Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Yes, this time I am surprised to detect so much of sadness in my joy, a sense of melancholy which remains with me even as I step out into the empty street and feel the tremor of time beneath the pavement once more .

Why so?

Perhaps because he smiled so welcomingly and made me real coffee instead of instant .

Perhaps because here was a man who should have been happy but for whom, as he might have said himself, life became too great a bore. …

No, not doubts, not second thoughts .

Just a sense that, no matter how desirable my ultimate destination, this journey might yet take me to places I would rather not visit .

Yes, to be sure, no one said it would be roses all the way. Yes, to be sure, death’s fine, just another turn on the path. But maybe not being born is the very best option, eh?

Talk soon .

The dialogue had been found in its usual buff envelope, once more addressed Reference Library , tucked away behind a pile of books reserved for collection on the reception counter close by where the morning mail basket was placed.

Whether it had fallen there by accident or been placed there by design was impossible to say as no one on the staff could assert with absolute certainty that it hadn’t lain there unnoticed since Monday. Even worse, from Dalziel’s point of view, was the fact that the young female librarian who’d found the envelope had excitedly shared her suspicion of its contents with her nearest colleagues and a couple of eavesdropping members of the public before calling the police. Keeping the Fourth Dialogue out of the public domain had been easy with only the Centre security firm who’d handed over the unopened envelope to threaten into silence. But with rumours of the Fifth already starting to circulate, sitting on the Fourth could rapidly turn into a public relations disaster, and Dalziel found himself ordered from above to get his revelation in first. So a statement was put out and a press conference promised for a later date.

Pascoe, after digesting the new Dialogue, saw no reason to change his tack.

“This alters nothing,” he said. “Except maybe now we know why Roote’s been sitting there crying murder. Why pretend it’s anything else when you know the Dialogue admitting all is on its way? Or maybe he thought we’d seen the Dialogue already and were trying to do a bluff on him by ignoring it, and that really got up his nose.”

“But, sir,” said Bowler, “the Wordman describes seeing Roote go in with Dr. Johnson, then he had to wait till Roote came out.”

“Jesus,” said Pascoe in exasperation. “If Roote wrote the Dialogue, that’s exactly what he would say, isn’t it? I mean, he knows we know he was there. You two saw him going off with Johnson on Sunday, we’ve got witnesses who recall seeing them going into the block of flats-but none, incidentally, who recall noticing anyone else unaccounted for hanging around the place-and forensic have picked up traces of him all over the apartment.”

“That it?” said Dalziel.

“And there’s the poem Sam was reading. It took someone pretty familiar with both Beddoes and Sam’s Sheffield background to make sure the book was open at something so appropriate.”

He had told Dalziel about the alleged reasons for Johnson’s move. The Fat Man had yawned. Now Pascoe concentrated his arguments on the potentially more sympathetic ear of Bowler.

“And if we look at the Dialogue, see here, there’s a reference to the poem, this bit about his breath being so light it wouldn’t have shaken a rose-leaf down. That’s almost a direct quote from the first stanza, don’t you see?”

“Yes, sir, I see, sir,” said Bowler. “But …”

“But what?” Doubt from Dalziel was one thing, but from a DC it came close to mutiny!

“But it’s all a bit …convoluted, isn’t it, sir?”

“Convoluted?” echoed Dalziel. “It’s fucking contortuplicated!”

That sounded like a Dalziel original, but Pascoe had been caught out before and made a note to look it up before making comment.

Dalziel went on, “It’s bad enough having this bugger sitting out there, laughing at us, without going looking for trouble. You’ve had Hawkeye here give Roote the once-over already, and I dare say you’re so obsessed with the nasty little sod that you’ve checked him out against every bit of nastiness that’s gone on since he arrived in town. And you’ve not come up with owt, else you’d have him banged up, preferably underground and in shackles. Any other ideas? Anyone?”

Hat took a deep breath and said, “If we’re looking for someone with a strong connection to all the victims, except the first two who seem to be random, well, there’s Charley Penn. And he drives an old banger which would fit in with the First Dialogue.”

“Oh God,” said Dalziel. “Do I smell another obsession? I know Charley is mooning around after your bit in the library, but sooner or later, lad, you’ve got to start thinking with your head not your dick.”

Hat flushed and said, “You said yourself, sir, he’s something else!”

“Aye, he is, but that doesn’t make him a killer,” said Dalziel, rifling through his case file. “Here we are. Charley Penn. Asked as a matter of routine where he was Sunday afternoon. Said he went as usual to visit his mother who has a cottage on Lord Partridge’s estate at Haysgarth …that checked out, did it?”

Pascoe said, “More or less.”

Dalziel gave him a long look and said, “If I ask a lass, ‘Did you enjoy that, luv?’ and she answers, ‘More or less,’ I get worried.”

Pascoe said carefully, “It was Hat here who checked.”

“Bowler?” He looked at Hat with a predatory speculation. “You thought it worth a couple of hours of valuable CID time sending the lad out to Haysgarth rather than using the local woodentop? This one of your hunches, Pete?”

“I sort of volunteered, sir,” said Hat nobly.

“I see. One of your hunches then. So what did the old lady say?”

“Not much, at least not much I could understand,” said Hat ruefully. “Seemed to think I was a member of the Stasi, rattled away in German, and when I finally got her to speak English, her accent was so thick it was almost as hard to understand. All I got out of her was that her Karl was a good boy and loved his old mutti and the lovely cakes she makes so much he was hardly ever away from her. I asked about that Sunday and she said that he was with her every Sunday and every other day he could manage. And then she started in German again.”

“Said he likes her cakes, did she?” said Dalziel thoughtfully. “So, no written statement then?”

“It didn’t seem an option, sir,” said Hat uneasily.

“Nor indeed a necessity,” said Pascoe. “I think we’ve wasted enough time on Penn unless anyone knows of any real reason for putting Penn in the frame?”

“If you can fit Roote in, there’s lots of room for any bugger,” said Dalziel. “How about you, Wieldy? You got anyone you’d like to fit up? No? Good. Then let’s all start pulling in the same direction and see if we can’t plough this murdering bastard into the ground. Bowler, I reckon soon as I take my eye off you, you’ll go swanning round to that library you’re so fond of, so why don’t you go there officially and don’t come back till you’ve found out how and when this envelope was delivered, right? Even if it means stamping some of them dozy buggers overdue.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”

He vanished.

Dalziel said, “Nice to see someone so happy when I give ’em a job. Let’s see if I can’t do the same for you two miserable sods!”