Dialogues of the Dead

“Because one of the judges got killed? Doesn’t work like that, Wieldy. All those aspiring Scott Fitzgeralds don’t give a toss about Sam Johnson, whom they’d never heard of anyway. If it had been Charley Penn, it might have been different. As it is, far from cancelling the comp, Mary Agnew has been using the murder, all the murders, to get it a lot more publicity. Didn’t you see last night’s Gazette? She published the titles of the long short list-that’s about fifty stories. And she’s done a deal with John Wingate, the telly guy. All the short-list authors have been invited to the studio theatre in the Centre and the result is going to be announced in what used to be Jax Ripley’s Saturday-night slot.”

“Ripley’s slot? God, bloody media will cash in on owt. They’re probably going to charge folk for pissing in the bog where Stuffer Steel got topped!” exclaimed Dalziel. “I reckon if I live long enough, I’ll see them bring back public hangings. Come to think of it, there’s a few as I’d pay good money to see hanged.”

Pascoe and Wield exchanged that blank glance through which over the years they had come to share amusement at the Fat Man’s often outrageous illogicalities.

He appeared not to notice and went on, “Ellie tell you owt about the winner, did she? No doubt it’ll be some blood-and-guts story, all about perves and kinky sex.”

Putting aside the question as to whether this was a comment on public taste or his wife’s predilections, Pascoe said, “Yes, she said that I’d probably be glad to hear that the winning story was a gently amusing little tale, almost a fairy story, which would leave children and adults alike feeling good about themselves.”

“And Charley Penn went for that? Must have been sniffing lighter fluid. Who’s the genius who wrote it?”

“That we shan’t know till Saturday night when the winner’s sealed envelope is opened. You coming along, sir?”

“You must be joking!”

“Not really. I just thought there could be a chance the Wordman might turn up.”

“That’s what you said about the preview.”

“Actually it was Bowler who said that.”

“Well, I hope he’s not boasting about it,” growled Dalziel. “And if chummy does turn up, you think this time he’s going to wear his I’m the Wordman T-shirt, do you?”

“Who knows? Pottle said that as he gets more and more convinced of his invulnerability, he’ll delight in taking risks. Anyway, I’ll definitely be there, with Ellie being a judge.”

“Oh aye? And you’re worried the losers might turn nasty? Well, with the Wordman being so easy to spot, one pair of police eyes should be enough.”

“Two pairs,” said Wield.

“You’re going?”

“Edwin likes to support local cultural activities.”

This time it was Pascoe’s and Dalziel’s glances that met.

“If it’s a local cultural activity,” said Dalziel, “I’ve filled my quota for the month. Any road, Saturday night I’m going dancing.”

“Dancing,” said Pascoe, trying to keep all expression or interrogation out of the word.

“Aye. Man. Woman. Music. Rhythmic movement. If you’ve got your clothes on, it’s called dancing.”

“Yes, sir. And would that be salsa? Line? A rave? A hunt ball? A thé dansant?”

“That’s for me to know and you to exercise your imaginations on,” said Dalziel, rising. “Give us a shout when Pinky and Perky show up, will you? But if I’m dead, don’t bother getting out the Ouija board.”

He went out of the room.

“Not a happy man,” said Wield.

“Probably saw that piece about him in the Sun this morning. Headline was ‘WHEN DINOSAURS RULED THE WORLD.’ He needs a result on this one pretty quick.”

“Don’t we all? You got any ideas?”

“Apart from herding everyone vaguely connected with the case into a field and beating them with a dead chicken till one of them confesses? No. Perhaps the dynamic duo from Academe will point us in the right direction.”

“You reckon?” said Wield. “Think my money’s on the dead chicken.”

In the event, Urquhart turned up alone, Pottle having been overtaken by the rampaging virus which had laid low Rye Pomona and Hat Bowler. He sent in a written summary of his conclusions which didn’t add a lot to what he’d said at the previous meeting. The Wordman was growing increasingly bold as each killing confirmed his sense of invulnerability. His purpose had clearly been to render Johnson defenceless by the drug before dispatching him by stifling. But when the lecturer had died without need of hands-on contact, this had been seen as yet another affirmation that he was on the right path.