A Riddle
My first is in Dog House, though not in demand: My second's incrassate until it's in band: My whole is in Simpson when it isn't in Bland.
(Answer on p. 13)
Hat was looking over his shoulder. 'A riddle,' he said excitedly. 'Like in the Second Dialogue.' 'Don't get excited,' said Pascoe. 'This is a different kind of riddle, though it is not the kind of riddle it at first appears to be. It sounds as if it should be one of those simple spelling conundrums. But in fact it isn't.' 'So what is it?' 'Let's look at the answer and see, shall we?' He turned to page thirteen. Answer: Lonesome's loblance. 'What the hell does that mean?' said Hat. 'I would guess it's a schoolboy joke,' said Pascoe. But before he could speculate further, Penn came back in.
101 'Make yourselves at home, do,' he snarled. 'I keep my private correspondence in the filing cabinet.' 'Naturally, which is why I did not anticipate finding anything private on your bookshelves,' said Pascoe urbanely. 'But I apologize.' He replaced the volume and said, 'Now, those few questions . . .' Penn quickly recovered his equilibrium and readily confirmed Rye's account of the sequence of events. He explained in unnecessary detail that on his arrival in the reference library, he'd approached the desk in search of Mr Dee but, seeing he was busy in his office, he'd returned to his seat, inadvertently leaving some of his work on the counter where Ms Pomona had found it. He even produced the translated poem for them to read. 'I got the impression,' he added, eyes fixed sardonically on Hat, 'that she might have mistook it for a billy-doo. Kind of billydoo lots of lasses would like to get, I reckon. Not enough old-style romance around these days, is there?' Hat's hardly suppressed indignation came out as a plosive grunt and he might have got down to some really hostile interrogation if Pascoe hadn't said, 'That's 'been very helpful, Mr Penn. I don't imagine we'll need a written statement. We can see ourselves out.' In the street he said, 'Hat, it's not a good idea to let your personal animosity towards a witness shine through quite so clearly,' adding, to soften the reproof, 'I speak from experience.' 'Yes, sir. Sorry. But he really rubs me up the wrong way. I know it's not evidence, but I can't help feeling there's something weird about that guy. Maybe it's part of his job description, being a writer.' 'I see. Writers have to be weird, do they?' said Pascoe, faintly amused. Suddenly Hat remembered Ellie Pascoe. 'Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn't mean . ..' 'Of course you didn't. It's only elderly male writers who leave romantic poems lying around for impressionable young women to find who are weird, I understand that.' Laughing, he got into their car. Well, so long as I'm keeping the brass amused, I must be doing something right, thought Hat. The first few days of a murder enquiry, particularly one which promised to be as complex as the hunt for the Wordman, are always incredibly busy. At this stage it's impossible to say what will prove productive busy-ness and what will turn out to be a complete waste of energy, so everything is done with a time- consuming attention to detail. The one positive thing that had come up was a partial thumbprint, not Ripley's, on her left mule. Dalziel to his credit didn't even look smug, but maybe this was because the experts said that even if they found a possible match, it was likely to be well short of the sixteen points of comparison necessary for a print to be admissible in evidence. Computerization permitted much quicker checks than in the old days, but so far nothing had come up. The post mortem had confirmed cause of death as a single stab wound from a long thin knife. The ME's on-site opinion that he could see no external evidence of sexual assault was also confirmed. She may have had protected intercourse some time on the day of her death, but if it had been against her will, she'd been too frightened to resist. So the initial PM report had not been very helpful, but later the pathologist had rung up to say that a second examination had produced evidence of a bite mark on her left buttock, difficult to spot because it was right in the area of maximum hypostasis or post mortem lividity. The implication was that it might have been missed had it not been for the pathologist's devotion to duty. 'More likely it was the mortuary assistant or the cleaning lady,' said Dalziel cynically. Photographs were taken and shown to Professor Henry Muller, Mid-Yorkshire's forensic dental expert, known to his students and the police alike as Mr Molar. The professor's diagnosis was as vague as the fingerprint expert's. Yes, he'd be able to say definitely which teeth had definitely not made these marks, but doubted if he would be able to go beyond a strong possibility if presented with teeth that seemed to fit. 'Experts,' said Dalziel. 'I've shat 'em. It's blood, sweat and good honest grind that'll catch this bugger.' >From the start Hat Bowler was one of the grinders. On the first Saturday he found he hardly had a minute to spare to ring Rye and confirm what he'd known from the moment he saw Jax's
103 body, that his free Sunday was free no longer, and their trip to Stangdale had to be cancelled. To his delight she said, 'No sweat. The birds won't have all migrated by next week, will they?' 'Hell, no,' he laughed. 'Anyway, I'll drop them a line to tell them to hang on.' 'Do that.' They'd then talked about the case till Hat became aware of Dalziel's bulk looming in the doorway of the CID room and hastily brought the conversation to a close. 'Witness?' said the Fat Man. 'Yes, sir,' said Hat. 'Things have changed. Talking to witnesses didn't used to be a laughing matter. I were looking for Sergeant Wield.' 'He's talking to a witness too, sir.' 'Hope he's not laughing,' said Dalziel. 'Not that any bugger would notice.'
