Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  W being a detective, taking note of what makes people tick, especially the oddities, which means most of us.' 'So, have you drawn any conclusions, Charley?' 'Only that there's a lot more mileage in it.' 'Why do you say that?' ' 'Cos he's obviously a clever sod, and if the sharpest brain in , our CID has got to waste time suspecting me, then you can't be within a moonshot of catching him.' 'Charley,' said Dalziel softly, 'there's one way you can stop me wasting rime. Make up your mind if you're going to come clean „ or try to tough it out. Last Sunday afternoon .. . ?' 'And if I tell you I went to see my mother, what then?' 'Then I invite you down the nick where the refreshments aren't i' half as good as this and the service is twice as lousy,' said Dalziel. ', 'Oh well, if you'd put it like that to start with ... I was with a | friend. A female friend.' | 'They're the best kind,' said Dalziel. 'But, let me guess, she's ,i married and being a true gent, you can't possibly give me her i, name.' ti 'Andy, I don't know why we bother to have conversations when | you know everything in advance.' ; 'Because it's words that make the world go round,' said Dalziel. 'I thought it was love.' ' 'Same thing. Nowt that doesn't come down to words.' I 'You're getting too deep for me, Andy. So what do we do now?' 'You? You do nowt. Me, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm .' not going to press you to reveal a name, Charley, because I respect j your loyalty and delicate feelings in this matter. But you're right'f about us being alike. I keep a little notebook too where I jot down;; oddities. And I reckon when I go through my notes, I'm going! to come across - it might be a couple, it might be half a dozen, | it might even be more - names of women who could be thefemme | I'm cherchezing. I'll put 'em in alphabetic order then I'll call round | to see each of them in turn, preferably at night just when they're; serving up supper to hubby and the family, and I'll ask 'em, "Were! you rucking Charley Penn last Sunday afternoon? I need to know; else he's in big trouble." And I'm sure that the lady in question! will stand up and be counted rather than let you stay in that; trouble. In fact, if she's tired of her old man and fancies getting!? together with you on a more permanent basis, she might jump at the chance to get this out in the open. Could even be that more than one will see this as too good a chance to miss and I may be stuck with a superfluity of admissions, which could be awkward. But that's a risk I'll just have to take. Unless you care to save me from it.' He nodded as if to affirm his readiness to undertake such a perilous mission and drank his beer. 'Fuck you, Dalziel,' said Penn. 'I take it that's a "yes",' said Dalziel.

  301 Chapter Thirty-four

  Hat Bowler's lunch had passed with much less drama. He had taken Rye first of all into a wooded gully where they spotted enough birds to justify the expedition. She listened to his expert commentary with apparent interest but he was careful not to go on too long and risk boredom setting in. Also he was aware that the clouds were getting ever lower and wanted to make sure that their lunch at least was not spoilt by the inevitable rain. They found a sheltered spot under a huge outcrop of rock from which several loose boulders had detached themselves over the years. He set about kicking it clear of sheep droppings and, when he caught her watching him with some amusement, he said apologetically, 'Yeah, I know, it's like eating in a sheep's toilet, but they know a thing or two about shade in summer and shelter in winter.' 'Where there's shit there's shelter, isn't that what the shepherds say?' laughed Rye. 'I'll have to remember that. OK, that does it, I think.' They sat and ate the assortment of sandwiches he had provided. Despite his promise to be founder of the feast, Rye produced from her knapsack a chocolate-iced sponge cake which she sliced in two. 'Hey, this is good,' he said. 'You bake it?' 'That's not surprise I hear, I hope?' 'Gratitude and delight,' he said. : Things were going well, he felt. She gave every sign of enjoying his company as much as he was enjoying hers, but any hope he had of their growing closeness easing itself into a bit of al fresco grappling vanished when as they drank the rest of the coffee, the; rain began, not much, more an undeniable moistness of the air| than real spots, but enough he guessed to dampen ardour if applied i to naked skin. 1 Quickly they packed up. 'What do you want to do?' he asked. 'I haven't come all this way to leave without taking a look at the famous tarn,' she said. 'And I've not forgotten your interesting bits.' The rain still hadn't really taken a hold by the time they reached the tarn, with the dampness in the air manifesting itself in the form of a general mistiness rather than a downpour. They stood at the water's edge, straining their eyes through the vaporous air towards the further bank where a low stone building was just visible. 'Isn't that the view that Dick painted?' said Rye. 'More or less. Slightly different angle, and a lot better visibility. But that's certainly Stangcreek Cottage.' He put the binoculars to his eyes and added, 'Looks as if there's someone there. I can see smoke coming from the chimney.' 'Oh, good. Somewhere to shelter if this gets any worse.' 'Look, we can head back to the car now if you want,' he said anxiously. 'Worried your make-up might wash off?' she mocked. 'I thought you were the tough outdoor type. Can we walk right round the lake?' 'Well, it's all right as far as the cottage but then it starts to get a bit boggy as you get near to Stang Creek itself. That's the main feed stream for the tam, but all the water that comes running off the hills back there is looking to find a way out too, and the ground's full of little creeks and inlets. No way you aren't going to get your feet wet...' 'You must have been bitten by a rabid duck, all this hydrophobia,' she cut him short. 'Come on. Let's move!' He followed her, mentally noting that macho protectiveness cut no ice with Rye. As he'd promised, there was a track of sorts round the northern side of the mere, dangerous to a car's springs but easy terrain for walkers. The mist thickened as they walked, cutting visibility down to about twenty yards with occasional tantalizing glimpses across the water, and wrapping them in a grey but not unpleasing cocoon. There was very little sound and what there was came mysteriously as from a great distance. No birds sang and the gentle lapping of

