Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

In this case, Pascoe, seeing how shook up the young detective had been by his discovery of the body, had thought it best to keep him fully occupied. Now he went personally to fetch him. It was an act both kind and professional. Bowler must know he wasn’t the Fat Man’s favourite son at the moment and could easily be intimidated into stupidity. So a bit of tender loving reassurance would be timely, both to cheer him up and to make him a better witness.

In the gallery he found the previewers had adopted a defensive huddle round the priapic totem pole, like a herd of antelope scenting a marauding lion. An exception to this was Edwin Digweed who was patrolling round the group with a look of repressed rage on his face, more leonine than cervine. Bowler and DC Dennis Seymour had set up tables by the doorway, presumably to prevent flight, and were busy taking down details. Bowler’s witness was a man so nervously prolix that Pascoe stood around for several minutes before finally intervening by placing one hand under the man’s elbow, easing him out of the chair, and guiding him through the exit, the whiles murmuring the platitudes of gratitude.

“Thanks,” said Hat with a smile that faded when Pascoe told him the superintendent would like a word.

“Just tell him what you told me,” said Pascoe. “You know Mr. Dalziel, he likes to hear things from the horse’s mouth. I’ve already told him that in my opinion you acted with good sense and dispatch and did everything by the book.”

The youngster looked a little reassured and Pascoe asked, “Where’s Sergeant Wield, by the way?”

“He’s through there,” said Bowler, indicating one of the small side-galleries running off the main exhibition area. “There were a few people who’d left the preview but we managed to catch them before they got out of the Centre and he thought it best to keep them separate from this lot as they might be able to tell us something about the councillor’s movements downstairs.”

Plus, having left the gallery, as well as possible witnesses they were potential suspects, thought Pascoe. He strolled across the gallery and peered into the side-room. Among those gathered there he spotted Sam Johnson and Franny Roote, engaged in close conversation; also Dick Dee and Rye Pomona, similarly occupied. He thought of wandering in and suggesting to Wield that he took a specially close look at Roote, then cancelled the idea, partly because it felt neurotic, but mainly because he was sure Wield wouldn’t need any prompting.

“You OK on your own here for a while, Dennis?” he said to Seymour.

“No problem,” said the redheaded DC cheerfully. “Oh, by the way, I processed Mrs. Pascoe first and she said to tell you she’d see you at home later.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Pascoe sincerely, knowing that in Seymour’s case the thought would not have included the possibility of ingratiating himself by doing the DCI’s wife a favour. “I would suggest you take Mr. Digweed’s statement soon otherwise I think he’ll explode.”

“Right,” he said as he left the gallery with Bowler, “you might as well take me through the sequence en route.”

“Fine. Well, we came out and down the stairs like we’re doing now …”

“We being …?”

“Me and Rye, that’s Miss Pomona who works in the reference library.”

“Good. And were there others coming down the stairs at the same time?”

“Oh yes. Quite a lot, in front and behind.”

“Did you notice anyone in particular? I know I asked you before, but as we’re actually on the stairs now …”

Bowler shook his head.

“Not really. Like I said earlier, we were pretty deep in conversation, me and Rye-Miss Pomona, I mean …”

“For heaven’s sake, call her one or the other. I’m not interested in your romantic life,” said Pascoe.

“Sorry,” said Bowler. “Well, when we got here, people started going off different ways.”

They were approaching the mezzanine level which had the huge disadvantage from an investigative point of view of being the hub of the Centre. From here you could get to anywhere else within, or head for either the underground car park or main shopping precinct without. Even the fatal loo itself was situated in a corridor running between the mezzanine and a landing from which stairs ran up and down to the rest of the Centre. Dalziel had put his finger on the problem straight off. “Place is a fucking maze,” he’d said. “You’d need to be a trained rat to find your way to the cheese round here.”

Talking of Dalziel, there was no sign of him. Probably got impatient and went in to hurry the sodding quack along.

“Did you see Councillor Steel at all?” said Pascoe.

“I think I might have noticed him, his bald head, I mean, going down the stairs a bit in front of us, but I couldn’t swear to it,” said Bowler. “I was, you know …”

“Yes, deep in conversation with Miss Pomona,” said Pascoe. “How long was it before your own call of nature grew strong enough to drag you away from her?”

“Couple of minutes, no, probably a bit more. Sorry,” said Bowler, clearly irritated at his own vagueness. “Rye went off to pick up her coat and things that she’d left in the reference library …”

“Ah. Did she go down the corridor with the toilet in it, by any chance?”

“No, she went that way,” said Bowler, pointing to a door inscribed STAFF ONLY. “It would be quicker, I suppose.”

“And you …?”

“Like I say, I pootered around the book shop for a couple of minutes …”

“Or maybe a bit more?”

“Or maybe a bit more. Then I thought I’d take the chance to have a leak and I went to the toilet. …”

“Why that one?” said Pascoe. “If you were down there by the book shop, there’s another Gents, very clearly signed, just outside.”

“Well,” said Bowler uncomfortably, “to tell the truth, I’d just seen Mr. Dalziel going in there. …”

Pascoe laughed out loud. He could recall a time shortly after his arrival in Mid-Yorkshire when he’d found himself standing alongside the terrifying figure of the Fat Man in a urinal, quite unable-despite a very full bladder and the usually mimetically encouraging sound of a vigorous flow hitting the next basin-of producing a drop. It wasn’t displeasing to see that today’s laid-back youngsters weren’t entirely free of such hang-ups.

“So you went down the corridor,” said Pascoe. “Anyone else in sight, either end?”

“Definitely not, sir,” said Bowler, pleased to be on firm ground at last.

“And you went inside and saw Councillor Steel,” said Pascoe. “Well, that’s twice you’ve told me. You should be word perfect for Mr. Dalziel. Anything else you’d like to add?”

“Don’t think so. Except, well, you don’t think this could have anything to do with these Wordman killings, do you, sir?”

“At the moment there’s nothing to suggest it has,” said Pascoe. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason really. Just, well, when you’ve had three deaths and there comes a fourth …”

“That’s the kind of mistake it’s easy to make,” said Pascoe. “The Wordman murders are one case, this is another. Try to put them together without evidence and all you do is risk buggering up both investigations. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Good lad. One more thing just in case the super asks. You said you’d noticed him going into the other loo. When you found the body, didn’t you think of getting hold of him? He must have still been in the vicinity.”

“It did cross my mind, sir,” said Bowler. “But by the time I’d tried resuscitation and called up assistance and alerted the Centre security staff, he was probably long gone, whereas I knew you and the sarge were still up here and I just thought it would be best to be sure.”