Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

Oh shit! thought Hat. Even with poor Jax dead, he’s still going on about me being the leak! The old sod can’t bear not to be right. He’s convinced I did it, but he won’t be happy till he hears me say it. I could really pull his plonker here, tell him, Yes, sir, I’ve got something to say about that info that was leaked to Jax the Ripper . And when he’s got himself all ready, sitting there all smug and know-it-all, expecting my confession, I’ll let him know the leak was his randy old mucker, George Headingley, whose farewell party he’s attending this evening, and what’s he going to do about it?

And what would he do about it? That was the question. Presumably, once he knew something like that, he couldn’t just let it go. There’d have to be a proper investigation and instead of sailing into the sunset, poor old Georgie Porgie would be …well, he’d rehearsed sufficiently already the possible consequences for Headingley.

He said, “Well, there was one thing …”

“Aye?”

“You know Charley Penn writes books? Well, I was thinking about what Dr. Urquhart said …”

“Should watch that, it could send you blind,” said Dalziel.

“… about the Wordman being so hung up on word games and stuff, he probably regards certain printed texts as a sort of coded gospel, and I wondered if it might be worth taking a close look at Penn’s novels …”

“Oh aye? You volunteering to read ’em? We’re going to the right place to get a start.”

“No, sir, no way,” said Hat. “I mean, I don’t go in for that sort of thing, I thought maybe talk to someone who knows about these things …”

“You got someone in mind? Not your ladyfriend from the library, by any chance?”

Christ, it’s like your mind is a goldfish bowl and this big cat dips his paw in whenever he fancies, thought Hat.

“Yes, she might be OK,” he said. Then because this sounded a little lukewarm, he added, “She’s been very helpful in getting my ideas sorted already.”

And saw his error even as the words came out.

“Already? Make a habit of discussing confidential police matters with pretty young things, do you?” said the Fat Man. “I hope not, lad, ’cos that’s the second rule I were going to tell you. When someone takes a hold of your bollocks, whether to twist ’em or to stroke ’em, just lie back and think of me. There’s not enough pleasure or pain in the world to cover what I’m likely to do to any bugger I catch talking out of school. You with me, lad?”

“Yes, sir. I’m with you,” said Hat, wishing with all his sinking heart he wasn’t.

But that naturally ebullient organ rose again when as they got out of the car the Fat Man said, “That weren’t a bad idea about Charley Penn’s books. Have a chat with that lass of thine. From the sound of it, she owes you one. And I don’t mean a jump. That you negotiate with your own coin, not mine.”

And things got even better when they arrived in the reference library to find Rye alone, looking very fetching in a low-cut sleeveless top and clinging hipsters.

“How do, luv,” said Dalziel. “Bossman around?”

“Sorry, no. He just popped out,” said Rye. “Can I

help?”

“Not really. Need to talk to him. Any idea where he’s gone?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give members of the public …” She broke off and looked at Dalziel more closely. “Oh, it’s Mr. Dazzle, isn’t it? Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Is it police business? Then I’m sure it’ll be OK. He’s gone along to the Heritage Centre, he shouldn’t be long if you’d like to wait.”

Behind Dalziel, Hat grinned broadly, especially at Rye’s studied mispronunciation of the holy name.

But the Fat Man was untroubled by such bird-bolts as this and replied courteously, “Thank you, Ms. Pomona, but I’ll just go and find him. Glad to see you so chipper after your nasty experience at the weekend. Lot of lasses these days would have needed a month off work and counselling for life. Thank God there’s still some of the old stock around. But if you do need to talk to anyone, DC Bowler’s a good listener.”

With a hint of a wink at Hat, he wandered off through the door.

“You like living dangerously, do you?” said Hat.

Rye smiled and said, “Not so dangerous, just your normal neanderthal. I caught him clocking my cleavage.”

Hat, who had been enjoying an eyeful himself, averted his gaze and said, “So how’re you keeping?”

“I’m OK. Didn’t sleep too well, but that’ll pass.”

“I’m sure, but look, don’t try to be too relaxed about it. That was a nasty shock you had, the head and all. These things can get to you in unexpected ways.”

“You were there too. You have some kind of immunity?”

“No. That’s how I know about how it can hit you.”

They regarded each other gravely, then she smiled and reached out and touched his hand and said, “OK, so let’s counsel each other. Like a coffee?”

“If you’re not too busy.”

She gestured round at the almost empty library. A couple of pallid students were working in the reading bays, a wild-haired woman was sitting at a table behind a wall of the bound Transactions of the Mid-Yorkshire Archaeological Society , there was no sign of Penn or Roote or any of the regulars.

“Not exactly overworked, are you?” he said.

“We do other things than deal with the public,” she said. “And with Dick busy elsewhere, I’m glad things are so quiet.”

“So what’s so important in Heritage?” he asked as she led him into the office.

“It’s the Roman Experience. It’s due to open tomorrow. Councillor Steel’s death tipped the balance and the money was voted through at the next council meeting.”

“They haven’t hung about spending it then.”

“Everything was set up, it just needed the announcement that bills would be paid.”

“And what’s it got to do with Dick?”

“Nothing really. But you know this power struggle I told you about, between Prancing Percy and the Last of the Actor-Managers? Well, they’re both desperately trying to take the credit for the Roman Experience, and as Dick knows infinitely more about classical history than Percy, he’s been commanded along to give gravitas to Percy’s pronouncements. The trouble is, from Percy’s point of view, that Dick is so honest and even handed, Ambrose Bird raises no objection.”

“What about this woman, whatsername, the one who’s been ill? Is she still off the scene?”

“Shh,” said Rye, lowering her voice. “You mean Philomel Carcanet and that’s her out there, hiding behind that wall of Transactions . She came in this morning to supervise the dress rehearsal. She knows more about Roman Mid-Yorkshire than anyone alive. Trouble is, she can’t bear to talk to anyone alive for more than five minutes, which makes for a big communication problem. She came up here to pull herself together an hour ago. She’s still pulling. While those two are down there, dividing the spoils and jockeying for position when they advertise the post of Centre Director. Can you switch that kettle on?”

“So who’s your money on?” asked Hat.

“They’d both be disastrous,” she said, spooning instant coffee into mugs. “All they want is to make sure their own corner’s protected. Anyway, you’re not here to discuss Centre politics, are you? What’s Billy Bunter told you to ask me about? I think the kettle’s boiling.”

I must be made of glass, thought Hat. Everyone reads me like a book.

“Books,” he said, passing her the kettle. “You said you were a fan of Penn’s novels.”

“I enjoy them,” she said, pouring water into the mugs and passing one to Hat. “Though since he started being a fan of me, rather less so. Every time Harry Hacker says something smart or suggestive, I hear Penn’s voice. A pity. The lionization of authors is a chancy business. It’s like eating, really. While you’re enjoying a nice piece of rump steak, you don’t want to think too much about where it came from.”