Dialogues of the Dead

“I was having a coffee, sir.” It occurred to Hat that he’d no idea at what point Pascoe had first observed him and he went on, “In fact, I’d been having a coffee with Miss Pomona. There was something I wanted to ask her and she suggested we met outside the library.”

“Oh?” said Pascoe, smiling. “Discretion in this case being the better part of amour, eh?”

Hat’s French was up to this and he shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir. Strictly business.”

“In that case, presumably it’s my business too. So do tell.”

For a second Hat thought of coming clean about George Headingley, but off-loading his problem felt pretty naff and certainly wasn’t going to win him any Brownie points, so instead he told the DI about his unease in re Charley Penn.

“You seem to have it in for Charley,” said Pascoe. “First Jax Ripley, now Cyril Steel. Nothing personal, I hope?”

“No, sir. Just that he keeps popping up.” Then, batting the ball firmly back he added, “Like Roote.”

Pascoe glanced at him sharply but detected nothing but proper subordinate deference.

Oh you do remind me of me, you cocky sod, he thought.

The rest of the journey passed in silence.

The plate-glass windows of the Ivory Tower which housed the English Department were flashing what might have been an SOS as the scudding clouds intermittently masked the autumn sun. They found Roote in the foyer talking to a maintenance man who was protesting that he couldn’t open up a member of staff’s room just because a student asked him.

“Now I’m asking,” said Pascoe, showing his warrant card.

Ascent was via a paternoster lift, so called in Pascoe’s opinion because even a practising atheist (and especially a practising atheist with claustrophobic tendencies) was ill-advised to use such a contraption without resort to prayer.

The maintenance man stepped in and was translated. The next platform rose and Pascoe motioned Bowler in while he summoned up all his aplomb. Two more platforms passed and there was still no sign that his aplomb had heard the summons. He took a deep breath, felt a gentle pressure on his elbow, then he and Franny Roote stepped forward in perfect unison. The pressure vanished instantly. He glanced sharply at the young man in search of signs of amusement or, worse, sympathy. But Roote’s eyes were blank, his expression introspective, and Pascoe began to wonder if he’d imagined the helping hand. Bowler’s legs suddenly came into view.

“Here we are,” said Roote, and Pascoe, determined not to be assisted again, exited with an unnecessarily athletic leap.

It took only a few seconds to establish that Johnson’s room was empty and, from the evidence of a series of notes pushed under the door in which students recorded their vain attempts to keep appointments, had been empty since the weekend.

“You say you’ve been round to his flat?” said Pascoe.

“Yes,” said Roote. “I rang the bell. No reply. And no reply on the phone, either. His answering machine’s not on. He always left his answering machine on when he went out.”

“Always?” said Hat. “That’s a bit precise.”

“In my experience,” emended Roote, frowning.

“So let’s go and see,” said Pascoe.

Back at the paternoster, he hurled himself on to the first platform. That way at least he was able to make his flustered exit unobserved.

Outside a problem arose because there was no way they could get three into Bowler’s MG without breaking the law.

Roote said, “I’ll go in my own car. Care to join me, Mr. Pascoe? Could be more comfortable.”

Pascoe hesitated then said, “Why not?”

The car turned out to be a Cortina of some antiquity. But it was certainly easier to get into than the MG and the engine sounded sweet enough.

“Thought you said it was an old banger?” said Pascoe.

Roote glanced at him and smiled his secret smile.

“I had the engine tuned,” he said.

He drove with the exaggerated care of a man undergoing a driving test. Pascoe could almost feel Bowler’s exasperation as he trailed behind them. But he also felt that there was more than just mockery in Roote’s mode of driving. He was going slow because he was reluctant to arrive.

The flat was on the top floor of a converted townhouse in a Victorian terrace which had gone down and was now on its way up again. They gained entry by ringing all the bells till a man responded. Pascoe identified himself and they went in. There was no lift and the stairs were steep enough to make him almost nostalgic for the paternoster. At Johnson’s door, he rang the bell and could hear it echoing inside. Then he tried knocking, registering that the door was pretty solid and didn’t feel like it would yield easily to even a young man’s shoulder.