Dialogues of the Dead

“Nay, lad. First thing you do with a gift horse is kick it in the teeth,” said Dalziel. “Four possibilities. Natural causes, accident, suicide, murder. Post mortem report will give us a line mebbe, but at the moment what we’ve got is a guy with a heart condition looking like he died peaceably by his own fireside. God send us all such a nice exit.”

This pious sentiment was offered with the unctuous smile of a TV evangelist looking forward to getting out of the studio back to his hotel bedroom where a trinity of booted ladies stood ready to mortify his sinful flesh.

“Look, sir, I know we’re under pressure with this Wordman business …”

“Wordman? What the hell has this got to do with the Wordman?” demanded Dalziel, moving from unction to abrasion with no perceptible interval. “That’s why I’m sitting on the Stuffer Dialogue. Once that gets out, they’ll all be like you. Every little old lady falling downstairs will have been shoved by the sodding Wordman!”

This was so manifestly unjust that Pascoe untypically allowed himself to be provoked.

“Well, I think you’re making a big mistake there, sir. OK, there’s nothing to suggest Sam’s death has anything to do with the Wordman, but if there is another Wordman killing, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Nay, lad, that’s why I keep clever sods like you, to do my explaining.”

“Then perhaps you should listen when I say that Roote’s not crying murder without a reason.”

“Double bluff, you mean? Because he did it? Nay, I’ll give you he may be feeling guilty, but there’s all kinds of guilt. What if him and Johnson had got a thing going …”

“A thing?”

“Aye. A thing. Buggering around with each other. I were trying to save your blushes. That Sunday they go to the flat for a quick bang then have a tiff. Roote flounces out. Johnson thinks he’ll be back any minute and settles down with his book and a coffee, then this dicky ticker you told me about reacts to all the excitement of the row and whatever else they’d been getting up to, and he snuffs it.”

The preliminary medical examination hadn’t got any further than suggesting heart failure as the cause of death. The examiner reckoned that Johnson had been dead at least two days which took them back to Sunday when Roote was the last person to admit to seeing him alive. The full post mortem examination would take place the following morning. Roote’s prints were on the glass by the other armchair but not on the coffee mug or whisky bottle which had been sent to the police lab for further examination and analysis.

“Meanwhile Roote’s really taken the huff,” continued Dalziel. “He doesn’t go back, reckoning that Johnson will come running after him some time in the next couple of days. When he doesn’t, Roote starts to get worried, and naturally when he sees him dead, he doesn’t want to blame himself so he cries murder. What do you think?”

I think, thought Pascoe, you’re feeling the pressure, Andy, and you’d kill someone if it meant not having another murder on your patch.

“I think if there was much more assumption in what you’re saying, they’d make this a feast day,” he said forcefully. “For a start, Sam’s heart problem wasn’t life-threatening. And what makes you think either of them’s gay?”

“Well, blind man on a galloping horse can see there’s summat very odd about Roote. Bit of a swordsman back in yon college, by all accounts, but it didn’t stop him getting tangled up with that lecturer who died, the one who topped himself. Funny, now I think back, weren’t he called Sam too? Which brings us to this Johnson, I only met him the once at yon preview, but he’s another of your arty-farty intellectuals, isn’t he?”

“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Pascoe. “Is that the full menu, then? Big slice of guesswork topped up with prejudice?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that, Pete,” said Dalziel. “I mean, I’m no lover of Franny Roote, but it seems to me you can’t look at the guy without wanting to blame him for everything in sight. That’s what I call prejudice.”

Feeling he had been set up, Pascoe said stubbornly, “All right, I’ve got no evidence that Roote’s directly involved in this. But one thing I know for certain, Roote’s not crying murder because he feels guilty. That bastard never felt guilty about anything in his life!”

“First time for everything, lad,” said Dalziel genially. “I might start putting Ribena in my whisky. Who the hell’s that?”

The phone had rung. He picked it up and bellowed, “What?”

As he listened, he looked increasing less genial.

“Fucking champion,” he said banging the receiver down. “They’ve traced Johnson’s next of kin.”