Читать книгу Dialogues of the Dead - Reginald Hill - Страница 13

Detective Inspector George Headingley was a stickler for punctuality. With the end of his career in sight, he might have decided he wasn’t going to do anything he didn’t want to do, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be unpunctual not doing it. He was due at his desk at eight thirty the following morning and at eight twenty-nine he was approaching it with the measured tread which made his footsteps recognizable at fifty paces.

He could see that the cleared top which he prided himself on leaving at the end of every shift had been sullied by a document. At least the sullier had taken care to place it dead centre so that in many ways it enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of perfect order which Headingley was always at pains to achieve.

He hung his coat up, removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then sat down and pulled the document towards him. It was several pages thick and the first of these declared that its author was DC Bowler who, as requested, had gathered together all available information which might help DI Headingley to assess whether anything in the deaths of Andrew Ainstable or David Pitman required his, that is DI Headingley’s, further investigation.

Why was it that something legalistic about this form of words made his heart sink?

He opened it and began to read. And soon his heart was sinking deeper, faster. He’d wanted firm no-no’s so that he could consign these daft Dialogues to the waste bin, but all he was getting was a series of boggy maybe’s.

When he finished he sat for a moment, then gathered all the papers together and set out in search of Bowler.

There was no sign of him. He encountered Wield and made enquiry after the young DC.

Wield said, ‘Saw him earlier. Think he went off to do something for Mr Pascoe. Was it urgent?’

‘Was what urgent?’ said Andy Dalziel, whose approach was sometimes audible at twice the distance of the DI’s but who could also exercise the option of materializing like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, moving silent as mist over the ground.

‘The DI’s looking for Bowler,’ said Wield.

‘And the bugger’s not in yet?’

‘In and out,’ said Wield reprovingly.

‘Aye, like Speedy Gonzales,’ said Dalziel with a lip curl like a shed tyre. ‘What do you want with him, George?’

‘Well, nothing … just a query about a report he’s done for me,’ said Headingley, turning away.

‘About those deaths, was it?’ said Wield. ‘The library thing.’

Headingley shot him a glance which came as close to malevolence as a man of his amiable temperament could manage. He still had hopes of squashing this bit of awkwardness or, in the unlikely event of there being anything in it, at least shelving it till such time as he was long gone. To that end, the less Dalziel knew, the better.

‘Library thing?’ said Dalziel. ‘Not a body-in-the-library thing, I hope, George. I’m getting too old for bodies in libraries.’

Headingley explained, playing it down. Dalziel listened then held out his hand for the file.

He scanned through it quickly, his nostrils flaring as he came to the end of Bowler’s report.

‘So that’s what the bugger were doing at the Taverna,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nowt. So what do you reckon, George? Load of crap or a big one for you to go out on?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ said Headingley as judiciously as he could manage. ‘That’s why I want to see Bowler. Check through a couple of points with him. What do you think, sir?’

Hopeful of dismissal.

‘Me? Could be owt or nowt. I know I can rely on you to do the right thing. But while you’re thinking about it, George, mum’s the word, eh? Go off half-cocked on summat like this and we’ll look right wankers. Don’t want them blowflies from the media sniffing around till we know there’s dead meat, and it’s not us.’

A mobile rang in Headingley’s pocket. He took it out and said, ‘Yes?’

He listened then turned away from the other two men.

They heard him say, ‘No, not possible … of course … well, maybe … all right … twenty minutes.’

He switched off, turned back and said, ‘Need to go out. Possible information.’

‘Oh aye. Anything I should know about?’ said Dalziel.

‘Don’t know, sir,’ said Headingley. ‘Probably nowt, but he makes it sound urgent.’

‘They always do. Who’ll you take? We’re a bit short-handed with Novello still off sick and Seymour on leave.’

‘I can go,’ said Wield.

‘No, it’s OK. This one’s not a registered snout,’ said Headingley firmly. Registered informants required two officers to work them for protection against disinformation and attempted set-ups. ‘I’m still working on him. He’s a bit timid, and I reckon that seeing me turn up mob-handed might put him off for ever.’

He turned and began to move away.

