Dialogues of the Dead (27 page)

223 go swarming round to that library you're so fond of, so why don't you go there officially and don't come back till you've found out how and when this envelope was delivered, right? Even if it means stamping some of them dozy buggers overdue.' 'Yes, sir. I'm on my way.' He vanished. Dalziel said, 'Nice to see someone so happy when I give 'em a job. Let's see if I can't do the same for you two miserable sods!'

Hat was indeed happy to have an excuse to visit the library. He'd thought of ringing Rye last night but decided it would be a wrong move. Progress was steady but a wise strategist knew when to press, when to hold back. That was the way the Jack-the-lad part of him analysed the situation. But there was another more shadowy area of thought and feeling which acknowledged that the more he saw of Rye, the more important it became to keep on seeing her. This wasn't just another skirmish in that unremitting sexual campaign which all Jack-the-lad young men enter upon at puberty - approach, lay siege, negotiate terms, occupy, move on. This was .. . well, he didn't quite know what it was because he belonged to a generation conditioned to mock the idioms of romantic love, and what we don't have words for, we find it hard to think about. But he knew that to lose her by crowding her would be a folly he'd never forgive himself for. But now, with new secret information to share, he anticipated being made very welcome. Jesuitically, he had worked out that the decision to go public about the existence of the two latest Dialogues permitted him to use his own best judgment about who he passed on the details to. And of course he'd swear her to secrecy. This too was a kind of intimacy, the Jack-the-lad strategist pointed out gleefully; and each such move was a move in the right direction. Which was, of course, bed. But more than bed. Breakfast and beyond. Even the bed bit was different. He'd always looked forward to sex with a healthy young appetite, but never before like this, for imagining it with Rye Pomona made the marrow bubble along his bones and pushed him into a languorous swoon which almost made him drive up the exit lane of the Centre car park. Retreating under a chorus of protesting horns conducted by a flurry of abusive fingers, he found the correct entrance, parked and made his way to the main library. With the image of a roused Dalziel fresh in his mind, his investigation was painstakingly thorough to a degree which brought the two women and one man involved to a state of mutiny. But by dint of forcing them to recall which of the reserved books had been collected earlier in the week, he managed to establish that the weight of probability lay on the side of the envelope not having been there on Monday morning. Tuesday, which was yesterday, the day that Johnson's body had been found, was less certain. And today, Wednesday, it had of course been found. Satisfied he could get no more out of them, he left and headed upstairs to the reference library. By now it was lunchtime, and he peered into the staffroom as he passed in case Rye was eating her sandwich there. No sign of her, nor at first glance in the deserted reference library. He went up to the desk and through the partially opened door of the office behind the counter, he glimpsed Dick Dee, his head bent over something on the desk which absorbed him so much that he was oblivious to Hat's silent approach. He was playing Scrabble .. . no, not Scrabble, it must be that funny game, Paronomania. Hat felt pleased with himself for recalling the word, but his pleasure was quenched almost instantly by a jealous certainty that Dee's opponent was Rye. There was a click of tiles being moved and Dee shook his head, smiling in admiration at some adept move, and said, 'Oh, thou crafty Kraut, well done indeed.' And Bowler just had time to feel puzzled as to why Dee should be addressing Rye as Kraut, when a most unfeminine voice replied, 'Thank 'ee kindly, whoreson,' and his tentative knock at the welloiled door pushed it open sufficiently for him to see the distinctive profile of Charley Penn. 'Mr Bowler, do step inside,' said Dee politely. He went into the office. The men on the wall all seemed to be examining him critically like a candidate for a job they didn't think he was going to get. On the other hand, the teenage trio in the photo on the desk seemed to look straight through him at a world which, united, they did not doubt their capacity to deal with.

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 kind 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