D&P20 - Death's Jest-Book

by Reginald Hill

  'My torture!' he said, using a strange oath allegedly passed down from his Highland forebears. 'You're getting me as daft as yourselves. Mebbe I should have put you in the picture, but it didn't seem that important. All that's happened is I were told a foreign national might be living on our patch under an assumed name. You know what them sods at Immigration are like, so I thought it best to get ahead of the game and take it seriously.'

  'Well, that's awfully conscientious of you, sir’ said Pascoe. 'Can't have anonymous foreigners getting up to their disgusting tricks in Mid-Yorkshire, can we? So tell me, Wieldy, what have you found out about this wolf in sheep's clothing?'

  'Born 1962 in Kaub in the Rhine-Palatinate’ recited Wield in an old-fashioned schoolroom voice. 'Studied at Heidelberg, Paris and London. Freelance journalist, concentrating on political corruption stories at a national and local level with a special interest in environmental affairs. Convictions in Germany for breaches of the peace, obstruction, possession. No UK convictions. No warrants outstanding

  'Yeah yeah’ said Dalziel, holding up the folder he'd taken from the sergeant. 'Got all that without wasting your precious time. Hope there's summat a bit more useful in here’

  'Can't say, as I don't know what you want to use it for’ said Wield.

  Dalziel gave him a glower and Pascoe hastily interposed his own body, saying, 'Kaub. That's on the Rhine, I recall. Few miles south of the Lorelei.'

  'Is it now?' said the Fat Man. 'You been there?'

  'Yes. Did a Rhine tour a few years back. Lovely spot. Very romantic, in every sense’

  'One sense at a time is as much as I can manage’ said Dalziel. 'And seeing as we're in such a sharing mood, anything else I should know about?'

  His gaze was focused on the sheet bearing the new info on Roote Senior, which, despite the fact that it was face-down on the desk at a distance of several feet, he looked to be reading like a billboard poster.

  'No, sir’ said Pascoe firmly.

  'And you, Wieldy. Owt more from Boy George?'

  'No, sir.' Equally firmly.

  'Grand. Then we can all get down to some work, can't we?'

  He left.

  'Why is it that I feel like I've been told, "You scratch my back or I'll have the skin off yours"?' said Pascoe.

  'Me too,' said Wield. 'It's like having a pet bear. A lot of the time it's all warm cuddles, then suddenly you realize the bugger's crushing you to death!'

  Mai Richter dreamt she was back in her home town of Kaub, standing in Metzger-gasse, its lovely main street, looking towards the town tower, silhouetted against a ghastly sky. Higher still, a looming presence on even the sunniest days, was the bulk of Gutenfels with its restored ruins reminding those beneath where the real power in this land once lay.

  But Mai Richter's gaze was fixed much lower. Before the tower a bonfire raged, its teeth of flame ripping through the ribs of pinewood which formed its frame to reveal the orange heart pulsing within. Figures danced around, cloaked and hooded, with just enough firelight stealing beneath the cowls to reveal pallid faces and staring eyes and mouths twisted in terrible pleasure. They were hurling books into the fire's maw, which received them greedily, devouring whole volumes in a second. She knew that these were her books, books she had written with sweat and tears and love and devotion, all the copies of all her books, every word she had ever written, reducing to ashes before her eyes, vanishing forever from libraries and bookshops and, worst of all, from her mind.

  What use to think of books when she knew beyond doubt that when they'd burnt all her words, it would be her body they turned to next. Already she could feel the heat of the ravening flames, yet she had no power to flee or to resist. Somewhere close she could hear the pulse and the roar of the mighty Rhine but its cooling waters offered no relief.

  And now its sound was changing, still as powerful and as pulsing as ever, but now something more, something else . . . and suddenly she recognized the dark and terrible music of Siegfried's funeral with a shock of fear that woke her.

  The dancing shadows of the bonfire were replaced by the still white walls of her bedroom and its searing heat by the sharp chill of an English January night.

  But the music remained. Those shuddering glooms of sound which roll down the margins of mortality into the underworld still reverberated in her mind. And in her ears.

