Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Franny Roote was there too. Why he had come might be interesting to find out, but in his inevitable black garb, standing to one side, quietly observing the others, he looked like death’s footman waiting for a signal to come forward and be of service. He made a strong contrast with Charley Penn, who had been moved by the occasion to change his usual cracked leather jerkin and balding corduroys for a wide-lapelled jacket and slightly flared trousers in a pale almost luminous grey with a faint pink pin-stripe, so that he looked better suited for a seventies wedding than a contemporary funeral. Dalziel, on the other hand, was wearing a jacket so black it made the undertaker’s look like Day-Glo. Pascoe, by his side, was elegantly slim in a suit of Italian cut which Hat guessed had been chosen by his wife, not because he doubted Pascoe’s taste but because he suspected, left to his own device, the DCI would have opted for something more conservative. To look smart and have the social graces was a definite plus in the upper reaches of today’s police force, but to look expensively flash still raised eyebrows. In reverse of civvy practice, the wise cop with the gold Rolex always claimed it was a Hong Kong clone.

The day was still and the mourners were so quiet despite their number that the words and sounds coming from the graveside carried quite clearly even to those like Hat at some distance from the dull centre of these exequies.

… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …

… the throb of a woman sobbing …

… and that most final of sounds, the slat of earth on the coffin lid …

Then it was over, and the crowd, unified for a space in the presence of the great mystery of death, returned with an almost audible sigh of relief to the even greater mystery of life and decoalesced rapidly into the small groups and diurnal concerns by which we avoid contemplating either.

Hat watched the dispersal from the porch. Some moved swiftly to their cars, guessing that a traffic jam awaited them half a mile down the narrow country road where it joined the arterial. Others strolled in the opposite direction towards the village centre. There were two pubs, The Baker’s Arms and The Bellman. Mrs. Ripley’s cottage was too small for large numbers and the family had booked a room at The Bellman for the funeral meats, which were by invitation only, a wise precaution, thought Hat, who had observed in the past the ravenous appetites of media men. As far as he knew, none of the police present had been invited either, though he doubted if this would inhibit Dalziel.

He saw the family party moving past now in company with the vicar, led by Mrs. Ripley, pale as moonlight, between a young man and woman who, Hat guessed, must be her son, a schoolteacher in Newcastle, and her other daughter who was a nurse in Washington, DC. From time to time he had opted for an interchange of information and anecdotes about families as a way of resisting Jax’s efforts to get him to be indiscreet about his work. He’d never slept with her despite her assurance on one occasion that she wanted him as a groin, not a grass, but it had been a close-run thing. Now he felt a huge pang of regret. He’d really liked her and he would never see her again.

Also, of course, with Andy Dalziel convinced he’d been spilling the inner secrets of CID in pillow talk, his self-denial hadn’t done anyone much good.

As the family group passed, the young woman glanced towards Hat, said something to her mother, slipped her arm free and came towards him.

She had just enough resemblance to her sister for Hat to be glad it was bright sunshine with lots of people around.

“Excuse me, you’re Detective Bowler, aren’t you?”

She probably still sounded very English in the States but her six years over there had laced her speech with a definite American edge.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Angie, Jax’s sister.”

“Yes, I guessed. I’m so very very sorry …”

He felt his voice break, to his surprise and his irritation too, fearful that it might sound deliberately contrived. But her face only showed understanding and she laid a hand on his arm and said, “Yeah, me too. Jax said you were nice.”

“She told you about me?” he said, flattered.

“Yes, we’d always been really close, and we stayed that way even when I started working over there, e-mails, letters, we told each other everything. I was talking to two other cops just now when they came to pay their respects to Mum, and I got them to point you out.”

Two other cops. Could only be Dalziel and Pascoe. His heart sank at the construction Dalziel was likely to have put on Angie’s knowledge of his name.

“I’ll miss her,” he said. “We were friends …at least, I felt like her friend, I don’t know if …I mean, what …”

She helped him out.

“That’s what she said. You started off as a possible contact and you became a friend. And you didn’t try to take advantage as a possible contact. And she wouldn’t have minded if you had as a friend. Hey, don’t blush. We tell …told each other everything. Have done since kids. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Jax was very ambitious, well, you must have spotted that, and she liked to get the inside track on anything that might help her in her job, and she reckoned that glass ceilings didn’t need bother a career girl so long as they were mirrors she was looking at some useful man’s bottom in. You’re blushing again. I told you we were frank.”

“Sorry. I’m more used to people trying to hide things when they talk to me.”

“Some job, eh? Listen, I was away on holiday, touring round Mexico when the news came about Jax, so I didn’t get to know about it till I got back a couple of days ago. It was eerie. I checked my computer and found a lot of mail from Jax and right alongside them this message from my brother asking me to contact him straightaway, and I didn’t want to because somehow I knew he was going to tell me Jax was dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hat helplessly. “It’s truly terrible. I found her …I can’t tell you how it felt …look, we’ll get the bastard …I know that’s what cops always say, but this time I mean it. We’ll get the bastard.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” said Angie. “Listen, walk with me. You’re coming to the pub?”

“Well, no, I mean, I haven’t been invited. …”

“I’m inviting you. Come on. We stand much longer in this porch, people will think I’m propositioning you.”

She took his arm and gently urged him after the other mourners. He glanced back and saw Dalziel and Pascoe watching him. The Fat Man’s face was blank but Bowler needed no special art to read the construction he was putting on this new alliance.

“So what is it you want to tell me?” he said.

She said, “Look, I don’t want to sound like some crazy person with ambitions to be a gumshoe, but there was something in that last e-mail from Jax which I felt you guys ought to know, though it could be you know about it already.”

Hat didn’t try to puzzle this out but just waited.

“She sent it the same night she got killed. She told me she’d just broken this big news story about a possible serial killer, and she hoped like hell it would help her get this job she was after in London. Then she went on to say that, whatever happened, she’d better get out of Yorkshire soon as there was this guy who was going to be so pissed off that she’d broken the story, he’d probably feel like killing her. I think she meant it as a joke. I mean, cops in England don’t go around killing people, do they? But I knew I had to talk to someone. …”

“Hang on,” said Hat. “You said cops …you’re talking about a policeman?”

“Of course I am,” she said impatiently. “Aren’t you listening? I’m talking about her inside man, the one who fed her all the stuff on what you guys were up to, including this serial killer stuff. You didn’t think you were the only one she set her sights on? Difference was, this guy was really happy to play. And I got to thinking as I flew over, he must have been really pissed off that she’d gone public.”