Dialogues of the Dead Read online

  'That's when I made an excuse and left,' said Pascoe. 'Oh aye? Why was that?' said Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel. 'Fucking useless thing!' It was, Pascoe hoped, the VCR squeaking under the assault of his pistonlike finger that Dalziel was addressing, not himself. 'Because it was Samjohnson I'd just been playing squash with,' he said, rubbing his shoulder. 'It seemed like Roote was taking the piss and I felt like taking a swing, so I went straight back inside and caught Sam.' 'And?'

  ^ And Johnson had confirmed every word. It turned out the lecturer knew his student's background with out knowing the details. Pascoe's involvement in the case had come as a surprise to him but, once filled in, he'd cut right to the chase and said, 'If you think that Fran's got any ulterior motive in coming back here, forget it. Unless he's got so much influence he arranged for me to get a job here, it's all happenstance. I moved, he didn't fancy travelling for supervision and the job he had in Sheffield came to an end, so it made sense for him to make a change too. I'm glad he did. He's a really bright student.' Johnson had been out of the country during the long vacation and so missed the saga of Roote's apparent suicide attempt, and the young man clearly hadn't belly-ached to him about police harassment in general and Pascoe harassment in particular, which ought to have been a point in his favour. The lecturer concluded by saying, 'So I got him the gardening job, which is why he's out there in the garden, and he lives in town, which is why you see him around town. It's coincidence that makes the world go round, Peter. Ask Shakespeare.' 'This Johnson,' said Dalziel, 'how come you're so chummy you take showers together? He fag for you at Eton or summat?' Dalziel affected to believe that the academic world which had given Pascoe his degree occupied a single site somewhere in the south where Oxford and Cambridge and all the major public schools huddled together under one roof. In fact it wasn't Pascoe's but his wife's links with the academic and literary worlds which had brought Johnson into their lives. Part of Johnson's job brief at MYU was to help establish an embryonic creative writing course. His qualification was that he'd published a couple of slim volumes of poetry and helped run such a course at Sheffield. Charley Penn, who made occasional contributions to both German and English Department courses, had been miffed to find his own expression of interest ignored. He ran a local authority literary group in danger of being axed and clearly felt that the creative writing post at MYU would have been an acceptable palliative for the loss of his LEA honorarium. Colleagues belonging to that breed not uncommon in academia, the greater green-eyed pot-stirrer, had advised Johnson to watch his back as Penn made a bad enemy, at a physical as well as a verbal level. A few years earlier, according to university legend, a brash young female journalist had done a piss-taking review of the Perm oeuvre in Yorkshire Life, the county's glossiest mag. The piece had concluded, 'They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but if you have a sweet tooth and a strong stomach, the best implement to deal with our Mr Penn's frothy confections might be a pudding spoon.' The following day Perm, lunching liquidly in a Leeds restaurant, had spotted the journalist across a crowded dessert trolley. Selecting a large portion of strawberry gateau liberally coated with whipped cream, he had approached her table, said, 'This, madam, is a frothy confection,' and squashed the pudding on to her head. In court he had said, 'It wasn't personal. I did it not because of what she said about my books but because of her appalling style. English must be kept up,' before being fined fifty pounds and bound over to keep the peace. Sam Johnson had immediately sought out Perm and said, 'I believe you know more about Heine than anyone else in Yorkshire.' 'That wouldn't be hard. They say you know more about Beddoes than anyone in The Dog and Duck at closing time.' 'I know he went to Gottingen University to study medicine in 1824 and Heine was there studying law.' 'Oh aye? And Hitler and Wittgenstein were in the same class at school. So what?' 'So why don't we flaunt our knowledge in The Dog and Duck one night?' 'Well, it's quiz night tonight. You never know. It might come up.' Thus had armistice been signed before hostilities proper began. When talk finally turned to the writing course, Penn, after token haggling, accepted terms for making the occasional 'old pro' appearance, and went on to suggest that if Johnson was interested in a contribution from someone at the other end of the ladder, he might do worse than soon-to-be-published novelist Ellie Pascoe, an old acquaintance from her days on the university staff and a member of the threatened literary group. This version of that first encounter was cobbled together from the slightly different accounts Ellie received from both participants. She and Johnson had hit it off straightaway. When she

