Dialogues of the Dead (47 page)

393 cop ... I don't mean .. . what I mean is, coping the way we d .. . the way we have to because it's our job .. . but it's not you) . .. I'm sorry.' She looked at him for a moment, then said, 'We all have t cope, Hat. Look under Local History Legal Chronology,' before turr ing away and retreating into the office. As offers of olive branches go, that, he reckoned, was about ( good as it was going to get. He sat himself down at the computer, recalling with amusernei pretending to be baffled by it as an excuse to make contact wit Rye just a few short weeks ago. As a ploy, it hadn't worked, exce^ to put him handy when they needed a cop. In fact, come to thin of it, if anything had brought them together, it was the Wordrnai An uncomfortable basis for a relationship? Why so? No reaso not to be grateful if good came out of evil. The Local History site revealed that 1576 had been a very goo year in Mid-Yorkshire for boundary disputes, cattle theft, an blasphemy, for which the penalties ranged from a big fine fc taking the Lord's name in vain, to having a hole burnt throug your tongue with a red-hot iron for suggesting that, according t the Scriptures, the vicar ought to be giving tithes of his good and produce to impoverished parishioners rather than the other way round. The vicar in question was called Jugg and the ma with the holey unholy tongue was called Lamperley. Hat looke for a clue in this, found none, but nonetheless made a note of th names. He went through all the other chronologies, social, cultura religious, and found nothing to his purpose. Now he had no more excuse to stay in the library, but he foun himself lingering, or even, self-envisaged with a policeman's ey< loitering around the desk. But Rye, whom he could see throug the partially opened office door, kept her eyes steadfastly on he work. There was a bell to press if you required assistance, and h was steeling himself to press it when a voice said in his ear, 'Helk Mr Bowler.' He turned to find himself looking at a pleasantly smiling Frann Roote with, a little way behind him and staring at the compute screen which he had not cleared, Charley Penn who looked corn pletely wrecked. 'Hello, Mr Roote,' said Hat very formally, resolving in light of Pascoe's warnings about the young man's cleverness to give nothing away. 'Into local history now as well as birds?' said Perm, joining them. 'Or are you just after the first sighting of the Lesser Nippled Tit in the sixteenth century?' 'Ornithological history can be very interesting,' said Hat, trying to work out if the man was sick or merely hungover. 'Is that right? In the old days, but, when you lot spotted an interesting new specimen, didn't you used to shoot it so as you could take a closer look? Bit extreme that, I'd say, killing something for the sake of a hobby.' He spat hobby out like a loose filling, then reached between Roote and Hat to press long and hard on the bellpush, at the same time shouting, 'Shop!' Rye emerged, her expression as blank as Hat was trying to keep his. 'Hello, luv,' said Penn. 'Where's thy gaffer?' 'Mr Dee is at a meeting. I don't know when he'll be back.' 'A meeting? Of course, they'll be debating the succession. Should we look for white smoke going up?' 'I think in the circumstances that's a pretty crass and offensive remark, Mr Penn,' said Rye, staring at the writer unblinkingly. 'You do? Well, as long as it's pretty, eh? I just wanted to try out a new version of "Der Scheidende" on him. You'll do, though. What do you think of translating it as "Man on his way out"? Too free, maybe?' As Penn thrust a sheet of paper at Rye, Hat turned away to remove himself from the temptation to interfere which he was certain would provoke only the man's mockery and the woman's resentment. 'I shouldn't pay any heed to Charley, Mr Bowler,' murmured Roote, following him. 'He's not too well today. Anyway, it's all words with him. Words words words. They don't mean anything. Or perhaps they just mean whatever he wants them to mean. So cheer up, eh?' Furious at being offered comfort from this source, Hat said aggressively, 'I notice you're looking pretty cheerful yourself, Mr Roote. Got something to be happy about, have we?'