Dalziel said, ‘Hey, George, aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘Eh?’

‘This,’ said the Fat Man, proffering the Dialogues file. ‘You don’t get shut of it that easy.’

The bugger’s a mind reader, thought Headingley, not for the first time. He took the file, tucked it under his arm and headed out of the office.

Dalziel watched him go and said, ‘Know what I think, Wieldy?’

‘Wouldn’t presume, sir.’

‘I think it was his missus reminding him to pick up her dry-cleaning. One thing you’ve got to say about George, he’s been real conscientious helping us break in his replacement.’

‘Thought we weren’t getting a replacement, sir.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.

He returned to his office, sat looking at the phone for a minute, then picked it up and dialled.

‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice which even on the phone was filled with a husky warmth which communicated itself straight to his thighs.

‘Hi, luv. It’s me.’

‘Andy,’ said Cap Marvell. ‘How nice.’

She made it sound like she meant it too.

‘Just rang to say how’re you doing. And sorry you didn’t enjoy that place last night.’

She laughed and said, ‘As you well know, it wasn’t the place I didn’t enjoy, it was you going on about that handsome young officer and the very pretty TV girl. I thought we had an agreement. No shop till after sex when you can unburden yourself to your heart’s content and I can go to sleep.’

‘Chance would have been a fine thing,’ he grumbled.

‘Chance went out of the window with my pleasant night out. I’m game to experiment with most kinds of foreplay, but police politics I find a real turn-off. But I accept your apology for an apology.’

‘Grand. Then let’s fix summat else up. Your choice. Anything you say and I promise you’ll think I’m a civilian.’

‘You say so. OK, couple of invitations I’ve got this morning. One is to my son’s regimental ball. It’s being held a fortnight on Saturday out at Haysgarth, that’s Budgie Partridge’s country seat. He’s the regiment’s Colonel-in-Chief …’

Cap’s son by her dissolved marriage was Lieutenant-Colonel Piers Pitt-Evenlode MC of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, known to Dalziel as The Hero.

‘Budgie? That’s Lord Partridge to us commoners, is it?’

‘Sorry. I knew him in another life.’

This other life had been the period of marriage into the landed gentry which had lead to the Hero, self-knowledge, disillusionment, rebellion, divorce, and ultimately Dalziel.

‘Met him once myself in this life,’ said the Fat Man, ‘but I doubt he’d remember me. What’s the other invite?’

‘That’s to the preview of the art and craft exhibition in the Centre Gallery. A week on Saturday.’

‘That it? No one want you to open a new brewery or summat?’

‘Choose,’ she said unrelentingly. ‘It’s either tin soldiers and champagne cocktails or nude paintings and cheap white wine.’

He thought then said, ‘Don’t know much about art but I know what I like. I’ll pick the mucky pictures.’

Hat Bowler yawned widely.

He’d had a restless night, his bed afloat on a turbulent ocean of lager and Campari and the sky full of dull red stars each glowing down upon him with the accusing intensity of Andy Dalziel’s gaze. He’d risen very early and made his way to work where he ordered his notes into the report which, not without malice aforethought, had so upset George Headingley. Franny Roote’s name hadn’t been on the Taverna reservation list. He examined his reasons for not mentioning him, decided albeit uneasily they were as good this morning as they’d appeared last night – better maybe after that encounter with Dalziel’s glowering glare – then, partly to avoid being present when the DI read his report, and partly to reassure himself that Pascoe was getting his knickers in a twist over nothing, he’d driven out to the suburb where Franny Roote had his flat and resumed surveillance.

There was, he was glad to confirm, nothing here to wake a young DC up. In fact, for a convicted felon and a suspected stalker, Roote really led an incredibly boring life. The guy got up in the morning, got into his old banger (correction: it looked like an old banger but the engine sounded remarkably sweet), drove to work, and worked hard all day. Most evenings he spent reading and taking notes in the university library. His social life seemed to consist of attendance at a St John Ambulance class and occasional visits to a restaurant (like the Taverna, bugger it!) or a cinema, always alone. No, this was one very dull character. And Wield had said he’d got an eye like a hawk! The sergeant was a man to admire and listen to, but he didn’t know much about birds, thought Bowler complacently as he watched Roote pruning a rosebush with such methodical concentration that he’d probably not have noticed if a full-scale film crew had turned up to take pictures.

