Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“Tutorial? Oh aye. You’re Mr. Roote’s dominie, I hear.”

For the first time he turned his gaze full on Franny Roote who returned it equably.

“An old-fashioned word,” laughed Johnson.

“Best kind for old-fashioned things,” said Dalziel.

“Like study, education, literature, you mean?” said Johnson.

“Aye, them too. But I was thinking more of murder, assault, betrayal of friends, that sort of thing.”

Roote stood up so suddenly, the table rocked and Penn had to grab his glass.

“Careful, Fran,” he said. “You nearly had it over.”

“Oh, Mr. Roote’s always been very free and easy with other people’s booze,” said Dalziel. “He may have paid his debt to society, but he still owes me a bottle of Scotch.”

“A debt I look forward to repaying, Superintendent,” said Roote, back in control. “Ready, Sam?” He set off towards the door.

Johnson looked at Dalziel for a moment then said quietly, “Another old-fashioned thing is called harassment, Superintendent. I suggest you refresh your memory about the law in that area. See you, Charley.”

He followed Roote out of the pub.

Dalziel finished his pint, handed the glass to Bowler and sat down.

“Same again, sir?” said Hat.

“Or you could fetch me a Babycham wi’ a cherry in it,” said Dalziel.

Bowler headed back to the bar and Charley Penn said, “Well, that were like a Japanese porno movie, entertaining even though I didn’t understand a word of it.”

“No? Thought you bloody scribblers took notes on everything. Don’t you recall a few years back when there was all that bother at the old teachers’ training college?”

“Vaguely. Principal got knocked off, didn’t she?”

“Aye, and some others. Well, yon lad Roote were the one mainly responsible.”

“Was he, by God?”

Penn began to laugh.

“What?”

“I was just advising him that the best way to sell books isn’t to write well but to get yourself headlined for something else first.”

“Is that right? Ever the diplomat, eh, Charley? He got literary ambitions, has he?”

“Don’t know. We were just talking about this short story competition which me and Sam Johnson and your Ellie Pascoe have been dragooned in to judge and it seems young Roote may have entered.”

Bowler, who’d returned with a second pint (having discovered as many before that being Andy Dalziel’s bheesty might be expensive but it didn’t half get you good service), caught the end of this and opened his mouth excitedly, but on receiving a glance like a blow from the Fat Man changed his mind about letting words out and instead thrust the neck of his bottle of lager in.

“So what was all that about a bottle of whisky?” continued Penn.

“Bugger cracked one belonging to me over my head,” said Dalziel.

“And he’s still living? What’s up, Andy? You got religion?”

“You know me, Charley. Strictly non-violent, except by way of self-defence. Which brings me to Jax Ripley. You were defending yourself when you assaulted her across in Leeds, were you?”

Penn yawned and said, “Oh, that.”

“You don’t sound surprised, Charley.”

“Supposed to leap up, wild-eyed, and make a run for the street where your sharp-shooters will gun me down, am I? No, I’m not surprised. Disappointed, maybe. When my front door wasn’t knocked down by your wild bunch the day after the poor lass was murdered, I thought either it had got forgotten or maybe the case was being run by someone with half an ounce of sense.”

“That’s a bit subtle for me, Charley.”

“It means, what the hell can me crowning her with a cream cake five years back have to do with some maniac sticking a knife into her last week? I bet if you went just a few more years back, you’d find some lad at school got detention for pulling her hair. Are you going to have him in for questioning?”

“Meaning your behaviour were infantile? Aye, that’s how it looks to me too. But infantile behaviour in the middle-aged can have another name too, Charley.”

“Which is?”

“Nay, you’re the word man, you tell me.”

Penn finished his drink and said, “OK, it was a stupid thing to do, I should have just ignored what she’d written, but I was across in Leeds having lunch with a publisher’s rep, and I’d had a couple of drinks and when the sweet trolley came round and I saw this gateau, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“And afterwards? I don’t imagine you became best friends.”

A sly smile tweaked at Penn’s mouth.

“Funny you should say that. I realized what a prat I’d made of myself so after the case I sent her a big bottle of champagne with a note saying, Sorry, hope we can kiss and make up . Next day she turned up at my place with the bottle. At first I thought she’d come to tell me to stuff it, but she smiled sweetly and said, ‘Hello, Mr. Penn. I’ve come to kiss and make up.’”

“And?”

“We kissed, and then we opened the bottle and drank it, and after that, well, we made up.”

Dalziel looked at him in disbelief.

“You mean you and her were at it?”

“Only the once,” said Penn regretfully. “But it cements a relationship, and we were OK after that. Which was, I came to realize later, probably the sole aim of the exercise. She was always heading onwards and upwards, our Jax. I saw a bit of her after she moved on from yon glossy magazine to the Gazette and she once said to me, ‘Making friends is more important to an ambitious girl than making enemies. You mustn’t be afraid of making enemies, but you shouldn’t make them unnecessarily, else you never know when you’re going to end up with crumbs and cream in your hair.’”

“Or a knife in your heart,” said Dalziel.

“Aye, that too. No, we mended all our fences and she even started being nice about my books. If you saw her last show, you must have seen that interview she did with me.”

“Aye, all sweetness and light. All that stuff about being in two times at the same place were a bit above my head, but.”

“Still playing the thick yokel, Andy? I’ll send you a copy of my book on Heine when it’s done. There’s a whole chapter on his doppelgänger poems. I thought it would add a bit of mystery to use the theme in my novels.”

“I know more about doppel-whiskies myself,” said Dalziel, “but I thought if you met one of them things, you died.”

“We all die,” said Penn. “Me, I think we meet our doppelgänger all the time. It’s recognizing them that’s the trick. To get back to Jax, I really liked her, Andy, and I was choked when I heard what happened. I hope you’ve got better leads than the one that led you to me, ’cos if you haven’t, you’re knackered, and I want to see you get the bastard who killed her. Here, lad. Do me a favour, trot up to the bar and get another round in.”

He pushed a fifty-pound note toward Bowler who looked questioningly at Dalziel.

“Mr. Bowler here is my detective constable, not your pot-boy,” said the Fat Man sternly.

Then he plucked the note from Penn’s hand and added, “But we’re here to serve the public, so off you go, lad. Same again, and mebbe I’ll let Mr. Penn’s publishers treat me to a chaser. HP.”

“Sauce?” said Bowler, puzzled.

“Highland Park,” said Dalziel long-sufferingly.

“New, is he?” said Penn as the DC once more made his way to the bar.

“Newish. Still on probation. So, Charley, flashing the monkeys around and a new telly series starting next week. You’re doing well.”

“Aye. Bloody marvellous,” grunted Penn.

“If you’ll excuse me saying, monkeys or no monkeys, you don’t sound like a man who’s all that happy in his work.”