395 'Oh God, does it show?' said Roote in alarm. 'I'm sorry, I realize that after what happened last night, it must seem most inappropriate, especially here. But maybe it's only your detective skills which have spotted it, and I look the same as ever to the layman's eye.' Is piss being taken? wondered Hat. And if it is, what the hell can I do about it? He said, 'So what's making you happy, Mr Roote?' The young man hesitated as if debating how trustworthy his , interlocutor was, then seemed to make up his mind and said in » ' low voice, 'It's quite remarkable considering the circumstances, ; you know, with me coming back here because of Sam, Drjohnson;j then poor Sam dying like that, and suddenly I've lost my dearest friend, and also I've lost my tutor, the one man who could help,y me hold my studies together. I felt pretty low, you can understand ;1; that, I'm sure, Mr Bowler. Then out of the blue I won the short'; story competition, and that was a much needed little perk. And out of that ., . well, it's early days, but Charley, Mr Penn, liked ] the story so much that he showed it to his publishers who liked it as well, and next time his editor comes up to see him, Charley's going to introduce me with a view to maybe talking about some more stories, a whole bookful, for children, you understand. Isn't ' that marvellous?' 'Great,' said Hat. 'Congratulations.' 'Thank you, but that's not all. You know Sam Johnson was working on a book about Beddoes . .. the poet,' he explained in ; response to the blank look which must have passed over Hat's eyes, 'early nineteenth century, fascinating writer, the last Elizabethan, Strachey called him, he figures in my study, in fact I'd grown more and more fascinated by him which was one of the things , that brought Sam and me so close together. Well, Sam didn't i leave a will, it seems, so his only close relative, his sister, that's ') Linda Lupin, MEP, inherits everything, and she's been so pissed off with academics flocking around like vultures, each claiming i to be Sam's best buddy and the one he'd have wanted receive his research material and finish the book, that she's told them all to 'i get stuffed! And she invited me to see her and after we'd talked , a while, she said that Sam had written a lot about me in his letters, , and from what he'd said, it seemed to her if I was willing that I was the person he'd have wanted to finish the book! Isn't that marvellous?' 'Yeah, great,' said Hat, to whom the prospect of finishing someone else's book was about as appealing as the prospect of finishing someone's else's soup. 'Congratulations.' 'Thank you, Mr Bowler. I can see you understand. A lot of people might think it funny that I can be so happy so soon after losing such a dear friend, but it's as if Sam's death has turned my life around. Suddenly I can see before me a path leading to a future that's got some shape and meaning. It's almost as if it were meant to be, as if there's someone out there, perhaps even Sam himself, who likes me and is looking after me. I went to the burial ground first thing this morning and offered thanks at Sam's grave, and for a while it felt like I was down there with him, chatting away like we did in the old days.' Hat looked into Roote's eyes which shone with a born-again fervour and resisted the temptation to say, Why don't we try to arrange that on a permanent basis then? and instead said, 'Great. Excuse me now.' He turned back to the counter and saw that Rye and Penn seemed to have finished, or at least she had finished with him. The writer moved away from the counter and gave him an encouraging wink as they passed. Rye was re-entering the office. He spoke her name but she didn't pause. He stood at the counter and watched her though the open door as she sat down at the desk once more. There was a sheet of paper on the counter. He looked down and read what was written on it.

Man on his way out

Within my heart, within my head, Every worldly joy lies dead, And just as dead beyond repeal Is hate of evil, nor do I feel The pain of mine or others' lives, For in me only Death survives!

397 At least, unless these literary folk had their own erotic code, didn't read like sexual harassment. Perhaps clever old Pascoe ai his weird Uni mates could riddle something out of it, and out i Roote's euphoria too. He raised his eyes from the poem. At her desk in the office. Rye was watching him. He spoke her name again and she stretched out one elegai leg and kicked the door shut. Chapter Forty-five

