Dialogues of the Dead

She nodded and said, “Good answer. So what’s this history, and what had been going on last night to hot things up? Was it something to do with the security cameras?”

“How the hell do you know that?” he demanded.

“That ugly sergeant started asking me questions again about the morning I found the Ripley Dialogue. But what he seemed particularly interested in was me finding Charley Penn’s translation of ‘Du bist wie eine Blume.’ It felt like he’d been watching me and the only way I could figure that was, the camera must have been on. If that’s right and you lot have only just realized, it looks like someone’s been sleeping on the job, eh?”

“What did Wield say about Penn?” asked Hat, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Not a lot. He’s not exactly effusive, is he? I suggested leaving poetry lying around was an oblique form of sexual harassment which he might care to investigate, and I think he smiled but it might just have been wind.”

“But he didn’t actually mention the tapes?”

“No. I worked that out all by my little self.”

“Clever,” he said. “Really. I’m not taking the piss.”

“Yeah. Well, I did sweet-talk Dave, the security man, just to be sure,” she admitted. “So come on. Fill me in on Franny Roote and your DCI.”

It did not seem a good time to plead police confidentiality, and besides he was in so deep sharing Wordman stuff with Rye that it was easier to go on than pull back, so he told her about Pascoe’s fraught relationship with Franny Roote.

“When I saw him going up to the stage last night, I was gobsmacked,” he said. “Especially after what they’d said about the winning story. Didn’t sound like him at all. …”

“Like your Mr. Pascoe’s version of him, you mean?” she said.

“I have met him myself a couple of times,” said Hat defensively. “And you called him creepy.”

“Yeah, but I meant it sort of literally. He gets in the library sometimes, and he moves so lightly, you never know he’s there till suddenly he’s next to you. So Pascoe fancies him for the Wordman? Hey, I’ve just thought. His wife was helping Penn to judge, wasn’t she? Cooperating with one suspect to give the prize to another! I bet Pascoe was delighted about that. I bet they lay awake all night chuckling about it.”

“She wasn’t to know, was she?” said Hat, who was an Ellie Pascoe fan. “You must have read the story. How did it sound to you?”

“Good,” she admitted. “Dick thought it was the tops. I wasn’t quite so enthusiastic, but I did think it was good. Moving, you know. Lot of uplift. Not really my thing.”

The seed of a quip about a girl with a figure like hers not needing a lot of uplift spurted across his mind but died before it got close to ejaculation.

“Well, it seems what actually happened last night was this …” said Hat, who when he gave his trust didn’t care to stint.

It was Wield who’d filled him in. He’d have probably preferred to keep the whole business low-key but the way things panned, this hadn’t been an option. The story of Roote’s return visit was being told all over the station with advantages, and it seemed sensible to give Bowler a full account, to help set the record straight.

“It’s not CID at its best, but it’s a lot better than some of the versions that are fluttering about,” concluded the sergeant. “You hear them, you stamp on them, OK?”

“OK,” said Hat. “What’s the super’s reaction to all this?”

“Mr. Dalziel must have danced himself off the ground,” said Wield. “He’s not been seen yet. But no doubt he’ll appear shortly. And if you want to enjoy your day off, lad, I’d advise you to make yourself scarce. The super has a tendency to count days spent on sick leave as normal rest days.”

All this Hat now told Rye who frowned and said, “He does sound a bit weird.”

“Roote?”

“No. This Pascoe. I thought when I met him that this was one tightly held together guy.”

“Perhaps he needs to be. He feels threatened.”

“That’s it, isn’t it? He feels threatened. From what you say, there haven’t actually been any threats, have there?”

“No. But this Roote’s something else. I can see how he could threaten you without actually threatening you, if you know what I mean.”

She looked at him quizzically and said, “You’re a loyal man, Constable Bowler. Decided what you’re going to do about Georgie Porgie yet?”

That had been something else Wield had said. There’d been two or three more phone calls from Angela Ripley. Wield himself had taken one and, according to him, she didn’t sound altogether persuaded that Hat was really sick. The sergeant paused to allow explanation but when it didn’t come, he didn’t press. And he’d said absolutely nothing about talking to Rye about Charley Penn.

Discretion or distrust?

“Cat got your tongue?” said Rye.

“Sorry. Nothing is what I’m going to do about the DI,” said Hat defiantly. “Angela Ripley will be on her way back to the States today. I don’t see any reason to muck up George’s retirement party.”

Suddenly she kissed him again.

“And you’re a very nice man too,” she said. “Let’s go and look at some birds.”