Reginald Hill - Dialogues of the Dead

“And which of these made you decide to keep quiet?” asked Pascoe.

“Me? I didn’t have to decide,” said Dalziel. “Let’s go and congratulate George, shall we? Looks like he’s getting a round in.”

As they made their way back to the bar, Pascoe said, “Have you told Hat yet?”

“Told him what?”

“That he’s off the hook.”

Dalziel roared with laughter.

“Don’t be daft. Why should I do that?”

“Because …well, because he deserves it. He’s got the makings of a good cop.”

“No argument there,” said Dalziel. “He’s bright and he’s keen and he’s proved he’s dead loyal. He could go far with the right incentive, and that’s what I’m giving him.”

“How?”

“Well, every time he thinks he can relax on the job, I’ll just need to give him that fish-eyed look which says I’ve still got doubts about him and he’ll be doing double-overtime without pay just to prove me wrong, won’t he? And one thing I’ll never have to worry about is him letting his gob be ruled by his bollocks rather than his brain.”

Oh, Andy, Andy, thought Pascoe, you think you’re so clever and you may even be right. But you’ve forgotten, if you ever knew it, the absolute power of young love. I’ve seen the way Bowler looks at Rye Pomona and I’m not sure that even the fear of the Great God Dalziel is enough to keep him quiet if she asks something nicely.

The Fat Man, unaware of these treacherous doubts about his infallibility, had gone through the crowd at the bar like Lomu through an English defence.

“George, lad,” he cried, “congrats, you’ve made it at last, out into civvy street, safe and sound.”

“Andy, I was wondering where you’d got to. What are you drinking?”

“Only two minutes out of the job and the bugger’s forgotten already!” declared Dalziel plaintively. “I’ll have a pint and a chaser. So, George, you take care of yourself, eh, it’s a wilderness out there.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Headingley.

“I’m sure you will, wandering round the countryside with that lovely new rod of thine. Just one bit of advice from one old angler to another.”

Dalziel took Headingley’s hand as he spoke and pressed it tight.

“What’s that, Andy?”

The pressure increased till the blood could hardly reach the DI’s fingertips and at the same time the Fat Man stared unblinkingly into his watering eyes as he said softly, “Don’t go dipping it in any forbidden waters, George, or I may have to come looking for you.”

They stood there looking at each other for several seconds. Then behind the bar a phone rang.

The barman picked it up, listened, then called, “Is there a policeman in the house?”

Through the laughter he added, “It’s the station. Would like to speak to someone in CID. Mr. Dalziel or Mr. Pascoe preferred.”

Pascoe said, “I’ll get it.”

He took the phone, listened for a while, then said, “On our way.”

He put the receiver down. Dalziel was watching him. He jerked his head to the door.

Out of the press around the bar, the Fat Man said, “This had better be good. I’ve got a pint and a gill back there surrounded by bastards with the scruples of a starving gannet.”

“Oh, it’s good,” said Pascoe. “It was Seymour.”

DC Seymour had drawn the short straw and been left to look after the CID shop.

“He’s just had a call from the security guard at the Centre,” he went on.

“Oh fuck. Not another body.”

“No,” said Pascoe, pausing long enough for Dalziel to look relieved before going on. “Another two bodies. Ambrose Bird and Percy Follows. Dead in the Roman Experience bathhouse.”

“Oh shit,” said Andy Dalziel. “Shit and double shit. How dead? Drowndead?”

“No. Electrocuted-dead,” said Peter Pascoe.

the seventh dialogue

Do you recall how at the beginning I said my heart fainted at the distance I saw stretching between my setting out and my destination?

Yes, that’s exactly how I felt. Oh me of little faith, wherefore did I doubt? How far have I come and how quickly, a quarter of my way now in the blink of an eye, striding out with braggart step, measuring my path not in miles, but in leagues!

No plan is needed when you are part of a plan, and when I beheld him who was equally a part of the plan, though his time seemed some way still removed, descending like one who hurries to a longed-for assignation, without thought I followed-happy word!

In the darkness I lost him for a while, then suddenly the torches flickered to life, the sounds swelled, the odours drifted across my flaring nostrils, and I found myself deep in the past of the Roman market. Two figures moved towards each other between the stalls, one clad in a courtier’s purple and gold tunic with jewelled clasps, clutching in his hand a leather bag from which he took coins as if to make a purchase, the other in the plain dignified toga which denotes a senator .

“Ho, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus tonight?” cried the first .

“I know not,” said the senator. “What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.”

“And shall see stranger still. Will you walk with me into the bathhouse where we may hear ourselves talk above this fearful babble?”

“Gladly, for the stink of this place rubs my nostrils raw!”

Side by side they moved into the calidarium .

Through the viewing port I watched them, still not knowing what I was called to do or indeed, with the middle step still not clear, not certain I was called to do anything .

Then as the tunic was unclasped and the toga slid to the ground, I felt time, already by artifice here displaced, begin to slow like cooling lava running down Vesuvius’s side which in its last embrace grips fragile flesh and makes it live forever .

They step into the water, the courtier first, his long gold hair catching the light from the images of naked bathers projected on the wall, his trembling limbs slender and white; the senator behind, his black ponytail jutting out jauntily, the muscles of his sturdier browner body taut with desire. There is no pause for foreplay. The strong brown arms go round the slim white body as, like a full-acorned boar, a German one, the senator cries “O!” and mounts the courtier .

Unnoticed, because lava itself bursting through the walls would in this condition go unnoticed, I open the door and step inside .

Like a surgeon who need not look for his instrument because he knows it will always be there to hand, or in this case to foot, I feel no surprise as my toe catches on a cable and sends an electric soldering iron snaking across the floor to plop into the pool like a questing vole. Nor does thought play a part in sending my hand along the cable to its source where my fingers find and press a switch .

They twist and tauten in one last orgasmic spasm and then go still. From the courtier’s discarded tunic I take the dagger and make the necessary mark on his white flesh, while from his bag I take the necessary coin and place it in the senator’s open mouth .

Now it is done. I step back into Roman time and without haste mount the stairway to my own .

I feel a deep peace. I know now that I can proclaim myself from the mountaintops, yet none will hear and understand and lay traps to prevent me. Never has the way ahead seemed so clear .