Dialogues of the Dead

by Reginald Hill

  321 Charley Perm's flat where, having drunk very freely of Penn's Scotch, he spent the night on the sofa. Penn confirms.' The phone rang. Dalziel picked it up, listened, then said, 'If I were on my way, I'd not be answering the sodding phone, would I? Soon!' He banged it down again. 'Mr Trimble?' said Pascoe. 'His secretary. If it had been Clan, I'd not have been so polite. Pete, I'm letting you rabbit on like this in the hope you're keeping the good news till the last. Should I hold my breath?' 'No, sir. Sorry.' 'Then sod it, I might as well go and help Clan find where he's hid his Scotch,' said the Fat Man, rising and making for the door. 'Sir,' said Hat. 'What sir's that, lad?' said Dalziel in the doorway. 'Sorry, sir?' 'Is it "Mr Dalziel, sir, please don't leave 'cos I've got summat very perceptive to say"? Or is it "Mr Pascoe, sir, now the old fart's gone, I've got summat very perceptive to say"?' Hat knew that there were some questions better unanswered. He said, 'I was just thinking, what if there were two of them?' 'Two bodies you mean? Wieldy, you were at the PM. Didn't the loose bits match?' Wield said, 'Think he means two killers.' 'Jesus. Why suck at two? If we're into invention, let's make it a mob.' 'Two would mean that neither of them actually needed to have travelled out to the Tarn with Lord Pyke-Strengler,' said Hat. 'And there'd have been a spare driver to bring his Land Rover back.' 'To what end?' enquired Pascoe. 'The Land Rover would get noticed from a distance out there,', said Hat. 'The body where it was could have lain there a lot longer if we hadn't happened to stumble on it. The longer it lies, the less there is for us to find. Or maybe the idea was to shift it. Maybe that was what Dee was up to, but he saw us wandering around on the far side of the tarn and when we started out towards the cottage, he got back there fast to intercept us. He didn't seem very keen for us to go on.' 'In your statement all you say is he remarked it got a bit boggy further along the shore,' said Pascoe. 'Well, there's different ways of saying things,' said Hat, blushing slightly. 'Especially if they don't fit a thesis, eh?' said Pascoe. 'Where's this leading, Hat? Are we still talking about Dee? Like I just told you, he's alibi'd.' 'Not if Charley Perm's the other half of the pair, he isn't,' said Hat. Dalziel said, 'Still fancy Charley, do you, lad? I'll say this for you, once you get someone in your sights, you keep the bugger there.' There wasn't the usual force in his mockery, however, and Hat felt encouraged enough to go on. 'And if they were both in it, then it doesn't matter that Perm's got an alibi for the Johnson killing.' 'Which you established by interviewing his mother,' said Dalziel. 'I were going to talk to you about your interview techniques, lad.' His tone was now distinctly unfriendly. 'Something come up, sir?' said Pascoe. 'Nothing important. Just that Sherlock here got it all wrong and it seems Charley weren't anywhere near his ma's place that Sunday.' Hat felt both crestfallen and elated at the same time. Pascoe said, 'He admits this?' 'He does now,' said Dalziel. 'But don't start oiling your handcuffs. He says he's got another alibi. Claims he spent the afternoon on the nest with a ladyfriend.' 'And what's the ladyfriend say?' 'Nowt. Turns out she's on holiday in the Seychelles for three weeks. With her husband. So we need to tread careful.' 'Why's that?' 'Seems the lady in question is Maggot Blossom. That's right. Helpmeet and comfort to Joe Blossom, the Lord of the Flies, our beloved mayor. So we'll need to wait till they get back afore we make enquiries.' 'Not like you to be so diplomatic, sir,' said Pascoe provocatively. 'Not diplomatic. Careful. Yon Maggot's got a leg-lock could

