Dialogues of the Dead

Pottle examined it, turned it round, shrugged and said, “I’d need to know much more about its context to even hazard a guess.”

Pascoe said, “There was a wound on Councillor Steel’s head. It may be, and certainly we can find no other candidate, the necessary mark referred to in the Dialogue. When the blood was washed away, these are the marks left by the burin. They could of course be accidental, but their resemblance to letters, a P certainly, and a badly formed M perhaps. The squiggle between could be simply an incidental ripping of the skin or it may be another less well-defined but nonetheless deliberate mark.”

Dalziel looked sceptical but his left hand was scratching his stubble pate as if impelled by some irresistible sympathy.

Urquhart suddenly snickered a laugh.

“Share the joke, sunshine?” suggested Dalziel.

“The councillor was called Cyril, wasn’t he?” said the linguist. “In the Russian Cyrillic alphabet, what looks like our P is in fact an R, while that thing that you called a badly formed M could be a Cyrillic P. And if the scratch in between is just a shorthand I which is rather a complex letter in Russian and not easy to do in a hurry on a head with an engraving tool, this could simply be RIP in the Cyrillic alphabet. Gerrit?”

Dalziel shook his head as if to clear it of the aftereffects of long slumber and rose slowly to his feet.

“Gorrit,” he said in a mild, long-suffering voice. “Right joker, this Wordman, ain’t he? What’s it they say? Laugh and the world laughs with you. Thanks, gents. That’s definitely it. Sergeant Wield will show you out.”

Pascoe, clearly feeling that this expression of appreciation fell some way short of warm, said, “It’s been really useful. Many thanks for giving us your time this morning. We’ll look forward to hearing from you again as soon as you’ve had time for mature reflection, won’t we, sir?”

“Can’t wait,” said Dalziel. “And Sergeant Wield, be sure to arrest Dr. Urquhart if he starts smoking that stuff afore he leaves the building.”

The linguist, who had once more taken his leather pouch from his pocket, paused in the doorway, smiled at Dalziel and said, “Away play wi’ yersel’, Hamish.”

It wasn’t often his underlings had the pleasure of seeing their Great Master nonplussed but for a moment after the door closed behind Pottle, Urquhart and Wield, this was an experience Pascoe and Bowler enjoyed.

Then he turned his gaze on them and they both smoothed away all signs of anything but alert intelligence from their faces.

“So, Peter, you happy now?” demanded Dalziel.

“I think it was a very useful meeting, sir, and with luck we’ll get a great deal more help from the pair of them.”

“You reckon? And mebbe I’ll join the Women’s Institute. Jesus, you’d think on the Sabbath, we could get just a little bit of real help in taking things forward. Owt ’ud do. Just a name with enough justification for me to go and kick shit out of it.”

“There’s always Roote.”

“Still whistling that tune, Pete? Thought your dog here had sniffed him out and found nowt.”

First Wield, now the Fat Man. Not forgetting, of course, Roote himself. Did the whole world know about his so-called secret surveillance? wondered Hat.

“And there weren’t owt in his statement nor anyone else’s to put him in the frame for the councillor, were there?”

“He’s a clever fellow,” said Pascoe.

“Ah, I see. That means the cleaner he looks, the guiltier he obviously is, does it? Tell you what, minute you see him walking on water with an angelic choir singing ‘Jerusalem,’ you pull your wellies on and put him under arrest. Bowler, how about you? Are you good for owt more than kissing strange men in public lavatories?”

It wasn’t a very inviting invitation, but Hat guessed it was the only one he was likely to get.

He said, “I checked out one or two people, and something came up, probably nothing …”

“You’d best not be wasting my time with it if it’s probably nothing, lad,” growled Dalziel.

“No, sir. It’s this writer fellow, Charley Penn. He was at the preview, and it’s reported that he had a bit of a set-to with Councillor Steel, so that’s why I ran him through the computer. And it turns out he has a record.”

“For writing crap?” said Dalziel.

“No, sir. For assault. Five years ago he got bound over in Leeds for assaulting a journalist.”

“Oh aye? Should have given him the George Cross. Pete, you know owt about this bugger’s homicidal tendencies?”

“Yes, sir,” said Pascoe almost apologetically, not wanting to sound like he was putting Hat down. “I mean, I’ve heard a story, though I wasn’t sure how apocryphal it was. Version I heard, Penn got pissed off with a review and crowned said journalist with a slice of gateau, so not exactly a deadly weapon.”

“Way my missus baked, it was,” said Dalziel. “That it then, Bowler? You reckon we should pull Penn in and wire his bollocks to a table lamp just because he shampooed some miserable reporter with a cream cake?”

“No, sir. Not exactly …what I mean is, I thought he might be worth a chat …”