Dialogues of the Dead

“Is that so?” said Follows. “Then of course you must go, Dick. I hereby unlock your chains.”

“I’m by myself,” said Dee. “Rye is on her lunch break.”

“No problem,” said Follows expansively. “I’ll mind the shop myself. We’re a true democracy here, Jax, everyone ready and able to do everyone else’s work. Go, Dick, go, while the giving mood is on me.”

Dee, Harold Lloyd to his boss’s Olivier, cleared the computer screen, put on his leather-patched tweed jacket and with an old-fashioned courtesy took Jax’s arm and ushered her through the door.

“So where are you taking me?” he enquired as they walked down the stairs.

Her mind printed out the alternatives. Pub? Too crowded. Hotel dining room? Too formal.

His hand still rested lightly on her arm. To her surprise she found herself thinking, rest it anywhere you like, darling.

This was quite the wrong way round, this feeling that he would be easy to like, easy to talk to. That was how he was supposed to be feeling!

She recalled the wise words of Mary Agnew when she’d worked for her.

You’ll recognize a good story by what you’re willing to do to get it. One thing though …lay yourself on the table by all means, darling, but never lay your cards. Knowing more than other people know is the only virginity in our game. Keep it.

Still, nothing wrong with enjoying yourself along the way.

“You call it,” she said. “My treat. But I make a lovely open sandwich if I can find the right topping.”

“This is nice,” said Bowler. “Why’s it called Hal’s?”

They were sitting opposite each other at a table on the balcony of the café-bar which gave a view down the length of the main shopping precinct. On a clear day you could see as far as Boots the Chemist. The disadvantage of the situation was that the prurient youth of the town had discovered that a seat on the edge of the fountain in the atrium below gave them with luck an excellent view up the short skirts of those sitting above. But on entering Hal’s, she had discovered Bowler at an inside table next to one occupied by Charley Penn. Had to be coincidence, but preferring the prying eyes of youth to the flapping ears of age, she’d suggested they move outside.

“Think about it,” said Rye. “Heritage, Arts and Library complex? H. A. L.”

“Disappointing,” said Bowler. “I thought it might be named after an artificial intelligence which had gone wrong and was trying to control our lives.”

She laughed and said, “You could be right.”

Encouraged, he said, “You know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

“No, and I’m not sure I want to know,” said Rye.

“I thought redwing.”

“As in Indian Maid?”

“You know that song? Odd company you keep, or do you play rugby? Don’t answer. No, as in turdus iliacus, the smallest of the common thrushes.”

“I hope, for your sake, this is an extremely attractive, highly intelligent bird.”

“Naturally. Also known as Wind Thrush or Swine Pipe from its sharp voice.”

“And iliacus because it comes from Troy? The resemblances to the way I see myself don’t seem to be multiplying.”

“Helen came from Troy.”

“No she didn’t. She got abducted and ended up there. So forget the soft soap and tell me, where’s the connection, Constable?”

“Simple really and entirely soap-free,” he murmured. “The redwing is a bird with lovely chestnut colouring and a prominent pale strip over the eye. So when I saw this, I thought redwing.”

He reached over and brushed his index finger against the tongue of silvery grey running through her hair.

That’s enough, buster, thought Rye. Verbal jousting is one thing, but stroking my hair’s a familiarity too far.

“So you really are a bird nerd,” she said. “And here’s me thinking it was just a cover story. Ah well, each to his own anorak.”

She saw she’d scored a palpable hit and should have felt gleeful but didn’t.

“Anyway, it’s a better come-on than the guy who said it reminded him of Silver Blaze,” she went on.

“Sorry?”

“Silver Blaze. The racehorse in the Sherlock Holmes story? Don’t you all get issued those at Hendon, or is being a detective a cover story too?”

“No, that’s for real too, I’m afraid.”

“Oh yes? So prove it.”

“OK,” he said. “First off, this Wordman stuff is confidential, OK?”

“Confidential? It’s me who brought you these Dialogues, remember? And now you’re telling me just because you’ve invented a nickname for him, it’s confidential.”

“What I’ve found out in the course of my investigation is police business and I can’t share it with you unless you accept its confidentiality,” he said, deliberately ponderous.

She thought, nodded, said, “OK. So let’s hear it.”

“First, all that stuff about Ainstable-the tropical fish and the Greek holiday-is true. As is the story about where the bazouki came from. Plus there’s a witness who might have seen a car’s headlights just before the motorbike crash. And there could have been a car on the humpback bridge in front of where the AA van was parked.”

“Oh, shit. So this lunatic really did kill them!” exclaimed Rye, horrified.