Dialogues of the Dead

“I reckon you need to look at the whole picture,” he said. “Way back when Roote were a student at Holm Coultram College before it became part of the university, he got sent down as an accessory to two murders, mainly on your evidence. From the dock he says he looks forward to the chance of meeting you somewhere quiet one day and carrying on your interrupted conversation. As the last time you saw him alone he was trying to stove your head in with a rock, you take this as a threat. But we all get threatened at least once a week. It’s part of the job.”

Dalziel, studying the machine like a Sumo wrestler working out a new strategy, growled, “Get a move on, Frankenstein, else I’ll start to wish I hadn’t plugged you in.”

Undeterred, Wield proceeded at a measured pace.

“Model prisoner, Open University degree, Roote gets maximum remission, comes out, gets job as a hospital porter, starts writing an academic thesis, obeys all the rules. Then you get upset by them threats to Ellie and naturally Roote’s one of the folk you need to take a closer look at. Only when you go to see him, you find he’s slashed his wrists.”

“He knew I was coming,” said Pascoe. “It was a setup. No real danger to him. Just a perverted joke.”

“Maybe. Not the way it looked when it turned out Roote had absolutely nothing to do with the threats to Ellie,” said Wield. “He recovers, and a few months later he moves here because (a) his supervisor has moved here and (b) he can get work here. You say you checked with the probation service?”

“Yes,” said Pascoe. “All done by the book. They wanted to know if there was a problem.”

“What did you tell the buggers?” said Dalziel, who classed probation officers with Scottish midges, vegetarians and modern technology as Jobian tests of a virtuous man’s patience.

“I said no, just routine.”

“Wise move,” approved Wield. “See how it looks. Man serves his time, puts his life back together, gets harassed without cause by insensitive police officer, flips, tries to harm himself, recovers, gets back on track, finds work again, minds his own business, then this same officer starts accusing him of being some sort of stalker. It’s you who comes out looking like either a neurotic headcase or a vengeful bastard. While Roote …just a guy who’s paid his debt and wants nothing except to live a quiet life. I mean, he didn’t even want the hassle of bringing a harassment case against you, or a wrongful dismissal case against the Sheffield hospital.”

He moved from the window to the desk.

“Aye,” said Dalziel thoughtfully. “That’s the most worrying thing, him not wanting to kick up a fuss. Well, lad, it’s up to you. But me, I know what I’d do.”

“And what’s that, sir?” enquired Pascoe.

“Break both his legs and run him out of town.”

“I think perhaps the other way round might be better,” said Pascoe judiciously.

“You reckon? Either way, you can stick this useless thing up his arse first.”

He glowered at the VCR which, as if in response to that fearsome gaze, clicked into life and a picture blossomed on the TV screen.

“There,” said the Fat Man triumphantly. “Told you no lump of tin and wires could get the better of me.”

Pascoe glanced at Wield who was quietly replacing the remote control unit on the desk, and grinned.

An announcer was saying, “And now Out and About, your regional magazine programme from BBC Mid-Yorkshire, presented by Jax Ripley.”

Titles over an aerial panorama of town and countryside accompanied by the first few bars of “On Ilkla Moor Baht ’at” played by a brass band, all fading to the slight, almost childish figure of a young blonde with bright blue eyes and a wide mouth stretched in a smile through which white teeth gleamed like a scimitar blade.

“Hi,” she said. “Lots of goodies tonight, but first, are we getting the policing we deserve, the policing we pay for? Here’s how it looks from the dirty end of the stick.”