Dialogues of the Dead

‘You’ll need to wait till the result is announced to decide that,’ he said.

‘Which is when?’ she said. ‘I’d be interested in doing a piece on Out and About, maybe interviewing the shortlisted authors. Or perhaps we could even have the result announced live on air.’

‘Nice idea,’ he said. ‘But I suspect Mary Agnew will want the news of the winner to be announced in the Gazette. Sell more newspapers that way, you see.’

‘Oh, I know Mary well. I used to work for her. In fact I was just talking to her earlier this morning and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Jax with the confidence of one who takes as read the superiority of television over newsprint. ‘What I was after was a bit of preliminary information. I might even do a trail on tonight’s show. Do you have a few moments? Or maybe I could buy you lunch?’

Dee was beginning to refuse politely when the library door burst open and a tall willowy man with a mane of golden hair framing a face as small as a monkey’s came in and approached them with arms outstretched.

‘Jax, my dear. They told me you were loose in the building. Your face is too famous to pass my sentinels unremarked. I hope you were going to come and see me, but I couldn’t take the risk.’

He rested his arms on Jax’s shoulders and they exchanged a three-kiss salute.

Jax at her very first meeting with Percy Follows had marked him down as a prancing prat. But in the world of men, being a prancing prat didn’t necessarily mean he was either stupid or incapable of rising to heights from which he might be able to extend a helping hand to an ambitious woman, so she said sweetly, ‘I assumed you’d be far too busy at some important working lunch, Percy, which incidentally is where I’m trying to take Mr Dee here, but he was just telling me you work him far too hard for such frivolities.’

‘Do we?’ said Follows, slightly nonplussed.

‘It seems so. He doesn’t even seem to have time for a working fast. And I’m desperate to pick his brain for a series of pieces I’m planning to do on this short story competition you thought up. It’s the kind of cultural initiative we really need in Mid-Yorkshire. I’ll want to interview you later on, of course, but I always like to start at factory-floor level …’

She’s very good, thought Dee as she flashed him a smile and the hint of a wink from the eye furthest from Follows.

‘Is that so?’ said Follows. ‘Then of course you must go, Dick. I hereby unlock your chains.’

‘I’m by myself,’ said Dee. ‘Rye is on her lunch break.’

‘No problem,’ said Follows expansively. ‘I’ll mind the shop myself. We’re a true democracy here, Jax, everyone ready and able to do everyone else’s work. Go, Dick, go, while the giving mood is on me.’

Dee, Harold Lloyd to his boss’s Olivier, cleared the computer screen, put on his leather-patched tweed jacket and with an old-fashioned courtesy took Jax’s arm and ushered her through the door.

‘So where are you taking me?’ he enquired as they walked down the stairs.

Her mind printed out the alternatives. Pub? Too crowded. Hotel dining room? Too formal.

His hand still rested lightly on her arm. To her surprise she found herself thinking, rest it anywhere you like, darling.

This was quite the wrong way round, this feeling that he would be easy to like, easy to talk to. That was how he was supposed to be feeling!

She recalled the wise words of Mary Agnew when she’d worked for her.

You’ll recognize a good story by what you’re willing to do to get it. One thing though … lay yourself on the table by all means, darling, but never lay your cards. Knowing more than other people know is the only virginity in our game. Keep it.

Still, nothing wrong with enjoying yourself along the way.

‘You call it,’ she said. ‘My treat. But I make a lovely open sandwich if I can find the right topping.’

‘This is nice,’ said Bowler. ‘Why’s it called Hal’s?’

They were sitting opposite each other at a table on the balcony of the café – bar which gave a view down the length of the main shopping precinct. On a clear day you could see as far as Boots the Chemist. The disadvantage of the situation was that the prurient youth of the town had discovered that a seat on the edge of the fountain in the atrium below gave them with luck an excellent view up the short skirts of those sitting above. But on entering Hal’s, she had discovered Bowler at an inside table next to one occupied by Charley Penn. Had to be coincidence, but preferring the prying eyes of youth to the flapping ears of age, she’d suggested they move outside.

‘Think about it,’ said Rye. ‘Heritage, Arts and Library complex? H.A.L.’

‘Disappointing,’ said Bowler. ‘I thought it might be named after an artificial intelligence which had gone wrong and was trying to control our lives.’

She laughed and said, ‘You could be right.’

Encouraged, he said, ‘You know what I thought the first time I saw you?’

‘No, and I’m not sure I want to know,’ said Rye.

‘I thought redwing.’

‘As in Indian Maid?’

‘You know that song? Odd company you keep, or do you play rugby? Don’t answer. No, as in turdus iliacus, the smallest of the common thrushes.’

‘I hope, for your sake, this is an extremely attractive, highly intelligent bird.’

‘Naturally. Also known as Wind Thrush or Swine Pipe from its sharp voice.’

‘And iliacus because it comes from Troy? The resemblances to the way I see myself don’t seem to be multiplying.’

‘Helen came from Troy.’

‘No she didn’t. She got abducted and ended up there. So forget the soft soap and tell me, where’s the connection, Constable?’

‘Simple really and entirely soap-free,’ he murmured. ‘The redwing is a bird with lovely chestnut colouring and a prominent pale strip over the eye. So when I saw this, I thought redwing.’

He reached over and brushed his index finger against the tongue of silvery grey running through her hair.

That’s enough, buster, thought Rye. Verbal jousting is one thing, but stroking my hair’s a familiarity too far.

‘So you really are a bird nerd,’ she said. ‘And here’s me thinking it was just a cover story. Ah well, each to his own anorak.’

She saw she’d scored a palpable hit and should have felt gleeful but didn’t.

‘Anyway, it’s a better come-on than the guy who said it reminded him of Silver Blaze,’ she went on.

‘Sorry?’

‘Silver Blaze. The racehorse in the Sherlock Holmes story? Don’t you all get issued those at Hendon, or is being a detective a cover story too?’

‘No, that’s for real too, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh yes? So prove it.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘First off, this Wordman stuff is confidential, OK?’

‘Confidential? It’s me who brought you these Dialogues, remember? And now you’re telling me just because you’ve invented a nickname for him, it’s confidential.’