Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“No, sir,” said Hat unhappily.

Pascoe thought a moment then said, “Tell you what, you try Dee’s flat, see if he’s there. I’ll do the library, which still seems the best bet. OK?”

“Fine,” said Hat.

They got into their respective cars simultaneously but the little sports car was burning rubber out of the car park before Pascoe had fastened his seat belt.

He still felt pretty sure of finding Dee at the library and when he reached the Centre and saw the main doors were open, his confidence seemed justified. A security man stopped him to tell him the Centre was closed to the public that day. Pascoe showed him his ID and discovered that, as he’d suspected, a lot of staff were taking the chance to catch up on jobs that under normal workaday pressures got pushed to the back burner.

He made his way to the reference library, rehearsing the sweet words which were going to lure Dee down to the station. But he found the place empty except for a young female library assistant he didn’t know who was painstakingly checking the shelves to make sure that all the reference books had been returned to their rightful positions and order.

He showed his ID again and asked if Dee had been in. She said she hadn’t seen him, but she’d just arrived herself. Pascoe went behind the enquiry desk and tried the office door on the remote chance that the man was working inside, too rapt to hear conversation without.

The door opened and suddenly Pascoe had a vision of discovering Dee sitting there with his throat cut.

The office was empty. Pascoe went in and sat behind the desk to collect his thoughts.

He must be getting hard. He felt relief that his absurd imagining had turned out to be just that, but it wasn’t relief that a human being wasn’t dead, but rather relief that a promising line of enquiry hadn’t been nipped in the bud-or nicked in the jugular!

Just how promising was this line anyway?

Dee was a good fit for the profile Pottle and Urquhart had produced between them. There was the obsession with word games, the delight in his own cleverness, and if he wanted the other world focus which the Dialogues seemed to illustrate, then perhaps he didn’t need to look further than this photograph on the desk. The three boys, two of them bright and sharp and fighting their way out of adolescent adversity into premature adult control, the third still childish, innocent, in need of love and protection.

He recalled that poem again, the one on the page opened in the book in Sam Johnson’s dead hands.

But these were not the kind of ideas the CPS liked to be presented with. They wanted something with much more shape and substance, hard physical evidence, preferably accompanied by a water-tight confession.

And he had …a thumbprint and a bite mark. Neither definite. Both of doubtful admissibility. He closed his eyes and tried to ease his way back into that state of timelessness in which the answer had seemed almost within his grasp …the Twenty-seventh psalm: “God is my light …” Dominus illuminatio mea …

Then he opened his eyes and he saw everything.

Hat’s heart leapt up as he dragged the MG round the corner of the street in which Dee’s apartment was situated. He had been frightened he would find Rye’s car parked outside, lending weight to a fantasy he fought against but could not resist of Dee’s door opening in response to his frenzied knocking to reveal over the man’s bare shoulder a bedroom, and a bed, and Rye’s tousled chestnut hair with its distinctive blaze of grey spread out across the pillow. …

But of course there was no sign of the car. No, she’d be safe at home. He thought of ringing her number, then decided that contact was better delayed till Dee was safely down the nick and he could see which way things were going. With luck she need never know that he himself had done the arresting.

Not the arresting, he corrected himself. Pascoe wanted this played cool. A smiling invitation to have a friendly chat.

No frenzied knocking then. None needed at the front entrance, which was open. He went sedately up the stairs and tapped gently on the door.

It opened almost at once.

“What’s this? A raid?” said Charley Penn. “Don’t tell me. Andy Dalziel’s lying out there with a Kalashnikov, right?”

“Mr. Penn. I was looking for Mr. Dee …”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, but not at the right time,” said Penn. “Step inside before someone shoots me.”

Hat went in.

“Mr. Bowler, how nice.”

Franny Roote was smiling up at him from a chair placed before a table on which lay an open Paronomania board.

There was no one else in the room.

Unhappily, Hat let his gaze turn towards the bedroom door.

“Is Mr. Dee …”

Penn went and threw the door open.

“No, not in here. Unless he’s under the bed. Nor in the kitchen or the bog either, take a look. Sorry.”

Hat pulled himself together and said, “Mr. Penn, what are you doing here?”

“Teaching my young chum, Roote, the rudiments of Paronomania. I’d ask you to join in, but only two can play.”

Hat’s gaze flickered to the third rack on which he could see the name Johnny , then returned to Penn’s mocking mask.

“I meant, why are you here, in Mr. Dee’s flat?”

“Because at present my pad is, as you’ll recall, uninhabitable. The workmen from hell are still creating pandemonium. The library is closed to celebrate its release from the dead hand and limp wrist of poor Percy. So Dick kindly allowed me the use of his humble property to pursue my studies. But I ran into young Roote on my way here and let him inveigle me into initiating him into the rites of the second greatest game known to man.”

Hat listened with growing impatience.

“So where is Mr. Dee?” he demanded.

“Ah, that’s what you want to know? Why didn’t you ask?” said Penn. “Mr. Dee is, to the best of my knowledge, out at that rustic slum which for some reason he so enjoys. Or used to. Recent events have changed his perception, I gather. Et in Arcadia ego . Since his landlord’s unfortunate death, Dick no longer feels at ease out there and he has gone to retrieve his gear.”

“You’re saying he’s gone out to Stangcreek Cottage?”

“I’m glad you agree that’s what I’m saying because that is certainly what I was attempting to convey,” said Penn.

The man’s face was twisted into that cross between a smile and a snarl Rye called his smarl . He’s got something else to say, something, Hat guessed, he thinks I won’t be pleased to hear.

His heart jolted as his thoughts outdistanced Penn’s words. But he still had to hear them.

“Yes,” said the writer. “Really bugs him, that place now. Didn’t even fancy going out there by himself. Also the stuff he’s got there would overflow that jalopy of his. So he dropped a hint or two I might like to give him a hand. But I had to say no. Bad back, my car’s on the blink, and I hate the fucking countryside anyway. Still, it all worked out for the best. He came back from Percy’s funeral full of the joys of spring.”

“Why was that?” asked Hat unnecessarily. There was a singing in his ears, the air seemed dark with foreboding, and through the murk he could see Franny Roote regarding him with an expression of grave concern.

“Seems he asked young Rye if she’d hold his hand and she jumped at the chance. Yes, old Dick dragged off the funeral blacks, got into his tracksuit and trainers, and headed off to rendezvous with young Ms. Pomona. Who knows? Perhaps in such pleasant company he’ll get back his feel for nature. Hadn’t you better answer that? It might be Andy Dalziel wanting to know if it’s time to throw the stun grenades.”