On the day of Percy Follows' funeral, the library was closed. Officially this was to permit his colleagues to attend the ceremony. 'Wrong,' said Charley Penn to Dick Dee. 'It's to force his colleagues to attend the ceremony.' 'I think for once your cynicism misses the mark, Charley,' said Dee. 'Percy had many good qualities, both as a man and a librarian. He'll be genuinely missed.' 'Yeah?' said Penn. 'Either way, it's fucking inconvenient. I can't work in my place with all those hairy workmen banging and shouting and competing whose ghetto-blaster is the loudest. Any road, with the funeral at one, I don't see why the place needs to be shut all afternoon.' 'It was felt that as a mark of respect. ..' He saw he wasn't impressing the writer so quickly added, 'Also there will be some light refreshment on offer afterwards at the Lichen Hotel, a chance to talk about Percy and celebrate his life. By the time that's over ...' 'Everyone'll be well pissed. But you'll be coming back, I would have thought. A glutton for punishment but not for lunchtime booze. So why don't I come round about three, say ...' 'No,' said Dee firmly. 'I've got things to do.' 'What?' 'If you must know, I thought I'd go out to Stangdale and clear my stuff out of the cottage.' 'Why? New landlord giving you grief?' 'Hardly, as they're still looking for him, it seems. Some cousin who went out to America in the sixties looks the best bet. No, I just haven't felt any desire to go back there since ... since what happened happened. It might wear off, of course, but until it does,

399 it's silly to leave all my gear lying around for some passing ramblej to nick. I wouldn't mind some company. Fancy an outing?' is 'You must be joking!' said Penn. 'You know what I feel aboiri the rucking countryside. Once was enough. No, it'll have to be the Uni library, I suppose. All those gabby undergrads. I may run amuck.' Dee sighed and said, 'All right, Charley, you can use my fla(^ But you don't touch my espresso machine, is that understood? Last time you left me with the choice of brown water or solids;* 'Cross my heart,' said Penn. ':| ''! '''

. ^ Percy Follows had been (and presumably, if all had gone according to plan, still was) a devout member of the Church of England n its apogee, a step beyond which could see a man tumbling into Rome. Not for him the simple worship of a day. If it didn't invoN| incense, candles, hyssop, aspersions, processions, genuflection^ soaring choirs and gilded vestments, it didn't count. His parish priest being naturally of the same mind pulled out all the stops and did not miss the opportunity to deliver a meditation upoil death and an encomium upon the deceased in what he fondly imagined was the style of Dr Donne of St Paul's. ; Pascoe, admiring but unable to follow the example of his Great; Leader, whose head was bowed and whose lips from time to time emitted a susurration not unlike the sound of waves making toward! a pebbled shore, thumbed desperately through his prayer book iff search of distraction. The Psalms seemed the nearest thing to light relief he was likely to find there, fall of nice turns of phrase and good advice. How pleasant it might have been if the priest, for instance had taken the hint of the first of the two appointed to be read at th(^ burial service (only one was necessary but they'd got them both), the second verse of which read, "I will keep my mouth as it were; with a bridle; while the ungodly is in my sight." With Andy Dalziel snoring away before him, he could hardly have any doubt about the presence of the ungodly! Pascoe riffled through the pages, letting them open as they would, and found himself looking at words he'd read recently. The Lord is my light, and my salvation; whom then shall I fear: the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid? Psalm 2 7 which the Wordman seemed so fond of, finding assurance therein (if Pottle had got it right) that his sense of acting on instruction from the Other World made him invulnerable. Not quite the same words, his excellent (though unlike Wield's, not quite eidetic) memory told him. There'd been no thens in the version he'd read in the Bible. And it had been headed by the legend A Psalm of David, while here in the Prayer Book you got the first couple of words of the Latin original Dominus illuminatio. No, not the original, of course. A Latin translation of the Hebrew, presumably in St Jerome's Vulgate. From vulgatw - made public. Odd to think of an age when things were made public by translating them into Latin! Did any of this have any bearing on the hunt for the Wordman? None whatsoever. It was like hunting the Snark. Who, as the Baker feared, would probably turn out to be a Boojum. The Baker. Funny how these things came back. There'd been a guy at university, a slight inconsequential fellow who made so little impression that some wag doing Eng. Lit. (that natural home of waggery) had christened him Baker because - how did it go? He would answer to 'Hi!' or any loud ay, Such as 'Fry me!' or 'Fritter my wig!' To ''What-you-may-call-um!' or 'What-ivashis-name?' But especially 'Thingumajig!'

