Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“Reaction like this one, you mean?”

“Not being the Wordman, I could not be so precise. But I should say the impression I got from my reading was of someone clever enough to see through your little stratagem earlier than I did, and not let himself be provoked.”

“Or clever enough to appear slightly less clever than he really is.”

“Now that would be really clever. But surely such a paragon of cleverness would never let himself fall into your clutches for close questioning anyway?”

“Put your finger in it there, Mr. Dee. Let himself fall . Seems to me the fellow I’m thinking of might actually enjoy a little chat like this, face to face with the enemy and running rings round him.”

“It would, I think, be a long run. I speak metaphorically, of course. Forgive me if I seem to have erred towards over-familiarity, but I do feel that anyone trying to run rings round you, Mr. Dalziel, had best come equipped for a marathon. But how am I doing in my puny effort to persuade you I am not your man? I must confess I feel my strength failing.”

He did a little mime of exhaustion and, as if in sympathy, all the lights went out and the hubbub of sound effects which had provided a foil to their conversation ceased.

The ensuing silence was short. The voices of Bird and Follows rose in angry unison demanding what the hell was happening, then parted into contrapuntal duet as each sought to find a way of off-loading responsibility on to the other.

Dalziel and Dee felt their way out of the dark taberna into the market place where people were striking matches or flashing torches to give a dim illumination. The door of the calidarium opened and a man wearing swimming trunks and dripping water stepped out followed by a puff of smoke.

“Enter Dagon, downstage, left,” murmured Dee.

“What the hell’s going on?” demanded the man angrily. “Something electrical blew up in there and I’m sitting over my arse in fucking water!”

He had good reason to be angry, thought Dalziel as he made his way back towards the market centre where Bird and Follows were positioned. En route he stubbed his toe against various objects which he kicked aside with great force.

“Who’s in charge?” he demanded.

For once, neither of the two men seemed eager to assume the primacy.

“Well, I’ll tell you both summat for nowt-you’d best get this sorted else I’ll make sure the local Fire and Safety Officer closes you down permanent. That bastard in the bath could have been electrocuted. And why’s it so fucking dark? Imagine what it ’ud be like down here with a few dozen people, a lot of them kids, milling around. Where’s your back-up system, for God’s sake? Get it sorted quick or I’ll start thumbing through the big book to see what I can find to charge you with. And if I can’t find owt serious enough, I’ll mebbe just bray you with the book!”

He strode away, finding the stairs and the exit back to the regions of light and air by dead reckoning. When he got there, he paused and found Dee at his side.

“You know, Mr. Dalziel,” said the librarian with a smile, “after that performance, I think if I were the Wordman, I’d put my hand up now and confess.”

“That right, Mr. Dee?” said Dalziel indifferently. “And I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? I think you’re fuller of crap than a knackered septic tank.”

Dee pursed his lips and looked pensive as if this were a statement worthy of close examination then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Does it mean our little game of Truth, Dare, Force or Promise is over?”

“Your little game. When there’s folk lying dead, I don’t play games. I’ll see you around, Mr. Dee.”

He moved away with mastodon tread. Behind him, still as a primeval hunter, Dick Dee watched till he was out of sight.

Detective Inspector George Headingley may not have scaled the promotional heights, but he had performed the feat unusual in police circles of achieving his modest eminence without standing too hard on anyone’s face.

Therefore as his colleagues, CID and Uniformed, gathered in the Social Club that night to say their farewells, the atmosphere was more than usually cordial. Pascoe had been to farewell parties where the attendance had been meagre, the jokes sour, and though the banners read Good Luck! the body language spelled Good Riddance . But tonight everyone had made an effort to attend, the contributions to the leaving present had been generous, and the laughter already rising from the assembled men, especially those at Headingley’s crowded table, was good humoured and full bellied.

There’d been a special cheer of welcome and some spontaneous applause when the door had opened to admit Detective Constable Shirley Novello. This was her first public appearance since the shooting which had put her out of commission since the summer.

She looked pale and didn’t move with her usual athletic spring as she advanced to take the seat offered her next to George Headingley, who won another cheer by standing up and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

Pascoe went to the table and leaned over her chair.

“Shirley, it’s good to see you. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Couldn’t miss the chance of making sure the DI really was leaving, could I?” she said.

“Well, don’t overdo it,” he said. “You know what they say about too much too soon.”

“Yes, dead before twenty,” said Headingley.

Beneath the roar of laughter which this evoked, Wield said in his ear, “Pete, Dan’s here, but still no sign of Andy.”

“Great.”

Though Headingley’s popularity was great enough for Uniformed to be there in numbers too, this was essentially a CID party, and Dalziel’s absence meant the duties of host devolved upon him.

He went forward to welcome the Chief Constable.

“Glad you could make it, sir,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s determined it’s going to be a great night.”

Even as he spoke his eyes told him that he was wrong. Trimble’s features had the cast of a man who’d come to bury someone rather than praise him.

“Where is he?” asked the Chief curtly.

“George?”

“No. Mr. Dalziel.”

“On his way,” said Pascoe. “Let me get you a drink, sir.”

On his way wasn’t a positive lie as, presumably, wherever Dalziel was, he purposed at some point to arrive at the Social Club, therefore, whatever he was doing, he could be said to be on his way there.

But the positive truth was that Pascoe hadn’t the faintest idea where the Fat Man was. He had seen him briefly on his return from the Centre but a phone call had taken him away before he could enlarge upon his comment in response to the question of how he’d got on with Dee: “Yon bugger’s too clever by half.”

While being too clever by half was not in itself a guarantee of criminality, it was certainly true that several men so categorized by Dalziel were currently doing The Times crossword before breakfast in one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries.

Bowler hadn’t been able to add much more about Dee, but he was voluble about his own discoveries and was clearly hurt just this side of the sulks by Wield’s reduction of them to a self-mutilating lexicographer and a German poet who changed his name ’cos he got the piss taken out of him, neither of whom seemed to have any discernible relevance to the case in hand.

For a small man, Dan Trimble had an authoritarian way with a large drink and had downed three of these with no apparent effect on his frame of mind when Pascoe glanced at his watch and murmured, “Show time, I think, sir. The natives are getting a little restless.”