Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  m I'm going to take some excellent advice I just received. I'll check out his alibi for the night ofjax's death and once I've got that sorted, then I'll make up my mind.' She grinned back and said, 'You know, we might make some thing of you yet. Is that it? Because I'm running on library time already.' 'Tell them you were dealing with a ratepayer's research prob lem. That should ease your conscience. And to ease mine, a little bit of official business - when you were waiting to be interviewed by Sergeant Wield in the gallery, did you chat with anybody?' 'I expect so. There wasn't a rule of silence, was there? Why are you asking?' 'Well, it was just that when you went back to the library for your things, you didn't specify anyone you saw, and I wondered if you mentioned that's where you'd gone to anyone else while you were waiting.' She was lightning quick. 'So they could give themselves some kind of alibi by mentioning they'd seen me, you mean?' 'That kind of thing.' And now she was angry and he could see all his good approach work going for nothing. 'Is this about Dick? It is, isn't it?' 'No,' he protested. 'OK, he did say he saw you and you didn't say you saw him . ..' 'And that means he's lying? That he wasn't there when I was because he was in the lavatory killing Councillor Steel? For God's sake, when you lot take against someone, you really go all the way, don't you? No wonder the jails seem to be fall of innocent people fitted up by the fuzz!' She stood up, knocking her coffee mug over, and he jumped up to avoid the flood. He said quickly, 'Right idea, wrong guy. It's that novelist fellow, Penn, I'm curious about. He mentions seeing both you and Dee. Neither of you mention him.' He watched as the anger drained from her face and thought, but had the wisdom not to say, that it was fascinating the way her indignation at a possible encroachment on civil liberties didn't extend to include Charley Penn. 'No,' she said slowly, 'I definitely didn't notice him. And yes, when I chatted to Dick while we were waiting to make our statements Penn was hanging around like he usually does. But you're not really suggesting ...' 'I'm not suggesting anything,' he said. 'But we've got to cover every angle and we are looking for someone highly educated with a devious mind who gets a kick out of playing around with words.' 'Then maybe you should be raiding all the senior common rooms in the county,' she said, but without heat. 'Look, I've got to go or Dick will kill me ... sorry, I mean ... oh shit, I'm getting as neurotic as you. I'll see you on Sunday.' 'Yeah, sure. Listen, maybe we could meet up before that, do a movie or something ...' 'From what I've seen of your job a girl would be crazy to arrange to meet you anywhere but in her own warm flat,' she replied. 'You can give me a ring when you're definitely and unrecallably free. See you.' He watched her walk away, lovely carriage, head held high, with just a touch of sinuosity around the waist producing the merest hint of a sway of the buttocks. Oh, you're the girl for me, he told himself as she passed out of sight. He turned to lean over the balustrade, feeling able at will to share the warm joy flooding through his body with all the hurrying people in the shopping centre below. And found himself looking straight into the accusing eyes of Peter Pascoe, standing among the shoppers, peering up at the balcony, with his right hand pressing his mobile phone to his ear and his left waving an angry summons to descend.

  W Chapter Twenty-two

  Ripeness is all, as every spin doctor knows, and what the seer beholds is usually what the beholder is ready to see. In fact Peter Pascoe's gaze was relieved not accusing, and his summons was imperative rather than angry. He'd been on his way to the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre when the phone rang and it had been the voice he heard that had stopped him in his tracks. 'Roote? How the hell did you get this number?' 'I don't really recall, Chief Inspector. I'm sorry to trouble you, but I didn't know who else to try. I mean, I could have rung 999 but by the time I explained, especially as I'm not sure what I'm explaining . .. but I thought you would know what to do for the best.' He sounded uncharacteristically agitated. In all their acquaintance, even at moments of great crisis, Pascoe could never recall the man being anything but controlled. 'What are you talking about?' he demanded. 'It's Sam. Dr Johnson. I went round to his room in the Uni yesterday after the funeral to pick up a book he'd promised to lend me, but he wasn't there. I thought he'd just forgotten. I tried again later, but still no sign. So I rang his flat last night but didn't get any reply. I've just been up to his room again during my morning break and it's still locked and there were some students hanging around, waiting for a seminar, and they said he had missed a lecture yesterday too, so I tried ringing his flat again, but still no reply. So now I was really worried and thought I ought to tell someone in authority, and I thought you would be best as you're a friend, of his I mean, and would know what to do.' 'Where are you now?' asked Pascoe. 'At the university. English Department.' Pascoe's mind was racing. He knew it was stupid, but around Roote, he never felt fully in control. He tried to see the angle here but couldn't. But it was at this point he saw Bowler. 'Stay there. I'll come round,' he ordered as he waved at the DC. Hat hurried down, rehearsing his explanation for being discovered lounging on the balcony at Hal's like a gentleman of leisure taking his ease in the middle of the morning. 'You got your car here?' said Pascoe. 'Yes, in the multi.' 'Good. You can give me a lift. I walked from the station.' 'And you want a lift back?' said Hat. 'No. To the university. It will save me a bit of time.' It was a weak excuse, but he didn't feel like explaining he preferred to have a witness in any encounter arranged by Roote. They didn't talk as they strode to the car park. 'Oh God,' said Pascoe. 'I'd forgotten the MG.' Bowler's ancient two-seater lay between a Discovery and a Jeep like a whippet between a pair of St Bernards. 'Takes you back, does it, sir?' said Bowler proudly. 'Back is not so far that I need to be taken there,' said Pascoe acidly, slipping with what he hoped was athletic ease into the passenger seat. 'Don't give many lifts to the super, I presume.' 'No, sir. Don't have the insurance,' laughed Bowler. 'Any particular reason we're going to the Uni?' Pascoe explained, making light ofjohnson's alleged disappearance with the anticipatable result that the DC was even more puzzled than he might have been. 'So why the rush, sir? Most likely this Johnson guy's taken a long weekend. I mean, when I was a student, it sometimes seemed like you had more chance of getting hold of Madonna than getting hold of your tutor. Is it Roote ringing you that makes the difference?'

