Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

But to start with, it looked like Ellie had got it entirely wrong. If anything, the atmosphere at the drinks party was slightly less lively than the university church that morning. The last time most of those present had been gathered together in the Centre, Councillor Steel had been murdered. And enough of them had attended Sam Johnson’s funeral for his death to darken their thoughts too.

But as with most wakes, two or three drinks eventually brought light and a dawn chorus of chatter, and though the first person to laugh out loud looked a little apologetic, soon the gathering was indistinguishable in jollity from any other party which isn’t going to last long and where somebody else is paying for the booze. Who exactly, Pascoe didn’t know. Probably the Gazette . It occurred to him that the only person to ask the question out loud would have been Stuffer Steel, keen to ensure the ratepayers weren’t being ripped off. And Johnson might have been a little satirical too, though both of them would have made sure they got their share of what was on offer.

Not that anyone else seemed to be holding back. Nothing like the awareness of death for making folk grasp at life, thought Pascoe, looking round and counting heads. Yes, all the preview luminaries seemed to be here. Except of course those who were dead. And the dancing Dalziel. And the Hon. Geoffrey, or rather Lord Pyke-Strengler of the Stang, his full title now being due since, according to the papers, the sharks had left enough gobbets of his father to merit a small burial.

“So who’s the winner, Mary?” Ambrose Bird asked the newspaper editor.

“I’ve no idea,” said Agnew.

Bird cocked his head on one side, very bird-like, and said sceptically, “Come on, I’m sure you and dear Percy here have made damn sure no one’s going to win who might bring a blush to your maiden cheeks.”

This certainly made Follows flush, with irritation rather than embarrassment, but Mary Agnew laughed and said, “I think you’re confusing me with some other Mary, Brose. It’s true the winning story is a charming modern fairy tale, fit for children of all ages, but the two runners-up are a lot more gutsy. And it was Charley and Ellie here who selected them without interference from either Percy or myself.”

“No interference from Percy? That must have been a blessing,” said Bird.

“Some of us are capable of doing our designated jobs without sticking our long bills into other people’s business,” snapped Follows.

“Children, children, not in front of the adults,” said Charley Penn.

Bird glowered at Follows, then forced a smile and said, “Charley, you certainly must know the name of the winner. How about a hint?”

“Wrong again, Brose,” said Penn. “I know the name of the winning story and the pseudonym of the winner, but not his or her real name. Couldn’t have found out even if I wanted to. Mary could make Millbank look like Liberty Hall, she’s such a control freak. Seems every entry had to be accompanied by a sealed envelope with the story title and a pseudonym printed on the outside and the writer’s real name and address inside. She kept the envelopes well away from the judges. In fact she’s made rules about the rules. What it said in the Gazette was that no envelope would be opened till the decision had been made. But since the whole farce has turned into a mini-Booker with the results being announced live on the box, she and Spielberg there”-nodding towards John Wingate-“decided to screw up the tension by directing that none of the envelopes would be opened till tonight.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances. It wasn’t strictly true. After the recognition that the Dialogues were fact, not fiction, every entry to the competition had been matched with its envelope, and in the half-dozen or so cases where the chosen type-face seemed to correspond with that of the Dialogues, the envelopes had been opened and the writers checked out. It had proved as fruitless an exercise as Pascoe had guessed it would be, but, like the PR handouts say, behind the apparent glamour of detective work lie hundreds of tedious hours spent in such necessary humdrum elimination.

The thought provoked a yawn and Wield said, “You should try sleeping a bit more often.”

“I’d like to, but it’s not in my job description,” said Pascoe. “I’ll maybe catch up when I retire.”

“Like old George?”

“I think he’s kept in practise. Sorry. That’s not very charitable. And he’s not been looking so well recently, has he? I hope he’s not going to be one of those poor devils who look forward to retirement then when it comes, pffut!”

“Me too. I always had him down for a natural pensioner. Cottage in the country, potter around with his roses, write his reminiscences. Duck to water, I’d have said.”

“Maybe it’s started to hit him. Thirty-odd years it’s been. Where did he see it all leading back then? Now here he is, wondering where it’s all gone and how come all those paths of glory haven’t led him to the gravy. He can’t have planned to stop at DI.”

“There are lower peaks,” said Wield. “Like DS.”

“Wieldy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …hey, why am I apologizing, you know exactly what I meant and didn’t mean! Like I know that some DSs are where they are because that’s where they want to be.”

For a long time it had been a matter of puzzlement to him that someone with Wield’s abilities should show no enthusiasm whatsoever for promotion. He’d put the point to Dalziel many years back and got the terse answer, “Authority without exposure, that’s what being a sergeant means,” which only made sense when belatedly he became aware that Wield was gay.

“Mebbe George wanted to be where he ended,” said Wield. “He’s been a good cop. In fact, hearing what Mary Agnew said about them envelopes reminded me of what George said about the Wordman and the library. The Steel Dialogue was the first that didn’t show up in a story bag sent round from the Gazette , right?”

“Yes, because the competition closing date had passed and there weren’t going to be any more bags.”

“But since then both the Steel and the Johnson Dialogues have been delivered direct to the library,” persisted Wield, as if making a telling point.

“Which is why we’ve now installed our own state-of-the-art cameras to give us round the clock coverage of the library mailbox,” said Pascoe, puzzled.

“I know that,” said Wield patiently. “What I’m saying is we’ve assumed till now that the early Dialogues were all sent to the Gazette and only turned up at the library because they were taken to be entries for the story competition. If that’s the way it was, and the Wordman’s true choice of addressee for his Dialogues was the Gazette , why not keep on sending them there?”

“What’s your point, Wieldy?”

“If George is right and there’s a positive rather than just an accidental link between the Dialogues and the library, perhaps the early Dialogues were placed in among the entries after the bag got there.”

“Maybe,” said Pascoe. “But so what? Can’t keep a watch on the bags now, can we, because there aren’t any.”

“No, but I’m thinking-the story competition closed on the Friday that Ripley did her broadcast and got killed. According to the Gazette post-boy, the last sack of entries was dropped off here about eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Yon lass with the funny name that Bowler fancies found the Dialogue in it at nine fifteen. Did anyone check the security videos for the time between?”

“Not on my instruction,” admitted Pascoe. “Shit.”

“Shit on all of us,” said Wield. “But not a lot. If the Dialogue was put in the sack after it got here, chances are it was done during working hours by which time, courtesy the late Councillor Steel, most of the cameras would be switched off.”