  3°3 the lake water in the reeds was more a foil against which to measure silence than a noise in its own right. After a while Hat let his hand brush Rye's and she took it and locked her fingers in his, and so they walked on, hand in hand. Neither spoke. It felt to Hat that there was a spell on them which words could only break and if it remained unbroken, they might walk on like this forever. Was it possible to make vows without speaking? he wondered. And the strangely unconstabulary thought flitted across his mind that perhaps it was the vows made without words that were kept forever. In fact a wordless world might in many respects be a better place. Men name things to have power over them. Leave them nameless and we cannot dominate but may still love them. Part of his mind thought with horror of the reaction among his peers of the CID if he tried enunciating any of these ideas in the nick. Another part wanted to tumble them all out in front of Rye and invite her reaction. But to do so would require words. And words in this silence were sacrilege. ' And then came a sound unholier than any words, a sound that ripped through the silence, whirring and grating, now harsh, now edgy, rising and falling, now metal, now stone. 'What kind of bird is thaff asked Rye in a hushed and fearful tone. 'No bird that I've ever heard,' said Hat. 'It sounds more like ...' He hesitated, not at all sure what it did sound more like. Then, so sudden it was almost as if the sound had taken shape ; before them, the squat black shape of Stangcreek Cottage leapt, out of the mist a few yards ahead. ' The sound was coming from behind the cottage. They went , round the side and saw a mud-spattered Fiesta parked outside a timber-framed lean-to which rested against the building's rear wall like a drunk against a charity worker. I Under the minimal shelter of the lean-to a man stooped over | a foot-driven grinding wheel against which he held the head of | an axe. The wheel turned, sparks flew, the metal screamed. I 'Goodness me,' said Rye. 'It's Dick. Dick, hello! Dick'.' I At the sound of her raised voice, Dick Dee turned and stood i| still for a moment, the axe held tight in both hands, regarding! them blankly. Then the slow rejuvenating smile spread across his face and he said, 'Well, this is a pleasant surprise.' In a surprisingly flue
nt movement for one whose comfortable shape gave little promise of athleticism, he swung the axe high in the air, letting his hands slide from the head to the shaft, then brought it down with sufficient force to bury it in one of several heavy logs scattered around the lean-to floor. 'So here you are. How wise I was to light a fire. But let's not hang around out here. As we say in rural Yorkshire, won't you step in-by, you'll have had your tea?'

