Dialogues of the Dead

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Pascoe would have paid cash money for the pleasure of stretching out in his favourite armchair and letting the inanities of weekend television lull him to sleep.

The call of duty demanding his presence at the short story result ceremony was growing ever fainter. Nothing was going to happen relevant to the Wordman enquiry and, in any case, Edgar Wield would be there to keep an eye on things. Even Ellie generously encouraged him to stay away.

“As a judge, I’ve got to go,” she said. “No need for you to suffer though. Put your feet up. I’ll cancel the baby-sitter.”

He thought of all the tedious police social occasions she’d endured on his behalf and his conscience pricked him mightily.

“No, I’ll go,” he said. “It’s not like it’s the Oscars with acceptance speeches going on forever. How long is the TV spot? Half an hour?”

“That’s it. Plus there’s drinks before for distinguished guests and their undistinguished partners. Few snorts of the hard stuff and a bit of lively conversation might be just the thing you need.”

“We’d better take a taxi then,” said Pascoe.

But to start with, it looked like Ellie had got it entirely wrong. If anything, the atmosphere at the drinks party was slightly less lively than the university church that morning. The last time most of those present had been gathered together in the Centre, Councillor Steel had been murdered. And enough of them had attended Sam Johnson’s funeral for his death to darken their thoughts too.

But as with most wakes, two or three drinks eventually brought light and a dawn chorus of chatter, and though the first person to laugh out loud looked a little apologetic, soon the gathering was indistinguishable in jollity from any other party which isn’t going to last long and where somebody else is paying for the booze. Who exactly, Pascoe didn’t know. Probably the Gazette. It occurred to him that the only person to ask the question out loud would have been Stuffer Steel, keen to ensure the ratepayers weren’t being ripped off. And Johnson might have been a little satirical too, though both of them would have made sure they got their share of what was on offer.

Not that anyone else seemed to be holding back. Nothing like the awareness of death for making folk grasp at life, thought Pascoe, looking round and counting heads. Yes, all the preview luminaries seemed to be here. Except of course those who were dead. And the dancing Dalziel. And the Hon. Geoffrey, or rather Lord Pyke-Strengler of the Stang, his full title now being due since, according to the papers, the sharks had left enough gobbets of his father to merit a small burial.

“So who’s the winner, Mary?” Ambrose Bird asked the newspaper editor.

“I’ve no idea,” said Agnew.

Bird cocked his head on one side, very bird-like, and said sceptically, “Come on, I’m sure you and dear Percy here have made damn sure no one’s going to win who might bring a blush to your maiden cheeks.”

This certainly made Follows flush, with irritation rather than embarrassment, but Mary Agnew laughed and said, “I think you’re confusing me with some other Mary, Brose. It’s true the winning story is a charming modern fairy tale, fit for children of all ages, but the two runners-up are a lot more gutsy. And it was Charley and Ellie here who selected them without interference from either Percy or myself.”

“No interference from Percy? That must have been a blessing,” said Bird.

“Some of us are capable of doing our designated jobs without sticking our long bills into other people’s business,” snapped Follows.

“Children, children, not in front of the adults,” said Charley Penn.

Bird glowered at Follows, then forced a smile and said, “Charley, you certainly must know the name of the winner. How about a hint?”

“Wrong again, Brose,” said Penn. “I know the name of the winning story and the pseudonym of the winner, but not his or her real name. Couldn’t have found out even if I wanted to. Mary could make Millbank look like Liberty Hall, she’s such a control freak. Seems every entry had to be accompanied by a sealed envelope with the story title and a pseudonym printed on the outside and the writer’s real name and address inside. She kept the envelopes well away from the judges. In fact she’s made rules about the rules. What it said in the Gazette was that no envelope would be opened till the decision had been made. But since the whole farce has turned into a mini-Booker with the results being announced live on the box, she and Spielberg there”-nodding towards John Wingate-“decided to screw up the tension by directing that none of the envelopes would be opened till tonight.”