Dialogues of the Dead

Oh, Andy, Andy, thought Pascoe, you think you’re so clever and you may even be right. But you’ve forgotten, if you ever knew it, the absolute power of young love. I’ve seen the way Bowler looks at Rye Pomona and I’m not sure that even the fear of the Great God Dalziel is enough to keep him quiet if she asks something nicely.

The Fat Man, unaware of these treacherous doubts about his infallibility, had gone through the crowd at the bar like Lomu through an English defence.

“George, lad,” he cried, “congrats, you’ve made it at last, out into civvy street, safe and sound.”

“Andy, I was wondering where you’d got to. What are you drinking?”

“Only two minutes out of the job and the bugger’s forgotten already!” declared Dalziel plaintively. “I’ll have a pint and a chaser. So, George, you take care of yourself, eh, it’s a wilderness out there.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Headingley.

“I’m sure you will, wandering round the countryside with that lovely new rod of thine. Just one bit of advice from one old angler to another.”

Dalziel took Headingley’s hand as he spoke and pressed it tight.

“What’s that, Andy?”

The pressure increased till the blood could hardly reach the DI’s fingertips and at the same time the Fat Man stared unblinkingly into his watering eyes as he said softly, “Don’t go dipping it in any forbidden waters, George, or I may have to come looking for you.”

They stood there looking at each other for several seconds. Then behind the bar a phone rang.

The barman picked it up, listened, then called, “Is there a policeman in the house?”

Through the laughter he added, “It’s the station. Would like to speak to someone in CID. Mr. Dalziel or Mr. Pascoe preferred.”

Pascoe said, “I’ll get it.”

He took the phone, listened for a while, then said, “On our way.”

He put the receiver down. Dalziel was watching him. He jerked his head to the door.

Out of the press around the bar, the Fat Man said, “This had better be good. I’ve got a pint and a gill back there surrounded by bastards with the scruples of a starving gannet.”

“Oh, it’s good,” said Pascoe. “It was Seymour.”

DC Seymour had drawn the short straw and been left to look after the CID shop.

“He’s just had a call from the security guard at the Centre,” he went on.

“Oh fuck. Not another body.”

“No,” said Pascoe, pausing long enough for Dalziel to look relieved before going on. “Another two bodies. Ambrose Bird and Percy Follows. Dead in the Roman Experience bathhouse.”

“Oh shit,” said Andy Dalziel. “Shit and double shit. How dead? Drowndead?”

“No. Electrocuted-dead,” said Peter Pascoe.

42

the seventh dialogue

Do you recall how at the beginning I said my heart fainted at the distance I saw stretching between my setting out and my destination?

Yes, that’s exactly how I felt. Oh me of little faith, wherefore did I doubt? How far have I come and how quickly, a quarter of my way now in the blink of an eye, striding out with braggart step, measuring my path not in miles, but in leagues!

No plan is needed when you are part of a plan, and when I beheld him who was equally a part of the plan, though his time seemed some way still removed, descending like one who hurries to a longed-for assignation, without thought I followed-happy word!

In the darkness I lost him for a while, then suddenly the torches flickered to life, the sounds swelled, the odours drifted across my flaring nostrils, and I found myself deep in the past of the Roman market. Two figures moved towards each other between the stalls, one clad in a courtier’s purple and gold tunic with jewelled clasps, clutching in his hand a leather bag from which he took coins as if to make a purchase, the other in the plain dignified toga which denotes a senator.

“Ho, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus tonight?” cried the first.