Time to move before he fell asleep.

As he drove away from the university, Bowler let his thoughts drift to Rye Pomona. Now that he’d reported on his investigations to the DI, he felt obligated to bring her up to speed too. He had convinced himself that she hadn’t got his message last night. Probably Dee, through indolence or inadvertence, or, more likely, simple indisposition, hadn’t made contact with her. He pulled over and dialled the library and asked for Reference.

He recognized her voice at once. She on the other hand didn’t recognize his and seemed to require an effort of memory even to register his name.

‘Oh yes. Constable Bowler. Message last night? Yes, I believe I did get a message, but I had other plans. So how can I help you now?’

‘Well, I thought you might like to hear how I got on.’

‘Got on? With what?’

‘With looking into these Dialogues you gave me.’

‘Oh yes. The Wordman of Alcatraz.’

She sounded more amused at the memory of his attempted joke than she’d been at the attempt.

He decided this was a positive sign.

‘That’s right. The Wordman.’

‘All right. Tell me. How did you get on?’

‘Actually it’s quite complicated,’ he said cunningly. ‘I’m a bit rushed now. I wondered if you could spare a few minutes at lunchtime, say?’

A pause.

‘I don’t have long. One of us has to be here. And I usually eat a sandwich in the staffroom.’

A staffroom was not what he had in mind.

‘I thought perhaps a pub …’

‘A pub?’ As if he’d suggested a House of Assignation. ‘I don’t get long enough to spend time in pubs. I suppose I could meet you in Hal’s.’

‘Hal’s?’

‘The café – bar on the Centre mezzanine. Don’t policemen get asked the way any more?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll find it.’

‘I won’t hold my breath. Twelve fifteen.’

‘Yes, twelve fifteen would be fine. Maybe we can …’

But he wasn’t talking to anyone but himself.

At twelve thirty Dick Dee was perched behind the Reference enquiry desk, peering pensively at a computer screen when he heard a sexy cough.

It is not everyone who can cough sexily and he looked up with interest to see a young woman with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes smiling at him. She was small and slightly built, but exuded the kind of energy a man could imagine being put to very good use.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I’m Jax Ripley.’

‘And I’m Dick Dee, Miss … Ripley, was it?’

Jax thought, the bastard’s pretending not to remember me!

Or, worse, she emended, looking into those guileless eyes, he really doesn’t remember me!

She said, ‘We met the other week. On the council tour … when the shelf collapsed … I did want to interview you but wherever we pointed the camera, dear old Percy seemed to be in shot, talking about the way he’d like to see the Centre develop …’

She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to join in her amusement at Percy Follows’ well-known appetite for publicity, especially with the council considering the appointment of an overall Centre Director.

Dee let his gaze run up and down her body, assessingly but without lubricity, and said, ‘Of course. Miss Ripley. Nice to see you again. How may I help?’

‘It’s about the short story competition. I gather you’re in charge of the judging panel.’

‘Far from it,’ he said. ‘I’m merely one of the preliminary sorters.’

‘I’m sure you’re more than that,’ she said turning her charm on full blast. She knew men and thought she’d detected beneath his politely neutral examination a definite effervescence of interest along the arteries. ‘When do entries close?’

‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘So you’ll have to hurry.’

‘I’m not thinking of entering,’ she said sharply, then saw from his faint smile that he was taking the piss.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, a long way from a hunk but the kind who might grow on you.

She laughed out loud and said, ‘But tell me, if I did want to enter, is the standard high?’

‘There’s a great deal of promise,’ he said carefully.

‘Promise as in politicians, marriage or the Bank of England?’ she asked.

‘You’ll need to wait till the result is announced to decide that,’ he said.

‘Which is when?’ she said. ‘I’d be interested in doing a piece on Out and About, maybe interviewing the shortlisted authors. Or perhaps we could even have the result announced live on air.’