  Smart ass, thought Pascoe. He reminds me of me. He said, 'What the devil were you doing in that gallery anyway?' The form of the question might have puzzled Bowler a little if the content hadn't disconcerted him a lot. 'I was having a coffee, sir.' It occurred to Hat that he'd no idea

  W at what point Pascoe had first observed him and he went on, 'In fact, I'd been having a coffee with Miss Pomona. There was something I wanted to ask her and she suggested we met outside the library.' 'Oh?' said Pascoe, smiling. 'Discretion in this case being the better part o amour, eh?' Hat's French was up to this and he shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. Strictly business.' 'In that case, presumably it's my business too. So do tell.' For a second Hat thought of coming clean about George Headingley, but off-loading his problem felt pretty naff and certainly wasn't going to win him any Brownie points, so instead he told the DI about his unease in re Charley Penn. 'You seem to have it in for Charley,' said Pascoe. 'First Jax Ripley, now Cyril Steel. Nothing personal, I hope?' 'No, sir. Just that he keeps popping up.' Then, batting the ball firmly back he added, 'Like Roote.' Pascoe glanced at him sharply but detected nothing but proper subordinate deference. ' Oh you do remind me of me, you cocky sod, he thought. The rest of the journey passed in silence. The plate-glass windows of the Ivory Tower which housed the English Department were flashing what might have been an SOS as the scudding clouds intermittently masked the autumn sun. They found Roote in the foyer talking to a maintenance man who was protesting that he couldn't open up a member of staff's room just because a student asked him. 'Now I'm asking,' said Pascoe, showing his warrant card. Ascent was via a paternoster lift, so called in Pascoe's opinion because even a practising atheist (and especially a practising atheist with claustrophobic tendencies) was ill-advised to use suc
h a con traption without resort to prayer. The maintenance man stepped in and was translated. The next platform rose and Pascoe motioned Bowler in while he summoned up all his aplomb. Two more platforms passed and there was still no sign that his aplomb had heard the summons. He took a deep breath, felt a gentle pressure on his elbow, then he and Franny Roote stepped forward in perfect unison. The pressure vanished instantly. He glanced sharply at the young man in search of signs of amusement or, worse, sympathy. But Roote's eyes were blank, his expression introspective, and Pascoe began to wonder if he'd imagined the helping hand. Bowler's legs suddenly came into view. 'Here we are,' said Roote, and Pascoe, determined not to be assisted again, exited with an unnecessarily athletic leap. It took only a few seconds to establish thatjohnson's room was empty and, from the evidence of a series of notes pushed under the door in which students recorded their vain attempts to keep appointments, had been empty since the weekend. 'You say you've been round to his flat?' said Pascoe. 'Yes,' said Roote. 'I rang the bell. No reply. And no reply on the phone, either. His answering machine's not on. He always left his answering machine on when he went out.' 'Always?' said Hat. 'That's a bit precise.' 'In my experience,' emended Roote, frowning. 'So let's go and see,' said Pascoe. Back at the paternoster, he hurled himself on to the first platform. That way at least he was able to make his flustered exit unobserved. Outside a problem arose because there was no way they could get three into Bowler's MG without breaking the law. Roote said, 'I'll go in my own car. Care to join me, Mr Pascoe? Could be more comfortable.' Pascoe hesitated then said, 'Why not?' The car turned out to be a Cortina of some antiquity. But it was certainly easier to get into than the MG and the engine sounded sweet enough. 'Thought you said it was an old banger?' said Pascoe. Roote glanced at him and smiled his secret smile. 'I had the engine tuned,' he said. He drove with the exaggerated care of a man undergoing a driving test. Pascoe could almost feel Bowler's exasperation as he trailed behind them. But he also felt that there was more than just mockery in Roote's mode of driving. He was going slow because he was reluctant to arrive. The flat was on the top floor of a converted townhouse in a Victorian terrace which had gone down and was now on its way up again. They gained entry by ringing all the bells till a man

