Dialogues of the Dead

The Fat Man smacked his lips salaciously and Hat felt himself flushing, out of both embarrassment and anger.

“All right, lad?” said Dalziel. “You’re looking a bit fevered. Not getting this flu-bug, I hope.”

“I’m fine, sir,” said Hat. “You were saying about the library staff …anyone in particular?”

“Aye, yon Follows. Man who spends so much time crimping his hair must have something wrong with him. Check the Offenders’ List. Then there’s yon guy Dee. His name rings a bell.”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of that Dr. Dee who got done for necromancy,” said Pascoe.

“Very like,” said Dalziel. “Check him out too, Bowler, see if there’s a connection. And if you can manage deep thought and mashing tea at the same time, I’d love a cup.”

“Sir …” said Hat hesitantly.

He looked at each of the trio of faces in turn. Curiously it was Wield’s, normally the most unreadable, which by some slight contraction of the left eyebrow confirmed that he was being sent up. Which felt much the same as being put down.

If a riposte that was smart as well as being angry had risen to his lips, he would probably have uttered it. But to exit on, “I’m not your bloody tea-boy, fatso. Make your own!” didn’t seem wise, so he muttered, “I’ll get right on to it,” and went out.

“Hat.”

He turned. Wield had followed him.

“Just because they’re taking the piss doesn’t mean they don’t take you seriously.”

“No, Sarge.”

“And just because you’re pissed doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take them seriously either.”

“No, Sarge,” he repeated, feeling for some reason slightly cheered up.

There were several Follows in the computer, but none called Percy and none bearing any resemblance to the librarian. A few Dees, but no Richard, no librarian. And no doctor either. That had been a Pascoe crack, which meant it was likely to be what Dalziel would call arty-farty clever. Worth finding out what it meant just to show that the DCI wasn’t the only one here who’d got past his O-levels.

But first things first.

It was time to impress the Fat Man with his tea-making abilities.

By the time he left work that evening, Hat had fully recovered his normal cheerful spirits and persuaded himself that on the whole the signs were good. In the first months after his arrival, as his star rapidly sank, he had watched rather enviously as that of Detective Constable Shirley Novello steadily rose. But part of that rising he seemed to recollect had involved a deal of fetching and carrying and gentle mockery, so why should he now resent treatment which, doled out to her, he had once envied?

Plus he was going to see Rye and that was a prospect that automatically raised his spirits.

It’s not often in this existence that a man’s fantasies move, precise in every detail, out of his mind’s eye into plain view, and the shock is often counter-productive.

So it was when the door of Rye’s flat opened to reveal her standing before him in a loosely tied robe through whose interstices shone tracts of smooth flesh, both soft and firm, and all as richly golden as barley ripe for harvest.

He stood there, motionless and speechless, more like a man confronted by Medusa than his heart’s desire, till she said, “Do words come out of your mouth or does it just hang open to give the flies somewhere to shelter from the rain?”

“Sorry …I just didn’t …they said you were ill and I thought …I’m sorry to have got you out of bed …”

“You haven’t. I’m feeling a bit better and I’d just got up to have a shower, which I thought a man in your line of business might have worked out for himself.”

She pulled the towelling robe firmly shut as she spoke, and now he raised his eyes he saw that her hair was dripping water down her face. Sodden wet, the rich brown had darkened almost to blackness against which the streak of silvery grey shone as if composed of electric filaments.

“Those for me or are they evidence in your latest big case?”

He’d forgotten he was holding a bunch of carnations in one hand and a box of Belgian chocolates in the other.

“Sorry, yes. Here.”

He proffered them but she didn’t take them, only grinned and said, “If you think you’re getting me to leave go of this robe, you’re sadly mistaken. Come in and put them down somewhere while I get myself decent.”

“Hey, don’t let decent trouble you,” Hat called after her as she went out of sight. “I’m a cop. We’re trained to cope with anything.”

He set his gifts on a coffee table and looked around the room. It wasn’t large, but it was so neat and uncluttered that it felt more spacious than it was. Two small armchairs, a well-ordered bookcase, a standard lamp, and the coffee table, that was it.