Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Meaning that, uncertain he’d done everything by the book and aware that he was a little shook up, he didn’t fancy running breathless down the street to put himself at the judgment of Fat Andy.

“I think perhaps it might be simpler to say nothing about seeing the super going into the other Gents,” said Pascoe. “So far as you knew, he was long gone. Ah, that sounds like him now.”

The Gents’ door opened and a short ochrous-complexioned man who looked as if he’d rather be playing golf, for which he was indeed dressed, emerged, followed by Dalziel.

“And that’s it, Doc, he’s dead? Well, I’m sorry I interrupted your game. How’d it go, by the way?”

“As a matter of fact I was dormy three against my revolting brother-in-law whom I haven’t beaten for five years and he was in a bunker and I was on the green when my pager went.”

“Moral victory then.”

“In dealings with my brother-in-law, there is no moral dimension. The game is void. As to the unfortunate councillor, I’m sorry, I cannot tell you what I do not know. He was killed, certainly within the past hour and probably as a result of a blow at the base of his skull from a narrow sharp weapon. The wounds to the top of his head are slight and appear more likely to have been inflicted after rather than before the fatal wound, though for what purpose I cannot even speculate. You must await the post mortem for a more considered view. Now, I bid you good day.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Caligari,” said Dalziel to his retreating back. “DC Bowler, nice of you to drop by. Step in here and show me what things looked like afore you and every other bugger who came near him started chucking poor Stuffer around.”

Bowler went through the toilet door. He avoided looking down at the figure on the floor, uncomfortably aware that Dalziel was watching him closely in the mirror which ran along the facing wall.

“He was slumped down in front of the washbasins, slightly over to his right side. I got the impression he must have been washing himself when he was attacked.”

“Oh aye? That a wild guess or do you hear voices?”

“No, sir. I noticed his hands were wet and his face too, I noticed that when I tried to give him the kiss of life.”

“Aye, I heard about that. So, he’d had a pee, washed his hands and was splashing a bit of water on his face. What do you reckon happened next?”

“The door opened, the assailant came in. It’s only two or three paces across the floor, and with the councillor washing his face, the assailant could have been right up behind him before he looked up and saw him in the mirror. Then it would be too late.”

“Might have made no difference anyway,” said Pascoe. “You see someone come into a public toilet, you don’t think, That guy’s going to attack me , not unless he’s foaming at the mouth and carrying a bloodstained axe. Something the size of that burin, you wouldn’t even notice he had it in his hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowler. “That was something I’ve been thinking about. A weapon like that directed against the head, from what I recall of anatomy, you’d have to be very expert or very lucky to kill somebody or even incapacitate them with a single blow.”

He paused and Dalziel said impatiently, “Come on, lad, don’t arse about like Sir Peter Quimsby, make your point.”

“Well, it might make sense if we assume this was unpremeditated, I mean, like someone wandered in here who just happened to have a burin in his hand and he saw Steel stooping down and thought, Hello, I think I’ll have a stab at him . But our perp didn’t just happen to have a burin, he had to steal it. That was risky in itself. I mean, who knows, by the time we interview everybody who was in the gallery, we might find somebody who saw something suspicious around Jude Illingworth’s display, not suspicious enough to cry, Stop thief! but something they recall when we start asking questions.”

“Perhaps he didn’t steal it as a weapon but for some other reason,” said Pascoe. “And it just came in handy when he suddenly decided to attack Councillor Steel.”

“Yes, sir, possibly, though on a scale of improbabilities, I’d say …not that I mean it’s not possible, only …”

“Nay, we don’t stand on ceremony in murder investigations,” interrupted Dalziel. “If you think the DCI’s talking crap, just spit it out.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that …”

“Well, I would. I think you’ve got the right of it, lad. Chummy made up his mind to stiff old Stuffer, he wanted a weapon and the burin was the best he could come up with in a hurry.”

“Which would mean it was premeditated, but not all that much pre,” said Bowler. “Something must have happened at the preview to make it necessary to kill the councillor.”

“You mean like someone saw him eating for the first time and got to worrying about kids starving in Ethiopia?” said Dalziel.

“Or maybe it was something he said,” interposed Pascoe, feeling sidelined by this unexpected rapprochement between the Fat Man and Bowler. “The councillor was a great one for stirring things up, as we know to our cost.”

“Aye, happen it’s a good job we’re investigating this,” said Dalziel. “I mean, with Jax the Ripper and Stuffer being shuffled off in quick succession, if you start looking for someone with a motive for shutting them up, I reckon we’d come high up the list.”

Pascoe glanced at Bowler, recalling his recent lecture on making illogical connections and said, “You’re not really suggesting there could be a connection with the Wordman here?”

“Wash your mouth out, lad!” exploded Dalziel. “Yon daft business is the kind of thing that gets CID a bad name. No, with a bit of luck, what we’ve got here is a good old straightforward killing, and once we’ve interviewed all the preview guests, we’ll have it all tied up, neat and tidy, afore Match of the Day.”

But for once Dalziel’s prognostication was wrong. By mid-evening all the guests had been tracked down and interviewed. None of them had noticed anything suspicious in regard to the theft of the burin. Councillor Steel’s conversation, though as full as ever of complaint and accusation, did not seem to have broken any new ground. The nearest thing to an altercation was Charley Penn’s annoyance at Steel’s efforts to shut down his literature group. But, as the novelist pointed out, if you took that as a motive, then everyone employed in the HAL Centre must be suspect as the councillor proposed to make half of them redundant and slash the salaries of the rest. Mary Agnew recalled descending the stairs from the gallery with him, during which short interlude she got a quick-fire summary of her newspaper’s major failings. On reaching the mezzanine, he’d said, “Got to spend a penny,” and turned away, presumably towards the men’s toilet. She hadn’t noticed anyone else going after him.

Pressure applied by Dalziel to the Chief Constable had been passed on and a preliminary post mortem report was available by early evening. It stated that Steel had died as a result of a single blow from the burin (now confirmed as the murder weapon by Forensic), which had cut right through to the medulla and pons of the brainstem, and had been, as Bowler had said, either very lucky or very expert. The burin had been wiped clean of prints.

Andy Dalziel read the report, said, “Sod it,” and went home.

He checked his phone for messages. There was just one, from Cap Marvell. She regretted again the ruining of their planned afternoon by Steel’s untimely death and would have been happy to sit around like Marianna of the moated grange had she not received an invite from some old radical chums to go out on the bevvy and maybe check out the latest Full Monty act at Jock the Cock’s Nite Spot.