Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Dalziel sighed. He could not fault the wisdom of her choice, but he missed her. On the other hand, left to his own devices, there were certain refined pleasures a man could enjoy without fear of comment or complaint.

He went into the kitchen, emerging a few moments later equipped with what he thought of as The Four Last Things, viz a fork, a jar of pickled herring, a half-pint mug and a bottle of Highland Park. He poured the fourth into the third, plunged the first into the second and settled back to enjoy Match of the Day which was a poor substitute for a real game like rugby football, but Manchester United were playing Leeds, so the violence factor ought to come close.

Two yellow cards later the phone rang.

“Yes!” he bellowed.

“It’s me,” said Pascoe.

“Oh shit.”

“That’s a pretty fair description,” said Pascoe. “Security man at the Centre doing a sweep heard the main letter box rattle and when he checked he found an envelope marked ‘Reference Library.’ Normally he’d have left it, but because of the murder, they’re very much on the qui vive, and he reported to his Control and they got on to the factory.”

“And you were still there?” said Dalziel. “What’s up? Ellie locked you out?”

“No, sir. I was at home. Seymour rang me. I think he didn’t want to disturb you …”

“Glad there’s someone who’s got some consideration. All right, lad, the music’s stopped, the parcel’s in my lap. Tell me I’m guessing wrong.”

“Doubt it,” said Pascoe. “You know you were hoping the Steel case would turn out a nice straightforward murder? Forget it. The envelope contained a Fourth Dialogue. Looks like the Wordman has uttered again.”

There was silence, then a great anguished cry.

“Sir? You there? You OK, sir?”

“No, I’m bloody well not,” said Dalziel. “First you tell me my unfavourite loony’s still at it, then, to cap it all, Man, United have just scored!”

Murder investigation is the conventional peak of detective work, but Hat Bowler was beginning to discover how much it could snarl up your social life. Any vague hope he had of being able to keep his Sunday date vanished with the discovery of the Fourth Dialogue. He’d seen Rye briefly the previous afternoon after she’d made her statement and had tried to sound optimistic, but she’d looked at him sceptically and given him her home number in case there were problems and on Sunday morning, for the second week in succession he rang her to cancel.

She listened to his apologies for a while then cut in, “Hey, no big deal. Another time maybe.”

“You don’t sound very disappointed,” he said accusingly.

“Disappointed? If you listen hard, you can probably hear the rain lashing against my bedroom window, and you want me to be disappointed I’m not getting up to spend most of the day dripping wet looking for so-called dumb creatures who have probably got sense enough to stay cosily tucked up in their burrows?”

“Nests. Are you saying you’re still in bed?”

“Certainly. It’s my day off even if it’s not yours. Hello? You still there? You’re not fantasizing about me, I hope?”

“Of course not. I’m a cop. We have our imaginations surgically removed. But we get issued with surveillance equipment instead, so no need for fantasies.”

“You mean you’ve got me under observation? OK, what am I doing now?”

He thought for a while. This was fun, but he didn’t want to ruin things by going too far too fast, even verbally.

“Scratching your nose?” he said cautiously.

She giggled and said huskily, “Nearly right. So how’s the case going? Are we all still suspects?”

It had been Rye who had pointed out the obvious to him on Saturday afternoon when he’d apologized for the time she’d spent being questioned as a possible witness. “And suspect,” she’d added. “Don’t sell us short. Everyone who was at the preview and left before or at the same time as Councillor Steel is a potential suspect. My money’s on Percy Follows.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I understand he’s used to assaulting men with a very small weapon.”

He’d regarded her gravely and said, “You should have joined the police too.”

“Because of my insights?”

“No. Because you know how to avoid letting the nastiness of things get to you by making bad jokes.”

Even as he spoke he thought, You pompous twit! She’s going to love you for coming over all righteous on her.

But her reaction was worse than indignation. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “I’m sorry …I was only trying not to …”

Which was when he’d put his arms around her and pulled her close and was prevented, or perhaps saved, from discovering whether this was their first embrace or just a comforting hug by Sergeant Wield’s dry cough and drier voice, saying, “When you’ve quite finished with that witness, Detective Constable Bowler …”

Now he said, “Of course you’re all still suspects. Which is why I intend to keep you under close personal surveillance. Listen, I’ll be in touch. Let’s forget the Stangdale trip, maybe we can do a movie or something …”

“Like The Birds , you mean? Sorry. Yes, that would be nice too, but I’m a woman of my word. I said I’d twitch with you and twitch I will. Next week OK?”

“Yes, if you’re sure. I mean, that’s great. And we’ll go back to making it a whole day, OK? I’ll provide a picnic.”

“Don’t get carried away. Fine, that’s fixed. Ring me. Now you get on with keeping society safe for decent folk and I’ll get back to scratching my nose. Bye.”

He switched off his phone, scratched his nose, and smiled. He’d always found the idea of telephone sex a turn-off, but the way he felt now, maybe there was something in it. His relationship with Rye had certainly taken a step forward; though he could see it being knocked a couple of long steps back when she realized he’d kept stumm about the Fourth Dialogue. The temptation to tell her had been strong but, over the phone at least, not as strong as Sergeant Wield’s prohibition on spreading the news.

“Keep this to yourself,” Wield had said. “As far as the world’s concerned, Councillor Steel’s death is an isolated incident until the super decides different. And you want the super to feel you’re reliable, don’t you? Especially around young women.”

Hat had thought of arguing that as Rye Pomona had been instrumental in bringing them into contact with the Wordman, she had a right to know, but it wasn’t an argument he felt he could sustain in face of those louring features.

So instead he said, “Any reason why the super shouldn’t think I’m reliable, Sarge?”

“I think,” said Wield carefully, “he felt you might have got a bit close to Jax Ripley.”

He watched the youngster’s face closely, saw puzzlement bubble to understanding then boil into indignation.

“You mean all that stuff she did about us falling down on the job, Mr. Dalziel thought she was getting inside info from me? Jesus, Sarge, nearly every time I saw her, we got in a row about those programmes. OK, so we stayed friends, sort of, but we both knew we were just using each other. I might have done the odd trade-off with her-I’ll show you mine if you show me yours-but if she had a real Deep-throat in the Force, it certainly wasn’t me!”

Wield noted but did not comment on the sexual imagery used in the denial. Though unsusceptible to such things himself, he was perfectly aware when a woman was turning up the heat in his direction, and he’d got a good warm blast on the couple of occasions he’d met the TV reporter. If, and he tended to believe him, Bowler hadn’t succumbed beyond the point of professional discretion, then it said much for the young man’s self-control.