  21 invited him home for a meal, the conversation had naturally centred on matters literary, and Pascoe, feeling rather sidelined, had leapt into the breach when Johnson had casually mentioned his difficulty in finding a squash partner among his generally unathletic colleagues. His reward for this friendly gesture when Johnson finally left, late, in a taxi, had been for Elbe to say, 'This game of squash, Peter, you will be careful.' Indignantly Pascoe said, 'I'm not quite decrepit, you know.' 'I'm not talking about you. I meant, with Sam. He's got a heart problem.' 'As well as a drink problem? Jesus!' In the event it had turned out that Johnson suffered from a mild drug-controllable tachycardia, but Pascoe wasn't looking forward to describing to his wife the rapid and undignified conclusion of his game with someone he'd categorized as an alcoholic invalid. 'Mate of Ellie's, eh?' said Dalziel with a slight intake of breath and a sharp shake of the VCR which, with greater economy than a Special Branch file, consigned Johnson to the category of radical, subversive, Trotskyite troublemaker. 'Acquaintance,' said Pascoe. 'Do you want a hand with that, sir?' 'No. I reckon I can throw it out of the window myself. You're very quiet, mastermind. What do you reckon?' Sergeant Edgar Wield was standing before the deep sashwindow. Silhouetted against the golden autumn sunlight, his face deep shadowed, he had the grace and proportions to model for the statue of a Greek athlete, thought Pascoe. Then he moved forward and his features took on detail, and you remembered that if this were a statue, it was one whose face someone had taken a hammer to. 'I reckon you need to look at the whole picture,' he said. 'Way back when Roore were a student at Holm Coultram College before it became part of the university, he got sent down as an accessory to two murders, mainly on your evidence. From the dock he says he looks forward to the chance of meeting you somewhere quiet one day and carrying on your interrupted conversation. As the last rime you saw him alone he was trying to stove your head in with a rock, you take this as a threat. But we all get threatened at least once a week. It's part of the job.' Dalziel, studying the machine like a Sumo wrestler working out a new strategy, growled, 'Get a move on, Frankenstein, else I'll start to wish I hadn't plugged you in.' Undeterred, Wield proceeded at a measured pace. 'Model prisoner, Open University degree, Roote gets maximum remission, comes out, gets job as a hospital porter, starts writing an academic thesis, obeys all the rules. Then you get upset by them threats to Ellie and naturally Roote's one of the folk you need to take a closer look at. Only when you go to see him, you find he's slashed his wrists.' 'He knew I was coming,' said Pascoe. 'It was a set-up. No real danger to him. Just a perverted joke.' 'Maybe. Not the way it looked when it turned out Roote had absolutely nothing to do with the threats to Ellie,' said Wield. 'He recovers, and a few months later he moves here because (a) his supervisor has moved here and (b) he can get work here. You say you checked with the probation service?' 'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'All done by the book. They wanted to know if there was a problem.' 'What did you tell the buggers?' said Dalziel, who classed probation officers with Scottish midges, vegetarians and modern technology as Jobian tests of a virtuous man's patience. 'I said no, just routine.' 'Wise move,' approved Wield. 'See how it looks. Man serves his time, puts his life back together, gets harassed without cause by insensitive police officer, flips, tries to harm himself, recovers, gets back on track, finds work again, minds his own business, then this same officer starts accusing him of being some sort of stalker. It's you who comes out looking like either a neurotic head
case or a vengeful bastard. While Roote . .. just a guy who's paid his debt and wants nothing except to live a quiet life. I mean, he didn't even want the hassle of bringing a harassment case against you, or a wrongful dismissal case against the Sheffield hospital.' He moved from the window to the desk. 'Aye,' said Dalziel thoughtfully. 'That's the most worrying thing, him not wanting to kick up a fuss. Well, lad, it's up to you. But me, I know what I'd do.'

