Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“Yeah, sure. Listen, maybe we could meet up before that, do a movie or something …”

“From what I’ve seen of your job a girl would be crazy to arrange to meet you anywhere but in her own warm flat,” she replied. “You can give me a ring when you’re definitely and unrecallably free. See you.”

He watched her walk away, lovely carriage, head held high, with just a touch of sinuosity around the waist producing the merest hint of a sway of the buttocks.

Oh, you’re the girl for me, he told himself as she passed out of sight.

He turned to lean over the balustrade, feeling able at will to share the warm joy flooding through his body with all the hurrying people in the shopping centre below.

And found himself looking straight into the accusing eyes of Peter Pascoe, standing among the shoppers, peering up at the balcony, with his right hand pressing his mobile phone to his ear and his left waving an angry summons to descend.

Ripeness is all, as every spin doctor knows, and what the seer beholds is usually what the beholder is ready to see.

In fact Peter Pascoe’s gaze was relieved not accusing, and his summons was imperative rather than angry.

He’d been on his way to the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre when the phone rang and it had been the voice he heard that had stopped him in his tracks.

“Roote? How the hell did you get this number?”

“I don’t really recall, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I didn’t know who else to try. I mean, I could have rung 999 but by the time I explained, especially as I’m not sure what I’m explaining …but I thought you would know what to do for the best.”

He sounded uncharacteristically agitated. In all their acquaintance, even at moments of great crisis, Pascoe could never recall the man being anything but controlled.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“It’s Sam. Dr. Johnson. I went round to his room in the Uni yesterday after the funeral to pick up a book he’d promised to lend me, but he wasn’t there. I thought he’d just forgotten. I tried again later, but still no sign. So I rang his flat last night but didn’t get any reply. I’ve just been up to his room again during my morning break and it’s still locked and there were some students hanging around, waiting for a seminar, and they said he had missed a lecture yesterday too, so I tried ringing his flat again, but still no reply. So now I was really worried and thought I ought to tell someone in authority, and I thought you would be best as you’re a friend, of his I mean, and would know what to do.”

“Where are you now?” asked Pascoe.

“At the university. English Department.”

Pascoe’s mind was racing. He knew it was stupid, but around Roote, he never felt fully in control. He tried to see the angle here but couldn’t.

But it was at this point he saw Bowler.

“Stay there. I’ll come round,” he ordered as he waved at the DC.

Hat hurried down, rehearsing his explanation for being discovered lounging on the balcony at Hal’s like a gentleman of leisure taking his ease in the middle of the morning.

“You got your car here?” said Pascoe.

“Yes, in the multi.”

“Good. You can give me a lift. I walked from the station.”

“And you want a lift back?” said Hat.

“No. To the university. It will save me a bit of time.”

It was a weak excuse, but he didn’t feel like explaining he preferred to have a witness in any encounter arranged by Roote.

They didn’t talk as they strode to the car park.

“Oh God,” said Pascoe. “I’d forgotten the MG.”

Bowler’s ancient two-seater lay between a Discovery and a Jeep like a whippet between a pair of St. Bernards.

“Takes you back, does it, sir?” said Bowler proudly.

“Back is not so far that I need to be taken there,” said Pascoe acidly, slipping with what he hoped was athletic ease into the passenger seat. “Don’t give many lifts to the super, I presume.”

“No, sir. Don’t have the insurance,” laughed Bowler. “Any particular reason we’re going to the Uni?”

Pascoe explained, making light of Johnson’s alleged disappearance with the anticipatable result that the DC was even more puzzled than he might have been.

“So why the rush, sir? Most likely this Johnson guy’s taken a long weekend. I mean, when I was a student, it sometimes seemed like you had more chance of getting hold of Madonna than getting hold of your tutor. Is it Roote ringing you that makes the difference?”

Smart ass, thought Pascoe. He reminds me of me.

He said, “What the devil were you doing in that gallery anyway?”

The form of the question might have puzzled Bowler a little if the content hadn’t disconcerted him a lot.

“I was having a coffee, sir.” It occurred to Hat that he’d no idea at what point Pascoe had first observed him and he went on, “In fact, I’d been having a coffee with Miss Pomona. There was something I wanted to ask her and she suggested we met outside the library.”

“Oh?” said Pascoe, smiling. “Discretion in this case being the better part of amour , eh?”

Hat’s French was up to this and he shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir. Strictly business.”

“In that case, presumably it’s my business too. So do tell.”

For a second Hat thought of coming clean about George Headingley, but off-loading his problem felt pretty naff and certainly wasn’t going to win him any Brownie points, so instead he told the DI about his unease in re Charley Penn.

“You seem to have it in for Charley,” said Pascoe. “First Jax Ripley, now Cyril Steel. Nothing personal, I hope?”

“No, sir. Just that he keeps popping up.” Then, batting the ball firmly back he added, “Like Roote.”

Pascoe glanced at him sharply but detected nothing but proper subordinate deference.

Oh you do remind me of me, you cocky sod , he thought.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

The plate-glass windows of the Ivory Tower which housed the English Department were flashing what might have been an SOS as the scudding clouds intermittently masked the autumn sun. They found Roote in the foyer talking to a maintenance man who was protesting that he couldn’t open up a member of staff’s room just because a student asked him.

“Now I’m asking,” said Pascoe, showing his warrant card.

Ascent was via a paternoster lift, so called in Pascoe’s opinion because even a practising atheist (and especially a practising atheist with claustrophobic tendencies) was ill-advised to use such a contraption without resort to prayer.

The maintenance man stepped in and was translated. The next platform rose and Pascoe motioned Bowler in while he summoned up all his aplomb. Two more platforms passed and there was still no sign that his aplomb had heard the summons. He took a deep breath, felt a gentle pressure on his elbow, then he and Franny Roote stepped forward in perfect unison. The pressure vanished instantly. He glanced sharply at the young man in search of signs of amusement or, worse, sympathy. But Roote’s eyes were blank, his expression introspective, and Pascoe began to wonder if he’d imagined the helping hand. Bowler’s legs suddenly came into view.

“Here we are,” said Roote, and Pascoe, determined not to be assisted again, exited with an unnecessarily athletic leap.

It took only a few seconds to establish that Johnson’s room was empty and, from the evidence of a series of notes pushed under the door in which students recorded their vain attempts to keep appointments, had been empty since the weekend.

“You say you’ve been round to his flat?” said Pascoe.