Dialogues of the Dead

There didn’t seem to be anything there which interested her and she turned her attention to the sack. From it she took a single sheet of paper which she examined for a moment before turning to look into the off-shot body of the library. Her face was expressionless but she let the sheet slip from her fingers which she then rubbed together, as if trying to rid them of the traces of something noxious.

The picture went again with Rye still in shot and when it returned they’d leapt forward to the security round on Saturday night.

“The day guy switched off,” said the officer apologetically. “But you look like you got what you wanted.”

So much for my poker face, thought Pascoe.

“It’ll do to be going on with,” he said noncommittally. “Let’s take another look.”

They went through it again twice. It seemed quite clear that Roote had put a sheet or sheets of paper into the sack, and with the kind of computer enhancement available to them back at the station, they should be able to establish this beyond all doubt.

“Right, we’ll take this with us, OK? You’ll get a receipt.”

“Sir,” said Wield, as always sticking to protocol in face of even a single member of the public, “think we ought to be on our way.”

Pascoe followed his gaze. It led to the screen showing the pre-awards reception. The room was now empty except for a couple of catering staff clearing up the glasses.

Pascoe’s first instinct was to send Wield down to the studio to explain things to Ellie while he headed out in search of Roote, but as they hurried along the corridor away from the security room, the sergeant tried to dissuade him.

“You know what Roote’s like, Pete,” he said. “At least give Andy a bell first, get him on board. And there’s Charley Penn to look at too, remember.”

“Yes, but that looked like the sheet that the Pomona girl took out first and read,” argued Pascoe. “Then she dropped it to the floor. She said something in her statement about finding some poem that Penn had translated, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. And Penn said he must have accidentally left it on top of the sack when he went up to the counter. But it didn’t look very accidental to me. And who’s to say he couldn’t have slipped the Dialogue in too and used the poem as a cover-story in case anyone did spot him?”

“Possible, I suppose, but unlikely. Anyway, we know where Penn is, he’s here. It’s the thought of Roote wandering round loose that bothers me.”

But determined to show he was being sensible, Pascoe diverted to a part of the Centre where his mobile got a good signal. He tried Dalziel’s home number. Nothing.

“Didn’t he say something about going dancing?” said Wield.

He tried the Fat Man’s mobile, still without success.

“Probably can’t hear it over the clicking of the castanets,” said Pascoe.

“He’ll have to sit out some time, else the floor won’t take it,” said Wield.

This was calumny as they both knew that Dalziel’s ability to trip lightly on the dance floor was indeed fantastic.

“We’re wasting time,” said Pascoe. “Roote could be out there killing somebody.”

“What if he is? Where are you going to look?” asked Wield reasonably. “Best thing is to call up the station and get them to send someone round to check if he’s in his flat and to keep a watch on it if he isn’t. At least that ’ud save you a wasted trip.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Wieldy,” said Pascoe. “What you’re really saying is I’m too partial and prejudiced to be allowed near him.”

“No, but that’s pretty well what Roote will be suggesting, isn’t it?” said Wield. “Look, Pete, he’s definitely got questions to answer. Maybe you shouldn’t be the one asking them, not to start with, anyway.”

“Bollocks,” said Pascoe.

But he rang the station and did as Wield suggested, urging that he be contacted as soon as the officers sent had reported from the flat.

It took another ten minutes during which he and Wield didn’t speak.

“No one there, sir,” came the report. “How long do you want them to stay on watch?”

“As long as it takes,” said Pascoe.

He switched off his phone, looked at the unreadable face of the sergeant and said with a sigh, “OK. You win. Let’s go and make our apologies.”

They’d arrived at the door of the studio. The tiered seats rose up steeply on three sides from the brightly lit shallow stage and it looked like a full house. Indeed the only empty seat he could see was at the front next to Ellie. She did not look pleased.

The length of time he’d been absent without explanation became apparent when suddenly there was a burst of applause and a cry of delight exploded at the back and a woman who didn’t look much over sixteen jumped out of her seat crying, “It’s me!” as the beam of a tight-focused spot swung across the audience till it picked her out.

She’d won third prize it emerged during a rambling and tearful thank you speech which out-Oscared the Oscars.

Wield said urgently, “Pete. End of row, left-hand wing, five rows back.”

Pascoe counted.

“Thank you, God,” he said.