Dialogues of the Dead

Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances. It wasn’t strictly true. After the recognition that the Dialogues were fact, not fiction, every entry to the competition had been matched with its envelope, and in the half-dozen or so cases where the chosen type-face seemed to correspond with that of the Dialogues, the envelopes had been opened and the writers checked out. It had proved as fruitless an exercise as Pascoe had guessed it would be, but, like the PR handouts say, behind the apparent glamour of detective work lie hundreds of tedious hours spent in such necessary humdrum elimination.

The thought provoked a yawn and Wield said, “You should try sleeping a bit more often.”

“I’d like to, but it’s not in my job description,” said Pascoe. “I’ll maybe catch up when I retire.”

“Like old George?”

“I think he’s kept in practise. Sorry. That’s not very charitable. And he’s not been looking so well recently, has he? I hope he’s not going to be one of those poor devils who look forward to retirement then when it comes, pffut!”

“Me too. I always had him down for a natural pensioner. Cottage in the country, potter around with his roses, write his reminiscences. Duck to water, I’d have said.”

“Maybe it’s started to hit him. Thirty-odd years it’s been. Where did he see it all leading back then? Now here he is, wondering where it’s all gone and how come all those paths of glory haven’t led him to the gravy. He can’t have planned to stop at DI.”

“There are lower peaks,” said Wield. “Like DS.”

“Wieldy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …hey, why am I apologizing, you know exactly what I meant and didn’t mean! Like I know that some DSs are where they are because that’s where they want to be.”

For a long time it had been a matter of puzzlement to him that someone with Wield’s abilities should show no enthusiasm whatsoever for promotion. He’d put the point to Dalziel many years back and got the terse answer, “Authority without exposure, that’s what being a sergeant means,” which only made sense when belatedly he became aware that Wield was gay.

“Mebbe George wanted to be where he ended,” said Wield. “He’s been a good cop. In fact, hearing what Mary Agnew said about them envelopes reminded me of what George said about the Wordman and the library. The Steel Dialogue was the first that didn’t show up in a story bag sent round from the Gazette, right?”

“Yes, because the competition closing date had passed and there weren’t going to be any more bags.”

“But since then both the Steel and the Johnson Dialogues have been delivered direct to the library,” persisted Wield, as if making a telling point.

“Which is why we’ve now installed our own state-of-the-art cameras to give us round the clock coverage of the library mailbox,” said Pascoe, puzzled.

“I know that,” said Wield patiently. “What I’m saying is we’ve assumed till now that the early Dialogues were all sent to the Gazette and only turned up at the library because they were taken to be entries for the story competition. If that’s the way it was, and the Wordman’s true choice of addressee for his Dialogues was the Gazette, why not keep on sending them there?”

“What’s your point, Wieldy?”

“If George is right and there’s a positive rather than just an accidental link between the Dialogues and the library, perhaps the early Dialogues were placed in among the entries after the bag got there.”

“Maybe,” said Pascoe. “But so what? Can’t keep a watch on the bags now, can we, because there aren’t any.”

“No, but I’m thinking-the story competition closed on the Friday that Ripley did her broadcast and got killed. According to the Gazette post-boy, the last sack of entries was dropped off here about eight o’clock on Saturday morning. Yon lass with the funny name that Bowler fancies found the Dialogue in it at nine fifteen. Did anyone check the security videos for the time between?”

“Not on my instruction,” admitted Pascoe. “Shit.”

“Shit on all of us,” said Wield. “But not a lot. If the Dialogue was put in the sack after it got here, chances are it was done during working hours by which time, courtesy the late Councillor Steel, most of the cameras would be switched off.”

“Still should have checked, Wieldy,” said Pascoe.

“Well, mebbe it’s not too late. Think we’d be missed for a couple of minutes?”

Pascoe glanced round. Ellie was deep in conversation with John Wingate (probably kick-starting a telly career, he thought), while Edwin Digweed was refereeing what looked like the beginning of yet another schoolyard scrap between prancing Percy and the Last of the Actor-Managers.

“Shouldn’t think so,” he said.

They found the duty security man in his office which smelled strongly and illegally of tobacco smoke. At first he seemed disinclined to put himself out.

“Fortnight back, you say? No chance,” he said. “Unless there’s a reason not to, we just let the tapes run their course, then they rewind and get recorded over.”