Dialogues of the Dead

“Aye,” he said. “Didn’t want to be a baker like me dad and end up with flour in my hair. So I opted for the Law. Mind you, I had to toss a coin to work out which side!”

Penn said, “Lucky us. Well, I didn’t set out to be part of the production line for a big tits and funny hats telly series.”

“Hold on, you hit Ripley with a cake for more or less saying that’s what you were.”

“It’s one thing for me to say it, another for a nineteen-year-old dolly bird,” said Penn.

“Fair enough. But it makes no odds, does it? I mean, you know one day you’re going to amaze the world by producing this great tome about yon Kraut fellow you mentioned. Heinz, was it? Any relation to the fifty-seven varieties?”

“Keep it up, Andy. You’ve got the face for it. Heine.”

“Aye, him. Ripley mentioned him in that article that pissed you off. I’ve got it here, as it happens.”

He pulled the fax out of his pocket.

“Writes well …sorry, wrote well, the lass,” he said with the air of one who’d spent several hours in stylistic analysis rather than thirty seconds in a cursory glance in the car as Bowler had driven him to the pub. “Yes, here it is. You’re right. Heine not Heinz. She seemed to reckon you had as much chance of finishing your Great Work as England did of winning the next World Cup. Was it that maybe that got her the cream shampoo, not the cracks about your novels? Made you wonder if she might be right. And she was writing how long ago? Five years? Close to writing The End, are you, Charley?”

“Close enough,” said Penn. “Five years ago, yeah, maybe I had doubts. But not now, Andy. Not now.”

He caught and held the Fat Man’s questioning gaze and it was Dalziel who broke off contact first.

Bowler had returned unnoticed at some point and the two men now looked down at their fresh drinks as if they were a manifestation of divine grace and raised the pint-pots with balletic synchrony.

“Let’s forget Ripley,” said Dalziel. “How’d you feel about Councillor Steel, Charley?”

“Stuffer? Anyone who stopped his breath was doing the environment a favour,” said Penn.

“That’s a bit strong. Jesus, what’s this?”

Dalziel had turned his attention to his Scotch.

“They didn’t have any Highland Park, sir,” explained Bowler. “It’s Glen something …”

“Glenfiddich. I know it’s Glenfiddich, that’s how I know it’s not Highland Park.”

“Yes, sir. The barman said you’d probably not notice the difference,” said Bowler, eager to divert the Fat Man’s anger.

“Did he now?” said Dalziel, scowling barwards. “Standards, eh, Charley? Man like that ’ud not get employed over the border. So you didn’t care for the councillor?”

“He was a man for causes, was Cyril, mainly saving public money.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Dalziel. “He thought owt spent on the police was a waste of cash. Cars, for instance. ‘Get the buggers back on the beat. Shoe leather comes cheaper than petrol and at least the public have got someone who can tell them the time.’”

“That sounds like Cyril. The Arts too. Library spending. The theatre subsidy. And the few bob they give my literature group, you’d have thought that was enough to cancel the Third World debt.”

“So you had a motive, then?”

“Well spotted, Sherlock. Aye, you and me both, Andy. A motive to kick him up the arse, but not to kill the silly old bugger.”

“Well, let’s not speak ill of the dead, eh?” said Dalziel, a little late in Hat’s eye. “One thing you had to say about him, he practised what he preached. He never wasted any of his own cash on daft things like buying a round of drinks or paying for his own grub. But his heart was in the right place.”

“It is now,” said Penn. “I liked the subtle way you moved from Ripley to Stuffer. You reckon there’s a connection between their deaths?”

Dalziel downed the offending whisky with no sign of distaste and said, “Only connection I’m looking at at the moment seems to be you, Charley.”

Penn grinned and said, “The old techniques are still best, eh? When you’ve not got the faintest idea which way to go, prod every bugger with your stick, then follow the one who runs off quickest.”

“We could have made a cop of you, Charley, if we’d got a hold of you afore you started ripping bodices. Seriously, but, and just for the record, we’ve got a nice statement from you about the preview yesterday, but I don’t think anyone ever asked you where you were and what you were doing the night Ripley got killed.”

“No reason why anyone should have asked, was there?”

“Not then.”

“And now?”

Dalziel waved the fax of Ripley’s article.

“Scraping the barrel, Charley. But you know what Mr. Trimble’s like. Comes from the southwest, and they live off barrel scrapings down there. So …?”

“Tell you what, Andy,” said Penn. “I’ll go off now and have a long think, and if I can remember anything about that night, I’ll scribble it down on a bit of paper and let you have it.”

“Nay, don’t rush off for me,” said Dalziel. “Stay still, young Bowler here ’ull buy you another. In fact, I’m thinking of having a spot of lunch here. They do a lovely sticky toffee pudding. My treat.”