  She sat up.

  Still it was there.

  Slowly she got out of bed, fumbled in her bedside drawer, found what she was looking for, and moved towards her bedroom door. Beneath it she could see a line of light, red and faintly flickering as if the bonfire she had dreamt about lay just beyond this portal.

  Dauntless, she took the handle, turned it and pushed the door open.

  From her tape deck the music boomed, while from her gas-fire the flickering orange flames cast just enough light to trace the outline of a monstrous figure whose bulk spilled over the edge of the old armchair in which it sat. Her nerveless fingers sought but could not find the light switch.

  'Who's there?' she demanded shrilly. 'Who is that? I warn you, I have arms.'

  'Good job I'm 'armless then’ said the figure. 'It's all right lass, it's only me, the Ghost of Christmas Past. Come in and shut that door. There's a hell of a draught.'

  And the figure leaned forward till she was able to recognize the unwelcome welcome face of Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.

  Dalziel relaxed in his chair and watched the woman as she busied herself round the room, turning the music off and the lights on. The round anonymity of her face, which must be useful in her line of work, had somehow vanished. Perhaps it was the shock of sudden awaking to this strange invasion or the absence of make-up or the fact that her hair was no longer neat and carefully coiffed. Her round features now seemed sharp and well defined. She slept in nothing but a thin white T-shirt and it could be that the new awareness this gave him of her sexuality aided the defining process. He noted that, despite her delaying tactics, she made no attempt to get a dressing gown. Bright lass, he thought. Gets herself together, but reckons there might be some advantage in distracting me with her tits.

  Finally she sat down opposite him, very demurely, pulling the T-shirt over her knees.

  'So,' she said, 'Superintendent Dalziel, you have broken into my flat at one o'clock in the morning. You are drinking my whisky, which is theft, and as you've gone through my tapes, I presume you've performed an illegal search. Or is there something I have missed?'

  'Nay, lass, that just about wraps it up. Nice whisky too. Was a bit worried you might have nowt but schnapps or some other Kraut firewater. Going to join me?'

  She smiled and leaned forward to fill a glass and said, 'I'm really interested to know why a senior policeman should put his career at risk in such a way.'

  'Aye, that's the tie-break question, isn't it? To tell you the truth, all I really came lor was to find out why you are leaving.'

  'Leaving?'

  'Come on, luv. You don't imagine someone with your record can book plane seats without half the police forces in Europe knowing.'

  This was a lie. In the three days since getting Wield's report, the Fat Man had certainly spent a lot of time planning his strategy with regard to Richter, but he'd had no idea of her plans to return to Germany until he'd found the plane ticket in her desk drawer. It was for tomorrow, it was one-way, and it was first class.

  His conclusion had been that she felt her job here was either over or getting nowhere and he'd been tempted to steal away as silently as he'd come, but only for a second. It was, he'd discovered in the course of a life packed, both professionally and personally, with problems, a delusion that they ever went away.

  And Charley Penn certainly wasn't going away.

  She said, 'So you have also been illegally accessing computer databases?'

  'Not sure what that means, but I dare say you're right. So let's get down to it, Fraulein Richter. Here's what I know about you and what I want from you. You're an old mate
of Charley Penn's, on good shagging terms, from the look of things. You came here at his instigation to see what you could sniff out via Miss Pomona about the circumstances of Dick Dee's death. Now, what I'd like for you to do is tell me what you imagine you've found out, then we can all get into our beds. All right?'

  She shook her head in not altogether affected amazement.

  'Charley told me about you, Mr Dalziel, but I did not altogether believe him. Now I realize he got it wrong. He told me you were arrogant and ruthless, but he did not tell me you were also stupid. Do you really think you can break your English law and violate my rights in this way and get away with it? You say you've studied my background. You must know I've helped put more powerful and important men than you behind bars.'

  I'm sorry, luv,' said Dalziel, deliberately misunderstanding. 'My dad told me never to contradict a lady, but I've got to say that, when it comes to putting buggers behind bars, I reckon I’can give thee half the Sudeten-land start and still be in Prague afore ye. But why make such a pother? It's tit for tat, you help me, I'll help you, can't say fairer than that.'

