Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  When he got to see Rye again on the evening of Boxing Day he’d found the recovery was complete and all the delights of Christmas, traditional and individual, that he’d been looking forward to tasted all the better for being delayed.

  ‘This is all I want, Hat,’ she whispered as she clung on to him after they made love. ‘This is where I want to be, here, you, me, warm, snug, safe, forever.’

  She lay across him, her arms and legs grappling him to her in an embrace so tight it was painful, but nothing in the world would have made him admit that pain. He had known from early on in their acquaintance that she was the one. Without her, life would be … he had no words to describe what life would be. All he knew was that whatever she wanted from him was hers without question. Even when she fell asleep she did not slacken her grip on him, and when she awoke in the small hours of the morning and began to explore his body again, she found his limbs locked in cramp.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Hat, love, what have I done to you? Why didn’t you push me off?’

  ‘Didn’t want to,’ he assured her. ‘I’m fine. Oh shit!’

  This in reaction to the stab of agony that followed his attempt to stretch his left leg.

  She flung back the duvet, climbed astride his body and began to give him a comprehensive massage, which brought first relief then arousal.

  ‘Here’s a bit that’s still stiff,’ she said, running her hand down to his groin. ‘That’s going to need some real work.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s been bothering me for years,’ he said. ‘Don’t think you’ll have much luck there, Doctor.’

  ‘At least we can wrap it up and keep it warm,’ she said. ‘Like this …’

  And Christmas was merry all over again.

  Rye was back at work the next day. While many employers bow to the inevitable and close down for the whole of the holiday period, Mid-Yorkshire Library Service was of sterner mettle, recognizing that after the penal sociability of Christmas, many people would be keen to get back to the solitary confinement of books.

  On the twenty-seventh the reference library was fairly busy, but there was one notable and unregretted absentee. Charley Penn.

  But midway through the morning, the door opened and Penn came in. He headed for his usual seat but without giving her the benefit of his usual glower and after five minutes looking at an unopened book, he rose and came to the desk.

  Without preamble he said, ‘Wanted to say I’m sorry about kicking up that fuss on Christmas Day. I were right out of order. Won’t happen again.’

  ‘Fuss?’ she said. ‘Oh yes, someone did say something about a drunk on the landing. I didn’t actually notice, but I’m glad to hear of your resolution to reform, Mr Penn. Is that with immediate effect or do we have to wait till the New Year?’

  Their eyes engaged, hers wide and candid, his deep-set and watchful. Neither blinked, but before it became a playground contest, Penn said, ‘Work to do,’ and turned away.

  Behind him Rye said, ‘Going well, is it?’

  If he was surprised, it was hidden by the time he turned back to her.

  ‘Two steps forward, one step back, you know how it is with research,’ he said.

  ‘Not really. I suppose I’ve never been interested enough in a complete stranger to want to know everything about him.’

  ‘You don’t start with a stranger. You start with someone you’re acquainted with, if only through their works. That’s the contact makes you want to know them better. And sometimes they turn out very different from what you imagined. There’s the fascination.’

  ‘I see. And is it harder or easier if they’re dead?’

  ‘Both. They can’t answer questions. But they can’t lie either.’

  She was silent long enough for him to wonder if this unexpected exchange were at an end, then she said, ‘And they can’t object to someone sticking an unwanted nose into their private affairs. That must be an advantage.’

  ‘Think you might be confusing my line of work and your boyfriend’s,’ said Penn.

  ‘Parallel lines that sometimes intersect, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s a bit too clever for a simple soul like me,’ said Penn.

  ‘Simple, Mr Penn? With all those books to your name?’

  ‘There’s nowt clever in making things up about folk you’ve invented,’ he said with the harsh dismissiveness of success.

  ‘But you haven’t invented Heine. And I hope you’re not making things up about him.’

  ‘No, he’s real enough. But finding out the truth about him doesn’t need cleverness, just hard work and a taste for truth.’

