Dialogues of the Dead

‘Speak for yourself,’ called a man’s voice from within.

‘Nowt wrong with your lugs then,’ she shouted back.

‘Nor my eyes either. I told you what I saw.’

Bowler looked at the woman enquiringly and she sighed and said, ‘If you want to waste your time …’ then turned and vanished into the house.

He followed her into a long living room which, apart from the addition of a TV set on which Mad Max was playing, didn’t look like much had been done to it since the seventeenth century. A man rose from a chair. He was a giant, at least six and a half feet, and there was very little clearance between his head and the exposed crossbeams. He shook Bowler’s hand with a vigour that made him wince and said, ‘You’ve come to ask about the lights. Didn’t I tell you, Betty?’

‘Not more than fifty times, you daft old sod,’ she said, switching off the television. ‘So tell him, you’ll not be satisfied till you do.’

There was some exasperation in her voice but it got nowhere close to overpowering the strong affection in her gaze as she looked at the man.

‘I will,’ he said. ‘I got up to have a pee – old man’s trouble, it’ll come to you, lad, if you live that long. I looked out the landing window and I saw this headlight going down the hill there, just the one. Bike, I thought. And the bugger’s moving. Then I saw these other headlights, two on ’em, so, a car, coming this way. Out of nowhere they came. One moment dark, next there they were. Then the single light were all over the place. Till suddenly it went out. And then there were a puff of flame.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘Don’t know. If I’d stayed any longer I’d have pissed down the stairs and then I’d have been in trouble.’

He roared with laughter and the woman said, ‘You’re not wrong there, lad.’

‘And did you tell this story to the other policeman who came?’ asked Bowler.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Didn’t recall it till later,’ said the man.

‘Later?’

‘Aye,’ said the woman. ‘Later. He usually recalls things later if he recalls them at all.’

There was something going on here he didn’t yet fully understand. He decided to concentrate on the woman.

‘You didn’t think it worthwhile ringing us when you heard Mr er …?’

‘Locksley,’ she said.

‘Your husband?’ he said, looking for clarity where he could find it.

‘Well, he’s not my bloody tallyman!’ she said, which seemed to amuse them both greatly.

‘You didn’t think to contact us?’ persisted Bowler.

‘What for? Sam, what night was it you saw the lights?’

‘Nay, lass, that’s not fair. It was this year, but, I’m certain of that.’

‘And what film would you have been watching that day whenever it was?’

He thought a moment then said, ‘Likely Mad Max, it’s my favourite. Do you like it, mister? He was a cop, too.’

‘It takes all sorts,’ said Bowler. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it on the box. Bit too violent for my taste.’

He was beginning to get the picture. In the interests of diplomacy he’d have liked to get the woman by herself, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t take kindly to any attempt to talk behind her husband’s back.

He said, ‘So you think that Mr Locksley might be confusing what the other policeman told you about the accident with images from the movies he watches?’

He kept his voice low but the man’s sharp ears picked him up with ease.

‘You could be right there, lad,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I do get things mixed up and as for recalling what happened when, I’m hopeless. Doesn’t bother me mostly, but there’s some things from the past it’d be nice to bring back now I’m getting old. For instance, I can’t recall the last time I had a good jump, and that’s sad.’

‘You silly old bugger,’ said his wife fondly. ‘It was just afore you had your breakfast this morning.’

‘Was it?’ he said, regarding her with bright hopeful eyes. ‘And did I enjoy it?’

‘Well, you asked for a second helping of porridge,’ she said.

Their laughter was infectious and Bowler was still chuckling as he let himself out. As he began to drive away, Mrs Locksley came to the door and called, ‘Hey, just because his memory’s going and he gets a bit confused, doesn’t mean he’s wrong, but.’

‘That,’ said Bowler, ‘is very much the trouble.’

But it wasn’t his trouble; it was or soon would be DI Headingley’s. Something obliging him to make a decision would drop into Jolly George’s broad lap like a mug of hot coffee. It was a prospect not altogether displeasing.

But the DI, when provoked to action, could be a nimble ducker and weaver, and it would be wise not to leave any gaps for him to slip through, saying accusingly, ‘But you forgot to do that, Constable.’

Bowler scanned the possibilities and saw one he hadn’t covered. The Greek restaurant where the Wordman claimed to have dined on the night he talked to David Pitman. He glanced at his watch. Five forty. Probably the Taverna didn’t open till seven or half six at the earliest. He’d never eaten there – young detectives got used to eating on the hoof and became uneasy if they found themselves spending more than ten minutes on a meal – but he had followed Franny Roote there one night last week, watched him go inside, thought, Sod this, it’s unofficial and I’m not on overtime, and headed home to a takeaway and a soccer match on the telly.

That was when? Suddenly he felt uneasy. Wednesday, Pascoe had given him the job, so it had to be … He pulled over and took out his pocketbook to check the date.

Shit! It was Friday, the same night that young Pitman had had his ‘accident’.

Best not to mention it, he decided. It would just muddy the waters. He hadn’t gone inside, he hadn’t seen any other customers, he hadn’t done anything except sit in his car for a minute watching Roote go into the building. If his own bad vibes about the two deaths were translated by the brass into a full-scale investigation – which he doubted, given George Headingley’s determination not to let his boat be rocked with the harbour of retirement in sight – then he might speak. Or perhaps not. Somehow he suspected from the way Dalziel had been looking at him lately that the fat bastard would be glad to put a black mark against his name simply for being in the vague vicinity of a possible crime.

For a moment he even thought of scrubbing his plan to visit the Taverna, but only for a moment. Wanting to cover his back didn’t stop him from being conscientious. Then, because he was a positive thinker, much happier looking on the upside of things than contemplating possible downsides, he suddenly grinned as he saw a way of getting something good out of the situation.

He took out his mobile and dialled the Central Library number. It rang for a long time before someone answered. He recognized the voice.

‘Mr Dee? Hi, it’s DC Bowler. Listen, is Rye there?’

‘I’m sorry, she’s gone home, like all sensible people,’ said Dee. ‘The only reason you got me was that I often stay on after closing time to do some work.’

‘That’s very noble of you,’ said Bowler.

‘I fear you credit me with more virtue than I possess. I don’t mean work for the public weal. This is private research for a book I’m writing.’

‘Oh yes. Detective story, is it?’