  'What could you help me with?' she asked mockingly. 'Are you going to fix a parking ticket, perhaps?'

  'I can manage that too, but I were thinking more of keeping you out of jail’ said Dalziel, leaning forward to help himself to more whisky. 'Jail? For what?' she demanded. 'You got no laws in Germany then? Well, we've got enough to go round. First off, personation, forgery and deception. You took this flat telling the estate agent you were English and called Myra Rogers, and handing over a set of references to show what an upright British citizen you were. Want more? You've got a bagful of interesting-looking white powder in your fridge. And while you may have a licence back home for that natty little gun you were waving just now, I can't find any trace of anything which makes it legal here. Want more? You've employed Mr Tristram Lilley to introduce illicit surveillance equipment into a private dwelling which involved illegal entry. Yes, I've had a word with him I being a self-centred little scrote, he's talking so fast, his own equipment can't keep up. Want more? I haven't even started with the stuff I can heap on top of you yet.'

  These are empty threats, Superintendent,' she said calmly. 'I have been hounded by experts and threatened with physical violence, death even, and I am still here. I know lawyers who will get me out of your clutches without even leaving their offices.'

  ‘I can believe it. They ought to geld one a day to encourage the others. Aye, the law's an ass, all right, but the good thing is it's a broken-winded and spavin'd ass. Now I'd guess that maybe one thing that's helped you decide to leave first class is someone back in Kraut-land has offered you a real job setting the world to rights.'

  She was good at hiding, but he was better at seeking and saw he'd scored a hit.

  He went on, 'I think I can guarantee you'll stay banged up long enough for your friends back home to find themselves another Mata Hari. And I'll make sure that you get such publicity all over Europe, you'll need to wear a beard next time you go undercover.'

  She thought for a moment then she smiled at him.

  'Perhaps you're right,' she said. 'Tell me what you want and I'll see if I can help you.'

  Then she shivered and went on, 'It's so cold in these English flats, don't you think so? In Germany we know how to keep warm.'

  As she spoke, she half turned to the gas fire and arched her body towards it as if in search of heat, hitching the T-shirt up as she did so.

  Dalziel relaxed in his chair, nodded approvingly and raised his glass.

  After a moment, Richter pulled her T-shirt back over her knees.

  'Nice try, lass, but I've got one of my own at home that I'd like to get back to,' said Dalziel. 'Save it for Charley. Though I can't understand what you see in him myself. Thought you lot liked a bit more meat on your men.'

  'Charley is a good man,' she said seriously. 'And not a stupid one. When he told me his story and asked for my help, I admit it did not seem like my kind of thing.'

  'Which is political corruption on a big scale, right?'

  That sort of thing,' she smiled. This sounded, personal, petty. At best, if Charley had got it right, it was about some insignificant provincial bobbies covering their tracks. It might make a little stir in the English papers, but anything makes a stir here. But Charley is an old friend, and it suited me to rest quiet a few weeks away from home. So I came.'

  'Saw, and conquered. You certainly seem to have conquered little Miss Rye,' said Dalziel. 'So what have you found out?'

  She hesitated and he growled from deep in his chest, The truth, remember.'

  She said, ‘I am not thinking of a lie. No, it is the truth that I have to work out, for to tell the truth I don't know what I have found. Except that Rye is very disturbed, and distressed. Her boyfriend, the young policeman, he makes her very happy, but he is also the cause of much of her unhappiness too. All this I have found hard to understand. When I first spoke to her she was scattering the contents of a vacuum cleaner into the churchyard. I later found when we became friends that it was the ashes of her dead brother which had been spilt during that strange burglary she had.'

  'Strange? How was it strange? It was Charley Penn, wasn't it?'

  'No. Not so. Charley was here that morning because he spent the night with me. No danger, we knew Rye was away, just like you know she is away tonight, I presume, else you would not have played the music so loud.'

  'Aye, she's round at young Bowler's’ said Dalziel. 'So what happened?'