  ‘And translating his poems?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘You surprise me. I never seem to see any of your translations any more, Mr Penn. There was a time when I was always coming across them.’

  She spoke gravely, with no hint of mockery, but they both knew she was referring to a period when the writer had paid oblique court by leaving translations of Heine’s amatory verses where she would chance upon them. When she made it plain she wasn’t interested, the poems continued to appear but with a mocking irony colouring his choice. Dick Dee’s death brought a halt to all such games.

  ‘I didn’t seem able to get down to it for a while,’ he said. ‘But I’m getting back into the swing now. Hold on a sec. There’s something here I’d value a reaction to.’

  He went to his cubicle and returned with a sheet of paper which he laid in front of her. It contained two verses side by side.

  The rock breaks his vessel asunder

  But when in the end the wild waters

  The waves roll his body along

  Plug his ear and scarf up his eye

  But what in the end drags him under

  I’m certain his last drowning thought is

  Is Lorelei’s sweet song

  The song of the Lorelei.

  She read them without touching the paper.

  ‘So?’ she said.

  ‘Two versions of the last verse of Heine’s “Lorelei” poem, you know, the one that starts Ich weiß nicht was soll es bedeuten Daß ich so traurig bin.’

  ‘I’ve come across it.’

  ‘Both very free. I give a parallel literal translation, but in my metrical version I try for the spirit rather than just the plain sense of the original. My dilemma is, does Heine want us to think that Lorelei deliberately sang to destroy the boatman? Or simply that it’s her nature to sing and the boatman destroyed himself by listening? What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Rye. ‘But I don’t much care for “waters” and “thought is”.’

  ‘An aesthetic rather than a moral judgment? Fair enough. I’ll go with the first.’

  He nodded, turned on his heel like a soldier and went back to his seat, leaving the sheet of paper on the desk.

  A woman who had been observing this scene from the doorway now advanced to the desk. Rye Pomona looked up and saw a youngish female, rather stockily built, wearing no make up and a rain-spattered, mud-coloured fleece open to show a baggy grey T-shirt whose folds did nothing for her figure and whose colour sat uneasily against her dark complexion. She was holding a Tesco carrier bag and Rye snap-judged her as housewife who’d had kids early, let herself go a bit, and today, with the longueurs and rigours of Christmas behind her, had come to the library determined to seek some educational route to a life less tediously forecastable than her current prospects seemed to offer.

  Must be Hat’s influence, she told herself. I’m turning into a detective. Which thought, and the thought of Hat himself, brought a smile of such warmth to her face that the woman responded in kind, making her several years younger and three times as attractive.

  ‘Hi,’ said Rye. ‘Can I help you?’

  Making sure her body screened out any observation from the library, the woman slid an ID card across the desk.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘DC Novello. Maybe Hat’s mentioned me?’

  In fact Hat, to whom love meant no
no-go areas, had talked about his colleagues and his work and himself with a complete but subjective openness. His account of his arch-rival, Shirley Novello, had created in Rye’s mind a picture of a smooth svelte sophisticated creature, mobile glued to her left ear, organizer welded to her right hand, each colour co-ordinated with her designer power suit. It took a moment to readjust from both that false impression and her equally flawed attempt at detection and Novello said reassuringly, ‘It’s nothing heavy. Mr Dalziel asked me to look in to see you were all right.’

  What the Fat Man had actually said was, ‘Let her know to be careful about some slimy sod oozing his way into her confidence. At the same time, do a bit of oozing yourself and make sure she doesn’t have owt to hide.’

  ‘What a kind man Mr Dalziel is,’ said Rye. ‘As you can see, I’m fine.’

  ‘Oh good. Wasn’t that Mr Penn who was talking to you just now? I heard what happened on Christmas Day. He wasn’t bothering you, I hope?’

  ‘No, not in the least. We were just discussing a point of literature.’

