Dialogues of the Dead

But the positive truth was that Pascoe hadn’t the faintest idea where the Fat Man was. He had seen him briefly on his return from the Centre but a phone call had taken him away before he could enlarge upon his comment in response to the question of how he’d got on with Dee: “Yon bugger’s too clever by half.”

While being too clever by half was not in itself a guarantee of criminality, it was certainly true that several men so categorized by Dalziel were currently doing The Times crossword before breakfast in one of Her Majesty’s penitentiaries.

Bowler hadn’t been able to add much more about Dee, but he was voluble about his own discoveries and was clearly hurt just this side of the sulks by Wield’s reduction of them to a self-mutilating lexicographer and a German poet who changed his name ’cos he got the piss taken out of him, neither of whom seemed to have any discernible relevance to the case in hand.

For a small man, Dan Trimble had an authoritarian way with a large drink and had downed three of these with no apparent effect on his frame of mind when Pascoe glanced at his watch and murmured, “Show time, I think, sir. The natives are getting a little restless.”

“What? No, no, what’s your hurry? The DI seems to be enjoying himself. Another few minutes won’t hurt. No word from Andy yet?”

“’Fraid not, but any moment now, I’m sure …”

And as if he’d been waiting for his cue, the Fat Man erupted through the main door, emanating good cheer like the Spirit of Christmas Present. Making his way across the room towards Trimble, he paused to smite Headingley on the shoulder, ruffle Novello’s hair, and utter some good thing which set the table on a roar. Then he arrived at the bar, accepted the large Scotch which materialized there, downed it in one, and said, “Made it then! Would have hated to miss your speech, sir.”

“Miss my …? Andy, you said you’d ring.”

“I know I did, and I would have done, only things got a bit complicated. …”

He put his arm round Trimble’s shoulders and drew the Chief aside and spoke earnestly in his ear.

“Like Lord Dorincourt giving some friendly advice to Little Lord Fauntleroy,” murmured Pascoe to Wield.

“At least it’s stopped him looking like he’d had his budget cut,” said Wield as Trimble’s expression first of all relaxed, then eased itself into a positive smile as the Fat Man smote his hand to his breast in a histrionic gesture of reassurance.

“I think he’s just sold him a used policeman,” said Pascoe thoughtfully.

Dalziel came to join him as the Chief Constable wandered over to Headingley’s table and put his hand on the DI’s shoulder and made a joke which won a laugh as loud as Dalziel’s had.

“Dan’s going to make the presentation then?” said Pascoe.

“Always was,” said Dalziel.

“Am I going to find out what’s been going on?”

“Why not? Read that.”

He pulled some creased papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Trimble had moved into the centre of the room, there were cries for order, and after the inevitable responses of “Mine’s a pint” had won their inevitable laughs, he began to speak without notes. He had an excellent public manner and as he rehearsed the highlights of the retiring detective’s career with wit and eloquence, it was hard to believe that he’d had any reluctance to be doing so.

Pascoe, who didn’t need to be told of Headingley’s virtues, glanced down at the papers Dalziel had given him. His glance soon became fixed, and after the first reading he went through them again, then gave Dalziel’s ribs, or at least that stratum of subcutaneous fat beneath which he guessed they were situated, an insubordinate poke and hissed, “Where the hell did these come from?”

“You recall Angie, Jax Ripley’s sister, at the funeral? These are copies of e-mails from Jax to her.”

“I’d gathered that. I mean, how did you get hold of them?”

“Angie rang Desperate Dan afore she left for the States on Sunday. When she told him what she were on about, he said he’d like to see copies so she put ’em in the post. No lift on Sunday so he got ’em this morning.”

Their muttered conversation was attracting attention so Pascoe took the Fat Man’s sleeve and drew him away from the bar to the back of the room.

“Watch it,” said Dalziel. “That’s as nice a piece of worsted you’re pulling as you’d see on the Lord Mayor of Bradford.”

“You see what this means? Of course you bloody well see. Georgie Porgie. A fat, cuddly senior officer. Ripley’s Deep-throat was Headingley not Bowler!”

“Aye,” said Dalziel complacently. “Always a bit of a swordsman, George. Hung like a donkey. Resemblance didn’t end there, but.”

The Chief Constable was warming to his task and talking about old-fashioned virtues like loyalty to one’s colleagues and utter reliability.

“You knew!”

“Not till he went sick after she got topped. Then I got to thinking, maybe I’d done young Bowler an injustice. I mean, Ripley were a smart lass. If it’s information you’re after, you don’t start snogging the office boy.”