  ‘I don't know. We heard a crash, like something breaking. It seemed to come from next door, but we knew the flat was empty. Charley went out to listen at the door. That's when Mrs Gilpin saw him, so he didn't come back in to me but went home.'

  'You sure it weren't you?' said Dalziel doubtingly. 'Some bugger left a message about Lorelei on her computer. Right up Charley's street, that, and not far from the bottom of your street back home, if my information is right.'

  'You've been digging deep, Mr Dalziel,' she said. 'Yes, she told me about the message when we became friends. Very odd, especially because of the link with Charley. Another odd thing was the quiet.'

  'Sorry?'

  'She said her flat was a mess, things knocked over, drawers emptied. Yet apart from the one crash, I heard nothing. Also odd is the other bug.' 'Eh?'

  'Did not Tris tell you when you spoke to him?' she said, giving him a sharp look which Dalziel received with apparent complacency. The truth was he'd never talked to Lilley. The man lived in London and it would have been difficult to roust him out without reference to the Met. He wanted to keep his interest in Lilley and Richter low profile. But from what he'd read and seen of the man, he got the impression that he'd be quick to do a deal to save his own skin, and Richter clearly found this easy to believe too.

  So, this other bug Lilley was likely to have mentioned .. .

  He said, 'Oh aye. That. He did say summat, but it's yours I'm interested in.'

  She let out a burst of triumphant laughter.

  'Because the other bug is your own, right? And, let me guess, it has not been working properly? Perhaps Tris did something to it when he found it.'

  She'd noted his hesitation, but jumped to the wrong conclusion. That's the trouble if you spend your life looking for conspiracies, you start seeing them everywhere!

  'Always said you can't trust this modern technology,' he said, trying to sound sheepish but not too much.

  'Tris says so too. One bug is never enough. You must ask for a bigger budget.'

  'Oh, I shall. But let's concentrate on what you've got, shall we? Bugs are all right, but there's nowt like a close friend for getting to the heart of things.'

  She didn't blush but she looked distinctly unhappy. Could journalists feel guilt? Why not? They were only human. In some cases, only just human. But Richter's motivations in the past seemed to have more to do with moral principle than personal profit. And now, if she thought the police had planted this other bug, sh
e could be seeing him as a fellow investigator rather than an object of investigation.

  He said, 'I know it's hard when you like someone. I like Rye, too. And I like my lad Bowler. And I want to do what's best for both of them. But I can't do that without I know what's going on, can I?'

  He sounded so serious and sincere, he could have sold himself insurance.

  She nodded and said, 'OK. I think Rye is troubled because perhaps she knows more than she has said about this Wordman. It is very personal to her. She talks sometimes when she has drunk a lot of wine as if he had something to do with her brother, which cannot be as he died when she was only fifteen. But these things have got mixed up in her mind. She blames herself for the death of her brother, I think, and perhaps somehow she blames herself for the death of this Dick Dee also. She liked him very much, that is clear. And if once you get it in your head that being close to you is what has killed people you love, then you are on the way to breakdown.'

  'But why should she blame herself for Dee's death?'

  'Perhaps because she'd begun to suspect he was the Wordman but wouldn't let herself believe it. Perhaps she engineered a situation in which he would have to reveal the truth and it all went wrong. And because the truth was never revealed clearly and unambiguously, his death troubles her. What if he were innocent?'

  'She's said that, has she?' asked Dalziel. 'She thinks Dee were innocent?'

  'She said to me one night, "What if the Wordman wasn't dead, Myra? What if he was still out there, checking out his next victim? What if he's just waiting till everyone's guard is down, then it's all going to start again?" I asked her if she had any reason for thinking this. All I wanted to do was comfort her, but I owed it to Charley to ask.'

  'And her answer?'

  'She fell asleep in my arms, so I put her to bed,' said Richter tenderly.

  'Didn't jump in beside her?' enquired Dalziel casually. Women could do whatever they wanted in his book, so long as they didn't do it in the street and frighten the plods. Or unless one of them was as good as engaged to one of his DCs.