  ^ 'And what's that, sir?' enquired Pascoe. 'Break both his legs and run him out of town.' 'I think perhaps the other way round might be better,' said Pascoe judiciously. 'You reckon? Either way, you can stick this useless thing up his arse first.' He glowered at the VCR which, as if in response to that fear some gaze, clicked into life and a picture blossomed on the TV screen. 'There,' said the Fat Man triumphantly. 'Told you no lump of tin and wires could get the better of me.' Pascoe glanced at Wield who was quietly replacing the remote control unit on the desk, and grinned. An announcer was saying, 'And now Out and About, your regional magazine programme from BBC Mid-Yorkshire, pre sented byjax Ripley.' Titles over an aerial panorama of town and countryside accom panied by the first few bars of 'On Ilkia Moor Baht 'at' played by a brass band, all fading to the slight, almost childish figure of a young blonde with bright blue eyes and a wide mouth stretched in a smile through which white teeth gleamed like a scimitar blade. 'Hi,' she said. 'Lots of goodies tonight, but first, are we getting the policing we deserve, the policing we pay for? Here's how it looks from the dirty end of the stick.' A rapid montage of burgled houses and householders all expressing, some angrily, some tearfully, their sense of being abandoned by the police. Back to the blonde, who recited a list of statistics which she then precis'd: 'So four out of ten cases don't get looked at by CID in the first twenty-four hours, six out of ten cases get only one visit and the rest is silence, and eight out of ten cases remain permanently unsolved. In fact, as of last month there were more than two hundred unsolved current cases on Mid-Yorkshire CID's books. Inefficiency? Underfunding? Understaffing? Certainly we are told that the decision not to replace a senior CID officer who comes up to retirement shortly is causing much soul searching, or, to put it another way, a bloody great row. But when we invited MidYorkshire Constabulary to send someone along to discuss these matters, a spokesman said they were unable to comment at this time. Maybe that means they are all too busy dealing with the crime wave. I would like to think so. But we do have Councillor Cyril Steel, who has long been interested in police matters. Councillor Steel, I gather you feel we are not getting the service we pay for?' A bald-headed man with mad eyes opened his mouth to show brown and battlemented teeth, but before he could let fly his arrows of criticism, the screen went dark as Dalziel ripped the plug out of the wall socket. 'Too early in the day to put up with Stuffer,' he said with a shudder. 'We must be able to take honest criticism, sir,' said Pascoe solemnly. 'Even from Councillor Steel.' He was being deliberately provocative. Steel, once a Labour councillor but now an Independent after the Party ejected him in face of his increasingly violent attacks on the leadership, hurling charges which ranged from cronyism to corruption, was the selfappointed leader of a crusade against the misuse of public money. His targets included everything from the building of the Heritage, Arts and Library Centre to the provision of digestive biscuits at council committee meetings, so it was hardly surprising that he should have rushed forward to lend his weight to Jax Ripley's investigation into the way police resources were managed in MidYorkshire. 'Not his criticism that bothers me,' growled Dalziel. 'Have you ever got near him? Teeth you could grow moss on and breath like a vegan's fart. I can smell it through the telly. Only time Stuffer's not talking is when he's eating, and not always then. No one listens any more. No, it's Jax the bloody Ripper who bothers me. She's got last month's statistics, she knows about the decision not to replace George Headingley and, looking at the state of some of them burgled houses, she must have been round there with her little camera afore we were!' 'So you still reckon someone's talking?' said Pascoe. 'It's obvious. How many times in the last few months has she been one jump ahead of us? Past six months, to be precise. I checked back.' 'Six months? And you think that might be significant? Apart