Edgar Wield certainly wasn't laughing. The witness he was talking to was Franny Roote and Wield was playing this completely deadpan. He didn't want to give the slightest hint that they'd had Roote under surveillance. Wield thought his friend Peter Pascoe was treading a very narrow line with Roote. There'd been no official complaint against Pascoe after the events which had led to the young man's so-called suicide attempt, but hints of undue pressure had been made in certain quarters of the press, and notes would have been taken in the Force's press monitoring division. Another 'incident' would probably get a more direct response from both bodies. So Wield had been meticulous in his approach to the Taverna. He needed a reason for knowing Roote had been there on the night in question and it had come as a relief to discover that his bill had been paid by credit card. Sight of the bill also confirmed that he'd been there alone but even with the help of a photo, none of the waiters remembered him particularly. Wield had then set out to interview everybody else known to have dined there that night, putting Roote well down the list. Yet, for all this, he found himself greeted by a very faint, very knowing smile, as if the man recognized every inch of the path that had been trodden to his door. He answered the questions courteously. Yes, he'd been to the Taverna, just the once, not his kind of food. Yes, he remembered the young bazouki player. No, he couldn't recollect noticing anyone in particular chatting to him. 'And you, sir, did you talk to the lad?' asked Wield. 'Give a request, mebbe?' 'No, not my kind of music.' 'Not your kind of music. Not your kind of food. If you don't mind me asking, sir, why did you choose to visit that restaurant in the first place?' This got the Roote open shy smile. 'Don't know, really. I think someone may have recommended it. Yes, that's it. A recommendation.' 'Oh yes. Someone you can remember?' 'Not really,' said Roote. 'Just somebody I met in passing, I think.' And that was it. He reported back to Pascoe who brought Hat in to listen. 'And none of the other diners we've talked to recall seeing David Pitman talking to a single diner?' said Pascoe. 'No. Sorry,' said Wield. 'Dead end. Any word yet on that partial they found on Ripley's mule?' 'No match in the records, Sarge,' said Hat. Which meant, thought Wield, that it wasn't Roote's; as a convicted felon, his prints would be on record. But he didn't rub the point in.
As the weekend approached, things slowed down a little, which wasn't good for the atmosphere in CID but gave Hat hope that he might be able to keep his rearranged date. Also he was determined to make it to the lunchtime preview on Saturday, fearful that if he didn't show there, Rye might back off from their rearranged Sunday afternoon trip to Stangdale. On Friday morning he presented his weekly report on Roote to Pascoe. Any hope he'd had that the Ripley murder enquiry
would get him off this deadly dull surveillance had vanished when
105 the DCI had used Roote's visit to the Taverna to make the job official. Dalziel hadn't looked happy, however, and Wield's report plus the negative fingerprint evidence gave Hat hope the job wouldn't last forever. 'And you're sure he didn't clock you?' asked Pascoe, still seeking a reason for Roote's innocent behaviour. 'Stake my life on it, sir,' said Hat confidently. 'If I'd been any discreeter, I'd have lost sight of myself in my shaving mirror.' This had made Pascoe smile. Then he said resignedly, 'OK. I think we'd better call it a day. Thanks for all your hard work. You did well.' Which Hat took to mean the Fat Man had finally sat heavily on the surveillance job. But he was careful not to let his interpretation show, especially as, emboldened by the praise, he seized the chance to ask, with explanation, if he could have time off to attend the preview. 'Why not?' said the DCI. 'Everyone else seems to be going. And who am I to stand in the way of true love?' 'Thank you, sir,' said Hat. And not wanting to appear too young and frivolous, he'd added, 'Sir, it did strike me, with the Wordman using the library to get his Dialogues noticed, and this preview taking place in the Centre, do you think there's any chance he could turn up there?' And Pascoe had laughed and said, 'You mean, if the two of us keep our eyes skinned and stay ready to pounce on anyone who looks like they're about to commit murder, we might pull off a real coup! Seriously, Hat, you don't get much free time in our job. My advice is, forget work, relax. No reason why our Wordman should be there, and, even if he is, he's not going to be doing anything different from the rest of us, which is to say, looking at what's on display and enjoying it. Right?' 'Absolutely right, sir,' said Hat. 'I'm sorry. It was a daft thing to say.' 'Not daft, just above and beyond the call of duty. Forget the Wordman. Like I say, just relax and enjoy the preview.'