  W break a man's spine.' Then in face of Pascoe's sceptical moue, he added, 'Also, she's got a tattoo somewhere Charley couldn't know about unless . . . Any road, unless young Bowler here can come up with summat more than a fanny feeling, looks like Penn's right on the edge of the frame.' Hat looked around desperately as if he hoped a messenger might arrive with a freshly penned confession. Pascoe said encouragingly, 'Nothing wrong with informed speculation, Hat. You must have something going through your mind to suggest the possibility that Dee and Penn might enter into a conspiracy?' Hat said, 'Well, they went to the same school.' 'So did Hitler and Wittgenstein,' laughed Pascoe. Then recalled where he'd got this bit of information. From Sam Johnson's account of his first meeting with Charley Penn. He stopped laughing. 'And they play this weird game together,' Hat went on. 'I saw them at it.' 'At it? You talking game as in rumpty-tumpty?' said Dalziel, interested. 'No, sir. It's a board game, like Scrabble, only a lot harder. They use all kinds of different languages and there's a lot of other rules. We saw a board when we were round at Penn's flat, sir.' 'So we did,' said Pascoe. 'Some odd name, what was it? 'Pa-ro-no-mania,' said Hat carefully. 'Not paronomasia?' suggested Pascoe. 'No. Definitely mania. The other means word-play or punning, doesn't it?' said Hat, happy to show Pascoe that he wasn't the only clever bugger around. 'So it does,' said Pascoe. 'And what does your word - which I must say I've never come across - mean?' 'It's a real word, sir,' averred Hat, detecting a hint of dubiety. 'It was Miss Pomona who told me about it after I saw them playing. Hang on, I've got a copy of the rules .. .' He began to search through the wallet into which he'd put the ; papers Rye had given him before he'd taken to his sickbed. 'Here we go,' he said triumphantly, handing the tightly creased sheets to Pascoe who unfolded them carefully and read them with interest. 'OED, Second Edition. I stand corrected.' 'And I'm standing like a spare prick at a wedding,' said Dalziel. 'This is worse than listening to yon pair of epidemics.' 'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Hey, now, how about this. The OED always gives the earliest known usage of the word and in this case it's, wait for it, Lord Lyttelton, 1760, Dialogues of the Dead. How's that for coincidence?' 'I don't know. How is it?' said Dalziel. 'And what's it mean, this word?' 'Well, seems it's a factitious word, formed from a union of paronomasia and mania . ..' Dalziel ground his teeth and Pascoe hurried on. '.. . and it means basically "an obsessive interest in word games". Since 1978, it's also been the proprietary name of this board game Penn and Dee are so fond of.' 'Never heard of it,' said Dalziel. 'But I lost interest in board games after I found you got more rewards for climbing boring ladders than sliding down lovely slippery snakes.' Pascoe avoided Wield's eye and said, 'Looking at the rules, I'm surprised anyone has ever heard of it: "language of shuffler's choice ... double points for intersecting rhymes ... quadruple points for oxymorons . .." Jesus! Who'd want to play this?' 'Dee and Penn play it all the time evidently,' said Hat. 'Miss Pomona told you that too, I presume?' said Pascoe. 'And how long have you been nursing this interesting information to your bosom?' He spoke with studied politeness but Hat caught his drift instantly and said, 'Not long. I mean, I only found out about it last week, and then I went sick, and really it didn't seem to mean much, not till I heard Dr Urquhart and Dr Pottle going on today, then Mr Pascoe said about Penn giving Dee his alibi for one night last week, and I thought.. .' 'Nay lad, wait till you're in the dock afore you start summing up for the defence,' said Dalziel, not unkindly. 'Likely it's a load of nowt anyway. I mean, you can't go to jail for playing games, not even two fellows having a romp together, so long as it's between consenting adults in private, eh, Wieldy?' 'Yes, sir,' said the sergeant. 'Except if you call it rugby football, when you can sell folk tickets to watch, so they tell me.'

