Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Perhaps it was time to speak.

The door opened and George Headingley came in. He was looking a lot more at ease than he’d done for some time. With just a few more days to do, he’s beginning to think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, that he’s got away with it after all, thought Hat. Well, he may get a shock yet!

But observing those naturally jovial features starting to regain something of their old colour and form, he knew he couldn’t be the one to pull the plug.

“I’ve been thinking about these Dialogues,” said Headingley.

“Kind of you to take the time, George,” said Pascoe on whose crowded desk had spilled most of the extra work caused by the DI’s absence, whether bodily or mental. “And?”

“They keep turning up at the library even now the story comp’s finished. Could be not even the first one was really among the stories sent to the Gazette . Maybe they always got put into the bag after it arrived at the library, by someone who works there or uses the place a lot. I mean, what better place to find a Wordman?”

A sound like the crack of canvas in a typhoon made them all turn to the door where Dalziel stood applauding.

“Bravo, George. Glad to see you’re not sending your mind into retirement ahead of your body. Let that be a lesson to you, lad …” (addressing Hat) “… good detective never takes time off, it’s either in the blood or it’s nowhere.”

It wasn’t altogether clear to Hat whether there was an element of satire in this or not, but as the others seemed to be taking it at face value, he nodded and tried to look grateful.

“So, George, all set for the big send-off? Next Tuesday, isn’t it? With a bit of luck we’ll see to it that you spend the first twenty-four hours of your retirement unconscious!”

“No change there then,” muttered Pascoe as Headingley, looking a little flushed at all this attention, left the room.

“Now then, Chief Inspector,” said Dalziel sternly. “Who’s been rattling thy cage? Lot of sense in what George said. Wordman, library, the two things go together.”

“Like needle and haystack,” said Pascoe.

“Your boy, Roote, must use libraries a lot,” said Dalziel.

“More the university than the Centre,” said Pascoe with reluctant honesty.

“Same difference,” said the Fat Man. “Man likes to be whipped, you don’t worry which knocking shop. Charley Penn’s another, never away, so I hear. From libraries, I mean. Then there’s the staff. Mebbe we should take a closer look at them. Could be a cushy job there for you, young Bowler. Fancy taking a closer look at the staff, do you?”

The Fat Man smacked his lips salaciously and Hat felt himself flushing, out of both embarrassment and anger.

“All right, lad?” said Dalziel. “You’re looking a bit fevered. Not getting this flu-bug, I hope.”

“I’m fine, sir,” said Hat. “You were saying about the library staff …anyone in particular?”

“Aye, yon Follows. Man who spends so much time crimping his hair must have something wrong with him. Check the Offenders’ List. Then there’s yon guy Dee. His name rings a bell.”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of that Dr. Dee who got done for necromancy,” said Pascoe.

“Very like,” said Dalziel. “Check him out too, Bowler, see if there’s a connection. And if you can manage deep thought and mashing tea at the same time, I’d love a cup.”

“Sir …” said Hat hesitantly.

He looked at each of the trio of faces in turn. Curiously it was Wield’s, normally the most unreadable, which by some slight contraction of the left eyebrow confirmed that he was being sent up. Which felt much the same as being put down.

If a riposte that was smart as well as being angry had risen to his lips, he would probably have uttered it. But to exit on, “I’m not your bloody tea-boy, fatso. Make your own!” didn’t seem wise, so he muttered, “I’ll get right on to it,” and went out.

“Hat.”

He turned. Wield had followed him.

“Just because they’re taking the piss doesn’t mean they don’t take you seriously.”

“No, Sarge.”

“And just because you’re pissed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take them seriously either.”

“No, Sarge,” he repeated, feeling for some reason slightly cheered up.

There were several Follows in the computer, but none called Percy and none bearing any resemblance to the librarian. A few Dees, but no Richard, no librarian. And no doctor either. That had been a Pascoe crack, which meant it was likely to be what Dalziel would call arty-farty clever. Worth finding out what it meant just to show that the DCI wasn’t the only one here who’d got past his O-levels.

But first things first.

It was time to impress the Fat Man with his tea-making abilities.

By the time he left work that evening, Hat had fully recovered his normal cheerful spirits and persuaded himself that on the whole the signs were good. In the first months after his arrival, as his star rapidly sank, he had watched rather enviously as that of Detective Constable Shirley Novello steadily rose. But part of that rising he seemed to recollect had involved a deal of fetching and carrying and gentle mockery, so why should he now resent treatment which, doled out to her, he had once envied?

Plus he was going to see Rye and that was a prospect that automatically raised his spirits.

It’s not often in this existence that a man’s fantasies move, precise in every detail, out of his mind’s eye into plain view, and the shock is often counter-productive.

So it was when the door of Rye’s flat opened to reveal her standing before him in a loosely tied robe through whose interstices shone tracts of smooth flesh, both soft and firm, and all as richly golden as barley ripe for harvest.

He stood there, motionless and speechless, more like a man confronted by Medusa than his heart’s desire, till she said, “Do words come out of your mouth or does it just hang open to give the flies somewhere to shelter from the rain?”

“Sorry …I just didn’t …they said you were ill and I thought …I’m sorry to have got you out of bed …”

“You haven’t. I’m feeling a bit better and I’d just got up to have a shower, which I thought a man in your line of business might have worked out for himself.”

She pulled the towelling robe firmly shut as she spoke, and now he raised his eyes he saw that her hair was dripping water down her face. Sodden wet, the rich brown had darkened almost to blackness against which the streak of silvery grey shone as if composed of electric filaments.

“Those for me or are they evidence in your latest big case?”

He’d forgotten he was holding a bunch of carnations in one hand and a box of Belgian chocolates in the other.

“Sorry, yes. Here.”

He proffered them but she didn’t take them, only grinned and said, “If you think you’re getting me to leave go of this robe, you’re sadly mistaken. Come in and put them down somewhere while I get myself decent.”

“Hey, don’t let decent trouble you,” Hat called after her as she went out of sight. “I’m a cop. We’re trained to cope with anything.”

He set his gifts on a coffee table and looked around the room. It wasn’t large, but it was so neat and uncluttered that it felt more spacious than it was. Two small armchairs, a well-ordered bookcase, a standard lamp, and the coffee table, that was it.

He went to the bookcase. You could find out a lot about people from their books, or so he’d read somewhere. But only if you knew a lot about books in the first place, which he didn’t. One thing he could see was that there were a lot of plays here, reminding him that Rye came from a theatrical family. He plucked out a complete Shakespeare and opened it at the fly-leaf. There was a date, 1.5.91 , and an inscription, To Raina, Happy fifteenth to the Queen from the Clown Prince, with love from Serge xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx