Dialogues of the Dead

Leave it alone, Pete, urged Wield telepathically. He’s jerking you around like a hooked fish.

He must have got through because the DCI, after a couple of the deepest breaths the sergeant had ever seen him take, terminated the interview and advised Roote that he was free to go.

“You did the right thing,” said Wield after they’d seen him off the premises.

“Did I? I wish to hell I thought so,” replied Pascoe savagely. “OK, he might have been slipping his story in late, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t put the Dialogue in too.”

“True, but unless you can produce something to support that idea, all you’ve got here is the kind of daft story the press would go to town on. ‘Cop bangs up wife’s protégé. “A likely story,” says top tec.’ Plus everything from the past being raked up. That what you want?”

“You should have been a sub-editor, Wieldy,” said Pascoe. “But I tell you, every time I see him walk away, I think, someone’s going to pay because I found him too slippery to keep a hold of.”

“You can’t know that, Pete,” said Wield. “But if you’re right, he’ll be back.”

He was back, but a lot quicker than either of them anticipated.

Pascoe had just got home and was in the middle of a lively discussion about the evening with Ellie when the phone rang.

He picked it up, listened, said, “Oh Christ. I’ll be there.”

“What’s happened?” said Ellie.

“I put a uniformed watch on Roote’s flat and, in all the excitement, I forgot to cancel it. They’ve just brought him back in. They tried to release him again when they realized what had happened, but he’s refusing to go till he gets my personal assurance that he can go to bed without fear of further disturbance. He says either I come or the press comes. This time I really am going to kill the bastard!”

At just about the same time, Dalziel was doing a Gay Gordons with enormous energy and a lightness of step which won universal applause.

“Don’t know what he does to your ma, Piers,” said Lord Partridge, “but he frightens the shit out of me.”

Lieutenant-Colonel Piers Evenlode smiled a touch wanly, but at least he smiled. When he’d learned that his mother was bringing her frightful plod to the ball, his heart had sunk. On the whole she did her best to make sure that the, in his view, neo-Bohemian lifestyle she favoured did not impinge too much upon his military career. By reverting to her maiden name of Marvell, she drew no attention to him on the occasions when her various protest activities got her into the papers, and, to be fair, since she and this ton of lard had become an item, though unchanged in her attitudes and activities, she no longer seemed to seek the limelight in the old way. No, what he feared, more for her sake than his own, he reassured himself, was that Andy Dalziel’s presence at the ball would render her an object of pity and ridicule.

And, he also admitted because he was a basically honest man, that some of the muffled laughter would be directed at himself.

His worst fears had seemed to be realized when he saw the kilt.

But in the event, the man had proved able to carry it, and he’d fielded all the attempted jokes at his expense with good humour and enough sharp wit to make the would-be mockers wary, and above all, far from looking ludicrous on the dance floor, he had moved with such grace and lightness that he was rapidly the partner of choice amongst the women who preferred real dancing to the close-quarters foreplay favoured by the increasingly tipsy soldiery.

That was another thing. Eschewing champagne, the man had consumed what must have been a whole bottle of malt without showing the slightest diminution of speech or motor control.

So perhaps, unless it turned out he’d got the stately home ringed by bobbies with their Breathalyzers at the ready, it was going to be all right after all.

The dance finished and Dalziel led Cap off the floor to where her son was standing.

“Refill, luv?” he said.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” she said.

“Summat to eat, then?”

“No, really.”

“Think I’ll have another nibble,” he said. “Need to keep my strength up if I’m going to be searched later.”

With a wink at Piers, he moved away.

“Searched?” said Piers, alarmed, recalling his fantasy about a ring of cops watching the house. “What’s he mean?”

His mother looked at him fondly.

“Darling, you don’t want to know,” she said.

In the buffet room, Dalziel looked around till he saw what he was looking for, a white-haired woman with a strong-jawed, rather severe face who was keeping a close eye on a flock of young helpers.

“How do, luv,” said Dalziel, approaching. “Any more of that lovely Sahnetorte?”

She looked at him with interest and said, “Sie sprechen Deutsch, mein Herr?”

“Just enough to ask for what I like,” he said. “And I like that cream cake. Best I’ve had since last time I were in Berlin. Where do you get it round here? It ’ud be worth a long trip.”