Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“Yes, she did. And Penn said he must have accidentally left it on top of the sack when he went up to the counter. But it didn’t look very accidental to me. And who’s to say he couldn’t have slipped the Dialogue in too and used the poem as a cover-story in case anyone did spot him?”

“Possible, I suppose, but unlikely. Anyway, we know where Penn is, he’s here. It’s the thought of Roote wandering round loose that bothers me.”

But determined to show he was being sensible, Pascoe diverted to a part of the Centre where his mobile got a good signal. He tried Dalziel’s home number. Nothing.

“Didn’t he say something about going dancing?” said Wield.

He tried the Fat Man’s mobile, still without success.

“Probably can’t hear it over the clicking of the castanets,” said Pascoe.

“He’ll have to sit out some time, else the floor won’t take it,” said Wield.

This was calumny as they both knew that Dalziel’s ability to trip lightly on the dance floor was indeed fantastic.

“We’re wasting time,” said Pascoe. “Roote could be out there killing somebody.”

“What if he is? Where are you going to look?” asked Wield reasonably. “Best thing is to call up the station and get them to send someone round to check if he’s in his flat and to keep a watch on it if he isn’t. At least that ’ud save you a wasted trip.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Wieldy,” said Pascoe. “What you’re really saying is I’m too partial and prejudiced to be allowed near him.”

“No, but that’s pretty well what Roote will be suggesting, isn’t it?” said Wield. “Look, Pete, he’s definitely got questions to answer. Maybe you shouldn’t be the one asking them, not to start with, anyway.”

“Bollocks,” said Pascoe.

But he rang the station and did as Wield suggested, urging that he be contacted as soon as the officers sent had reported from the flat.

It took another ten minutes during which he and Wield didn’t speak.

“No one there, sir,” came the report. “How long do you want them to stay on watch?”

“As long as it takes,” said Pascoe.

He switched off his phone, looked at the unreadable face of the sergeant and said with a sigh, “OK. You win. Let’s go and make our apologies.”

They’d arrived at the door of the studio. The tiered seats rose up steeply on three sides from the brightly lit shallow stage and it looked like a full house. Indeed the only empty seat he could see was at the front next to Ellie. She did not look pleased.

The length of time he’d been absent without explanation became apparent when suddenly there was a burst of applause and a cry of delight exploded at the back and a woman who didn’t look much over sixteen jumped out of her seat crying, “It’s me!” as the beam of a tight-focused spot swung across the audience till it picked her out.

She’d won third prize it emerged during a rambling and tearful thank you speech which out-Oscared the Oscars.

Wield said urgently, “Pete. End of row, left-hand wing, five rows back.”

Pascoe counted.

“Thank you, God,” he said.

Franny Roote was sitting there, dressed as always in black so that his pale face seemed to float out of the semi-gloom of the auditorium. An image came into Pascoe’s mind from some poem read long ago of a condemned prisoner being led to his death through a press of spectators. Even at a distance it was impossible to mistake that pale face. So it was with Roote; except, if Pascoe had got it right, here was the executioner, not the executed.

On the acting floor, Mary Agnew was announcing the runner-up who had written a story which, if the judges were to be believed, plumbed the depths of man’s inhumanity to man. The title and the pseudonym were read out, the envelope ripped open, and from the balcony came another delighted cry as a second woman, this one old enough to be her predecessor’s great-grandmother, saw fame descend.

“Come on,” said Pascoe as the audience applauded the newcomer onto the stage.

He hoped to slip unnoticed past Ellie, but failed. Her accusing gaze hit him like a sling-shot. He winced, smiled weakly, and pressed on up the aisle steps towards Roote.

“Mr. Roote,” he murmured. “Could we have a word?”

“Mr. Pascoe, hello. Of course, always glad to talk with you.”

The young man gazed up at him expectantly, the usual faint smile on his lips.

“I mean, outside.”

“Oh. Couldn’t it wait? This will be over soon. It’s going out live, you know.”

“I’d rather …”

Pascoe’s voice faded under an outbreak of irritated shushing, and he realized the second-place winner was into her thank you speech. Fortunately age had taught her the value of economy and it had twice the style in half the length of number three’s.

As she left the stage to renewed, and relieved, applause, Pascoe said firmly, “Now, please, Mr. Roote.”

“Just a couple more minutes,” pleaded the man.

Pascoe glanced round at Wield who shook his head slightly as if in answer to the unspoken question, How about I put him in an arm-lock and drag him out?

Below, Agnew was saying, “And now to our winner. The judges were unanimous in their choice. They said feel-good stories may not be popular in an age preoccupied with the seamier side of human experience, but when they are as beautifully crafted as this one, with a depth of humanity and a lightness of touch rarely found outside the great classical masters of the genre, then they are a reassuring affirmation of all that is best and most worthwhile in human experience. With a testimonial like that, I bet you can’t wait to read the story-which you’ll be able to do in the next issue of the Gazette . Its title is ‘Once Upon a Life,’ and its author’s very fitting pseudonym is Hilary Greatheart , whose real name is …”

Dramatic pause while the envelope was torn open.

Roote stood up.

Pascoe, a little surprised by this sudden capitulation, said, “Thank you. Let’s head out of the back door, shall we?”

Roote said, “No, no, I don’t think you understand,” and tried to push past.

Pascoe seized his arm, feeling a surge of deplorable pleasure that at last he was going to have an excuse to pass on some positive pain.

Then Wield seized his arm and said, “Pete, no.”

And at the same time a great light exploded in both his face and his mind as the prize-winner’s spot found them out and it registered that Mary Agnew had just proclaimed, “… Mr. Francis Roote of 17a Westburn Lane. Will you please come up, Mr. Roote?”

He let go and watched Franny Roote run lightly down the steps to accept his award.

“You OK, Pete?” said Wield anxiously.

“Never been better,” said Pascoe, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the brightly lit stage below. “At least we’ve got the bastard where we can see him. But I’ll tell you one thing, Wieldy. If he mentions me in his thank you speech, I may run down there and kill him.”

“… putting on my top hat, brushing off my tails,” sang Andy Dalziel.

“Andy, you are not wearing tails,” called Cap Marvell from her bedroom.

“Wasn’t talking about me clothes,” said Dalziel, looking down complacently at the kilt which encompassed his promontory buttocks.

Cap emerged from the bedroom.

“I don’t like the sound of that. You are wearing something underneath that skirt, aren’t you?”

For answer he lifted the kilt to reveal a pair of Union Jack boxer shorts and did a twirl.

Then he let his gaze run the whole length of the woman’s body from the discreet diamond tiara in her hair down the deeply cloven wine-coloured silk evening gown to the silver diamante-edged shoes and said, “By gum, tha looks a treat.”