  Novello’s gaze dropped to Penn’s sheet of paper. Rye slid it away but not before Novello had read the lines of verse upside down.

  ‘Lorelei,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t that what you found on your computer after the break in?’

  Done your homework, thought Rye. This was more in accord with Hat’s picture.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re sure Mr Penn wasn’t bothering you?’

  ‘Honestly, I know when I’m being bothered,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sure this was just coincidental. He came to apologize. I don’t think we’re going to be best friends, but if he wants things quiet, I’m not going to quarrel with that.’

  ‘He may have his own reasons for wanting things quiet,’ said Novello.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Mr Dalziel thinks he might have decided he was getting nowhere barking himself, so he’s decided to find himself a dog.’

  ‘To bark louder at me?’ said Rye, amused.

  ‘More sniffer dog than barker,’ said Novello. ‘Press.’

  ‘A journalist? But that’s stupid. What would I have to say to a journalist?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope. But as you’ve probably gathered, Mr Penn thinks that you … that all of us are hiding something. If he’s managed to persuade a journalist there could be a story … point is, it won’t be someone coming at you asking for an interview, it’s more likely to be someone coming at you sideways. Like here at the library, say. Some fellow asking for your help with something, then striking up an acquaintance … it can happen.’

  She’d taken the brief smile which touched Rye’s lips as scepticism, but it was caused by her memory that this was how Hat Bowler had first attempted to get to know her.

  ‘I’ll be on my guard,’ she promised.

  ‘So it’s not happened yet?’

  ‘No. I think I’d have noticed.’

  Novello said gently, ‘With these people, the art is making sure you don’t notice.’

  ‘Oh dear. Now you’re frightening me. But in any case, I’ve got nothing to hide so what can they hope to get out of me?’

  Novello said, ‘Can we go into your office for a moment?’

  She glanced towards Penn as they went through the door behind the desk, but the writer seemed deeply immersed in his work.

  Closing the door she said, ‘They’ll have the public records. Mr Dalziel thought it might help if you took a look at the inquest transcript.’

  She produced a file from the Tesco bag.

  Rye said uneasily, ‘Is it OK to do this?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s like a copper looking at his notebook in court. No one can remember everything exactly. And if someone did ask you questions, you wouldn’t want to give them anything to worry at just because something slipped your mind, would you? They’re experts at making owt from nowt.’

  Dalziel had said, ‘Make sure she understands that what she said to the coroner is all she needs to say.’

  And Novello, who had not been made privy to anything but the official picture of what Pascoe and Dalziel had found when they arrived on the scene, nor anything the girl had said outside her formal statement, didn’t ask the question forming in her mind, ‘And could she say anything more, sir?’ because she was beginning to suspect that this ignorance was part of the reason she’d been given this job. Reading everything she could find on the Wordman case had taken up most of her free time since Dalziel gave her the assignment – just because he gave you a job that took up twenty-three hours of the day didn’t mean he didn’t expect you to fit the rest of your work into the remaining hour.

  There was a ring from the enquiry desk bell.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ said Rye.

  ‘Fine. Keep this. Read it at your leisure. Nothing to worry about, we just don’t want you being harassed. I’ll keep in touch, if that’s OK? Maybe a coffee some time?’

  Rye thought then nodded and said, ‘Yes, I think I’d like that.’

  She ushered the WDC out of the office. Standing at the desk was a tall, blond young man looking like Arnie Schwarzenegger’s handsome young brother. Novello gave him a look which was at the same time assessing and admiring. In reply she got a smile which kept up the Hollywood connection by being borrowed straight from Julia Roberts.

  Half blinded by such dental effulgence, she glanced at Rye and twisted her mouth into a get-a-load-of-that! expression.

  ‘Take care,’ she said.

  ‘You too,’ said Rye with a grin.

  And as Novello walked away she thought, if that hunk does turn out to be an investigative journalist, then he can investigate me to his heart’s content!

