested. 'OK, he did say he saw you and you didn't say you saw him . ..' 'And that means he's lying? That he wasn't there when I was because he was in the lavatory killing Councillor Steel? For God's sake, when you lot take against someone, you really go all the way, don't you? No wonder the jails seem to be fall of innocent people fitted up by the fuzz!' She stood up, knocking her coffee mug over, and he jumped up to avoid the flood. He said quickly, 'Right idea, wrong guy. It's that novelist fellow, Penn, I'm curious about. He mentions seeing both you and Dee. Neither of you mention him.' He watched as the anger drained from her face and thought, but had the wisdom not to say, that it was fascinating the way her indignation at a possible encroachment on civil liberties didn't extend to include Charley Penn. 'No,' she said slowly, 'I definitely didn't notice him. And yes, when I chatted to Dick while we were waiting to make our statements Penn was hanging around like he usually does. But you're not really suggesting ...' 'I'm not suggesting anything,' he said. 'But we've got to cover every angle and we are looking for someone highly educated with a devious mind who gets a kick out of playing around with words.' 'Then maybe you should be raiding all the senior common rooms in the county,' she said, but without heat. 'Look, I've got to go or Dick will kill me ... sorry, I mean ... oh shit, I'm getting as neurotic as you. I'll see you on Sunday.' 'Yeah, sure. Listen, maybe we could meet up before that, do a movie or something ...' 'From what I've seen of your job a girl would be crazy to arrange to meet you anywhere but in her own warm flat,' she replied. 'You can give me a ring when you're definitely and unrecallably free. See you.' He watched her walk away, lovely carriage, head held high, with just a touch of sinuosity around the waist producing the merest hint of a sway of the buttocks. Oh, you're the girl for me, he told himself as she passed out of sight. He turned to lean over the balustrade, feeling able at will to share the warm joy flooding through his body with all the hurrying people in the shopping centre below. And found himself looking straight into the accusing eyes of Peter Pascoe, standing among the shoppers, peering up at the balcony, with his right hand pressing his mobile phone to his ear and his left waving an angry summons to descend.

W Chapter Twenty-two

Ripeness is all, as every spin doctor knows, and what the seer beholds is usually what the beholder is ready to see. In fact Peter Pascoe's gaze was relieved not accusing, and his summons was imperative rather than angry. He'd been on his way to the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre when the phone rang and it had been the voice he heard that had stopped him in his tracks. 'Roote? How the hell did you get this number?' 'I don't really recall, Chief Inspector. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I didn't know who else to try. I mean, I could have rung 999 but by the time I explained, especially as I'm not sure what I'm explaining . .. but I thought you would know what to do for the best.' He sounded uncharacteristically agitated. In all their acquaintance, even at moments of great crisis, Pascoe could never recall the man being anything but controlled. 'What are you talking about?' he demanded. 'It's Sam. Dr Johnson. I went round to his room in the Uni yesterday after the funeral to pick up a book he'd promised to lend me, but he wasn't there. I thought he'd just forgotten. I tried again later, but still no sign. So I rang his flat last night but didn't get any reply. I've just been up to his room again during my morning break and it's still locked and there were some students hanging around, waiting for a seminar, and they said he had missed a lecture yesterday too, so I tried ringing his flat again, but still no reply. So now I was really worried and thought I ought to tell someone in authority, and I thought you would be best as you're a friend, of his I mean, and would know what to do.' 'Where are you now?' asked Pascoe. 'At the university. English Department.' Pascoe's mind was racing. He knew it was stupid, but around Roote, he never felt fully in control. He tried to see the angle here but couldn't. But it was at this point he saw Bowler. 'Stay there. I'll come round,' he ordered as he waved at the DC. Hat hurried down, rehearsing his explanation for being discovered lounging on the balcony at Hal's like a gentleman of leisure taking his ease in the middle of the morning. 'You got your car here?' said Pascoe. 'Yes, in the multi.' 'Good. You can give me a lift. I walked from the station.' 'And you want a lift back?' said Hat. 'No. To the university. It will save me a bit of time.' It was a weak excuse, but he didn't feel like explaining he preferred to have a witness in any encounter arranged by Roote. They didn't talk as they strode to the car park. 'Oh God,' said Pascoe. 'I'd forgotten the MG.' Bowler's ancient two-seater lay between a Discovery and a Jeep like a whippet between a pair of St Bernards. 'Takes you back, does it, sir?' said Bowler proudly. 'Back is not so far that I need to be taken there,' said Pascoe acidly, slipping with what he hoped was athletic ease into the passenger seat. 'Don't give many lifts to the super, I presume.' 'No, sir. Don't have the insurance,' laughed Bowler. 'Any particular reason we're going to the Uni?' Pascoe explained, making light ofjohnson's alleged disappearance with the anticipatable result that the DC was even more puzzled than he might have been. 'So why the rush, sir? Most likely this Johnson guy's taken a long weekend. I mean, when I was a student, it sometimes seemed like you had more chance of getting hold of Madonna than getting hold of your tutor. Is it Roote ringing you that makes the difference?'