Dialogues of the Dead

“You mean Frau Penck, mother to our own literary lion, Charley Penn?”

“That’s the one. So, from your knowledge of her, how’s she get on with Charley? OK to tell me that?”

“I suppose,” said Thackeray judiciously, “that, as I act for neither of them, I am able, without commitment and off the record, to entertain such a question. Let me see. A fraught relationship, I would say. She thinks that Charley should be living with her, taking on the job of the head of the Penck household, vacated when her beloved husband died some twenty years ago. This would be the good old German way. She feels that he has forgotten his heritage and gone native. Not even his success as a writer counts too much. His books are not what in Germany is known as ‘serious literature,’ and besides, they are in English.”

“She does speak English?”

“Oh yes, fluently, though with a strong accent which grows stronger if she does not wish to understand what you say.”

“She got money?”

“Not that I know of. But she doesn’t need any. The family place a high value on her, and she on them. She lives in a grace-and-favour cottage and seems content to remain there for the rest of her days.”

“So how come Charley went to yon posh school, Unthank College? Old Budgie pay, did he?”

“His Lordship is not quite so profligate of his money,” said Thackeray drily. “The boy won a scholarship. I’m not saying strings might not have been pulled, but he was, by all accounts, a bright child.”

“And a rich one now, I dare say. Could easily set his old mam up in a nice house somewhere.”

“Which I believe he has offered to do. I gather he regards the Partridge’s grace and favour as cause for resentment rather than gratitude. His mother, however, tends to look upon England outside of the Haysgarth estate as an extension of the old East Germany, with people like yourself as lackeys of the English branch of the Stasi.”

“So if a cop turned up asking questions about her Charley, how would she react?”

“Uncooperatively, I would guess. He would be transfigured into the perfect devoted son against whom she would not hear a word said, in English or in German.”

“But if old Budgie or one of his chums spoke to her about Charley …?”

“If it was implied that she should feel herself lucky to have mothered a son who’d done so well in the great outside world, she would very forcibly point out his shortcomings as a good German boy. I know this because when I first encountered her, I fell into this error.”

“That’s grand,” said Dalziel. “Remind me I’m in the chair next time I see you at the Gents.”

This was a reference not to an assignation in a public toilet, but to their common membership of the Borough Club for Professional Gentlemen.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking what you are up to, Andy?”

“Right as always, Eden. Cheers!”

Dalziel put the phone down, thought for a moment, then picked it up again and dialled.

“Cap Marvell.”

“Hello, chuck, it’s me,” he said.

“Again? This is twice in a fortnight you’ve rung from work. Could I claim harassment?”

“No, them as I harass know they’ve been harassed,” he said. “Listen, luv, got to thinking, I’m a selfish sod, not good for a relationship.”

“Andy, are you feeling all right? You haven’t had a fall, banged your head, seen a flash of very bright light?”

“And what I thought was, this hop of the Hero’s out at old Budgie’s, why don’t we go? Long time since we tripped the light fantastic.”

“Sorry, Andy. I’ll have to sit down. I feel my vapours coming on.”

“That’s a date then? Grand. See you later.”

He pressed the receiver rest, dialled again.

“Hello, Lily White Laundry Service, how can I help you?”

“How do, luv,” said Dalziel. “Can you do a kilt for Saturday?”

When Pascoe arrived that morning, he reminded the others that Pottle and Urquhart were calling in later to review the latest Dialogue and give their considered judgment of the earlier ones.

“Oh God,” said Dalziel. “Wish I were ill, too.”

“Too?”

“Bowler’s gone sick,” explained Wield.

“It’s a sick world,” said Pascoe.

“Temperatures running high at home, are they?”

“Only metaphorically. Ellie and Charley Penn met to do the final judging for this short story competition last night. Sam Johnson should have been there too, so it wasn’t exactly a cheerful occasion. She came home demanding to know why we hadn’t got an inch closer to catching this madman.”

“That’s what you told her, was it?”

“She tends to go into a fit if I say things like enquiries are in progress and an arrest is expected soon.”

“I thought they might have cancelled the competition,” said Wield.