Dialogues of the Dead

Franny Roote was sitting there, dressed as always in black so that his pale face seemed to float out of the semi-gloom of the auditorium. An image came into Pascoe’s mind from some poem read long ago of a condemned prisoner being led to his death through a press of spectators. Even at a distance it was impossible to mistake that pale face. So it was with Roote; except, if Pascoe had got it right, here was the executioner, not the executed.

On the acting floor, Mary Agnew was announcing the runner-up who had written a story which, if the judges were to be believed, plumbed the depths of man’s inhumanity to man. The title and the pseudonym were read out, the envelope ripped open, and from the balcony came another delighted cry as a second woman, this one old enough to be her predecessor’s great-grandmother, saw fame descend.

“Come on,” said Pascoe as the audience applauded the newcomer onto the stage.

He hoped to slip unnoticed past Ellie, but failed. Her accusing gaze hit him like a sling-shot. He winced, smiled weakly, and pressed on up the aisle steps towards Roote.

“Mr. Roote,” he murmured. “Could we have a word?”

“Mr. Pascoe, hello. Of course, always glad to talk with you.”

The young man gazed up at him expectantly, the usual faint smile on his lips.

“I mean, outside.”

“Oh. Couldn’t it wait? This will be over soon. It’s going out live, you know.”

“I’d rather …”

Pascoe’s voice faded under an outbreak of irritated shushing, and he realized the second-place winner was into her thank you speech. Fortunately age had taught her the value of economy and it had twice the style in half the length of number three’s.

As she left the stage to renewed, and relieved, applause, Pascoe said firmly, “Now, please, Mr. Roote.”

“Just a couple more minutes,” pleaded the man.

Pascoe glanced round at Wield who shook his head slightly as if in answer to the unspoken question, How about I put him in an arm-lock and drag him out?

Below, Agnew was saying, “And now to our winner. The judges were unanimous in their choice. They said feel-good stories may not be popular in an age preoccupied with the seamier side of human experience, but when they are as beautifully crafted as this one, with a depth of humanity and a lightness of touch rarely found outside the great classical masters of the genre, then they are a reassuring affirmation of all that is best and most worthwhile in human experience. With a testimonial like that, I bet you can’t wait to read the story-which you’ll be able to do in the next issue of the Gazette. Its title is ‘Once Upon a Life,’ and its author’s very fitting pseudonym is Hilary Greatheart, whose real name is …”

Dramatic pause while the envelope was torn open.

Roote stood up.

Pascoe, a little surprised by this sudden capitulation, said, “Thank you. Let’s head out of the back door, shall we?”

Roote said, “No, no, I don’t think you understand,” and tried to push past.

Pascoe seized his arm, feeling a surge of deplorable pleasure that at last he was going to have an excuse to pass on some positive pain.

Then Wield seized his arm and said, “Pete, no.”

And at the same time a great light exploded in both his face and his mind as the prize-winner’s spot found them out and it registered that Mary Agnew had just proclaimed, “… Mr. Francis Roote of 17a Westburn Lane. Will you please come up, Mr. Roote?”

He let go and watched Franny Roote run lightly down the steps to accept his award.

“You OK, Pete?” said Wield anxiously.

“Never been better,” said Pascoe, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the brightly lit stage below. “At least we’ve got the bastard where we can see him. But I’ll tell you one thing, Wieldy. If he mentions me in his thank you speech, I may run down there and kill him.”

30

“… putting on my top hat, brushing off my tails,” sang Andy Dalziel.

“Andy, you are not wearing tails,” called Cap Marvell from her bedroom.

“Wasn’t talking about me clothes,” said Dalziel, looking down complacently at the kilt which encompassed his promontory buttocks.

Cap emerged from the bedroom.

“I don’t like the sound of that. You are wearing something underneath that skirt, aren’t you?”

For answer he lifted the kilt to reveal a pair of Union Jack boxer shorts and did a twirl.

Then he let his gaze run the whole length of the woman’s body from the discreet diamond tiara in her hair down the deeply cloven wine-coloured silk evening gown to the silver diamante-edged shoes and said, “By gum, tha looks a treat.”

“Thank you kindly,” she said. “And you too, Andy. A treat. That I take it is your family tartan?”

“Doubt it. Don’t think the Dalziels have their own so likely the old man chose this one to match his bonny blue eyes.”

“So he wasn’t a professional Scot, then?”

“No. A baker and a pragmatist. The kilt’s the best garment in the world for three things, he used to say, and one of them was dancing.”

“Dare I ask the other two?”

“Defecation and copulation,” said the Fat Man. “Shall we go?”