Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Hat was indeed happy to have an excuse to visit the library. He’d thought of ringing Rye last night but decided it would be a wrong move. Progress was steady but a wise strategist knew when to press, when to hold back. That was the way the Jack-the-lad part of him analysed the situation. But there was another more shadowy area of thought and feeling which acknowledged that the more he saw of Rye, the more important it became to keep on seeing her. This wasn’t just another skirmish in that unremitting sexual campaign which all Jack-the-lad young men enter upon at puberty-approach, lay siege, negotiate terms, occupy, move on. This was …well, he didn’t quite know what it was because he belonged to a generation conditioned to mock the idioms of romantic love, and what we don’t have words for, we find it hard to think about. But he knew that to lose her by crowding her would be a folly he’d never forgive himself for.

But now, with new secret information to share, he anticipated being made very welcome. Jesuitically, he had worked out that the decision to go public about the existence of the two latest Dialogues permitted him to use his own best judgment about who he passed on the details to. And of course he’d swear her to secrecy. This too was a kind of intimacy, the Jack-the-lad strategist pointed out gleefully; and each such move was a move in the right direction. Which was, of course, bed. But more than bed. Breakfast and beyond. Even the bed bit was different. He’d always looked forward to sex with a healthy young appetite, but never before like this, for imagining it with Rye Pomona made the marrow bubble along his bones and pushed him into a languorous swoon which almost made him drive up the exit lane of the Centre car park.

Retreating under a chorus of protesting horns conducted by a flurry of abusive fingers, he found the correct entrance, parked and made his way to the main library.

With the image of a roused Dalziel fresh in his mind, his investigation was painstakingly thorough to a degree which brought the two women and one man involved to a state of mutiny. But by dint of forcing them to recall which of the reserved books had been collected earlier in the week, he managed to establish that the weight of probability lay on the side of the envelope not having been there on Monday morning. Tuesday, which was yesterday, the day that Johnson’s body had been found, was less certain. And today, Wednesday, it had of course been found.

Satisfied he could get no more out of them, he left and headed upstairs to the reference library. By now it was lunchtime, and he peered into the staffroom as he passed in case Rye was eating her sandwich there. No sign of her, nor at first glance in the deserted reference library.

He went up to the desk and through the partially opened door of the office behind the counter, he glimpsed Dick Dee, his head bent over something on the desk which absorbed him so much that he was oblivious to Hat’s silent approach.

He was playing Scrabble …no, not Scrabble, it must be that funny game, Paronomania. Hat felt pleased with himself for recalling the word, but his pleasure was quenched almost instantly by a jealous certainty that Dee’s opponent was Rye.

There was a click of tiles being moved and Dee shook his head, smiling in admiration at some adept move, and said, “Oh, thou crafty Kraut, well done indeed.”

And Bowler just had time to feel puzzled as to why Dee should be addressing Rye as Kraut, when a most unfeminine voice replied, “Thank ’ee kindly, whoreson,” and his tentative knock at the well-oiled door pushed it open sufficiently for him to see the distinctive profile of Charley Penn.

“Mr. Bowler, do step inside,” said Dee politely.

He went into the office. The men on the wall all seemed to be examining him critically like a candidate for a job they didn’t think he was going to get. On the other hand, the teenage trio in the photo on the desk seemed to look straight through him at a world which, united, they did not doubt their capacity to deal with.

“Is your errand avian, amoristic or authoritarian?” said Dee.

“Sorry?” said Hat.

Penn was grinning at him. Hat felt, unusually for one not naturally violent, like wiping his clock.

“Do you require information about birds? Or do you wish to ask after Rye? Or have you come to quiz us about the latest Dialogue?”

Hat forgot about Penn and said, he hoped neutrally, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Dee?”

“I’m sorry,” said Dee. “Is it confidential? Of course it is. Forget I spoke. It was crass of me, and certainly not a subject to be flippant about.”

The apology came across as sincere rather than an empty formality.

“Mr. Dee, I’m not saying there has been another, but if there was, I’d like to know what you know about it,” insisted Hat.

“All I know is what all the library staff know, that a suspicious envelope was found this morning and handed over to the police and as it hasn’t been returned since-though of course that too might be the purpose of your visit-then it seems likely it contained matter of interest to you. But please, forget and forgive my curiosity. I have no desire to embarrass you professionally.”

“Doesn’t bother me, though,” said Penn in his grating voice. “My guess ’ud be that you’ve heard from yon loony again and it’s something to do with Sam Johnson. Right?”

“That just a lucky guess, Mr. Penn?” said Hat.

His gaze engaged the writer’s and locked for a while, then fell. Never get into a fight it’s not worth winning. He found himself looking down at the Paronomania board. It was the same star shape as the one he’d seen in Penn’s flat, but the designs on it were different. These seemed to have been taken from an old map, with wind-puffing cherubs, spouting whales, towering ice-cliffs, disporting mermaids. The game was well advanced with numerous tiles laid out, going in all directions, but none of the letter combinations made any sense to Hat. And there were three tile racks in use, one before each of the two facing players, the third between them. Only two can play, he recalled Rye telling him. Why should she lie? Unless she was the third player, involved in some weird ménage à trois with these two?

It was a thought as disgusting as silverfish in a salad bowl, but before he rinsed it from his mind, he found himself looking to see if there were anywhere Rye could have retreated to at his approach.

There wasn’t. There wasn’t even a window to climb out of.

Jesus, Bowler! What kind of nutty creep are you turning into? he asked himself angrily.

Charley Penn was answering his spoken question.

“Not lucky, by any standards, and hardly a guess, Constable. First thing we all thought when we heard about poor Sam yesterday was, it has to be this Wordman. Then folk started whispering suicide. Well, it seemed possible. Too much Beddoes could drive anyone down that road. But the more I thought, the less likely it seemed. I’d not known him long, but I’d have put him stronger than that. I’m right, aren’t I? If this envelope Dick mentioned does contain another Dialogue, it has to be about Sam Johnson, right?”

“No comment,” said Hat. “Mr. Dee, is Rye here?”

“Sorry, you’re out of luck,” said Dee. “She’s got a touch of this flu-bug that’s around. She looked so ill yesterday, I sent her home and told her not to come back till she was better and our readers were safe.”

“Right. Thank you.”

As he turned away, Dee said, “Would you like her phone number? I’m sure she would be comforted to know you were asking after her.”

This was kind, thought Hat, recalling that not so long back, the librarian had felt unable to pass Rye’s number on. She must have said something to suggest their relationship had taken a step forward.