Dialogues of the Dead

“Seems this lad wasn’t doing too well. Johnson was his main tutor and it fell to him to warn the boy that if his work didn’t improve, he was out. There was a vital piece of work, some kind of dissertation, due in early in the summer term but the lad didn’t show up with it and a couple of days later he was found dead in his room. Drug overdose. No suicide note. In fact his dissertation papers were all over the floor and it looked like he’d been trying to keep himself sharp in order to get the thing finished and he’d overdone it. The inquest jury brought in accident. But Johnson seemed convinced it was suicide and took it very personally, so much so he wanted a change of scene at any price, and in the end, got a special dispensation to take up this job at MYU even though he couldn’t give the required amount of notice.”

“And that’s it?” said Pascoe. “No mention of Roote?”

“They didn’t mention him and I wasn’t going to, was I?”

“You could have dug a bit deeper,” suggested Pascoe ungraciously. “Still could.”

“Look, Pete, I got what they had to give me. This was supposed to be about possible state of mind in a possible suicide case, right? That was just about plausible. But now we know that Johnson’s death was definitely a Wordman killing, state of mind doesn’t come into it. If you find something to tie Roote into all these killings, the super will give you a medal. But you’ve got to keep an open mind. No joy at the hospital either. If they lost any Midazolam, they’ve covered it up and are keeping it covered. So my advice is, forget Sheffield.”

There had risen to Pascoe’s lips a sharp reproof based on their difference of rank but fortunately he had caught it before it slipped out. Wield’s friendship was important to him and he knew how punctilious the sergeant was never to overstep police hierarchical lines in public. His part of this unspoken accord must be never to insist upon them in private, else something would go forever.

But his mood stayed sour and when Bowler returned, he said, “Get your private business with Ripley’s sister sorted, then?”

“Yes, sir. She was just ringing to tell me she had to get back to the States at the weekend and wanted to say goodbye.”

“You must have made a strong impression on her, considering you’d never met till the funeral,” said Pascoe.

“It was just me knowing Jax so …quite well,” emended Hat, thinking, Jesus, this is just confirming all their suspicions that I was Deep-throat.

Perhaps it was time to speak.

The door opened and George Headingley came in. He was looking a lot more at ease than he’d done for some time. With just a few more days to do, he’s beginning to think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, that he’s got away with it after all, thought Hat. Well, he may get a shock yet!

But observing those naturally jovial features starting to regain something of their old colour and form, he knew he couldn’t be the one to pull the plug.

“I’ve been thinking about these Dialogues,” said Headingley.

“Kind of you to take the time, George,” said Pascoe on whose crowded desk had spilled most of the extra work caused by the DI’s absence, whether bodily or mental. “And?”

“They keep turning up at the library even now the story comp’s finished. Could be not even the first one was really among the stories sent to the Gazette. Maybe they always got put into the bag after it arrived at the library, by someone who works there or uses the place a lot. I mean, what better place to find a Wordman?”

A sound like the crack of canvas in a typhoon made them all turn to the door where Dalziel stood applauding.

“Bravo, George. Glad to see you’re not sending your mind into retirement ahead of your body. Let that be a lesson to you, lad …” (addressing Hat) “… good detective never takes time off, it’s either in the blood or it’s nowhere.”

It wasn’t altogether clear to Hat whether there was an element of satire in this or not, but as the others seemed to be taking it at face value, he nodded and tried to look grateful.

“So, George, all set for the big send-off? Next Tuesday, isn’t it? With a bit of luck we’ll see to it that you spend the first twenty-four hours of your retirement unconscious!”

“No change there then,” muttered Pascoe as Headingley, looking a little flushed at all this attention, left the room.

“Now then, Chief Inspector,” said Dalziel sternly. “Who’s been rattling thy cage? Lot of sense in what George said. Wordman, library, the two things go together.”

“Like needle and haystack,” said Pascoe.

“Your boy, Roote, must use libraries a lot,” said Dalziel.

“More the university than the Centre,” said Pascoe with reluctant honesty.

“Same difference,” said the Fat Man. “Man likes to be whipped, you don’t worry which knocking shop. Charley Penn’s another, never away, so I hear. From libraries, I mean. Then there’s the staff. Mebbe we should take a closer look at them. Could be a cushy job there for you, young Bowler. Fancy taking a closer look at the staff, do you?”