Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Hat looked around desperately as if he hoped a messenger might arrive with a freshly penned confession.

Pascoe said encouragingly, “Nothing wrong with informed speculation, Hat. You must have something going through your mind to suggest the possibility that Dee and Penn might enter into a conspiracy?”

Hat said, “Well, they went to the same school.”

“So did Hitler and Wittgenstein,” laughed Pascoe. Then recalled where he’d got this bit of information. From Sam Johnson’s account of his first meeting with Charley Penn. He stopped laughing.

“And they play this weird game together,” Hat went on. “I saw them at it.”

“At it? You talking game as in rumpty-tumpty?” said Dalziel, interested.

“No, sir. It’s a board game, like Scrabble, only a lot harder. They use all kinds of different languages and there’s a lot of other rules. We saw a board when we were round at Penn’s flat, sir.”

“So we did,” said Pascoe. “Some odd name, what was it?”

“Pa-ro-no-mania,” said Hat carefully.

“Not paronomasia?” suggested Pascoe.

“No. Definitely mania. The other means word-play or punning, doesn’t it?” said Hat, happy to show Pascoe that he wasn’t the only clever bugger around.

“So it does,” said Pascoe. “And what does your word-which I must say I’ve never come across-mean?”

“It’s a real word, sir,” averred Hat, detecting a hint of dubiety. “It was Miss Pomona who told me about it after I saw them playing. Hang on, I’ve got a copy of the rules …”

He began to search through the wallet into which he’d put the papers Rye had given him before he’d taken to his sickbed.

“Here we go,” he said triumphantly, handing the tightly creased sheets to Pascoe who unfolded them carefully and read them with interest.

“OED, Second Edition. I stand corrected.”

“And I’m standing like a spare prick at a wedding,” said Dalziel. “This is worse than listening to yon pair of epidemics.”

“Sorry,” said Pascoe. “Hey, now, how about this. The OED always gives the earliest known usage of the word and in this case it’s, wait for it, Lord Lyttelton, 1760, Dialogues of the Dead . How’s that for coincidence?”

“I don’t know. How is it?” said Dalziel. “And what’s it mean, this word?”

“Well, seems it’s a factitious word, formed from a union of paronomasia and mania …”

Dalziel ground his teeth and Pascoe hurried on.

“… and it means basically ‘an obsessive interest in word games.’ Since 1978, it’s also been the proprietary name of this board game Penn and Dee are so fond of.”

“Never heard of it,” said Dalziel. “But I lost interest in board games after I found you got more rewards for climbing boring ladders than sliding down lovely slippery snakes.”

Pascoe avoided Wield’s eye and said, “Looking at the rules, I’m surprised anyone has ever heard of it: ‘language of shuffler’s choice …double points for intersecting rhymes …quadruple points for oxymorons …’ Jesus! Who’d want to play this?”

“Dee and Penn play it all the time evidently,” said Hat.

“Miss Pomona told you that too, I presume?” said Pascoe. “And how long have you been nursing this interesting information to your bosom?”

He spoke with studied politeness but Hat caught his drift instantly and said, “Not long. I mean, I only found out about it last week, and then I went sick, and really it didn’t seem to mean much, not till I heard Dr. Urquhart and Dr. Pottle going on today, then Mr. Pascoe said about Penn giving Dee his alibi for one night last week, and I thought …”

“Nay lad, wait till you’re in the dock afore you start summing up for the defence,” said Dalziel, not unkindly. “Likely it’s a load of nowt anyway. I mean, you can’t go to jail for playing games, not even two fellows having a romp together, so long as it’s between consenting adults in private, eh, Wieldy?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Except if you call it rugby football, when you can sell folk tickets to watch, so they tell me.”

Emotion always found it hard to get a fingerhold on the sergeant’s face but this was said with a lack of expression that made Charles Bronson look animated.

“Rugby,” said Dalziel. “Aye, that’s a point. The Old Unthinkables. Nice one, Wieldy.”

To be complimented on his attempted gibe at Dalziel’s favourite sport did bring a look almost recognizable as surprise to the sergeant’s features.

“Sir?” he said.

“The Old Unthinkables,” repeated Dalziel. “That’s what they call Unthank College’s Old Boys’ team. Not bad for a bunch of pubic school poofters, saving your presence. Not afraid to put the boot in, that’s one thing they’ve learned for their daddies’ money.”

He spoke approvingly.

Wield said, “Missing your point, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Penn and Dee went to Unthank, and so did John Wingate, yon telly belly, Ripley’s boss. I know ’cos he used to play for the Unthinkables. Scrum half. Nice reverse pass.”

The phone rang again.

“And?” said Pascoe.

“He must be about the same age as Penn and Dee. Might be worth a chat, Pete. Find out what they got up to as kids. Christ, I must be desperate, can’t believe I’m saying this. I’ve spent too much time listening to your mate Pozzo.”

The phone was still ringing.

Pascoe said, “Shall I answer that? Could be the Chief’s office again.”

“Then he’ll think I’m on my way,” said Dalziel indifferently.

He glanced at his watch.

“Tell you what, Wingate’ll be at your press conference with all the other vultures. Reel him in when it’s over. Knowing your style, Pete, that should be about half twelve. These telly bellys like shooting the questions, let’s see if he can take his own medicine.”

“You’ll be finished with the Chief by then?”

“Unless he opens a new bottle of Scotch,” said Dalziel. “Bowler, you be there too. After all, this is your idea.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hat, delighted.

“Don’t get carried away. Likely it’ll turn out a waste of time, and I just want you close so I don’t waste my energy kicking summat inanimate.”

He left. Hat turned to the others, smiling, inviting them to share Dalziel’s joke.

They didn’t smile back.

Pascoe said thoughtfully, “Not like the super to chase rainbows.”

“Not unless he’s got an itch in his piles …”

They contemplated the Fat Man’s famous haruspical piles for a moment, then Pascoe said, “Wieldy, the OED’s online now. Ellie’s a subscriber, if I give you her details, can you whistle it up on the computer?”

“You authorize it, I can whistle up the PM’s holiday snaps,” said Wield.

They followed him to his computer and watched as he ran his fingers over the keyboard.

“Right,” he said. “Here we are.”

“Great. Now find paronomania,” said Pascoe.

But Wield was ahead of him.

“Paranomasia we’ve got. And paromphalocele we’ve got too, which from the sound of it we could do without. But no sign whatsoever of paronomania . So unless the great Oxford English Dictionary’s missed a bit, there’s no such word.”

“And yet,” said Pascoe, “we have all seen it, and its definition. Interesting. While you’re at it, Wieldy, try contortuplicated.”

“That’s what the super said,” said Hat. “I thought he just made it up.”

“No,” said Wield. “It’s here. ‘Twisted and entangled.’ But it’s obsolete. Just one example and that’s 1648.”

“Not attributed to A. Dalziel, is it?” said Pascoe. “Let that be a lesson to you, Hat. Never underestimate the super.”