  3°5 Chapter Thirty-five

  The next hour passed very comfortably, a little too comfortably in Rye's case for Hat's peace of mind. That easiness between her and Dee which he had observed before was even more apparent outside the workplace. As they talked and laughed together, he felt, if not excluded, at least cut adrift and moving ever further from that blessed closeness he and Rye had shared during their mist-wrapped walk around the lake. Dee had made tea and toast for them on the very welcome woodfire which crackled and sparked in the grate. The tea was a bit smoky, but the toast - thick slices of white bread impaled on a long thin carving knife and held up to the heat till they were almost black then generously loaded with cool fresh butter and apricot jam - was delicious. Dee sat on the floor, Hat perched on a three-legged stool, while Rye sat in the only chair. This was a lovely thing, carved out of oak, with lion-head armrests and claw feet, all possessing that deep patina which only age and the polish of use can give. 'Found it in the barn,' explained Dee. 'One of the arms was broken and someone at some time had thought a coat of whitewash would improve it. So I neglected my painting for a while on the grounds that putting this back to what it was made a greater contribution to art and beauty than anything I could do.' 'It's lovely, Dick,' said Rye. 'Yes, isn't it. And at last there is someone here worthy to sit in it. No doubt about it, eh, Hat? Rye must be our chairman. "Queen and huntress chaste and fair ..."' As he spoke he took her hand and urged her to take her seat. Hat, resenting the contact and thinking to earn some Brownie points by a quick flash of linguistic correctness, said, 'Chairwoman, I think you mean. Or at least Chairperson.' 'That's what you think I mean, is it?' said Dee pleasantly. 'Yet man in its origins was never gender specific. There are those who derive it from the same Indogermanic source posited for mind, that is men or mon, to think or remember, thus referring to that power of rational thought which differentiates us from the beasts. Whatever the truth of this, it's certain that its reference to the male of the species is a much later development, and therefore to say that those instances where it still retains its original sense of human being, such as mankind, demonstrate masculine arrogance and exclusivity is as absurd as saying that the internal combustion engine was invented because Henry Ford started making motor cars. However, I acknowledge that among ignorant people I cannot forever be giving my little lecture, so yes, back there in the land of hoi polloi, I usually observe the conventions of the new ignorance. But here, among friends, no need to hide our lights under bushels! Rye, you shall be our chairman, Hat, you shall be our stoolie, and I as usual shall take the floor.' Hat felt he ought to feel patronized but found it hard not to feel flattered instead. It was a rare art, he reluctantly admitted, to be able to rattle on like Dee without getting right up your nose. Remove the element of sexual jealousy, and he guessed he'd be really impressed by the guy, who gave the impression of being not unimpressed by Hat. At every opportunity he went out of his way to offer cues for him to display his ornithological expertise, showing what seemed a genuine rather than just a polite interest, and being modestly self-deprecating when Rye drew attention to several of his paintings which included birdlife. There was no doubt about it, he might not be a bird painter in the Aubusson or even the Hon. Geoffrey style, but his touch when it came to painting the feel of a bird in flight was indisputable, and Hat was able to join his praise to Rye's with, he hoped, no discernible element of grudgingness. It was some comfort to see that this apparent closeness between the two librarians didn't extend to details of Dee's private life. Rye was clearly as surprised as he was to find her colleague in residence. Not that residence seemed the right word. The cottage was primitive in the extreme with no modem utilities. 'I used to come up to the tarn to paint,' explained Dick, 'and I took shelter in here one day when it started raining, I mean