  At the same time as Novello left the library, about a hundred feet over her head a scene was unfolding which in prospect most investigative journalists would have given their editors’ eyeteeth for.

  Sergeant Edgar Wield was approaching the top floor of the Centre car park where he had a secret assignation with the teenage rent boy who was madly in love with him.

  At least this was how it might be written up by some of these investigative journalists, thought Wield. Which was why, one way or another, he was going to get things sorted between Lee Lubanski and himself today.

  After a dodgy start, Edgar Wield had had a very good Christmas.

  His partner, antiquarian book dealer, Edwin Digweed, had turned out to be a traditionalist in matters yulic. At first Wield had looked for an element of piss-taking as the familiar outlines of their cottage vanished beneath a folly of furbelows and he found himself sharing their small sitting room with an outsize fir-tree whose apogean fairy bowed gracefully from the waist because her head pressed against the ceiling. On a shopping expedition to a hypermarket, which during the rest of the year Digweed referred to as Hell’s Cathedral, he had watched in bewilderment as their trolley piled up with crackers and baubles and puddings and pies and jars of pickled walnuts and yards of cocktail sausage and samples of every kind of exotic confectionary and savoury on display. Finally he had enquired politely if the Red Cross had perhaps warned Edwin to expect a flash flood of starving but picky refugees in remote Eendale.

  Digweed had laughed, a sort of jolly ho-ho-ho which Wield never heard him use at any other season, and continued down the aisle, humming along to the piped carols.

  Ever a pragmatist, Wield had decided to relax and enjoy it, and discovered rather to his surprise that he did. Even his initially reluctant attendance at the midnight service had been a pleasure. The whole village had been there, and as Corpse Cottage, the Wield/Digweed residence, now festooned with winking fairy lights, snuggled handily under the churchyard wall, it seemed natural that most of the villagers should drop in for a festal warmer on the way home, and very quickly huge inroads were made into what had seemed their excessive provision.

  ‘I was very pleased to see you at the service,’ said Justin Halavant, art collector and critic in whose medieval hand a poppy or a lily would not ha
ve looked out of place. ‘It’s so important to demonstrate the solidarity of our faith, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh aye?’ said Wield, a touch surprised as he’d have put Halavant down as an aesthetic rather than a devout Christian. ‘Look, don’t be offended, I enjoyed it, but I’m not what you’d call a true believer …’

  ‘My dear chap, what’s that got to do with anything?’ laughed Halavant. ‘All I meant was, anyone who doesn’t show up in the church at Christmas is likely to end up in the Wickerman at Beltane. Lovely candied kumquats, by the way. I may have some more.’

  Later he’d shared the exchange with Digweed, who’d laughed, not his ho-ho-ho but his usual dry chuckle, and said, ‘Justin likes his jest. But he’s right. Enscombe takes care of its own, one way or another.’

  Christmas morning had been going well till among the presents beneath the tree Wield had found a padded envelope marked Not to be opened till Xmas day in a childish scrawl.

  ‘Came with the post yesterday,’ said Digweed with an overstudied lack of interest.

  Wield opened it to find a card with all the most sucrose elements of Christmas greetings combined in one glutinous design and something wrapped in tissue paper.

  The card was inscribed To Edgar the best from your friend Lee.

  He unwrapped the tissue to reveal a pair of silver cuff links engraved with his initials.

  Edwin asked no questions, but questions hung in the air so Wield gave answers in his most brisk and precise style.

  Digweed listened then said, ‘You did not think to mention this boy to me earlier.’

  ‘It was police business.’

  ‘So,’ said Digweed, glancing at the links and the card, ‘it would appear. Isn’t there a name for gifts that policemen receive from criminals?’

  Oh dear, thought Wield. To a cop, family squabbles leading to domestic violence were a commonplace of Christmas Day. He hadn’t anticipated getting personally involved.

  ‘He’s not a criminal,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be giving it back to him anyway.’