  ^2J Emotion always found it hard to get a fingerhold on the sergeant's face but this was said with a lack of expression that made Charles Bronson look animated. 'Rugby,' said Dalziel. 'Aye, that's a point. The Old Unthinkables. Nice one, Wieldy.' To be complimented on his attempted gibe at Dalziel's favourite sport did bring a look almost recognizable as surprise to the sergeant's features. 'Sir?' he said. 'The Old Unthinkables,' repeated Dalziel. 'That's what they call Unthank College's Old Boys' team. Not bad for a bunch of pubic school poofters, saving your presence. Not afraid to put the boot in, that's one thing they've learned for their daddies' money.' He spoke approvingly. Wield said, 'Missing your point, I'm afraid, sir.' 'Penn and Dee went to Unthank, and so did John Wingate, yon telly belly, Ripley's boss. I know 'cos he used to play for the Unthinkables. Scrum half. Nice reverse pass.' The phone rang again. 'And?' said Pascoe. 'He must be about the same age as Penn and De
e. Might be worth a chat, Pete. Find out what they got up to as kids. Christ, I must be desperate, can't believe I'm saying this. I've spent too much time listening to your mate Pozzo.' The phone was still ringing. Pascoe said, 'Shall I answer that? Could be the Chief's office again.' 'Then he'll think I'm on my way,' said Dalziel indifferently. He glanced at his watch. 'Tell you what, Wingate'll be at your press conference with all the other vultures. Reel him in when it's over. Knowing your style, Pete, that should be about half twelve. These telly bellys like shooting the questions, let's see if he can take his own medicine.' 'You'll be finished with the Chief by then?' 'Unless he opens a new bottle of Scotch,' said Dalziel. 'Bowler, you be there too. After all, this is your idea.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Hat, delighted. 'Don't get carried away. Likely it'll turn out a waste of time, and I just want you close so I don't waste my energy kicking summat inanimate.' He left. Hat turned to the others, smiling, inviting them to share Dalziel's joke. They didn't smile back. Pascoe said thoughtfully, 'Not like the super to chase rainbows.' 'Not unless he's got an itch in his piles . ..' They contemplated the Fat Man's famous haruspical piles for a moment, then Pascoe said, 'Wieldy, the OED's online now. Ellie's a subscriber, if I give you her details, can you whistle it up on the computer?' 'You authorize it, I can whistle up the PM's holiday snaps,' said Wield. They followed him to his computer and watched as he ran his fingers over the keyboard. 'Right,' he said. 'Here we are.' 'Great. Now find paronomania,' said Pascoe. But Wield was ahead of him. ^Paronomasia we've got. And paromphalocele we've got too, which from the sound of it we could do without. But no sign whatsoever of paronomania. So unless the great Oxford English Dictionary's missed a bit, there's no such word.' 'And yet,' said Pascoe, 'we have all seen it, and its definition. Interesting. While you're at it, Wieldy, try contortuplicated.' 'That's what the super said,' said Hat. 'I thought he just made it up.' 'No,' said Wield. 'It's here. "Twisted and entangled." But it's obsolete. Just one example and that's 1648.' 'Not attributed to A. Dalziel. is it?,' said Pascoe. 'Let that be a lesson to you, Hat. Never underestimate the super.' 'No, sir. Sir, how did Mr Dalziel know about Mrs Blossom's tattoo?' 'Can't imagine,' said Pascoe. 'W^y don't you ask him yourself?'

  327 Chapter Thirty-eight

  The press conference lasted a good hour. The technique preferred by most policemen when dealing with the gentlemen of the press, hungry for information, is the response monosyllabic. Yes and we, as appropriate, blossoming into an euphuistic No Comment when neither of these will do. Pascoe, however, favoured the sesquipedalian style. As Dalziel put it, 'After thirty minutes with me, they're clamouring for more. After thirty minutes with Pete, they're clamouring to be let out.' Tyro reporters had been known to leave one of his sessions with several pads crammed with notes which on analysis had not rendered a single line of usable copy. Only once on this occasion did anyone come close to laying a finger on him and that was Mary Agnew, editor of the MidYorkshire Gazette, whose personal attendance signalled the importance of the story. 'Mr Pascoe,' she said, 'it appears to us out here that these so-called Wordman killings are systematic rather than random. Is this your opinion also?' 'It would seem to me,' said Pascoe, 'that the sequence of killings plus the associated correspondence, details of which I am, for obvious reasons of security, unable to share with you at this juncture, predicates what for the want of a better term we might define as a system, though we should not let the familiarity of the term confuse us into apprehending anything we would recognize as a logical underpinning of the perpetrator's thought processes. We are dealing here with a morbid psychology and what is systematic to him might well, when understood, appear to the normal mind as disjunctive and even aleatoric.' 'I'll take that as a yes,' said Agnew. 'In which case, given that we have here a madman killing according to some kind of sequential