‘Nice idea,’ he said. ‘But I suspect Mary Agnew will want the news of the winner to be announced in the Gazette. Sell more newspapers that way, you see.’

‘Oh, I know Mary well. I used to work for her. In fact I was just talking to her earlier this morning and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ said Jax with the confidence of one who takes as read the superiority of television over newsprint. ‘What I was after was a bit of preliminary information. I might even do a trail on tonight’s show. Do you have a few moments? Or maybe I could buy you lunch?’

Dee was beginning to refuse politely when the library door burst open and a tall willowy man with a mane of golden hair framing a face as small as a monkey’s came in and approached them with arms outstretched.

‘Jax, my dear. They told me you were loose in the building. Your face is too famous to pass my sentinels unremarked. I hope you were going to come and see me, but I couldn’t take the risk.’

He rested his arms on Jax’s shoulders and they exchanged a three-kiss salute.

Jax at her very first meeting with Percy Follows had marked him down as a prancing prat. But in the world of men, being a prancing prat didn’t necessarily mean he was either stupid or incapable of rising to heights from which he might be able to extend a helping hand to an ambitious woman, so she said sweetly, ‘I assumed you’d be far too busy at some important working lunch, Percy, which incidentally is where I’m trying to take Mr Dee here, but he was just telling me you work him far too hard for such frivolities.’

‘Do we?’ said Follows, slightly nonplussed.

‘It seems so. He doesn’t even seem to have time for a working fast. And I’m desperate to pick his brain for a series of pieces I’m planning to do on this short story competition you thought up. It’s the kind of cultural initiative we really need in Mid-Yorkshire. I’ll want to interview you later on, of course, but I always like to start at factory-floor level …’

She’s very good, thought Dee as she flashed him a smile and the hint of a wink from the eye furthest from Follows.

‘Is that so?’ said Follows. ‘Then of course you must go, Dick. I hereby unlock your chains.’

‘I’m by myself,’ said Dee. ‘Rye is on her lunch break.’

‘No problem,’ said Follows expansively. ‘I’ll mind the shop myself. We’re a true democracy here, Jax, everyone ready and able to do everyone else’s work. Go, Dick, go, while the giving mood is on me.’

Dee, Harold Lloyd to his boss’s Olivier, cleared the computer screen, put on his leather-patched tweed jacket and with an old-fashioned courtesy took Jax’s arm and ushered her through the door.

‘So where are you taking me?’ he enquired as they walked down the stairs.

Her mind printed out the alternatives. Pub? Too crowded. Hotel dining room? Too formal.

His hand still rested lightly on her arm. To her surprise she found herself thinking, rest it anywhere you like, darling.

This was quite the wrong way round, this feeling that he would be easy to like, easy to talk to. That was how he was supposed to be feeling!

She recalled the wise words of Mary Agnew when she’d worked for her.

You’ll recognize a good story by what you’re willing to do to get it. One thing though … lay yourself on the table by all means, darling, but never lay your cards. Knowing more than other people know is the only virginity in our game. Keep it.

Still, nothing wrong with enjoying yourself along the way.

‘You call it,’ she said. ‘My treat. But I make a lovely open sandwich if I can find the right topping.’

‘This is nice,’ said Bowler. ‘Why’s it called Hal’s?’

They were sitting opposite each other at a table on the balcony of the café – bar which gave a view down the length of the main shopping precinct. On a clear day you could see as far as Boots the Chemist. The disadvantage of the situation was that the prurient youth of the town had discovered that a seat on the edge of the fountain in the atrium below gave them with luck an excellent view up the short skirts of those sitting above. But on entering Hal’s, she had discovered Bowler at an inside table next to one occupied by Charley Penn. Had to be coincidence, but preferring the prying eyes of youth to the flapping ears of age, she’d suggested they move outside.

‘Think about it,’ said Rye. ‘Heritage, Arts and Library complex? H.A.L.’

‘Disappointing,’ said Bowler. ‘I thought it might be named after an artificial intelligence which had gone wrong and was trying to control our lives.’

She laughed and said, ‘You could be right.’

Encouraged, he said, ‘You know what I thought the first time I saw you?’

