Dialogues of the Dead

John Wingate was there, of course, plus his cameraman filming from a discreet distance. A similar duality was visible in the Gazette presence, with Mary Agnew in mourning black, very much the grieving friend and colleague, while Sammy Ruddlesdin made sure that local decorum didn’t prevent the Gazette photographer from sharing the photo-opportunities so ruthlessly seized by the unconscienced nationals whose hyenas were there in packs. Percy Follows and Dick Dee were there from the library. Hat had rung Rye to check if she was going but been told fairly brusquely that (a) she hardly knew the woman and (b) someone had to stay and do the work. Unmissable was Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor-Managers. Hat wondered what his relationship with the dead woman had been. Perhaps he simply did not feel able to deprive such a theatrical scene of his strikingly melancholy presence, though there were some who felt that a calf-length purple cloak was more ham than Hamlet. He had overtaken Follows up the aisle and managed to get the last seat in the second row of pews, turning to smile triumphantly at his rival.

Franny Roote was there too. Why he had come might be interesting to find out, but in his inevitable black garb, standing to one side, quietly observing the others, he looked like death’s footman waiting for a signal to come forward and be of service. He made a strong contrast with Charley Penn, who had been moved by the occasion to change his usual cracked leather jerkin and balding corduroys for a wide-lapelled jacket and slightly flared trousers in a pale almost luminous grey with a faint pink pin-stripe, so that he looked better suited for a seventies wedding than a contemporary funeral. Dalziel, on the other hand, was wearing a jacket so black it made the undertaker’s look like Day-Glo. Pascoe, by his side, was elegantly slim in a suit of Italian cut which Hat guessed had been chosen by his wife, not because he doubted Pascoe’s taste but because he suspected, left to his own device, the DCI would have opted for something more conservative. To look smart and have the social graces was a definite plus in the upper reaches of today’s police force, but to look expensively flash still raised eyebrows. In reverse of civvy practice, the wise cop with the gold Rolex always claimed it was a Hong Kong clone.

The day was still and the mourners were so quiet despite their number that the words and sounds coming from the graveside carried quite clearly even to those like Hat at some distance from the dull centre of these exequies.

… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …

… the throb of a woman sobbing …

… and that most final of sounds, the slat of earth on the coffin lid …

Then it was over, and the crowd, unified for a space in the presence of the great mystery of death, returned with an almost audible sigh of relief to the even greater mystery of life and decoalesced rapidly into the small groups and diurnal concerns by which we avoid contemplating either.

Hat watched the dispersal from the porch. Some moved swiftly to their cars, guessing that a traffic jam awaited them half a mile down the narrow country road where it joined the arterial. Others strolled in the opposite direction towards the village centre. There were two pubs, The Baker’s Arms and The Bellman. Mrs. Ripley’s cottage was too small for large numbers and the family had booked a room at The Bellman for the funeral meats, which were by invitation only, a wise precaution, thought Hat, who had observed in the past the ravenous appetites of media men. As far as he knew, none of the police present had been invited either, though he doubted if this would inhibit Dalziel.

He saw the family party moving past now in company with the vicar, led by Mrs. Ripley, pale as moonlight, between a young man and woman who, Hat guessed, must be her son, a schoolteacher in Newcastle, and her other daughter who was a nurse in Washington, DC. From time to time he had opted for an interchange of information and anecdotes about families as a way of resisting Jax’s efforts to get him to be indiscreet about his work. He’d never slept with her despite her assurance on one occasion that she wanted him as a groin, not a grass, but it had been a close-run thing. Now he felt a huge pang of regret. He’d really liked her and he would never see her again.

Also, of course, with Andy Dalziel convinced he’d been spilling the inner secrets of CID in pillow talk, his self-denial hadn’t done anyone much good.

As the family group passed, the young woman glanced towards Hat, said something to her mother, slipped her arm free and came towards him.

She had just enough resemblance to her sister for Hat to be glad it was bright sunshine with lots of people around.

“Excuse me, you’re Detective Bowler, aren’t you?”

She probably still sounded very English in the States but her six years over there had laced her speech with a definite American edge.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Angie, Jax’s sister.”