  25 from the fact, of course, that Miss Ripley started doing the pro gramme only seven months ago?' 'Aye, it could be significant,' said Dalziel grimly. 'Maybe she's just good at her job,' said Pascoe. 'And surely it's no bad thing for the world to know we're not getting a replace ment DI for George? Perhaps we should use her instead of getting our knickers in a twist.' 'You don't use a rat,' said Dalziel. 'You block up the hole it's feeding through. And I've got a bloody good idea where to find this hole.' Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances. They knew where the Fat Man's suspicions lay, knew the significance he put on the period of six months. This was just about the length of time Mid-Yorkshire CID's newest recruit, Detective Constable Bowler, had been on the team. Bowler - known to his friends as Hat and to his arch-foe as Boiler, Boghead, Bowels or any other pejorative variation which occurred to him - had started with the heavy handicap of being a fast-track graduate, on transfer from the Midlands without Dalziel's opinion being sought or his approval solicited. The Fat Man was Argos-eyed in Mid-Yorkshire and a report that the new DC had been spotted having a drink with Jacqueline Ripley not long after his arrival had been filed away till the first of the items which had seen her re-christened Jax the Ripper had appeared. Since then Bowler had been given the status of man-most-likely, but nothing had yet been proved, which, to Pascoe at least, knowing how close a surveillance was being kept, suggested he was innocent. But he knew better than to oppose a Dalzielesque obsession. Also, the Fat Man had a habit of being right. He said brightly, 'Well, I suppose we'd better go and solve some crimes in case there's a hidden camera watching us. Thank you both for your input on my little problem.' 'What? Oh, that,' said Dalziel dismissively. 'Seems to me the only problem you've got is knowing whether you've really got a problem.' 'Oh yes, I'm certain of that. I think I've got the same problem Hector was faced with last year.' 'Eh?' said Dalziel, puzzled by this reference to Mid-Yorkshire's most famously incompetent constable. 'Remind me.' 'Don't you remember? He went into that warehouse to investiate a possible intruder. There was a guard dog, big Ridgeback I think, lying down just inside the doorway.' 'Oh yes, I recall. Hector had to pass it. And he didn't know if it was dead, drugged, sleeping or just playing doggo, waiting to pounce, that was his problem, right?' 'No,' said Pascoe. 'He gave it a kick to find out. And it opened its eyes. That was his problem.'

  27 Chapter Four

  THE SECOND DIALOGUE

  It's me again. How's it going?

  Remember our riddles? Here's a new one.

  One for the living, one for the dead, Out on the moor I -wind about Nor rhyme nor reason in my head Yet reasons I have -without a doubt.

  Deep printed on the yielding land Each zig and zag makes perfect sense To those who recognize the hand Of nature's clerk experience.

  This tracks a chasm deep and wide, That skirts a bog, this finds a ford, And men have suffered, men have died, To learn this wisdom of my Word- - That seeming right is sometimes wrong And even on the clearest days The shortest way may still be long, The straightest line may form a maze.

  What am I? You were always a smart dog at a riddle! I've been thinking a lot about paths lately, the paths of the living, the paths of the dead, how maybe there's only one path, and I have set my foot upon it. 1 -was pretty busy for a few days after my Great Adventure began, so I had little chance to mark its beginning by any kind of celebration. But as the weekend approached, I felt an urge to do something different, a little special. And 1 recalled my cheerful AA man telling me how chuffed he'd been on his return from Corfu to discover that a new Greek restaurant had just opened in town. 'In Cradle Street, the Tavema,' he said. 'Good nosh and there's a courtyard out back where they've got tables and parasols. Of course, it's not like sitting outside in Corfu, but on a fine evening with the sun shining and the waiters running a
round in costume, and this chap twanging away on one of them Greek banjos, you can close your eyes and imagine you're back in the Med.' It was really nice to hear someone being so enthusiastic about foreign travel and food and everything. Most Brits tend to go abroad just for the sake of confirming their superiority to everyone else in the world.

  Down there too? There's no changing human nature. Anyway, 1 thought I'd give the Tavema a try. The food wasn't bad and the wine was OK, though 1 abandoned my experiment with retsina after a single glass. It was just a little chilly at first, sitting outside in the courtyard under the artificial olive trees, but the food soon warmed me up, and with the table candles lit, the setting looked really picturesque. Inside the restaurant a young man was singing to his own accompaniment. I couldn't see the instrument but it gave a very authentic Greek sound and his playing was rather better than his voice. Eventually he came out into the courtyard and started a tour of the tables, serenading the diners. Some people made requests, most of them for British or at best Italian songs, but he tried to oblige everyone. As he reached my table, the PA system suddenly burst into life and a voice said, 'It's Zorba time!' and two of the waiters started doing that awful Greek dancing. I saw the young musician wince, then he caught my eye and grinned sheepishly. 1 smiled back and pointed to his instrument, and asked him what its name was, interested to hear if his speaking voice was as 'Greek' as his