‘No, and I’m not sure I want to know,’ said Rye.

‘I thought redwing.’

‘As in Indian Maid?’

‘You know that song? Odd company you keep, or do you play rugby? Don’t answer. No, as in turdus iliacus, the smallest of the common thrushes.’

‘I hope, for your sake, this is an extremely attractive, highly intelligent bird.’

‘Naturally. Also known as Wind Thrush or Swine Pipe from its sharp voice.’

‘And iliacus because it comes from Troy? The resemblances to the way I see myself don’t seem to be multiplying.’

‘Helen came from Troy.’

‘No she didn’t. She got abducted and ended up there. So forget the soft soap and tell me, where’s the connection, Constable?’

‘Simple really and entirely soap-free,’ he murmured. ‘The redwing is a bird with lovely chestnut colouring and a prominent pale strip over the eye. So when I saw this, I thought redwing.’

He reached over and brushed his index finger against the tongue of silvery grey running through her hair.

That’s enough, buster, thought Rye. Verbal jousting is one thing, but stroking my hair’s a familiarity too far.

‘So you really are a bird nerd,’ she said. ‘And here’s me thinking it was just a cover story. Ah well, each to his own anorak.’

She saw she’d scored a palpable hit and should have felt gleeful but didn’t.

‘Anyway, it’s a better come-on than the guy who said it reminded him of Silver Blaze,’ she went on.

‘Sorry?’

‘Silver Blaze. The racehorse in the Sherlock Holmes story? Don’t you all get issued those at Hendon, or is being a detective a cover story too?’

‘No, that’s for real too, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh yes? So prove it.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘First off, this Wordman stuff is confidential, OK?’

‘Confidential? It’s me who brought you these Dialogues, remember? And now you’re telling me just because you’ve invented a nickname for him, it’s confidential.’

‘What I’ve found out in the course of my investigation is police business and I can’t share it with you unless you accept its confidentiality,’ he said, deliberately ponderous.

She thought, nodded, said, ‘OK. So let’s hear it.’

‘First, all that stuff about Ainstable – the tropical fish and the Greek holiday – is true. As is the story about where the bazouki came from. Plus there’s a witness who might have seen a car’s headlights just before the motorbike crash. And there could have been a car on the humpback bridge in front of where the AA van was parked.’

‘Oh, shit. So this lunatic really did kill them!’ exclaimed Rye, horrified.

‘Not necessarily. There are other ways the Wordman could have got the information and there’s no way of knowing for certain if Ainstable stopped to help someone. And my witness who saw the lights is going senile and isn’t a hundred per cent sure what he had for breakfast.’

‘Great! And this is what I’ve been sworn to secrecy over?’

Bowler said seriously, ‘It’s important either way. If there’s nothing in it, then we don’t want to be spreading alarm and despondency about a possible serial killer on the loose, do we? And if there is something in it …’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘So you’re right, which could be an irritating habit. All right, Sherlock, what’s your professional opinion?’

‘Me? I’m far too junior to have opinions,’ said Bowler. ‘I just pass things up to my superiors and they’ve got to decide what to do next.’

He smiled as he spoke and Rye said coldly, ‘You think it’s something to joke about?’

‘Hell, no. I’m not laughing at that. I’m just thinking about my DI who’s only interested in sailing into retirement peacefully and just hates the idea of having to make a decision about something as difficult as this.’

‘I’m glad to know the public weal’s in such safe hands.’

‘Don’t worry. He’s not typical. You should see the guy at the top.’

His expression turned sombre at the thought of Andy Dalziel. Why did the guy dislike him so much? Couldn’t just be because of his degree. Pascoe was a graduate too and he and the Fat Man seemed to be able to work together without too much blood on the carpet.

‘Hello?’ said Rye. ‘You still with me or are you getting messages from Planet Zog?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Just the thought of our super does that to me. Look, I’ll keep you posted about any further developments on the Wordman front, I promise. I assume there’s been nothing more at your end?’

‘Any more Dialogues, you mean? No, of course not, or we’d have called you. And the closing date for entries is tonight so there’s not much time left.’

