Death’s Jest-Book

‘Bye bye Lorelei.’

‘Lorelei? What’s that? Hang about. Weren’t Lorelei the name of someone in a film …’

‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Marilyn Monroe,’ said Wield.

‘You been checking on the opposition, Wieldy? Lovely girl. Shame about yon fellow.’

Whether Dalziel’s objection was to baseball players, playwrights or Kennedys wasn’t clear, nor about to be made so as he pressed on. ‘So what’s its significance here? Come on, lad. Don’t tell me you’ve not got a theory. When I were your age I had as many theories as I had erections, and I couldn’t go upstairs on a bus without getting an erection.’

Hat took a deep breath and said, ‘Well, sir, Lorelei’s a sort of water nymph in this German fairy tale. There’s this big rock or cliff on the Rhine, that’s called the Lorelei too, and she sits there singing, and it’s so beautiful that fishermen sailing by get distracted listening to her and run their boats on the rock and drown.’

‘Used to feel like that about Doris Day,’ said Dalziel. ‘Sounds like one of them sirens.’

‘They’re Greek I think, sir,’ said Wield.

‘All in the bloody European Union, aren’t they?’ said the Fat Man, his geniality beginning to fade like morning dew. Airy-fairyness he could put up with from his DCI when more down to earth approaches were looking unproductive, but it wasn’t something he encouraged in DCs making preliminary reports about burglaries. ‘So we’re into a German fairy tale now. Hope it’s got a happy ending, lad.’

Bowler, who was beginning to learn that life with Dalziel meant having to put up with four injustices before breakfast, pressed on manfully.

‘I looked it up. Seems this German poet, Heine, wrote a poem about this Lorelei …’

‘Hold on. This yon Heinz that Charley Penn’s always going on about?’ said Dalziel suspiciously.

‘Heine, yes,’ said Hat.

‘I thought I heard you mention Charley when I came into the room,’ said Dalziel. ‘I hope this isn’t leading where I think it’s leading?’

It was time to get this out in the open, thought Wield.

He said, ‘Yes, sir, DC Bowler was just telling me of three links he made putting Penn in the frame. The message was one, the second was … remind me, Hat.’

‘Because he hates Rye, and me,’ said Bowler.

‘Charley Penn hates every bugger,’ said Dalziel. ‘What makes you two so special?’

‘Because we were both involved in the death of his best friend, Dick Dee,’ said Hat defiantly. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t believe Dee was the Wordman. And he reckons that I killed Dee because I was jealous that he was getting it off with Rye, and that the pair of us covered it up by fitting Dee up with responsibility for the Wordman killings. And you all went along with it because it meant you could tell the media you’d got the bastard.’

Now Dalziel was right out of Santa Claus mode.

‘You reckon that’s what Charley thinks?’ he said. ‘He’s not said it to me, but you’ll know that, seeing he’s not walking round with his head shoved up his arse. Wieldy?’

‘He said some pretty way-out things to start with,’ admitted the sergeant. ‘But since then I’ve not heard him sounding off.’

‘That could be because he thinks it’s pointless making a fuss and he’s planning to do something,’ said Hat.

‘Like breaking into your girlfriend’s flat?’ said Dalziel. ‘Why?’

‘Looking for something to support his story, I suppose. Or maybe he thought he’d find her there and …’ Hat tailed off, not wanting to encourage them to follow him down the alleys of his more lurid imaginings.

Then, seeing the scepticism on their faces, he burst out, ‘And he was round there a couple of days ago, I’m ninety-nine per cent sure of it. I went and knocked at some doors in Church View. And I got two witnesses, Mrs Gilpin who lives on one side of Rye and Mrs Rogers on the other. They both saw a strange man outside Rye’s flat last Saturday morning, and the description they gave fits Charley Penn to a T.’

This was stretching things a bit. True, Mrs Gilpin, a voluble lady who had lived in the block long enough to regard it as her personal fiefdom, had described a skulking villainous creature who with only a little prompting had been shaped into Penn. But Mrs Rogers, a younger but much more retiring woman, had at first said that, having only just moved in, she didn’t really know which people she saw were residents, which visitors. At this point Mrs Gilpin, who unbeknown to Hat had followed him to Mrs Rogers’ door, came in with a graphic description which the other woman, perhaps in self-defence, admitted put her in mind of someone she thought she might have seen perhaps on Saturday morning. Upon which Hat, fearful that the sound of Mrs Gilpin’s voice, which a town-crier would not have been ashamed to own, might bring Rye to her door, had swiftly brought the interviews to a conclusion.

Wield’s face didn’t show much, but his words made it clear he was starting to feel annoyed.

‘You’re admitting that you discovered a crime and, instead of ringing it in and getting a proper investigation under way, you wasted time poking around, disturbing the ground and probably making sure anything you did find will get tagged as inadmissible in court?’

‘No, Sarge. Well, yes, in a way. But not really.’

‘We’ll be into not-as-such land just now,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’m a fair man, young Bowler, and I’ll not see someone hanged without giving him a chance for an explanation, so why don’t you have a stab at one while I tie this knot?’

‘The thing is, there isn’t a crime, sir. I mean, there’s a crime, but there isn’t a complaint. Rye, Miss Pomona, says she doesn’t want to pursue it.’

Now all was clear to Wield. The love-sick lad’s investigation had to be unofficial because officially there was nothing to investigate. He’d come to the Bull in search of a sympathetic ear, and while the sergeant felt faintly flattered that he’d been the sympathetic ear that Hat had come in search of, he wondered what it was the boy had expected him to do. Nothing, possibly. Maybe the sympathy would have been enough.

Dalziel said, ‘Well, God’s jocks, now I’ve heard it all. Wasting police time on a load of nowt …’

‘I’m still on sick leave, sir, so it’s my own time I’m wasting,’ snapped Hat unwisely.

‘I’m not talking about your sodding time, which I agree isn’t worth much,’ grated Dalziel. ‘I’m talking about my time, which is worth millions, and the sergeant’s time, which is worth quite a lot. Tell me this, lad. You’re quick enough to spout accusations against Penn. You find something bad about your girl, you going to be as quick letting us know?’

Hat did not answer.

‘Right. Then sod off out of here and next time I see you, bedtime ’ull be over and I’ll not make allowances.’

Hat, blank faced, only a certain rigidity around the shoulders indicating any feeling, left, not closing the door behind him because he didn’t trust himself not to slam it.

The Fat Man glowered after him then redirected the glower at Shirley Novello.

‘Let that be a lesson to you, lass.’

‘Yes, sir. What about, sir?’

‘About the price of tea, what d’you think? And while you’re at it, what do you think?’

‘I think being in love doesn’t necessarily make a man stupid, sir.’

‘Aye, but it helps mebbe. You not got any work to do, lass?’

‘Yes. What about you?’ was the answer that orbited Novello’s mind without getting anywhere near escape velocity. She was also wondering, being the kind of cop who could think of several things at the same time, whether she should mention the broken vase containing the ashes of Pomona’s twin brother. Hat had mentioned this as he poured out the story to her, and maybe her raised eyebrow reaction had kept it out of the version he gave both Wield and Dalziel. Probably wise. She shuddered to think what the Fat Man would have made of it. As for herself, the questions to answer were, was it relevant? And was there any professional advantage in revealing it?

Answer to both at the moment was, not so far as she could see.

‘Just going, sir,’ she said. And went.

‘So, Wieldy, what do you make of it?’

The sergeant shrugged, ‘Owt or nowt, sir.’