Dialogues of the Dead

Dee laughed, picking up the irony.

‘I wish. No, it’s a history of semantic scholarship. A sort of dictionary of dictionaries, you might call it.’

‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Bowler unconvincingly.

Dee said, ‘I think I should work on your projection of sincerity if you fancy trying your hand at undercover work, Mr Bowler. Now, is there any way that I can be of help to you?’

‘Only if you’ve got a number I can reach Rye at,’ said Bowler.

There was a pause then Dee said, ‘Well, I do have her home number, but I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give such things out to the public at large. But I could pass on a message, if you like.’

Bastard! thought Bowler.

He said, ‘It was just about my enquiries. I’m going to the Taverna this evening to check out a few things and I thought as Rye was so interested she might care to join me. I’ll be there at seven.’

‘Now that does sound fascinating. I’ll pass your message on. I’m sure Rye will be as intrigued as I am.’

But you’re not invited, Dick-head Dee, thought Bowler.

Then, being both a fair and a self-analytical young man, he asked himself, Am I jealous? But quickly, because he was above all a young man, he went on to dismiss as absurd the idea that in matters of love a dotard of at least forty years could give him any cause for jealousy.

Showered, shaved, and arrayed in his sharpest gear, he was in the Taverna by six forty-five. He ordered a Campari soda because he loved the colour and it gave him a sense of sophistication. At seven ten he ordered another. A third at seven twenty. At seven thirty, tired of sophistication, he ordered a pint of lager. At seven forty-five he ordered a second pint and asked to see the manager.

This was Mr Xenopoulos, short, fat and genuinely Greek though he spoke English with a disconcerting Liverpool accent. Suspicious at first that Bowler was an Environmental Health snoop, he became more helpful when he learned that his enquiries were to do with Dave Pitman, though he did wonder mildly whether it might not have been more sensible for the detective to have started interviewing his staff an hour earlier when he first arrived rather than now when the restaurant was getting busy. Both he and the waiters expressed what seemed like genuine sorrow at the dreadful accident which had overtaken their bazouki player, but were unable to recall anything pertinent about the patrons that night. Solitary diners were not unusual, attracted by the sense of communal jollity which often developed as the evening wore on and the dancing began.

‘But why’re you asking all these questions?’ enquired Xenopoulos finally. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘So far as we know,’ said Bowler carefully. ‘But it’s possible one of the diners that night could have been a witness. You keep a record of table bookings, I suppose?’

‘Natch. Like a copy of that page in the reservation diary, would you?’ said the manager, pre-empting Bowler’s next request. ‘No sweat. Have a seat at the bar and a drink on the house, I’ll be with you in a jiff.’

Bowler had another pint of lager and was sitting staring into the empty glass like Frank Sinatra about to burst into ‘One More for the Road’ when a hand tapped gently on his shoulder, a musky perfume rubbed seductively against his nose and a voice breathed in his ear, ‘Hi. Whatever you lost in that glass, I think you’ve swallowed it.’

He spun round on his stool smiling, and found himself looking at a small, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a generous mouth whose smile matched his, except that it did not fade as his now faded.

‘Oh, hi,’ he said. ‘Jax. How’re you doing?’

Jax Ripley considered the question for a moment then said, ‘Well. I’m doing well. And you, Hat. How are you? All by yourself?’

‘Yeah. That’s right. I am. You?’

‘With friends, but when I saw you at the bar, I thought no one so good looking should be so sad so early in the evening and came across. So what are you here for, Hat? Business or pleasure?’

Discretion vied with ego. She was wearing a dress which didn’t offer much hope of concealment to even the smallest of microphones, but with Jax the Ripper, you never could tell.

He said, ‘Pleasure. Or it would have been if I hadn’t got stood up.’

‘My favourite policeman? Tell me her name and I’ll let the world know what a stupid cow she is.’

‘Thanks, but maybe not. I’m a great forgiver,’ he said.

She regarded him quizzically for a moment then her gaze drifted over his shoulder.

‘Mr Bowler, here’s that page you wanted. Hope it’s useful, but a lot of our customers just come in off the street on the off chance.’

He turned to find Xenopoulos proffering a photocopied sheet.

‘Yes, thanks, that’s great, thanks a lot,’ he said, folding it and shoving it into his jacket pocket.

He turned back to the woman to find her expression had shifted from quizzical to downright curious.

‘Just improving the not so shining hour,’ he said.

‘Yes? Anything that would improve mine?’ she asked. ‘Over a friendly drink?’

‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Really, Jax, it’s nothing.’

Her unblinking eyes made him feel like a guilty child, so he let his gaze drift over her shoulder. And found himself looking straight at Andy Dalziel who had just come into the restaurant with the well-rounded woman rumour had it he was getting it on with. But the expression on the Fat Man’s face suggested he had slaughter rather than sex on his mind.

Bowler jerked his gaze back to Jax Ripley whose eyes by comparison were soft and kind.

‘That drink,’ he said, ‘make it a tequila sunset.’

‘You mean sunrise?’

‘I know what I mean,’ he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_fb0d207a-6aba-583e-aa79-c0be0ef4f744)

Detective Inspector George Headingley was a stickler for punctuality. With the end of his career in sight, he might have decided he wasn’t going to do anything he didn’t want to do, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be unpunctual not doing it. He was due at his desk at eight thirty the following morning and at eight twenty-nine he was approaching it with the measured tread which made his footsteps recognizable at fifty paces.

He could see that the cleared top which he prided himself on leaving at the end of every shift had been sullied by a document. At least the sullier had taken care to place it dead centre so that in many ways it enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of perfect order which Headingley was always at pains to achieve.

He hung his coat up, removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then sat down and pulled the document towards him. It was several pages thick and the first of these declared that its author was DC Bowler who, as requested, had gathered together all available information which might help DI Headingley to assess whether anything in the deaths of Andrew Ainstable or David Pitman required his, that is DI Headingley’s, further investigation.

Why was it that something legalistic about this form of words made his heart sink?

He opened it and began to read. And soon his heart was sinking deeper, faster. He’d wanted firm no-no’s so that he could consign these daft Dialogues to the waste bin, but all he was getting was a series of boggy maybe’s.

When he finished he sat for a moment, then gathered all the papers together and set out in search of Bowler.

There was no sign of him. He encountered Wield and made enquiry after the young DC.

Wield said, ‘Saw him earlier. Think he went off to do something for Mr Pascoe. Was it urgent?’

‘Was what urgent?’ said Andy Dalziel, whose approach was sometimes audible at twice the distance of the DI’s but who could also exercise the option of materializing like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, moving silent as mist over the ground.

‘The DI’s looking for Bowler,’ said Wield.