He regarded her gravely and said, ‘Maybe if our Wordman really is killing people, he won’t be much bothered by a closing date for a short story competition.’

She looked irritated but with herself not him and said, ‘Thanks for making me feel stupid. That part of your job?’

‘No. Is it part of yours?’

‘When did I do it?’

‘When you and Dee started using long words you assumed, rightly, I wouldn’t understand.’

‘Such as?’

‘When I told you what people called me, you said something about that being very paranoidistic or something.’

‘Paronomasiac,’ she said. ‘Sorry. You’re right. It’s just the adjective from paronomasia which means any form of word-play, like a pun.’

‘And what Dee said?’

‘Paronomaniac.’ She smiled and said, ‘From paronomania, meaning an obsessive interest in word games. It’s also the name of a board game Dick’s very fond of. Bit like Scrabble, only harder.’

He didn’t really want to hear about Dee’s cleverness or anything which hinted at intimacy between Rye and her boss, but couldn’t help saying, ‘You’ve played this para whatsit, then?’

She gave him a cool smile which seemed to say she understood precisely the direction of his thoughts and said, ‘No. It seems only two can play and those two are Dick and Charley Penn.’

‘The writer?’

‘Is there another?’

He decided this was leading nowhere and said, ‘So now we’ve both made each other feel stupid, what about this Sunday?’

She didn’t pretend not to understand but said, ‘I don’t know if I’m that stupid. What’s the E stand for?’

‘What E?’

‘E. Bowler. On your library card. That E. Come on. What are you hiding under your hat, Hat?’

He looked at her doubtfully then took a deep breath and said, ‘Ethelbert.’

‘Ethelbert,’ she repeated, savouring the name like a jam doughnut, then running her tongue round her lips as if to pick up the residual sugar. ‘I like it.’

‘Really?’ He examined her closely in search of ambush. ‘You’ll be the first. Most people fall about laughing.’

‘When you’ve got a name that makes you sound like an alcopop, you don’t laugh at other people’s names,’ she said.

‘Rye Pomona,’ he said. ‘I see what you mean. But it’s nice. Isn’t Pomona a place in Italy?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But it is Italian. Pomona was the Roman goddess of fruit trees.’

She watched to see if he would lumber into a joke or ooze into a compliment.

He nodded and said, ‘And Rye, is that a nickname, or what?’

‘Short for Raina,’ she said.

‘Sorry? Never heard that one.’

She spelt it for him, and pronounced it carefully, stressing the three syllables, Rye-ee-na.

‘Raina,’ he echoed. ‘Raina Pomona. Now that’s really nice. OK, it’s unusual, but it’s not naff, like Ethelbert Bowler.’

She found herself pleased that he didn’t make a big deal of asking where the name came from but just took it in his stride.

‘Don’t undersell yourself,’ she said. ‘Think positive. Ethelbert Bowler … it has an artistic ring … makes you sound like a minor Victorian watercolourist. Are you interested in art, Ethelbert? Under any of your hats?’

‘I could probably dig out an old French beret,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘The Centre’s new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There’s a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?’

He said, ‘Are you going by choice or because you’re on the payroll?’

She said, ‘Does it matter? OK, it’s sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Try me till I yawn,’ he said.

‘OK. The Centre’s tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery on Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it’s all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?’

‘No, just breathing deeply with excitement.’

‘Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders’ digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing – you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?’

Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly.

‘I believe you,’ she said, not bothering to sound convinced. ‘Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she’s on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone’s had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there’s a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines he’s at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor – Managers.’

‘Who?’

‘Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Councillor Steel’s opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the Actor – Managers (that’s his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre’s much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!’

‘No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he’d like to put in for the Centre Director’s job too.’

‘Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?’ asked Rye. ‘Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It’s quite fun to watch them, actually. They don’t try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people playing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.’

‘Smells?’

‘Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I’m beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion’s share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.’

‘So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?’ said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation.

She said defensively, ‘It’s no big deal. I’d have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He’s a bit of an artist.’

She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea.

‘In that case,’ he said, ‘and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?’

‘Dress artistically,’ she murmured. ‘Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well-dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?’

He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, ‘Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?’