Dialogues of the Dead

The two academics left. After an uncomfortable moment, the Chief Constable said, “Well, that solves at least one problem, Andy. Now we can get down to all those details of advanced investigative techniques and likely suspects you didn’t want to share with civilians.”

“Right,” said the Fat Man. “Peter?”

Well, thanks a bunch, thought Pascoe.

He said, “Sir, we’re throwing everything at this. Forensic, computer records, plus all the manpower we can muster interviewing everyone who got within half a mile of the library yesterday evening. All the library security tapes and all the tapes from everywhere else in the shopping precinct are being gone over inch by inch. And as you’ve seen with Dr. Pottle and Dr. Urquhart, we’re drawing on every kind of outside help we can think of.”

“Suspects?” said Trimble.

“Yes, sir. Immediately upon establishing that a crime had been committed last night, we sent officers to ascertain the whereabouts and movements of the three men we have in the frame.”

“Who are …?”

Pascoe drew a deep breath and said, “Charley Penn, Franny Roote, Dick Dee.”

The Chief Constable had to know there were no others, yet he still managed to look disappointed.

“I see,” he said. “So after eight deaths your thinking doesn’t take you past this trio whom I understand you have already looked very closely at. Charley Penn, the nearest thing we have in the area to a media celebrity. And Franny Roote, in whom I gather you have a strong personal interest, Mr. Pascoe. And Dick Dee, the man who was instrumental in getting us to take this matter seriously in the first place.”

He raised his eyebrows at Pascoe who felt like saying, “Well, thank you kindly, sir, for pointing out the sodding obvious to us poor dumb detectives. Now why don’t you piss off back to your big office and leave us to get on with our underpaid jobs?”

Instead he said mildly, “The Wordman too is a media celebrity. And I have a strong professional interest in Mr. Roote. As for Dee, fire investigators advise taking a close look at the guy who reports the fire, also the main man on the spot when you arrive.”

Trimble considered this, seemed to spot the subtext, smiled faintly and said, “I do hope we’re not anticipating arson attacks too. Any joy when you checked them out?”

“Nothing positive. But none of them had a firm alibi for the early part of the evening.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Though, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve got a firm alibi either.”

Trimble stood up suddenly and the others rose too.

“I won’t keep you back from your work any longer. I don’t need to impress on any of you how urgent it is we bring this business to a rapid and satisfactory conclusion, just as I didn’t need our local Member of Parliament impressing it on me this morning. Andy, be sure to keep me up to speed on progress, won’t you?”

“Anything happens, you’ll be the first to know,” assured the Fat Man.

As the door closed behind the Chief, they all slumped back into their chairs and studied the floor and/or ceiling as if in hope that someone else was going to burst forth with an inspired insight.

Finally Dalziel said, “Nowt for it, we’re going to have to arrest Dan. You heard him say he hadn’t got an alibi. Unless young Bowler can help us out.”

“Sir?”

“Well, you’re sitting there pursing your lips like a cat’s arsehole. It’s either wind or words that are trying to get out. So do we listen or duck?”

“Sorry, sir. I was just looking at that date he wrote on the board-1576. Seems it ought to mean something to me.”

“Oh aye? You got O-level history?”

“I took it,” said Hat evasively.

“Good enough. You bugger off down to the library and check out everything that happened in that year. If you do nowt else, you’ll be letting Dee and likely Charley Penn too know we’ve got the message.”

Doing his best to conceal his delight at being given an excuse to see Rye, Hat made for the door.

But his joy was pricked a little when Dalziel called after him, “And make sure that’s the only date that’s on your mind in yon library. Young women can seriously damage a young detective’s career.”

The Fat Man winked at Pascoe then said, “How about you, Ivor? Owt strike you?”

“Sorry, sir, were you talking to me?” said Novello with a histrionic little start.

It had taken her some time to find out why Dalziel called her Ivor and when she did, she affected an isn’t-it-sad indifference to yet another example of male infantilism. But secretly, particularly after the correct Pascoe’s injunction to all others against using this sobriquet left the Fat Man as its sole source, she had to admit a certain pleasure in being so singled out. After all, when Samuel heard God calling him in the Temple, he didn’t retort sourly, “It’s Mr. Samuel to you.”

“That bullet sent you deaf as well? Christ, you look terrible. Time you went home.”