Dialogues of the Dead

“Yes,” said Pascoe. “But there’s several hours of recording time on each tape, and unless there’s something going on, like tonight”-he indicated the screen on which they could see a low-quality black and white image of the drinks reception they’d just left-“any individual camera might not be activated for days at a time.”

“Yes, they will be,” the officer defended. “We do our rounds, you know. Then there’s the cleaners, they’re here before the morning switch-off.”

“Nevertheless,” said Pascoe.

Beside him, Wield sniffed deeply and began coughing.

“You OK?” said Pascoe. “Funny how dry the air can get in these no-smoking buildings.”

Five minutes later the security man had returned with a selection of tapes.

The tape covering the staff entrance to the Centre which was where the post-boy had delivered the sack was no help. This camera got activated so frequently-by people leaving the building late in the evening, and in the morning by cleaners, delivery men and early arrivals-that it only covered the previous week.

But they struck lucky with the tape from the reference library camera. The first date shown was over a fortnight ago, in the middle of the week running up to Ripley’s murder. Pascoe watched the flickering screen closely and thought that Councillor Steel would have been pleased to see how conscientiously the security men and the cleaning staff performed their duties. The ratepayer was getting value for money here. And also from Dick Dee, it seemed. Twice he triggered the alarm as he emerged from his office well into the evening, once on the Thursday night and again on the Friday night when Ripley had been killed.

And now they were watching the cleaners on Saturday morning. They left. The camera switched itself off. And usually at some point shortly thereafter, as the security man explained, the whole system would be switched off till evening. But this time they struck lucky. When the picture crinkled back into focus, it was still Saturday morning, time 8.45.

“Sometimes the night-duty man forgets,” said the security officer. “And it stays on till the day man notices. Doesn’t happen often, but you get some dozy old boys in this game that really ought to be at home in bed.”

He looked through the duty sheets, then hastily shoved them into a drawer. Pascoe guessed he’d found he was the dozy old boy in question.

But this could be a case of felix culpa, he thought as he watched the screen and saw Dick Dee appear with a mail tray in one hand and a plastic sack in the other. He put them on the counter and went into the office. The screen went blank.

“You still haven’t got a camera in that office,” he said accusingly.

“Not our fault, mate. Economies. Anyway, no one can get in there without going through the ref library. No windows, see?”

The picture returned as Dee emerged from the office. He pulled open the plastic sack, peered inside, made a wry face and turned his attention to the mail. But before he’d even begun to open anything, Percy Follows appeared. He didn’t look pleased.

Pascoe recalled Rye Pomona’s statement. The two men had been in the office, discussing Jax Ripley’s broadcast when she arrived, she’d said, and she’d thought it best not to disturb them. Clearly the girl was a diplomat. Even without sound it was evident from Follows’ expression that this was no friendly discussion. Dee on the other hand was unruffled and ushered his boss into the office, pushing the door almost shut and the camera was once more deactivated.

Then back to life. And now they hit paydirt. It wasn’t, as he’d expected, Rye’s arrival which started the tape rolling again. It was another figure, whom he recognized with what he was ashamed to acknowledge was a pang of delighted hope.

Franny Roote.

He stood by the counter, presumably listening to the heated debate going on within.

Now he reached into the battered briefcase he was carrying, took something out-hard to see because it was on the wrong side of the camera-glanced round as if to check there were no witnesses, pulled open the plastic bag, and thrust it inside. Then he left. Total time elapsed, fifty-one seconds.

“Calloo callay, oh frabjous day!” said Pascoe.

“Hang about,” said Wield.

The picture had cut off. Now it came on again, time only a minute or so later.

This time it was Charley Penn who’d triggered the camera.

He too seemed to listen, he too glanced round, less furtively than Roote, his customary sardonic smile in place, then he too produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase and placed it gently into the open plastic sack.

Oh shit, thought Pascoe. It never rains but it pours!

Now Penn moved out of shot, presumably to one of the work cubicles, and the screen went black till it was re-energized by the arrival of Rye Pomona.

She went behind the enquiry desk, paused as if listening to the row in the office, stooped to place her shoulder bag under the counter, then started opening the mail.