Dialogues of the Dead

“Not much, at least not much I could understand,” said Hat ruefully. “Seemed to think I was a member of the Stasi, rattled away in German, and when I finally got her to speak English, her accent was so thick it was almost as hard to understand. All I got out of her was that her Karl was a good boy and loved his old mutti and the lovely cakes she makes so much he was hardly ever away from her. I asked about that Sunday and she said that he was with her every Sunday and every other day he could manage. And then she started in German again.”

“Said he likes her cakes, did she?” said Dalziel thoughtfully. “So, no written statement then?”

“It didn’t seem an option, sir,” said Hat uneasily.

“Nor indeed a necessity,” said Pascoe. “I think we’ve wasted enough time on Penn unless anyone knows of any real reason for putting Penn in the frame?”

“If you can fit Roote in, there’s lots of room for any bugger,” said Dalziel. “How about you, Wieldy? You got anyone you’d like to fit up? No? Good. Then let’s all start pulling in the same direction and see if we can’t plough this murdering bastard into the ground. Bowler, I reckon soon as I take my eye off you, you’ll go swanning round to that library you’re so fond of, so why don’t you go there officially and don’t come back till you’ve found out how and when this envelope was delivered, right? Even if it means stamping some of them dozy buggers overdue.”

“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”

He vanished.

Dalziel said, “Nice to see someone so happy when I give ’em a job. Let’s see if I can’t do the same for you two miserable sods!”

Hat was indeed happy to have an excuse to visit the library. He’d thought of ringing Rye last night but decided it would be a wrong move. Progress was steady but a wise strategist knew when to press, when to hold back. That was the way the Jack-the-lad part of him analysed the situation. But there was another more shadowy area of thought and feeling which acknowledged that the more he saw of Rye, the more important it became to keep on seeing her. This wasn’t just another skirmish in that unremitting sexual campaign which all Jack-the-lad young men enter upon at puberty-approach, lay siege, negotiate terms, occupy, move on. This was …well, he didn’t quite know what it was because he belonged to a generation conditioned to mock the idioms of romantic love, and what we don’t have words for, we find it hard to think about. But he knew that to lose her by crowding her would be a folly he’d never forgive himself for.

But now, with new secret information to share, he anticipated being made very welcome. Jesuitically, he had worked out that the decision to go public about the existence of the two latest Dialogues permitted him to use his own best judgment about who he passed on the details to. And of course he’d swear her to secrecy. This too was a kind of intimacy, the Jack-the-lad strategist pointed out gleefully; and each such move was a move in the right direction. Which was, of course, bed. But more than bed. Breakfast and beyond. Even the bed bit was different. He’d always looked forward to sex with a healthy young appetite, but never before like this, for imagining it with Rye Pomona made the marrow bubble along his bones and pushed him into a languorous swoon which almost made him drive up the exit lane of the Centre car park.

Retreating under a chorus of protesting horns conducted by a flurry of abusive fingers, he found the correct entrance, parked and made his way to the main library.

With the image of a roused Dalziel fresh in his mind, his investigation was painstakingly thorough to a degree which brought the two women and one man involved to a state of mutiny. But by dint of forcing them to recall which of the reserved books had been collected earlier in the week, he managed to establish that the weight of probability lay on the side of the envelope not having been there on Monday morning. Tuesday, which was yesterday, the day that Johnson’s body had been found, was less certain. And today, Wednesday, it had of course been found.

Satisfied he could get no more out of them, he left and headed upstairs to the reference library. By now it was lunchtime, and he peered into the staffroom as he passed in case Rye was eating her sandwich there. No sign of her, nor at first glance in the deserted reference library.

He went up to the desk and through the partially opened door of the office behind the counter, he glimpsed Dick Dee, his head bent over something on the desk which absorbed him so much that he was oblivious to Hat’s silent approach.

He was playing Scrabble …no, not Scrabble, it must be that funny game, Paronomania. Hat felt pleased with himself for recalling the word, but his pleasure was quenched almost instantly by a jealous certainty that Dee’s opponent was Rye.

There was a click of tiles being moved and Dee shook his head, smiling in admiration at some adept move, and said, “Oh, thou crafty Kraut, well done indeed.”