Dialogues of the Dead

He took silence for an answer and rang back to the station to get a scene-of-crime team organized, adding, sotto voce, “And make sure the DCI knows, will you? I don’t think Mr. Headingley’s up to it this morning.”

He’d managed to persuade the DI that an armchair in a murder victim’s flat was not the cleverest place to let a senior officer find you in and got him outside into the damp morning air before Peter Pascoe appeared.

“George, you OK?” he asked.

“Yeah. Well, no, not really. Touch of flu coming on. Could hardly get out of bed this morning,” said Headingley in a shaky voice.

“Then if I were you I’d go and get back into it,” said Pascoe crisply.

“No, I’ll be OK. Got to get back inside and take a look round while the trail’s still hot …”

“George, you know no one’s going inside there till everything’s been done that needs to be done. Go home. That’s an order.”

And to take the sting out of pulling rank on an old colleague who’d been a DI ever since Pascoe first arrived in the Mid-Yorkshire force as a DC, Pascoe said in a low voice as he ushered Headingley to his car, “George, with days to do, you don’t want this, do you? I mean, who knows, it could roll on forever. Grab the money and run for the sun, eh? And don’t worry, I’ll see you get credit for what you’ve done so far. Love to Beryl.”

He watched the DI’s car drive slowly away then with a shake of the head he turned back to the apartment building.

“Right,” he said to Bowler. “Better bring me up to speed on this.”

“Yes, sir. Hope you didn’t mind me asking for you to be brought in. The DI really didn’t look well …”

“No, you were quite right,” said Pascoe. “You don’t look too clever yourself. Hope that there isn’t something going around.”

“No, sir, I’m fine. Just a bit of a shock seeing Jax …Miss Ripley …I knew her a bit, you see …”

“Yes,” said Pascoe regarding him thoughtfully. “See her show last night, did you?”

“Yes. Bit of a turn up, I thought. You saw it, did you, sir?”

“No, as a matter of fact.”

But he’d heard about it when Dalziel had rung him up, uttering dreadful threats about what he was going to do to Ripley and Bowler, together and separately, when he got his hands on them.

Pascoe had calmed him down, pointing out that it wasn’t good policy to publicly assault a TV personality, and as for Bowler, if it could be proved he’d passed on the information, he’d be dealt with by a Board of Enquiry which at the very least would get him out of the Fat Man’s thinning hair.

The thought occurred to the DCI that maybe Dalziel had ignored his advice and that the DC’s pallor and maybe even the woman’s death were down to his direct intervention.

But when the scene-of-crime team had finished their preliminary examinations and he finally got to look at the body, he crossed the Fat Man off his list of suspects. The stiletto wasn’t his weapon. He’d have torn her head off.

Such frivolous thoughts were his usual technique for distracting himself from the close encounters with the dead kind which were his most unfavourite occupational hazard. A greater distraction was imminent. He heard it first like a distant mighty rushing wind entering the building and he checked his head for cloven tongues of fire in the long mirror above the bed. But of course it was only the most unholy spirit of Andrew Dalziel that burst into the room.

“Fuck me,” he said, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed. “Fuck me rigid. Last night I wished her dead, I really did. You should never wish things, lad, less’n you’re sure you can thole it if they come true. How long?”

“Eight to ten hours estimate from body temp and the degree of cyanosis, but we’ll need to wait …”

“… for the PM. Aye, I know. Always the sodding same, these medics. More scared of commitment than a randy Iti. That’s a handy mirror.”

Long used to such sudden changes of direction, Pascoe studied the reflection in the long wall glass above the bed-head. Ripley looked very peaceful. The silk robe she was wearing had been parted to permit the medical examiner to check the fatal wound but Pascoe had drawn the garment together again to cover her torso.

“For sex, you mean?” he said.

“Nay, wash tha mind out with carbolic! You’ve been reading them mucky books again. Has she been moved?”

“Only as much as was necessary for the ME to do his job. I said you’d want to see her in situ.”

“Oh aye? That one of them Japanese beds? This one’s old-fashioned Yorkshire by the look of it. Nice strong bed-end to give a man something to push against. No, lad, take a look at her in the mirror. What do you see?”

Pascoe looked.

“Roots?” he hazarded. “She dyed her hair blonde?”

“Yes,” said the Fat Man impatiently. “But we’d have spotted that on the slab, wouldn’t we? No, I mean the other end.”