Dialogues of the Dead

He encountered the quiet reflective gaze of Dick Dee who gave him a friendly nod which he returned. OK, so he felt jealous of the guy, but no need to give him the satisfaction of knowing he felt jealous. Lots of others he recognized. He was good at faces and he’d made it his business on arrival in his new patch not only to study the mug-shot albums but also to get acquainted with the features of anyone else likely to prove important in an ambitious young copper’s life. Journalists, for instance …there was Sammy Ruddlesdin, the Gazette reporter, lean and cadaverous and clearly bored out of his skull, into which from time to time he inserted a cigarette until memory of the prohibitive age into which he’d survived made him take it out again. …At least his suffering seemed less than that of his editor, Mary Agnew, who was talking with head averted to a bald man shovelling canapés into his mouth from a piled-up plate like he’d just escaped from a health farm. He reached for a name …found it …Councillor Steel a.k.a. Stuffer …a man to avoid, by all accounts, not only because of his lethal breath but because it was frequently expended badmouthing the police and all other alleged abusers of the public purse. Still, the way he was gobbling that grub, he wouldn’t be long for this world!

Rye had disappeared now. Perhaps she’d gone to replenish her tray. Would need to if there were many appetites like Stuffer’s. Or perhaps she was secretly observing him to see if he took an intelligent interest in the exhibits. He certainly felt observed. He turned his head suddenly and caught the source of the feeling. Not that it was hard to catch, as the man viewing him from behind what looked like a huge wooden phallus didn’t turn away guiltily but gave him a friendly nod.

It was Franny Roote. Whose discreet surveillance he’d been boasting about to the DCI only yesterday.

But if he’d been so sodding discreet, how come Roote was smiling at him like an old buddy and heading his way?

“Hello,” he said. “DC Bowler, isn’t it? Are you into art?”

“Not really,” said Bowler, seriously hassled and trying for sang-froid. “You?”

“As an extension of the word, perhaps. Words are my thing, but sometimes the word is a seed which needs to flower into something non-verbal. It’s a circular thing, really. Pictures came first, of course. Nice cave paintings, a lot of them done, recent research suggests, while the artist was high on grass or whatever they used in prehistoric times. It’s easy to see how their pictures might have some sort of religious significance. Also they could have been of practical use, such as saying, If you go out of the cave and turn left down the valley you’ll find a nice herd of antelope for supper. But when it came to saying, Run like hell, boys. Here comes a Tyrannosaurus, pictures left something to be desired. So language, to start with, was no doubt born out of necessity. Yet soon it must have flowered into song, into poetry, into narrative, into the exchange of ideas, and out of these developed new and subtler forms of art, which in turn …well, you take my point, I’m sure. It’s a circle, or perhaps a wheel as it makes forward progress as it turns, and we are all bound upon it at some point or other, though for some it is a Ferris wheel, and for others it is a wheel of fire.”

He paused and looked at Bowler as if he’d just said something like, “Is it still raining outside?”

Bowler, slightly punch-drunk, said, “Have we met? I don’t remember you …”

“No, you’re right. In fact we haven’t actually met, though I think we may have come close to an encounter recently. Roote. Francis Roote. Franny to my friends.”

“So how do you know me, Mr. Roote?”

“I’m not really sure. A mutual friend could have pointed you out, I suppose. Sergeant Wield, perhaps. Or Mr. Pascoe. There he is now.”

He gave a little wave. Bowler followed its direction and found himself looking straight into DCI Pascoe’s accusing eyes. He couldn’t blame him for not looking happy. To come to something like this and find the guy you suspected was stalking you chatting merrily to the DC instructed to check him out with maximum discretion was enough to give anyone a touch of the Dalziels.

Roote said, “Excuse me. Time to get down to business, I think. Jude Illingworth the engraver’s here demonstrating her techniques and I don’t want to miss that.”

He moved away towards an alcove in which Bowler could see a tall woman with no hair talking to a knot of people. At the same time out of the corner of his eye he saw Pascoe heading in his direction and prepared to be defensive.

“Sir,” he said pre-emptively as the DCI arrived, “I’ve no idea what he’s doing here. Shall I check the invite list? Or maybe he came with a friend …”

“Relax,” said Pascoe. “I’ve a good idea how he got in. What I’d like to know though is how come you’re so friendly with him?”