In the end everyone called him Baker, even the tutors. Did he write Baker at the head of his exam papers and take his degree in the name of Baker? Was he happily settled down now as Mr Baker, the civil engineer or actuary, with a Mrs Baker and a whole trayful of little Bakers? Weird thing, names. Take Charley Penn. Christened Karl Penck. Karl the Kraut. How hurtful it must be to have your own name hurled at you in derision. Like his poetic hero, Heine. Named Harry. Mocked with donkey cries. Till he changed it and his religion, both. But you can't change the scars inside. Or Dee. Another one with problems. Orson Eric. Not names to be ignored by the little savages at their play. But at least they gave him the initials which ultimately provided an escape route. OED. Dick the Dictionary. But what baggage did he take with him along that escape route?

401 Escape route. Escape Roote. He wished he could. No change of name there, except the familiarization of Francis to Franny, But he still recalled that poem read out at Johnson's funeral, '... there is some maddening secret hid in your words .. ,'mongst stones and roots ...' and how the reader's eyes had sought him out, mockingly, as he put a subtle stress on the word roots. Or had he just imagined that? And was his attempt to read something significant into these name changes merely a symptom of his own personal paronomania? After all, a conscious shift from an unwelcome given name was common enough. He didn't need to look further than the young man at his side who seemed to have a touching belief that attendance at murder victims funerals was de rigueur for an ambitious detective. Normally it was prob ably a source of some irritation for anyone called Bowler to be addressed as Hat, but when your real name was Ethelbert, you embraced the sobriquet with much relief! And then there were the more private and intimate forms of name change, like Jax (another!) Ripley calling Headingley 'Georgie Porgie'. None of which meant that either Bowler or the DI got on to the suspect list! Though, come to think of it, the way George Headingley had kept his involvement with Ripley under wraps demonstrated what to a CID man should need no demonstration - that human beings were of all animals the most unreadable and unpredictable. The vicar's sonorous seventeenth-century periods finally rolled to an end. According to him, if ever a man deserved to sit on the right hand of God, it was Percy Follows. Though, from the sound of it, he'd probably much prefer sitting on either hand of Ambrose Bird. It was one of those thoughts you suddenly feel you've spoken out loud and he glanced guiltily around, but no one was looking indignant. Dick Dee was sitting on the other side of the aisle, his eyes fixed on the pulpit, his expression either rapt or traumatized. Beside him was his assistant, Rye Pomona. Whose presence was probably the true reason for young Bowler's keenness to attend the funeral! He'd got a hint that things hadn't been moving too well on that front since their ill-fated expedition to Stang Tarn, If asked, he could have spoken some wise words to the DC.' Police work can fascinate some civilians, especially a case like this; involving mysterious communications and puzzles and all kinds of twists and turns. He'd no doubt that Bowler had, consciously or subconsciously, used this God-given turn-on, sharing more information with the girl than a young cop should, especially one who worked for Fat Andy whose attitude to sharing info with civilians was, tell 'em only what they need to know, and the buggers don't need to know much! But when you're young and in love, even the mountainous Dalziel could shrink to a molehill. There was, however, another obstacle much harder to overcome because unforeseen. That sense of being special which came from being privy to the inner life of an investigation was a very intimate thing. But it was a narrow line to tread, and if something happened to bring your confidante face to face with the brutal realities of the case, her fascination could rapidly turn to revulsion. Rye Pomona had been dragged over that line twice in rapid succession, the first time most brutally when she had been present at the discovery of Pyke-Strengler's corpse, followed very soon after by the murder of Percy Follows and Ambrose Bird, which, though her involvement was not so direct, must have strongly reinforced the effect of that day out in Stangdale. So now, guessed Pascoe, poor Hat was finding that the confidences which had hitherto seemed the key to her heart were merely unwelcome reminders of his essential otherness from which she wanted to retreat. If asked, he would have said something like, if she really likes you, Hat, she'll get over it, and though she may not like what you have to do, she'll respect you for doing it. But this, like most wisdom, was banal in expression and retrospective in effect, so he kept it to himself, though noting how, after the service, as the mourners filed past the grave, Hat's eyes never left Rye who was some way ahead of them in the queue, talking quietly to Dee. At least they were free from the close attention of the media which had so infuriated Linda Lupin at her step-brother's funeral that she'd put in an official complaint about 'insensitive behaviour bordering on the depraved'. Result, a combination of editorial diktat and police street closures which had kept the hordes of Gideon at a distant prowl. 'Not a bad send-off,' said Dalziel. 'Good turn-out. What is it they say? Give the punters what they want and they'll turn up in

