Dialogues of the Dead

A staffroom was not what he had in mind.

“I thought perhaps a pub …”

“A pub?” As if he’d suggested a House of Assignation. “I don’t get long enough to spend time in pubs. I suppose I could meet you in Hal’s.”

“Hal’s?”

“The café-bar on the Centre mezzanine. Don’t policemen get asked the way any more?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll find it.”

“I won’t hold my breath. Twelve fifteen.”

“Yes, twelve fifteen would be fine. Maybe we can …”

But he wasn’t talking to anyone but himself.

At twelve thirty Dick Dee was perched behind the Reference enquiry desk, peering pensively at a computer screen when he heard a sexy cough.

It is not everyone who can cough sexily and he looked up with interest to see a young woman with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes smiling at him. She was small and slightly built, but exuded the kind of energy a man could imagine being put to very good use.

“Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” she said. “I’m Jax Ripley.”

“And I’m Dick Dee, Miss …Ripley, was it?”

Jax thought, the bastard’s pretending not to remember me!

Or, worse, she emended, looking into those guileless eyes, he really doesn’t remember me!

She said, “We met the other week. On the council tour …when the shelf collapsed …I did want to interview you but wherever we pointed the camera, dear old Percy seemed to be in shot, talking about the way he’d like to see the Centre develop …”

She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to join in her amusement at Percy Follows’ well-known appetite for publicity, especially with the council considering the appointment of an overall Centre Director.

Dee let his gaze run up and down her body, assessingly but without lubricity, and said, “Of course. Miss Ripley. Nice to see you again. How may I help?”

“It’s about the short story competition. I gather you’re in charge of the judging panel.”

“Far from it,” he said. “I’m merely one of the preliminary sorters.”

“I’m sure you’re more than that,” she said turning her charm on full blast. She knew men and thought she’d detected beneath his politely neutral examination a definite effervescence of interest along the arteries. “When do entries close?”

“Tonight,” he said. “So you’ll have to hurry.”

“I’m not thinking of entering,” she said sharply, then saw from his faint smile that he was taking the piss.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, a long way from a hunk but the kind who might grow on you.

She laughed out loud and said, “But tell me, if I did want to enter, is the standard high?”

“There’s a great deal of promise,” he said carefully.

“Promise as in politicians, marriage or the Bank of England?” she asked.

“You’ll need to wait till the result is announced to decide that,” he said.

“Which is when?” she said. “I’d be interested in doing a piece on Out and About, maybe interviewing the shortlisted authors. Or perhaps we could even have the result announced live on air.”

“Nice idea,” he said. “But I suspect Mary Agnew will want the news of the winner to be announced in the Gazette. Sell more newspapers that way, you see.”

“Oh, I know Mary well. I used to work for her. In fact I was just talking to her earlier this morning and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” said Jax with the confidence of one who takes as read the superiority of television over newsprint. “What I was after was a bit of preliminary information. I might even do a trail on tonight’s show. Do you have a few moments? Or maybe I could buy you lunch?”

Dee was beginning to refuse politely when the library door burst open and a tall willowy man with a mane of golden hair framing a face as small as a monkey’s came in and approached them with arms outstretched.

“Jax, my dear. They told me you were loose in the building. Your face is too famous to pass my sentinels unremarked. I hope you were going to come and see me, but I couldn’t take the risk.”

He rested his arms on Jax’s shoulders and they exchanged a three-kiss salute.

Jax at her very first meeting with Percy Follows had marked him down as a prancing prat. But in the world of men, being a prancing prat didn’t necessarily mean he was either stupid or incapable of rising to heights from which he might be able to extend a helping hand to an ambitious woman, so she said sweetly, “I assumed you’d be far too busy at some important working lunch, Percy, which incidentally is where I’m trying to take Mr. Dee here, but he was just telling me you work him far too hard for such frivolities.”

“Do we?” said Follows, slightly nonplussed.

“It seems so. He doesn’t even seem to have time for a working fast. And I’m desperate to pick his brain for a series of pieces I’m planning to do on this short story competition you thought up. It’s the kind of cultural initiative we really need in Mid-Yorkshire. I’ll want to interview you later on, of course, but I always like to start at factory-floor level …”

She’s very good, thought Dee as she flashed him a smile and the hint of a wink from the eye furthest from Follows.