Dialogues of the Dead

“Fine. Healthy outdoor life. Lots of time to think. Talking of thinking, I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to try out on you. Can we fix a time?”

“Sure. None like the present. Why don’t we head back to my place when we’re done drinking? We can pick up a couple of sandwiches en route. What’s up, Charley? Been propositioned in the loo?”

Penn had resumed his seat, shaking his head sadly.

“No such luck. Did you know there’s a machine in there that will sell you crispy-bacon-flavoured condoms?”

“The modern pub has to cater for all tastes,” said Johnson.

“Aye, and this one must specialize in pork. How’re your consciences? I think one of us may be about to be arrested.”

Dalziel and Bowler had just entered the bar and were standing looking towards their table. The Fat Man spoke to the young DC, then began making his way across the crowded room. It looked as if a man of his bulk would have to plough his way through the tables and chairs and drinkers, but somehow people melted aside at his approach and he slipped between the furniture as easily as a champion skier negotiating a beginner’s slalom course.

“Well, here we are,” he said genially. “Mr. Penn, and Dr. Johnson, and Mr. Roote. No wonder the churches are empty when the leading lights of literature and learning prefer a pub chair to a pew.”

“Morning, Andy,” said Penn. “I’d offer you a drink but I see your minder’s well trained.”

Bowler was coming from the bar, bearing a pint of bitter and a bottle of lager.

“Aye, he’s an off-comer, but you can do a lot with ’em if you catch ’em young.”

“So, Superintendent,” said Johnson. “Are you here professionally?”

“Any reason I should be?”

“I thought perhaps something to do with that sad business yesterday …”

“Poor Cyril, you mean? Aye, like you say, a sad business. These muggers, they don’t care how far they go these days, specially when they’re on drugs.”

“That’s what you think it was?” said Johnson. “A mugging that went wrong?”

“What else?” said Dalziel, his gaze running over them like a shaft of sunlight from a stormy sky. “Thanks, lad.”

He took his pint from Bowler and reduced it by a third.

“Can’t ask you to sit down, Andy. Bit full in here today,” said Penn.

“So I see. Pity, ’cos I’d have liked a crack with you, Charley.”

Quick on his cue, Johnson said, “Have our chairs, Superintendent. We’re leaving.”

“Nay, don’t rush off on my account.”

“No, we’ve got a tutorial arranged, and the atmosphere in here is hardly conducive to rational dialogue.”

“Tutorial? Oh aye. You’re Mr. Roote’s dominie, I hear.”

For the first time he turned his gaze full on Franny Roote who returned it equably.

“An old-fashioned word,” laughed Johnson.

“Best kind for old-fashioned things,” said Dalziel.

“Like study, education, literature, you mean?” said Johnson.

“Aye, them too. But I was thinking more of murder, assault, betrayal of friends, that sort of thing.”

Roote stood up so suddenly, the table rocked and Penn had to grab his glass.

“Careful, Fran,” he said. “You nearly had it over.”

“Oh, Mr. Roote’s always been very free and easy with other people’s booze,” said Dalziel. “He may have paid his debt to society, but he still owes me a bottle of Scotch.”

“A debt I look forward to repaying, Superintendent,” said Roote, back in control. “Ready, Sam?” He set off towards the door.

Johnson looked at Dalziel for a moment then said quietly, “Another old-fashioned thing is called harassment, Superintendent. I suggest you refresh your memory about the law in that area. See you, Charley.”

He followed Roote out of the pub.

Dalziel finished his pint, handed the glass to Bowler and sat down.

“Same again, sir?” said Hat.

“Or you could fetch me a Babycham wi’ a cherry in it,” said Dalziel.

Bowler headed back to the bar and Charley Penn said, “Well, that were like a Japanese porno movie, entertaining even though I didn’t understand a word of it.”

“No? Thought you bloody scribblers took notes on everything. Don’t you recall a few years back when there was all that bother at the old teachers’ training college?”

“Vaguely. Principal got knocked off, didn’t she?”

“Aye, and some others. Well, yon lad Roote were the one mainly responsible.”

“Was he, by God?”

Penn began to laugh.

“What?”

“I was just advising him that the best way to sell books isn’t to write well but to get yourself headlined for something else first.”

“Is that right? Ever the diplomat, eh, Charley? He got literary ambitions, has he?”

“Don’t know. We were just talking about this short story competition which me and Sam Johnson and your Ellie Pascoe have been dragooned in to judge and it seems young Roote may have entered.”

Bowler, who’d returned with a second pint (having discovered as many before that being Andy Dalziel’s bheesty might be expensive but it didn’t half get you good service), caught the end of this and opened his mouth excitedly, but on receiving a glance like a blow from the Fat Man changed his mind about letting words out and instead thrust the neck of his bottle of lager in.