  307 really raining, not this soft breath of god stuff. And it occurred to me that I would find it really useful to have a place like this where I could store some gear and work inside when the weather was inclement. So I made enquiries, discovered that it all belonged to the Stang estate, that's the Pyke-Strengler family property, and I was able to use my slight acquaintance with the Hon. Geoffrey to persuade them to let me take out a lease on the place for a nominal rent. I take care of basic upkeep, it's in my own interest of course, and everyone's happy.' 'Do you actually stay here?' asked Rye. 'I occasionally camp out overnight,' he admitted. 'I've got a sleeping bag and a camping stove and various bits and pieces. I've tried to avoid nest-building. I don't want a rural retreat, just a workshop. But it's amazing how the stuff builds up! And, as you can see, I am nesh enough to like a fire when things get a little too chilly or damp.' 'But a place like this on the open market would surely bring a good price,' said Hat. 'Oh yes. And Geoffrey's father, the famous absentee, would have dearly loved such a good price. He sold off everything he could, but the bulk of the estate land and its properties are entailed. The revenue comes from letting. Now Stangcreek Cottage refurbished and modernized would be a desirable holiday rental, but that costs money and the late lord wasn't about to spend hard cash on anything but his own interests. What Geoffrey will decide to do remains to be seen, but I think that on the whole he so loves this bit of the estate for his own activities, whether artistic or atavistic, that he won't want to encourage trippers.' 'Like us, you mean?' said Hat. 'Genuine bird-watchers he doesn't mind, though it must come as a shock to some of them to see the duck they were just admiring through their glasses explode before their eyes. More tea?' Hat glanced at Rye, trying desperately not to look too eager to be up and off. She put her mug down and said, 'No thanks, Dick. Not for me. I came out to enjoy the fresh air and see some birds, though Hat here might like to hang around in the dry for the rest of the day. He seems to be allergic to water.' Dick Dee smiled at him. The fact that there was more of sympathy than mockery in the smile didn't help. He stood up and said brightly, 'Ready when you are.' Outside the rain was no longer dismissable as romantic mist. Dee said, 'Going back along the track, are you?' 'No,' said Hat firmly. 'All the way round.' 'Oh. Bit wet along there, you'll find. And there's a lot of water in the Creek. You know the crossing, do you?' 'Yes,' said Hat shortly. 'No problem.' 'Good. I'll get back to trying to put an edge on that damn axe. See you tomorrow, Rye.' 'Can't wait,' grinned Rye, giving him a peck on the cheek. Hat turned away and set off at a rapid pace. Male chivalry didn't seem to cut much ice with her so let's see what a bit of physical equal opportunity did! Behind him he heard the screel of the axe-grinding resume but it was soon drowned in the noise of running waters. The curve of steep hills to the west formed a natural watershed, funnelling rapid becks down through narrow gills with enough force to continue carving deep passages through the peaty ground levelling off to the tarn. The smaller streams were easily crossable, often with a single step or at most a bit of help from some natural stepping stone, but he deliberately chose a route which required maximum strength and agility. From time to time he glanced back to check Rye's progress and always found she was matching him stride for stride, so he tried smiling encouragingly in an attempt to imply that he was holding himself in check for her benefit. His reward for such silent braggadocio was just. His foot slipped off a greasy rock into a tumult of icy water and, as his boot filled, she swept past him, laughing, and took the lead. If anything, her chosen route was more difficult than his and soon she'd opened up a gap between them. Eventually, however, not without satisfaction he saw her come to a halt as she reached the bank of Stang Creek itself, the most significant of the many water courses running into the mere. Crossing it was a problem if you didn't know the exa
ct location of the stepping stones, which weren't easy to spot, most of them hiding beneath a couple of inches of water, except at times of greatest drought. Your first sight of someone crossing probably got you as close as modem agnosticism could manage to what the disciples felt on the Sea of Galilee after the feeding of the five thousand.

  3°9 Looking forward to a bit of miracle-making, Hat called out as he approached, 'So what's the hold-up? Top athlete like you, I thought you'd just leap across.' She turned to look at him and he immediately regretted his frivolous words. Her face was set, her eyes wide and startled. After her previous showing he couldn't understand why such a small obstacle should cause such a strong reaction, but he hurried for ward to reassure her there really wasn't any problem. Before he could speak she pointed and said, 'Hat . .. down there . ..' He looked downstream, his brain anticipating a distressed ani mal ... a fox with a gangrenous trapped leg perhaps ... or a drowned sheep ... And at first he saw nothing. Then he made it out. In the water, mostly submerged, held by the fast moving current against the hidden stepping stones over which he had planned to run so miraculously, was a body. Or perhaps it wasn't a body. The eye is easily deceived. Perhaps it was just some green plastic farm-feed bag, blown here by the autumn gales, bulked out by trapped air and floating vegetation. He ran along the bank, hoping to be able to turn to Rye and with his laughter at her error bring the colour back to her face. But as he stepped out along the hidden stones and bent down for a closer look, he saw there was no cause for laughter here. Rye was on the bank alongside him. He looked up at her and said warningly, 'I'm going to pull it out.' She turned away with affected indifference and said, 'There's a boat down there. I'll take a look.' He glanced downstream. Thirty yards or so, just before the creek entered the tarn, a flat-bottomed boat was moored. The policeman in him wanted to say, No. Don't go near. This could be a crime scene and the less we contaminate it the better. Instead he said, 'Yeah, why don't you do that?' He'd only seen one drowned body before, but that had been enough to demonstrate what water without and decay within could do to weak human flesh. Rye looked shaken enough already with- , out that. She moved away, and he stooped and with both hands took hold of what looked like a waxed outdoor jacket. It was difficult to get a grip but finally he succeeded and began to drag the body out of the water. 'Oh shit,' he said as he got the torso on to the bank. It was a body all right, but not all of it. Or not all a body. Or only part of a body. Or a body with a bit missing. In fact, was a body a body if you didn't have all of it? Which questions of semantics were only occupying his mind to divert it from the fact that the corpse had no head. He forced himself to concentrate. >