Dialogues of the Dead

“Fused together,” growled Dalziel. “Don’t be mealy-mouthed.”

“Coupled,” repeated Pascoe. “The maintenance man claims that he disconnected the soldering iron from the extension lead and disconnected the extension lead from the socket on the floor above, which was where he’d had to plug it in because of course all the electrics in the basement had cut out when the fault down there developed. He admits, because he can hardly deny it, that after going upstairs to check the repaired circuits at the main power box, he omitted to return to collect the iron. He says he left it in situ because he intended doing another check on the basement circuitry first thing this morning to make sure all was well for the official opening. A conscientious worker.”

“A lying bastard,” said Dalziel. “He switched the iron off at the switch on the extension plug, went upstairs, checked the power box, then one of his mates yelled, ‘Coming for a pint, Joe?’ and he forgot all about it.”

Pascoe gave him a tightly weary smile and wondered why, as they’d both had the same sleep-curtailed night, the Fat Man looked so alert and vigorous while he felt ready to keel over?

But keeling over wasn’t an option when he was giving a briefing to his CID team, plus the Chief Constable who’d decided that in view of the seriousness of the situation, he himself would monitor the next conference, plus the Doctors Pottle and Urquhart, whose presence had also been Trimble’s idea as soon as he heard that the Seventh Dialogue had been found next morning in one of the Centre mailboxes-not the library box which the police were monitoring, but the unmonitored Heritage box on the far side of the building.

Dalziel had objected, making the point that details of advanced investigative procedures and likely suspects ought not to be made available to civilians, to which Trimble had replied somewhat acidly that if he did not trust his co-opted experts then perhaps he shouldn’t have recruited them in the first place, and if they were to be of any use to the team, then they must be as fully briefed as everyone else. The Fat Man had got a bit of his own back when the Chief had commented on the presence of DC Novello. “CID rule, sir. If you’re fit enough to drink, you’re fit enough to work,” he’d said. He’d answered Pascoe’s own reservations on the DC’s presence rather more humanely by saying, “I gave her a ring, asked if she felt up to sitting in for an hour. Break her in gently’s best after what she’s been through. Also, could be useful getting a female slant on things. Can’t be any dafter than the crap we’re likely to get from Oor Wullie and Smokey Joe.”

“Maybe they won’t have much to say,” Pascoe tried to reassure him.

“They never do. Doesn’t stop the buggers from prattling on, but. Just try not to encourage them, eh?”

But it was Trimble who gave the first cue.

In response to Dalziel’s interjection, he asked, “Does it really matter at this juncture if the maintenance man is trying to cover his back or not?”

“Not really,” said Pascoe.

“Except,” said Dr. Pottle, “insofar as what he says throws doubt on to the Wordman’s version in the Dialogue.”

He paused, weighed Dalziel’s menacing glower against the Chief Constable’s encouraging nod, decided that in this case rank counted, and went on, “The Wordman’s version as always stresses his sense of being the instrument of some superior power, a very active instrument of course, but nonetheless one whose certainty of invulnerability is based on the provision by his guiding power of that conventional trinity of crime investigation: motive, means and opportunity.”

“What motive?” demanded Dalziel. “There ain’t none, that’s the point when you’re dealing with madmen!”

“You’re wrong, Superintendent, though I won’t irritate you with psychological analysis at this juncture. But motive in the sense that these killings are clearly sequential not even you will deny.”

“Meaning he only kills people who fit some crazy pattern he’s working to? Well, thanks for that insight, Doctor. It ’ud be a lot more useful if you could work out the pattern for us, but I dare say that’s not on offer yet?”

“I regret the basis of the sequence still escapes me, but I’m working on it,” said Pottle, lighting his fifth cigarette since arrival. “What is clear is that the Wordman looks to his guiding power to point out his next victim or victims, then to bring them into the killing situation, and finally to provide the means.”

“Took his own knife along to sort out Jax Ripley,” said Wield.

“True, but he still makes it clear that the weapon was somehow provided for him in some manner he could fit into his grand plan. And similarly with the drug used to poison Sam Johnson.”

“So what are you saying, Doctor?” enquired Trimble.

“Only that, if the maintenance man’s version is true, it means that the Wordman is rearranging the facts of the incident to fit in with his fantasy, or even to persuade us of its reality. Which would be very interesting.”