106 Chapter Thirteen
THE FOURTH DIALOGUE
Preview. Now there's a word to make a ghost laugh!
It amused me too. First thing I noticed as I wandered round the gallery was that' nobody actually seemed to be viewing anything other than the wine glasses in their hands and the people they were talking to over them. And as the crowded gathering seemed to comprise all the great and the good of Mid-Yorkshire who presumably had viewed each other many times before, it was hard to see where the actual previewing came in. The only exhibit which attracted instant attention was a sort ofpriapic totem pole, six foot high, carved in oak with a chainsaw. But even that, after an initial lewd comment or two, was generally ignored except by those who wed its rough-hewed ledges to rest their glasses on, though I did hear as 1 passed the art critic from the Gazette saying to his epicene companion, 'Yes, it does have a certain, how shall I put it? a certain aura.' Aura. Now there's another word. >From the Greek avpa meaning breath or breeze. But in medicine it is used to describe the symptoms which presage the onset of an epileptic fit. Remember old Aggie who suffered from epilepsy?
That's the one. Her aura consisted not of the usual facial twitchings or muscular spasms, but a sudden euphoria. Knowing what it presaged,
107 she would cry, 'Oh God, I feel so happy!' in a tone of such despair that strangers would be thrown into greater confusion by the oxymoronic clash of manner and meaning than by the subsequent fit. Later when my burgeoning interest in the arcana of our existence made me aware that the old medicines interpreted fits as the reaction of weak human flesh to the invasion of divine energy when used as a channel for prophetic utterance, I thought of Aggie but I couldn't bring to mind anything of significance in the sounds she made during her attacks. Might be worth asking her if you see her.
Please yourself. Anyway, now I've got personal experience to confirm what the old priest-doctors diagnosed. For I too experience an aura, a divine breath blowing through me, though my aura might as easily be cognate with Latin aurum, meaning gold, as with the Greek. For the beginning of a new Dialogue is like a summer day's dawning in me. I feel my whole being suffused in an aureole of joy and certainty which spreads further and further, stilling time for all who are included in its golden limits. I felt its onset as 1 moved around the gallery but I confess to my shame that at first I tried to deny it. For though I knew that in the light of that aura, 1 had no one to fear, yet my Thomas of a mind kept asking, how could such a thing be, here, among all these people? How could it be?
When Hat arrived at the preview, it was already fairly crowded, but to his surprise Percy Follows, gold mane freshly permed, and Ambrose Bird, ponytail freshly curried, broke off in midaltercation and, like a quarrelling couple surprised by the vicar, made a bee-line towards him, their faces split by welcoming smiles. It was only when they both passed him by that he realized with some relief that he was not their obscure object of desire. Behind him, the Lord and Lady Mayor had arrived. He was Joe Blossom, a stout middle-aged man known in the local business community as Lord of the Flies as he'd made his money out of breeding maggots for the fishing fancy. She was Margot Blossom, the second wife for whom he'd abandoned his first, a onetime cabaret wrestler, ten years his junior, over whom he watched with possessive jealousy and on whom he lavished whatever gifts he felt would make her happy, or at least keep her honest, which included expensive foreign holidays, emerald nipple-studs, capped teeth and silicone implants. Of late she had developed a range of cultural pretensions which included passions for the classical ballet, fine wines, and the works of Charley Penn. Despite, or perhaps because of, these new and spiritually uplifting preoccupations, she was still capable of reverting to the habits other youth and body-smashing anyone foolish enough to make a reference in her presence to the source of her husband's wealth. Risk takers used the local pronunciation of her name which voiced the t, and behind her back they dropped the r too, but only those in love with death did this to her face. Bird and Follows were competing wildly to be mine host. For a moment it looked as if things might turn nasty, but in the event only verbal blows were struck and they divided the spoils, Bird making off with the maggots and Follows with the silicone. Watching the bright check suit recede, Hat, who'd agonized over his own choice of burgundy chinos and a leather jerkin over a pale blue T-shirt inviting you to Save the Skylark, felt better already. Now, like a good policeman, before progressing further into the gallery he paused and scanned the crowd. The casual observer might have thought he was checking faces against a mental mugbook, but in fact he paid scant attention to individuals till he'd spotted what he was looking for, that head of rich brown hair with a silver-grey flash. She was moving around offering a trayful of drinks and nibbles to the guests. As if attracted by the intensity of his gaze, she glanced his way, nodded a welcome and resumed her duties. Helping himself to a glass of wine from another young woman who gave him a smile he might have responded to if Rye hadn't been within clocking distance, Bowler now began to register the crowded room in detail. There was a police presence significant enough to make him wonder if he couldn't perhaps claim overtime. The DCI was there and his wife whom Bowler liked. On their previous meetings Ellie Pascoe had run her bold and friendly gaze over him in a manner which was assessing and approving but in no wise inviting, and