  ^9 responded. Pascoe identified himself and they went in. There was no lift and the stairs were steep enough to make him almost nostalgic for the paternoster. At Johnson's door, he rang the bell and could hear it echoing inside. Then he tried knocking, regis tering that the door was pretty solid and didn't feel like it would yield easily to even a young man's shoulder. He called down to the elderly man who had let them in and was lurking curiously a little way down the stairway, and asked who the flat agents were. It was a well-known firm with their office only a mile or so away. He dialled the number on his mobile, got a girl who seemed disinclined to be helpful, advised her then to call a carpenter and a locksmith to make good the damage that usually resulted from opening a door with a sledgehammer and rapidly found himself talking to the firm's general manager who assured him he'd be there within ten minutes. He made it in five. Pascoe took the key from him and turned it in the lock. He opened the door a fraction, sniffed the air, and closed it again. 'I'm going to go in now,' he said. 'Bowler, you make sure nobody else comes in.' 'Yes, sir,' said Bowler. He opened the door just enough to let his slim frame slip through, then closed it behind him. There was death here, he'd known that as soon as he first opened the door. The blast of warm air that hit him carried its odour, not yet unbearably pungent but still unmistakable to any one who'd had cause to be around corpses as often as Peter Pascoe. If it hadn't been for this, he might have thought Sam Johnson was simply asleep. He sat in an old wing chair, his feet stretched out on to the fender of a fireplace tiled in the high Victorian style, like a scholar made drowsy by draughts from the whisky bottle standing by his arm and the lulling rhythms of the volume which lay open on his lap. Pascoe paused to take in the room. First impressions were important. The old grate had been replaced by a modern gas fire which was the source of the heat. On the mantelshelf an ormolu clock had stopped at twelve. Beside the clock lay what for an unpleasant moment Pascoe thought was a turd but on closer examination proved to be some blocks of melted chocolate. Alongside the whisky bottle and empty glass on the low table next to the chair stood a cafetiere and a coffee mug. On the other side of the fireplace was a small sofa with a broken leg 'repaired' by a hefty tome and another low table with an empty tumbler on it. He turned his attention to the body and confirmed by touch what he knew already. There was nothing to show how Johnson had died. Perhaps after all it would turn out to be a simple heart attack. He looked at the open book without touching it. It was open at a poem called 'Dream-Pedlary'. He read the first verse.

  If there were dreams to sell What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy?

  Dreams to sell. His eyes prickled. Detectives don't cry, he told himself. They do their jobs. He retreated to the door as carefully as he'd advanced. There was a lot of noise outside on the landing, Roote's voice raised angrily, Bowler's at first reassuring, then stern. Better to get the machine rolling before he went out there to restore order. He took out his mobile and dialled. He was halfway through issuing his precise instructions when the voices outside suddenly reached a climax of screaming and the door burst open, catching him in the back and throwing him forward into the room. 'Sam! Sam!' screamed Franny Roote. 'Oh, Jesus. Sam!' He rushed forward and would have flung himself on top of the corpse if Pascoe hadn't grappled one of his legs, then Hat Bowler arrived in a flying tackle which ended with all three sprawling on the carpet in a heaving, swearing tangle of bodies. It took another couple of minutes for the two of them to drag

  201 Chapter Twenty-three

  >From the start it was Franny Roote who cried murder. Which, as Dalziel pointed out, was odd, as at the moment if they wanted a suspect, he was the only one on oner. 'Then we'd be silly not to take him,' said Pascoe, too eagerly. 'Nay, lad. First thing you do with a gift horse is kick it in the teeth,' said Dalziel. 'Four possibilities. Natural causes, accident, suicide, murder. Post mortem report will give us a line mebbe, but at the moment what we've got is a guy with a heart condition looking like he died peaceably by his own fireside. God send us all such a nice exit.' This pious sentiment was offered with the unctuous smile of a TV evangelist looking forward to getting out of the studio back to his hotel bedroom where a trinity of booted ladies stood ready to mortify his sinful flesh. 'Look, sir, I know we're under pressure with this Wordman business...' 'Wordman? What the hell has this got to do with the Wordman?' demanded Dalziel, moving from unction to abrasion with no perceptible interval. 'That's why I'm sitting on the Stutter Dialogue. Once that gets out, they'll all be like you. Every little old lady falling downstairs will have been shoved by the sodding Wordman!' This was so manifestly unjust that Pascoe untypically allowed himself to be provoked. 'Well, I think you're making a big mistake there, sir. OK, there's nothing to suggest Sam's death has anything to do with the Wordman, but if there is another Wordman killing, you're going to have a lot of explaining to do.' 'Nay, lad, that's why I keep clever sods like you, to do my explaining.'