Dialogues of the Dead

Perhaps then he’d had a dizzy turn before he got started and had fallen? The post mortem hadn’t found evidence of any kind of “dizzy turn,” though the pathologist could think of several versions of this syndrome which would have left no sign, and the police report mentioned rather tentatively some scuffs on the parapet of the bridge which might possibly indicate he’d been sitting down and gone over backwards.

But the really puzzling thing was his tool box, which had been found resting on the road by the parapet.

Headingley didn’t think this was significant.

“Clear as daylight,” he said. “Driving along, feels dizzy, stops to get some air, climbs out, automatically picks up his tool box en route, ’cos that’s what he always does and, having a dizzy turn, he’s not thinking straight, right? Sits down on the bridge, everything goes black, over he goes, bangs his head on a stone, unconscious, drowns. Pathologist found no signs of foul play, did he?”

“There wouldn’t be, would there, guv?” said Hat respectfully. “Not when the crime’s letting someone die without trying to save them.”

“Murder by neglect? On the basis of this?” Headingley waved the Dialogues folder scornfully in the air. “Get real, son.”

“And the other, guv? Driving straight at that kid on the bike? If the Wordman did that, well, that’s not neglect, is it? That’s pretty positive, wouldn’t you say?”

“What did you call him?” said Headingley, postponing answering the question.

“The Wordman,” said Hat. He explained about the In principio, then explained his joke, and if anything got an even dustier response than he had in the library. Clearly the DI felt that giving the author of the Dialogues a nickname gave him substance, making him harder to ignore, which was what he would have liked to do.

But Hat was determined to pursue him to a decision.

“So you think we should just drop it, guv?” he persisted.

He watched with hidden amusement as uncertainties chased each other like clouds across Headingley’s broad open face.

“Well, I suppose you’d better take a look. Likes his t’s crossed with a ruler, that coroner,” said Headingley finally. “But don’t waste too much time on it. I want a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow. That’s the real test of a theory, son, how much of it you’re willing to put in writing.”

“Yes, guv. Thank you, guv,” said Bowler, just staying this side of open mockery. Headingley might be a boring old fart, ambling towards retirement with little interest in anything other than protecting his ample back, but he still had rank, plus he had survived for many years under the unforgiving eye of Andy Dalziel, so there had to be something there.

He went to his desk, checked out the names and addresses he wanted, then set out on his quest. He had a double reason for being meticulous now-first, to impress Rye Pomona; second, to satisfy George Headingley. Not that he needed either part of the reason to motivate him. One thing he’d quickly learned as a young graduate cop was to be nit-pickingly thorough if you didn’t want some antique plod who’d come up the hard way shaking his head and saying, “Nay, lad, just because tha’s on the fast track don’t mean tha’s allowed to cut corners.”

He started with Constable Dave Insole who’d been driving the first police car to arrive at the scene. Once Bowler’s easy manner had dis-solved his natural suspicion that CID was second guessing him, Insole was cooperative enough. In his view, the most likely explanation was that Ainstable had stopped for a pee, clambered down the bank, slipped and fell as he reached the bottom.

“You mentioned some scuffs on the parapet in your report,” said Bowler.

“That was my partner, Maggie Laine,” said Insole, grinning. “Got ambitions to join your lot, has Maggie. Always looking for clues. No, he got caught short, and was in such a hurry to get out of sight of the road, he slipped. If he’d wanted to sit on the parapet or piss over it or whatever, he’d have parked on the bridge itself, wouldn’t he?”

“His tool box was by the parapet, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but by the time we arrived there were half a dozen yokels gawking, any one of them could have moved it out of the way.”

“But hardly have taken it out of his van,” said Hat. “Which was parked where? Not actually on the bridge, I gather?”

“No. He stopped just before it, right where he could scramble down the side to the bank of the stream,” said Insole triumphantly.

“Just about where he’d have stopped if there’d already been a car parked on the bridge then?” said Bowler.

“Yeah, I suppose, but what are you driving at?”

“Better ask Maggie,” laughed Bowler, heading for the door.