Dialogues of the Dead

Dalziel and Dee felt their way out of the dark taberna into the market place where people were striking matches or flashing torches to give a dim illumination. The door of the calidarium opened and a man wearing swimming trunks and dripping water stepped out followed by a puff of smoke.

“Enter Dagon, downstage, left,” murmured Dee.

“What the hell’s going on?” demanded the man angrily. “Something electrical blew up in there and I’m sitting over my arse in fucking water!”

He had good reason to be angry, thought Dalziel as he made his way back towards the market centre where Bird and Follows were positioned. En route he stubbed his toe against various objects which he kicked aside with great force.

“Who’s in charge?” he demanded.

For once, neither of the two men seemed eager to assume the primacy.

“Well, I’ll tell you both summat for nowt-you’d best get this sorted else I’ll make sure the local Fire and Safety Officer closes you down permanent. That bastard in the bath could have been electrocuted. And why’s it so fucking dark? Imagine what it ’ud be like down here with a few dozen people, a lot of them kids, milling around. Where’s your back-up system, for God’s sake? Get it sorted quick or I’ll start thumbing through the big book to see what I can find to charge you with. And if I can’t find owt serious enough, I’ll mebbe just bray you with the book!”

He strode away, finding the stairs and the exit back to the regions of light and air by dead reckoning. When he got there, he paused and found Dee at his side.

“You know, Mr. Dalziel,” said the librarian with a smile, “after that performance, I think if I were the Wordman, I’d put my hand up now and confess.”

“That right, Mr. Dee?” said Dalziel indifferently. “And I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? I think you’re fuller of crap than a knackered septic tank.”

Dee pursed his lips and looked pensive as if this were a statement worthy of close examination then said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Does it mean our little game of Truth, Dare, Force or Promise is over?”

“Your little game. When there’s folk lying dead, I don’t play games. I’ll see you around, Mr. Dee.”

He moved away with mastodon tread. Behind him, still as a primeval hunter, Dick Dee watched till he was out of sight.

41

Detective Inspector George Headingley may not have scaled the promotional heights, but he had performed the feat unusual in police circles of achieving his modest eminence without standing too hard on anyone’s face.

Therefore as his colleagues, CID and Uniformed, gathered in the Social Club that night to say their farewells, the atmosphere was more than usually cordial. Pascoe had been to farewell parties where the attendance had been meagre, the jokes sour, and though the banners read Good Luck! the body language spelled Good Riddance. But tonight everyone had made an effort to attend, the contributions to the leaving present had been generous, and the laughter already rising from the assembled men, especially those at Headingley’s crowded table, was good humoured and full bellied.

There’d been a special cheer of welcome and some spontaneous applause when the door had opened to admit Detective Constable Shirley Novello. This was her first public appearance since the shooting which had put her out of commission since the summer.

She looked pale and didn’t move with her usual athletic spring as she advanced to take the seat offered her next to George Headingley, who won another cheer by standing up and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

Pascoe went to the table and leaned over her chair.

“Shirley, it’s good to see you. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Couldn’t miss the chance of making sure the DI really was leaving, could I?” she said.

“Well, don’t overdo it,” he said. “You know what they say about too much too soon.”

“Yes, dead before twenty,” said Headingley.

Beneath the roar of laughter which this evoked, Wield said in his ear, “Pete, Dan’s here, but still no sign of Andy.”

“Great.”

Though Headingley’s popularity was great enough for Uniformed to be there in numbers too, this was essentially a CID party, and Dalziel’s absence meant the duties of host devolved upon him.

He went forward to welcome the Chief Constable.

“Glad you could make it, sir,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s determined it’s going to be a great night.”

Even as he spoke his eyes told him that he was wrong. Trimble’s features had the cast of a man who’d come to bury someone rather than praise him.

“Where is he?” asked the Chief curtly.

“George?”

“No. Mr. Dalziel.”

“On his way,” said Pascoe. “Let me get you a drink, sir.”

On his way wasn’t a positive lie as, presumably, wherever Dalziel was, he purposed at some point to arrive at the Social Club, therefore, whatever he was doing, he could be said to be on his way there.