Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

In particular, Hat’s immediate return to Stangcreek Cottage where he’d promptly secured the axe and taken a preliminary statement from Dick Dee had been approved, not because of anything it produced but because it kept the librarian in situ as a witness. That he must also be classed as a suspect, Bowler had known from the minute he saw the body, and if Dee hadn’t been in the cottage when he and Rye got back to it, the DC would have put out a call to pick him up. Similarly if he’d tried to leave before the troops arrived, he would have arrested him which would have started the custodial clock ticking.

Not that it was just professional satisfaction at not wasting any precious senior officer interrogation time that he felt. The way that Rye had accepted Dee’s comforting on their return to the cottage had made him very aware that if she got a sniff he was treating her boss as a serious suspect, the smooth course of their relationship might have hit a rock. She’d probably got the message by now, but at a sufficient remove for the blame to be heaped on Pascoe or the Fat Man rather than his lowly self.

The good news (if the removal of a possible perp from the frame could be called good news) was that they’d found nothing positive to link Dee with the Hon.’s death.

It was true that his prints were all over the axe which Forensic had confirmed was the instrument used to sever the Hon.’s head, but as he’d been using it to split logs in Hat’s presence, this was hardly surprising. He did have a small cut on one of his fingers, but when his claim that his blood type was O was confirmed by a check of his medical records (written permission to see which “for elimination purposes” he readily gave), hope of tying him in to the AB blood spots on the fish hook faded.

Dalziel, who felt that anyone found using a bloodstained axe near a headless body was at the very least guilty of wasting police time, seemed inclined to blame the messenger, but Pascoe’s slim shoulders had grown professionally broad over the years and he was able to ignore the accusatory grunts and snorts and carry on with his meticulous summation of the lack of evidence against Dee.

“The path. report suggests the Hon. had been dead between two and four days. Dee’s alibi’d at work for most of the relevant daylight hours. After work with the evenings drawing in, seems less of a possibility. The time it would have taken to get out there means it would have been dusk when they arrived-”

“They?” interrupted Wield.

“The killer must have driven the Hon.’s Land-Rover back from the tarn, ergo he must have gone out there in it,” said Pascoe. “However, we do know that the Hon. often spent time out there fishing at night. In fact, interestingly, it was Dee himself who told us that. He has been most helpful and co-operative throughout.”

“That’s a mark agin him,” said Dalziel hopefully. “Member of the public trying to help the police has got summat on his conscience, that’s my experience.”

“Perhaps you should widen your social circles, sir,” murmured Pascoe. “But it makes little difference as Dee is alibi’d for the nights too.”

“Oh aye? Shagging someone, is he?” said the Fat Man.

“He didn’t volunteer any details of his emotional life,” said Pascoe. “But he spent one of the evenings in question at a county librarians’ meeting in Sheffield to which he drove with Percy Follows, getting back here after midnight. The other he spent at Charley Penn’s flat where, having drunk very freely of Penn’s Scotch, he spent the night on the sofa. Penn confirms.”

The phone rang. Dalziel picked it up, listened, then said, “If I were on my way, I’d not be answering the sodding phone, would I? Soon!”

He banged it down again.

“Mr. Trimble?” said Pascoe.

“His secretary. If it had been Dan, I’d not have been so polite. Pete, I’m letting you rabbit on like this in the hope you’re keeping the good news till the last. Should I hold my breath?”

“No, sir. Sorry.”

“Then sod it, I might as well go and help Dan find where he’s hid his Scotch,” said the Fat Man, rising and making for the door.

“Sir,” said Hat.

“What sir’s that, lad?” said Dalziel in the doorway.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Is it ‘Mr. Dalziel, sir, please don’t leave ’cos I’ve got summat very perceptive to say’? Or is it ‘Mr. Pascoe, sir, now the old fart’s gone, I’ve got summat very perceptive to say’?”

Hat knew that there were some questions better unanswered.

He said, “I was just thinking, what if there were two of them?”

“Two bodies you mean? Wieldy, you were at the PM. Didn’t the loose bits match?”

Wield said, “Think he means two killers.”

“Jesus. Why stick at two? If we’re into invention, let’s make it a mob.”

“Two would mean that neither of them actually needed to have travelled out to the tarn with Lord Pyke-Strengler,” said Hat. “And there’d have been a spare driver to bring his Land-Rover back.”

“To what end?” enquired Pascoe.

“The Land-Rover would get noticed from a distance out there,” said Hat. “The body where it was could have lain there a lot longer if we hadn’t happened to stumble on it. The longer it lies, the less there is for us to find. Or maybe the idea was to shift it. Maybe that was what Dee was up to, but he saw us wandering around on the far side of the tarn and when we started out towards the cottage, he got back there fast to intercept us. He didn’t seem very keen for us to go on.”

“In your statement all you say is he remarked it got a bit boggy further along the shore,” said Pascoe.

“Well, there’s different ways of saying things,” said Hat, blushing slightly.

“Especially if they don’t fit a thesis, eh?” said Pascoe. “Where’s this leading, Hat? Are we still talking about Dee? Like I just told you, he’s alibi’d.”

“Not if Charley Penn’s the other half of the pair, he isn’t,” said Hat.

Dalziel said, “Still fancy Charley, do you, lad? I’ll say this for you, once you get someone in your sights, you keep the bugger there.”

There wasn’t the usual force in his mockery, however, and Hat felt encouraged enough to go on.

“And if they were both in it, then it doesn’t matter that Penn’s got an alibi for the Johnson killing.”

“Which you established by interviewing his mother,” said Dalziel. “I were going to talk to you about your interview techniques, lad.”

His tone was now distinctly unfriendly.

“Something come up, sir?” said Pascoe.

“Nothing important. Just that Sherlock here got it all wrong and it seems Charley weren’t anywhere near his ma’s place that Sunday.”

Hat felt both crestfallen and elated at the same time.

Pascoe said, “He admits this?”

“He does now,” said Dalziel. “But don’t start oiling your handcuffs. He says he’s got another alibi. Claims he spent the afternoon on the nest with a ladyfriend.”

“And what’s the ladyfriend say?”

“Nowt. Turns out she’s on holiday in the Seychelles for three weeks. With her husband. So we need to tread careful.”

“Why’s that?”

“Seems the lady in question is Maggot Blossom. That’s right. Helpmeet and comfort to Joe Blossom, the Lord of the Flies, our beloved mayor. So we’ll need to wait till they get back afore we make enquiries.”

“Not like you to be so diplomatic, sir,” said Pascoe provocatively.

“Not diplomatic. Careful. Yon Maggot’s got a leg-lock could break a man’s spine.” Then in face of Pascoe’s sceptical moue, he added, “Also, she’s got a tattoo somewhere Charley couldn’t know about unless …Any road, unless young Bowler here can come up with summat more than a funny feeling, looks like Penn’s right on the edge of the frame.”