Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Pascoe, trying for a conciliatory tone, said a touch over effusively, “Thanks a lot, John. That was really most helpful.”

The producer looked at him for a long moment then said, “And goodbye to you too, Detective Chief Inspector.”

Bang goes another nearly friend, thought Pascoe.

When the door had closed behind the departing man, he said to Dalziel, “So, how did you know about Wingate and Ripley?”

“Lucky guess,” said the Fat Man. “Not mine. Young Bowler here said summat.”

“Is that so?” said Pascoe, giving the DC a not altogether friendly glance. “Well, I don’t think we’ll be getting much co-operation from our local TV station from now on.”

“Nay, I think we’ll be getting all the co-operation we ever want,” said Dalziel, grinning sharkishly. “Shouldn’t waste your sympathy there, Pete. Married man who can’t control his own loblance has to be a right twilly-flew. Question is, was it worthwhile squeezing his goolies? Did we get owt useful? Young Bowler, you looked like you were wetting your knickers to say summat back there.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hat eagerly. “Two things really. First, this boy Johnny who drowned, in this game Penn and Dee play, even though it’s just for two players, they set up a third tile rack and when I saw them playing-when they called each other Kraut and Whoreson-the letters on this rack were J, O, H, N, N, and Y. Also, they’ve both got this photo of the three of them at school, at least I presume the third one’s the dead boy.”

“They’ve got a picture of themselves with a dead boy?” said Dalziel, interested.

“No, sir. I mean, he wasn’t dead when the picture was taken.”

“Pity. Go on.”

“And his real name’s St. John, and that drawing that came with the First Dialogue, didn’t Dee say it was from the Gospel according to St. John …?”

He felt himself running out of steam.

Dalziel said, “That your first thing finished then? Let’s hope you’re working upwards. Next?”

“It just struck me, with Dee’s real name being Orson, it made me think of what Councillor Steel said before he died which sounded like rosebud -didn’t someone say that was the last word that someone said in that film Citizen whatsit which Orson Welles directed and starred in …isn’t that right …? I never saw it myself …”

He looked around hopefully, not for applause but at least a shred of interest.

Pascoe gave him an encouraging smile, Wield remained as unreadable as ever, and Dalziel said, “What’s your point, lad?”

“It’s just the association, sir …I thought it might be significant …”

“Oh aye? I suppose if Stuffer Steel were a film buff, which he weren’t, and if he were an old Unthinkable, which he weren’t, and if he knew Dee’s real first name, which I doubt, then it might come in sniffing distance of significant. Don’t cry, lad. At least you’re trying. What about you two big strong silent types? Wieldy?”

“This thing about the dead boy sounds a bit odd, but I don’t see that it adds up to much,” said the sergeant.

“More than just a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?” said Pascoe.

“Mebbe. But it’s not something Dee and Penn try to keep hidden, is it? Photo’s on display, name on the tile rack which anyone can see. It’s what folk want to hide that usually means most. And it seems to me we’re getting bogged down in words here, not real stuff.”

“The Wordman is all about words, Wieldy,” said Pascoe gently.

“Aye, but about words playing around inside him. Seems to me Dee and Penn in their different ways let their words out, don’t trap them inside where they might fester.”

Dalziel, in face of this unexpected psycho-linguistic analysis, let out an et tu Brute sigh and turned to Pascoe.

“Pete, you think we might be on to something here, do you? Makes a change not to hear you badmouthing Franny Roote, who I hear is like to turn out the next Enid Blyton. But it ’ud be nice to know what’s really going on in that mazy mind of thine.”

“I don’t know …it’s just that I can’t believe that in Dee’s case all these coincidences of place and time and opportunity and interest don’t add up to something significant.”

“So let’s talk to him again. Not you, but. If he is the Wordman, he’s a clever bugger with it and he’ll have got you sussed by now. You talk to Charley Penn, see if you can shake him on this lads’-night-in alibi. Me, I’ll see how Mr. Dee reacts to a bit of basic English. Bowler, you come with me.”

“Me, sir?” said Hat unenthusiastically.

“Aye. Any objection? From what I’ve heard you spend more time round at that library than you do here, so why so shy all of a sudden?”

Then the Fat Man let out a derisive laugh.

“Got it. Your bit of stuff, Miss Ribena, thinks a lot of her boss and you’re scared it might queer your pitch if she catches you holding him down while I stamp on his goolies! Test of character, lad. She’s going to have to choose between you and him some time, might as well force the issue afore you buy the ring. Now let’s get some forward progress on this case, right? We’ve been running across the pitch far too long, lots of fancy footwork but no territorial gain. If this bugger wants to play games with us, let’s at least start playing in his half of the field!”

Such a rallying cry, probably even more forcibly expressed, might have had some effect on a bunch of muddied oafs playing rugger, thought Pascoe. But none of those present in the CID room seemed fired by it.

He said, “Chief complaining about lack of progress, was he, sir?”

“He knows better,” said Dalziel. “Though it’s evident Loopy Linda’s still banging heads in the Home Office. But Desperate Dan’s got things closer to home to worry about.”

“Like what?”

Dalziel glanced towards the doorway where Hat and Wield stood in deep confabulation.

“Like who’s going to make the presentation at George’s farewell tonight, me or him.”

“I should have thought, in the circs, it’s got to be top man there,” said Pascoe, surprised. “Much as George loves you, I think he’ll be expecting Mr. Trimble’s honeyed words and firm handshake to accompany the clock or whatever it is we’re giving him.”

“Fishing tackle, they tell me,” said Dalziel. “Well, we’ll see.”

Wield and Bowler had stopped talking and were looking to Dalziel expectantly.

Pascoe had a sense of something unsaid, but if he were right, it was going to stop unsaid, for the time being anyway.

“Can’t hang around here all day,” declared the Fat Man. “Not when there’s goolies to stamp on. Come on, lad. We’re off to the library. Where I hope you’ll remember the first two rules of good detection.”

“What’re they, sir?” said Bowler.

“First’s no groping on the job!” chortled Dalziel. “I’ll tell thee the second on the way.”

Despite the fat man’s promise, most of the short journey to the Centre passed in silence, which Dalziel finally broke by saying accusingly, “Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Hat had decided that on the whole it wasn’t a good idea to enquire further about Mrs. Blossom’s tattoo.

“It’s not talk as disturbs a good cop, lad, it’s lack of it,” said the Fat Man significantly.

“Yes, sir. Is that the second rule, sir?”

“Eh?”

“Of good detective work. You said you would tell me the second on the way.”

“The second is don’t take the piss out of anyone big enough to cause you grief,” said Dalziel. “No, I just thought, you and me being together all cosy like, good chance for you to tell me owt you felt I ought to be told.”