403 their thousands. Why are you screwing up that skinny face of thine? Bad taste? At least I listened to the sermon while you were leafing through the prayer book, looking for the mucky bits.' Dalziel asleep missed less than many men awake. 'I was meditating on the psalms,' said Pascoe. 'Psalm 27 to be precise. The Lord is my light, and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?" The Wordman's favourite.' And it was still with him, still working away in his mind . . . 'You OK?' demanded Dalziel. 'Yes, sorry.' He came back to here and now, aware that the Fat Man had said something that he'd missed. 'I were saying, it seems to work for him.' 'What?' 'The Twenty-seventh psalm,' said Dalziel longsufferingly. '"For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his tabernacle: yea, in the secret place of his dwelling shall he hide me, and set me upon a rock of stone." Bugger's certainly well hidden. Mebbe even when we're looking right at him. See our friend Dee's here. No sign of Penn or Roote, but.' 'I hardly think that's significant,' said Pascoe. 'Follows was Dee's boss.' 'Never said it was significant, did I? Well, there you go, Percy. Let's hope that angel's haircut of thine is standing thee in good stead. See you around!' They'd reached the grave and Dalziel stopped to seize enough earth in his great fist to plant an aspidistra and hurled it on to the coffin-lid with a loud crash. It was a good job, thought Pascoe, that Follows hadn't left instructions for an ecologically correct cardboard coffin or they might have seen him sooner than expected. As they headed out of the graveyard towards the line of parked cars, he saw Dee and his assistant get into their vehicles, then drive off in convoy. When they reached the main road junction, neither turned left towards the Lichen Hotel where funeral meats awaited, but both went straight over towards the city centre. Paid Prancing Percy their respects then straight back to work. The queen is dead, long live the queen. Or king. No doubt the battle for succession in the library was already on. Dalziel watched them too, then as if taking this as a hint, he said, 'Think I'll give the wake a miss. I've seen the grub at the Lichen. Makes you understand how it got its name. But funerals always make a man thirsty. There's The Last Gasp round the corner. Weird sense of humour some of these breweries have. You can buy me a pint and a pie there. Both of you.' Reluctantly Pascoe and Bowler, both of whom had other things on their mind, followed their Great Master. Dalziel's stated purpose was only half fulfilled. After his first pint (Bowler's treat) he postponed the pie, and halfway through the second (Pascoe's) he opined loudly, 'This ale's almost as flat as the company. I'll not risk the grub here. Let's move on to the Black Bull. At least Jolly Jack knows how to keep beer.' But now, having obeyed the dictates of duty and selfpreservation, Pascoe was ready to be obstinate. 'No thanks. Lots to do,' he said firmly. Which was true but not the truth. What he really wanted was to be somewhere by himself and think. 'Jesus wept,' said Dalziel, amazed. 'How about you, young Bowler?' 'No,' said Hat shortly, taking courage from Pascoe's example. 'I'm busy too.' He too had noticed Dee and Rye driving off in convoy and wanted to brood on this and other matters. 'Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs,' said Dalziel, recognizing finality. 'I'll mebbe have to change me after-shave. But think on, I'll be looking forward to seeing the outcome of all this busyness.' Back at the station Pascoe got a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar from the machine and slumped in his office chair, while the steam died from the liquid and the confection stayed unwrapped. Out in the CID room, Hat sat in a posture so like the DCI's that anyone seeing both of them simultaneously might have started wondering about doppelgSngers. There was no one else on the CID floor. Elsewhere in the building, normal busy life was going on but here its attendant noises touched the ear with that sense of remoteness and distance you get when standing on a misty beach on a windless day, or in a snow-filled wood in winter. Pascoe wanted to think about the strategy of the Wordman investigation and why it had failed. Hat wanted to think about