Dialogues of the Dead

‘That’s to the preview of the art and craft exhibition in the Centre Gallery. A week on Saturday.’

‘That it? No one want you to open a new brewery or summat?’

‘Choose,’ she said unrelentingly. ‘It’s either tin soldiers and champagne cocktails or nude paintings and cheap white wine.’

He thought then said, ‘Don’t know much about art but I know what I like. I’ll pick the mucky pictures.’

Hat Bowler yawned widely.

He’d had a restless night, his bed afloat on a turbulent ocean of lager and Campari and the sky full of dull red stars each glowing down upon him with the accusing intensity of Andy Dalziel’s gaze. He’d risen very early and made his way to work where he ordered his notes into the report which, not without malice aforethought, had so upset George Headingley. Franny Roote’s name hadn’t been on the Taverna reservation list. He examined his reasons for not mentioning him, decided albeit uneasily they were as good this morning as they’d appeared last night – better maybe after that encounter with Dalziel’s glowering glare – then, partly to avoid being present when the DI read his report, and partly to reassure himself that Pascoe was getting his knickers in a twist over nothing, he’d driven out to the suburb where Franny Roote had his flat and resumed surveillance.

There was, he was glad to confirm, nothing here to wake a young DC up. In fact, for a convicted felon and a suspected stalker, Roote really led an incredibly boring life. The guy got up in the morning, got into his old banger (correction: it looked like an old banger but the engine sounded remarkably sweet), drove to work, and worked hard all day. Most evenings he spent reading and taking notes in the university library. His social life seemed to consist of attendance at a St John Ambulance class and occasional visits to a restaurant (like the Taverna, bugger it!) or a cinema, always alone. No, this was one very dull character. And Wield had said he’d got an eye like a hawk! The sergeant was a man to admire and listen to, but he didn’t know much about birds, thought Bowler complacently as he watched Roote pruning a rosebush with such methodical concentration that he’d probably not have noticed if a full-scale film crew had turned up to take pictures.

Time to move before he fell asleep.

As he drove away from the university, Bowler let his thoughts drift to Rye Pomona. Now that he’d reported on his investigations to the DI, he felt obligated to bring her up to speed too. He had convinced himself that she hadn’t got his message last night. Probably Dee, through indolence or inadvertence, or, more likely, simple indisposition, hadn’t made contact with her. He pulled over and dialled the library and asked for Reference.

He recognized her voice at once. She on the other hand didn’t recognize his and seemed to require an effort of memory even to register his name.

‘Oh yes. Constable Bowler. Message last night? Yes, I believe I did get a message, but I had other plans. So how can I help you now?’

‘Well, I thought you might like to hear how I got on.’

‘Got on? With what?’

‘With looking into these Dialogues you gave me.’

‘Oh yes. The Wordman of Alcatraz.’

She sounded more amused at the memory of his attempted joke than she’d been at the attempt.

He decided this was a positive sign.

‘That’s right. The Wordman.’

‘All right. Tell me. How did you get on?’

‘Actually it’s quite complicated,’ he said cunningly. ‘I’m a bit rushed now. I wondered if you could spare a few minutes at lunchtime, say?’

A pause.

‘I don’t have long. One of us has to be here. And I usually eat a sandwich in the staffroom.’

A staffroom was not what he had in mind.

‘I thought perhaps a pub …’

‘A pub?’ As if he’d suggested a House of Assignation. ‘I don’t get long enough to spend time in pubs. I suppose I could meet you in Hal’s.’

‘Hal’s?’

‘The café – bar on the Centre mezzanine. Don’t policemen get asked the way any more?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll find it.’

‘I won’t hold my breath. Twelve fifteen.’

‘Yes, twelve fifteen would be fine. Maybe we can …’

But he wasn’t talking to anyone but himself.

At twelve thirty Dick Dee was perched behind the Reference enquiry desk, peering pensively at a computer screen when he heard a sexy cough.

It is not everyone who can cough sexily and he looked up with interest to see a young woman with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes smiling at him. She was small and slightly built, but exuded the kind of energy a man could imagine being put to very good use.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I’m Jax Ripley.’

‘And I’m Dick Dee, Miss … Ripley, was it?’

Jax thought, the bastard’s pretending not to remember me!

Or, worse, she emended, looking into those guileless eyes, he really doesn’t remember me!

She said, ‘We met the other week. On the council tour … when the shelf collapsed … I did want to interview you but wherever we pointed the camera, dear old Percy seemed to be in shot, talking about the way he’d like to see the Centre develop …’

She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to join in her amusement at Percy Follows’ well-known appetite for publicity, especially with the council considering the appointment of an overall Centre Director.

Dee let his gaze run up and down her body, assessingly but without lubricity, and said, ‘Of course. Miss Ripley. Nice to see you again. How may I help?’

‘It’s about the short story competition. I gather you’re in charge of the judging panel.’

‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘I’m merely one of the preliminary sorters.’

‘I’m sure you’re more than that,’ she said turning her charm on full blast. She knew men and thought she’d detected beneath his politely neutral examination a definite effervescence of interest along the arteries. ‘When do entries close?’

‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘So you’ll have to hurry.’

‘I’m not thinking of entering,’ she said sharply, then saw from his faint smile that he was taking the piss.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, a long way from a hunk but the kind who might grow on you.

She laughed out loud and said, ‘But tell me, if I did want to enter, is the standard high?’

‘There’s a great deal of promise,’ he said carefully.

‘Promise as in politicians, marriage or the Bank of England?’ she asked.