Dialogues of the Dead

z? 'Why I'm here?' Roote took another bite, chewed, swallowed. 'I'm working for the university gardens department. Bit of a change, I know. Very welcome, though. Hospital portering's a worthwhile job, but you're inside most of the time, and working with dead people a lot of the rime. Now I'm outdoors, and every thing's alive! Even with autumn coming on, there's still so much of life and growth around. OK, there's winter to look forward to, but that's not the end of things, is it? Just a lying dormant, conserv ing energy, waiting for the signal to re-emerge and blossom again. Bit like prison, if that's not too fanciful.' I'm being jerked around here, thought Pascoe. Time to crack the whip. 'The world's fall of gardens,' he said coldly. 'Why this one? Why have you come back to Mid-Yorkshire?' 'Oh, I'm sorry, I should have said. That's my other job, my real work - my thesis. You know about my thesis? Revenge and Retribution in English Drama? Of course you do. It was that which helped set you off in the wrong direction, wasn't it? I can see how it would, with Mrs Pascoe being threatened and all. You got that sorted, did you? I never read anything in the papers.' He paused and looked enquiringly at Pascoe who said, 'Yes, we got it sorted. No, there wasn't much in the papers.' Because there'd been a security cover-up, but Pascoe wasn't about to go into that. Irritated though he was by Roote, and deeply suspicious of his motives, he still felt guilty at the memory of what had happened. With Ellie being threatened from an unknown source, he'd cast around for likely suspects. Discovering that Roote, whom he'd put away as an accessory to murder some years ago, was now out and writing a thesis on revenge in Sheffield where he was working as a hospital porter, he'd got South York shire to shake him up a bit then gone down himself to have a friendly word. On arrival, he'd found Roote in the bath with his wrists slashed, and when later he'd had to admit that Roote had no involvement whatsoever in the case he was investigating, the probation service had not been slow to cry harassment. Well, he'd been able to show he'd gone by the book. Just. But he'd felt then the same mixture of guilt and anger he was feeling now. Roote was talking again. 'Anyway, my supervisor at Sheffield got a new post at the university here, just started this term. He's the one who helped me get fixed up with the gardening job, in fact, so you see how it all slotted in. I could have got a new supervisor, I suppose, but I've just got to the most interesting part of my thesis. I mean, the Elizabethans and Jacobeans have been fascinating, of course, but they've been so much pawed over by the scholars, it's difficult to come up with much that's really new. But now I'm on to the Romantics: Byron, Shelley, Coleridge, even Wordsworth, they all tried their hands at drama you know. But it's Beddoes that really fascinates me. Do you know his play Death's Jest-Book?' 'No,' said Pascoe. 'Should I?' In fact, it came to him as he spoke that he had heard the name Beddoes recently. 'Depends what you mean by should. Deserves to be better known. It's fantastic. And as my supervisor's writing a book on Beddoes and probably knows more about him than any man living, I just had to stick with him. But it's a long way to travel from Sheffield even with a decent car, and the only thing I've been able to afford has more breakdowns than an inner-city teaching staff! It really made sense for me to move too. So everything's turned out for the best in the best of all possible worlds!' 'This supervisor,' said Pascoe, 'what's his name?' He didn't need to ask. He'd recalled where he'd heard Beddoes' name mentioned, and he knew the answer already. 'He's got the perfect name for an Eng. Lit. teacher,' said Roote, laughing. 'Johnson. Dr Samjohnson. Do you know him?'

'That's when I made an excuse and left,' said Pascoe. 'Oh aye? Why was that?' said Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel. 'Fucking useless thing!' It was, Pascoe hoped, the VCR squeaking under the assault of his pistonlike finger that Dalziel was addressing, not himself. 'Because it was Samjohnson I'd just been playing squash with,' he said, rubbing his shoulder. 'It seemed like Roote was taking the piss and I felt like taking a swing, so I went straight back inside and caught Sam.' 'And?'