109 called him Hat, and not pulled any vicarious rank, confirming her reputation of being all right. She was standing next to Charley Penn on the edge of a group into which Follows had just insinuated his mayoral prize, who looked as if she were already favouring them with her considered judgment of the exhibits. As Hat watched, Ellie Pascoe turned her head away to yawn behind her hand, glimpsed him, and smiled. He smiled back and continued his scan and found himself smiling at the super, who didn't smile back. Was there no escaping the man? By his side was the woman who'd been with him at the Taverna, a well-made lady but very much cruiser-weight to Dalziel's super-heavy. Still, not a mismatch, by all accounts. He broke away from the Fat Man's basilisk gaze, but his sense of being back at work still continued, for now, perhaps even more surprisingly, Sergeant Wield's unmissable features gloomed out at him like a goblin who'd strayed into an elfin rout. But why sh
ould this be a surprise? A man didn't need to be a work of art to appreciate art, and in any case, as Bowler knew himself, there were reasons other than aesthetic to urge attendance. Rye was still moving, but not in his direction, so he let his gaze keep drifting. He encountered the quiet reflective gaze of Dick Dee who gave him a friendly nod which he returned. OK, so he felt jealous of the guy, but no need to give him the satisfaction of knowing he felt jealous. Lots of others he recognized. He was good at faces and he'd made it his business on arrival in his new patch not only to study the mug-shot albums but also to get acquainted with the features of anyone else likely to prove important in an ambitious young copper's life. Journalists, for instance ... there was Sammy Ruddlesdin, the Gazette reporter, lean and cadaverous and clearly bored out of his skull, into which from time to time he inserted a cigarette until memory of the prohibitive age into which he'd survived made him take it out again ... At least his suffering seemed less than that of his editor, Mary Agnew, who was talking with head averted to a bald man shovelling canapes into his mouth from a piled-up plate like he'd just escaped from a health farm. He reached for a name .. . found it ... Councillor Steel a.k.a. Sniffer ... a man to avoid, by all accounts, not only because of his lethal breath but because it was frequently expended bad mouthing the police and all other alleged abusers of the public purse. Still, the way he was gobbling that grub, he wouldn't be long for this world! Rye had disappeared now. Perhaps she'd gone to replenish her tray. Would need to if there were many appetites like Stutter's. Or perhaps she was secretly observing him to see if he took an intelligent interest in the exhibits. He certainly felt observed. He turned his head suddenly and caught the source of the feeling. Not that it was hard to catch, as the man viewing him from behind what looked like a huge wooden phallus didn't turn away guiltily but gave him a friendly nod. It was Franny Roote. Whose discreet surveillance he'd been boasting about to the DCI only yesterday. But if he'd been so sodding discreet, how come Roote was smiting at him like an old buddy and heading his way? 'Hello,' he said. 'DC Bowler, isn't it? Are you into art?' 'Not really,' said Bowler, seriously hassled and trying for sangfroid. 'You?' 'As an extension of the word, perhaps. Words are my thing, but sometimes the word is a seed which needs to flower into something non-verbal. It's a circular thing, really. Pictures came first, of course. Nice cave paintings, a lot of them done, recent research suggests, while the artist was high on grass or whatever they used in prehistoric times. It's easy to see how their pictures might have some sort of religious significance. Also they could have been of practical use, such as saying, If you go out of the cave and turn left down the valley you 'II find a nice herd of antelope for supper. But when it came to saying, Run like bell, boys. Here comes a Tyrannosaurus, pictures left something to be desired. So language, to start with, was no doubt born out of necessity. Yet soon it must have flowered into song, into poetry, into narrative, into the exchange of ideas, and out of these developed new and subtler forms of art, which in turn . .. well, you take my point, I'm sure. It's a circle, or perhaps a wheel as it makes forward progress as it turns, and we are all bound upon it at some point or other, though for some it is a Ferris wheel, and for others it is a wheel of fire.' He paused and looked at Bowler as if he'd just said something like, 'Is it still raining outside?'
Dialogues of the Dead Page 11
