Dialogues of the Dead

He called down to the elderly man who had let them in and was lurking curiously a little way down the stairway, and asked who the flat agents were. It was a well-known firm with their office only a mile or so away. He dialled the number on his mobile, got a girl who seemed disinclined to be helpful, advised her then to call a carpenter and a locksmith to make good the damage that usually resulted from opening a door with a sledgehammer and rapidly found himself talking to the firm’s general manager who assured him he’d be there within ten minutes.

He made it in five.

Pascoe took the key from him and turned it in the lock.

He opened the door a fraction, sniffed the air, and closed it again.

“I’m going to go in now,” he said. “Bowler, you make sure nobody else comes in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bowler.

He opened the door just enough to let his slim frame slip through, then closed it behind him.

There was death here, he’d known that as soon as he first opened the door. The blast of warm air that hit him carried its odour, not yet unbearably pungent but still unmistakable to anyone who’d had cause to be around corpses as often as Peter Pascoe.

If it hadn’t been for this, he might have thought Sam Johnson was simply asleep. He sat in an old wing chair, his feet stretched out on to the fender of a fireplace tiled in the high Victorian style, like a scholar made drowsy by draughts from the whisky bottle standing by his arm and the lulling rhythms of the volume which lay open on his lap.

Pascoe paused to take in the room. First impressions were important. The old grate had been replaced by a modern gas fire which was the source of the heat. On the mantelshelf an ormolu clock had stopped at twelve. Beside the clock lay what for an unpleasant moment Pascoe thought was a turd but on closer examination proved to be some blocks of melted chocolate. Alongside the whisky bottle and empty glass on the low table next to the chair stood a cafetière and a coffee mug. On the other side of the fireplace was a small sofa with a broken leg “repaired” by a hefty tome and another low table with an empty tumbler on it.

He turned his attention to the body and confirmed by touch what he knew already.

There was nothing to show how Johnson had died. Perhaps after all it would turn out to be a simple heart attack.

He looked at the open book without touching it.

It was open at a poem called “Dream-Pedlary.” He read the first verse.

If there were dreams to sell
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life’s fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rang the bell,
What would you buy?

Dreams to sell. His eyes prickled. Detectives don’t cry, he told himself. They do their jobs.

He retreated to the door as carefully as he’d advanced. There was a lot of noise outside on the landing, Roote’s voice raised angrily, Bowler’s at first reassuring, then stern. Better to get the machine rolling before he went out there to restore order. He took out his mobile and dialled.

He was halfway through issuing his precise instructions when the voices outside suddenly reached a climax of screaming and the door burst open, catching him in the back and throwing him forward into the room.

“Sam! Sam!” screamed Franny Roote. “Oh, Jesus. Sam!”

He rushed forward and would have flung himself on top of the corpse if Pascoe hadn’t grappled one of his legs, then Hat Bowler arrived in a flying tackle which ended with all three sprawling on the carpet in a heaving, swearing tangle of bodies.

It took another couple of minutes for the two of them to drag the distraught man out of the room, but once the door was closed, all strength of muscle and emotion seemed to drain out of Roote and he slid down the wall and sat there with his head bowed between his legs, still as an imp carved on a cathedral tower.

“Sorry about that, sir,” whispered Bowler to Pascoe. “He just exploded. And he’s a damn sight stronger than he looks.”

“I know it,” said Pascoe.

He stared unblinkingly at Roote’s bowed head.

The man’s eyes were invisible; if open they could only see the landing floor.

So why do I feel the bastard’s watching me? thought Pascoe.

23

From the start it was Franny Roote who cried murder. Which, as Dalziel pointed out, was odd, as at the moment if they wanted a suspect, he was the only one on offer.

“Then we’d be silly not to take him,” said Pascoe, too eagerly.