  328 system, how close are you to being able to give warning to those most at risk of becoming victims, whether as individuals or in a body?' 'Good question,' said Pascoe, meaning in Westminster-speak that he had no intention of answering it. 'All I can say is that if these killings are systematic, then the vast majority of your readers can have nothing to fear.' 'They'll be pleased to know it. But looking down the list of victims, I can work out for myself that from Jax Ripley on, all of them have had something to do with the Centre, either directly or indirectly. Have you put everyone who works in the Centre or has any strong connection with it on alert?' Pascoe, feeling himself harried, switched tactics abruptly, said, 'No,' then directed his gaze towards a Scotsman reporter whose accent he knew to be thick enough to baffle at least half of those assembled and said, 'Mr Murray?' Afterwards he wondered, as he'd often done before, what would happen if he'd opted for sharing rather than evasion. Let them have all the disparate bits and pieces which were cluttering up his mind and his desk, and perhaps there was someone out there, someone with special knowledge or maybe just some enthusiastic reader of detective novels to whom such exegetics were but a pre-dormitory snack, who'd look at them and say, 'Hey, I know what this means! It's obvious!' One day perhaps ... The right to make such a choice could be one of the compensations of that rise to place which he sometimes feared - and sometimes feared would never come! 'Peter, hi. Am I about to be offered a scoop or am I just doubleparked?' John Wingate was coming towards him escorted by Bowler, whom Pascoe had told to extract the TV producer from the departing media mob with maximum discretion. 'Definitely not the first. As for the second, that's between you and your conscience,' said Pascoe, shaking the man's hand. They knew each other, not well, but well enough to be comfortable with each other. Being a cop meant many relationships which in other professions might have matured into friendships stuck here. Pascoe recognized the main hesitation was usually on his side. Other people

  ^29 soon forgot you were a cop, and that was the danger of intimacy. What did you do when you were offered a joint in a friend's house, or found yourself invited to admire his acumen in having picked up a crate of export Scotch, duty-free, from a contact in the shipping trade? He'd seen the expression of shocked disbelief in friends' faces when he'd enquired if these were wise things to be sharing with a senior CID officer, and that had often been the last totally open expression he'd seen in those particular faces. Now he contemplated an oblique approach to the question of Dee and Penn but quickly discounted it. Wingate was too bright not to realize he was being pumped. The direct route was probably the best, not directness as Andy Dalziel (who happily had not yet appeared) understood it, but something much more casual and low-key. 'Something you could help us with maybe,' he said. 'You went to Unthank College, didn't you?' That's right.' 'Were Charley Penn and Dick Dee there at the same time?' 'Yes, they were, as a matter of fact.' 'Good friends, were they?' 'Not of mine. I was a year ahead. A year in school's even longer than a week in politics.' 'But of each other?' Wingate didn't reply straightaway and Pascoe felt the just-afriendly-chat smile on his face begin to freeze into a rictus. 'John?' he prompted. 'Sorry. What was the question?' Good technique that, thought Pascoe. By forcing me to repeat the question in a much more positive form, he's upped the atmosphere from chat toward interrogation. 'Were Dee and Penn close friends?' he said. 'Don't see how I'm qualified to answer that, Peter. Not sure why you'd want to ask me that either.' 'It's OK, John, nothing sinister. Just part of the usual business of collecting and collating mile after mile of tedious information, most of which proves totally irrelevant. I certainly don't want you to feel used.' This was offered with a rueful you-knowallaboutthis-too twist of the lips. 'Oh, I don't, because so far I haven't been. And I don't think I will be, not unless you can give me some better reason, or indeed any reason at all, for interrogating me about my merry schooldays.' 'It's not an interrogation, John,' said Pascoe patiently. 'Just a couple of friendly questions. Can't see why someone in your job should have any problem with that.' 'My job? Let's examine that. Basically I'm still what I started out as, a journalist, and in that game you don't get brownie points for jumping into bed with the police.' 'Didn't do Jax Ripley
any harm.' Dalziel had done one of his Red Shadow entrances; you don't know he's there till he bursts into song. 'What?' said Wingate, turning and looking alarmed. Then, recovering, he smiled and said, 'Superintendent, I didn't see you. Yes, well, Jax, God bless her, had her own techniques.' 'Certainly did,' said Dalziel. 'Don't want to interrupt, Pete, but just wanted to check with Mr Wingate if his missus was going to be at home this afternoon. Thought I might pop round and have a chat.' This produced a shared moment of bewilderment with Pascoe which might be to the good. 'Moira? But why should you want to talk to Moira about Dee and Penn?' asked Wingate. 'No reason, 'cos I don't. No, it's just a general chat I had in mind.' 'Yes, but why?' insisted Wingate, still more puzzled than aggressive. 'I'm conducting a murder investigation, Mr Wingate,' said Dalziel heavily. 'Several murder investigations.' 'So what's that got to do with her? She had no special connection with any of the victims.' 'She knew Jax Ripley, didn't she? I can talk to her about Jax Ripley and what she got up to. All right, I can probably tell her more than she can tell me. But I'm clutching at straws, Mr Wingate, and I might as well clutch at your missus, seeing it doesn't look like there's going to be owt to clutch at here. Is there, Mr Wingate?' He smiled one of his terrible smiles, lips drawn back from