Читать книгу Dialogues of the Dead - Reginald Hill - Страница 17

Hat Bowler stared down at Jax Ripley’s body and felt a pang of grief which for a second almost took the strength out of his legs.

He had seen bodies before during his short service and had learned some of the tricks of dealing with the sight – the controlled breathing, the mental distancing, the deliberate defocusing. But this was the first time he’d seen the corpse of someone he knew. Someone he liked. Someone as young as he was.

It’s yourself you’re grieving for, he told himself savagely, hoping to regain control via cynicism. But it didn’t work and he turned away unsteadily, though careful not to grasp at anything in an effort to control his unsteadiness.

George Headingley was moved too, he could see that. In fact the portly DI had turned away and left the bedroom before Bowler and was now sitting in an armchair in the living room of the flat, looking distinctly unwell. He hadn’t looked too good when he arrived at work that morning. Indeed he’d been five minutes late, inconsequential in the routine of most CID officers over the rank of constable, but a seismic disturbance of the Headingley behaviour pattern.

When Bowler had burst into his office with the news that Rye had just given him over the telephone, he seemed to have difficulty taking it in. Finally, after Bowler had tried to contact the TV presenter at the studios, then by phone at home, Headingley had allowed himself to be persuaded that they ought to go round to Ripley’s flat.

Now, sitting in the armchair, staring into space, instead of a healthy fifty-year-old sailing serenely into a chosen retirement, he looked more like a superannuated senior citizen who’d hung on till decrepitude forced him out.

‘Sir, I’ll get things under way, shall I?’ said Bowler.

He took silence for an answer and rang back to the station to get a scene-of-crime team organized, adding, sotto voce, ‘And make sure the DCI knows, will you? I don’t think Mr Headingley’s up to it this morning.’

He’d managed to persuade the DI that an armchair in a murder victim’s flat was not the cleverest place to let a senior officer find you in and got him outside into the damp morning air before Peter Pascoe appeared.

‘George, you OK?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Well, no, not really. Touch of flu coming on. Could hardly get out of bed this morning,’ said Headingley in a shaky voice.

‘Then if I were you I’d go and get back into it,’ said Pascoe crisply.

‘No, I’ll be OK. Got to get back inside and take a look round while the trail’s still hot …’

‘George, you know no one’s going inside there till everything’s been done that needs to be done. Go home. That’s an order.’

And to take the sting out of pulling rank on an old colleague who’d been a DI ever since Pascoe first arrived in the Mid-Yorkshire force as a DC, Pascoe said in a low voice as he ushered Headingley to his car, ‘George, with days to do, you don’t want this, do you? I mean, who knows, it could roll on forever. Grab the money and run for the sun, eh? And don’t worry, I’ll see you get credit for what you’ve done so far. Love to Beryl.’

He watched the DI’s car drive slowly away then with a shake of the head he turned back to the apartment building.

‘Right,’ he said to Bowler. ‘Better bring me up to speed on this.’

‘Yes, sir. Hope you didn’t mind me asking for you to be brought in. The DI really didn’t look well …’

‘No, you were quite right,’ said Pascoe. ‘You don’t look too clever yourself. Hope that there isn’t something going around.’

‘No, sir, I’m fine. Just a bit of a shock seeing Jax … Miss Ripley … I knew her a bit, you see …’

‘Yes,’ said Pascoe regarding him thoughtfully. ‘See her show last night, did you?’

‘Yes. Bit of a turn up, I thought. You saw it, did you, sir?’

‘No, as a matter of fact.’

But he’d heard about it when Dalziel had rung him up, uttering dreadful threats about what he was going to do to Ripley and Bowler, together and separately, when he got his hands on them.

Pascoe had calmed him down, pointing out that it wasn’t good policy to publicly assault a TV personality, and as for Bowler, if it could be proved he’d passed on the information, he’d be dealt with by a Board of Enquiry which at the very least would get him out of the Fat Man’s thinning hair.

The thought occurred to the DCI that maybe Dalziel had ignored his advice and that the DC’s pallor and maybe even the woman’s death were down to his direct intervention.

But when the scene-of-crime team had finished their preliminary examinations and he finally got to look at the body, he crossed the Fat Man off his list of suspects. The stiletto wasn’t his weapon. He’d have torn her head off.

Such frivolous thoughts were his usual technique for distracting himself from the close encounters with the dead kind which were his most unfavourite occupational hazard. A greater distraction was imminent. He heard it first like a distant mighty rushing wind entering the building and he checked his head for cloven tongues of fire in the long mirror above the bed. But of course it was only the most unholy spirit of Andrew Dalziel that burst into the room.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed. ‘Fuck me rigid. Last night I wished her dead, I really did. You should never wish things, lad, less’n you’re sure you can thole it if they come true. How long?’

‘Eight to ten hours estimate from body temp and the degree of cyanosis, but we’ll need to wait …’

‘… for the PM. Aye, I know. Always the sodding same, these medics. More scared of commitment than a randy Iti. That’s a handy mirror.’

Long used to such sudden changes of direction, Pascoe studied the reflection in the long wall glass above the bed-head. Ripley looked very peaceful. The silk robe she was wearing had been parted to permit the medical examiner to check the fatal wound but Pascoe had drawn the garment together again to cover her torso.

‘For sex, you mean?’ he said.

‘Nay, wash tha mind out with carbolic! You’ve been reading them mucky books again. Has she been moved?’

‘Only as much as was necessary for the ME to do his job. I said you’d want to see her in situ.’

‘Oh aye? That one of them Japanese beds? This one’s old-fashioned Yorkshire by the look of it. Nice strong bed-end to give a man something to push against. No, lad, take a look at her in the mirror. What do you see?’

Pascoe looked.

‘Roots?’ he hazarded. ‘She dyed her hair blonde?’

‘Yes,’ said the Fat Man impatiently. ‘But we’d have spotted that on the slab, wouldn’t we? No, I mean the other end.’

Pascoe looked at the woman’s feet up against the bed-end which Dalziel so favoured. She was wearing a pair of comfortable-looking leather mules. From the bottom of the bed they were invisible. From the side, they were unremarkable. But viewed in the mirror, there was something … hard to tell, they were so shapeless, but …

‘They’re on the wrong feet?’ he said tentatively.

‘Right. And how’d they get on the wrong feet?’

‘Presumably they dropped off as the Wordman carried her through …’

‘The Wordman? Aye, where did that bloody name come from anyway?’

‘Seems it was DC Bowler’s nickname for the lunatic who’s writing these Dialogues.’

‘Boghead’s name, you say? And Ripley were bandying it about on her programme?’ Dalziel scowled. ‘I want a word with that young man. Where’s he at?’

‘I sent him to the library to pick up this new Dialogue, the one that put us on to … this.’

‘You sent him? Nay, come to think of it, doesn’t matter, does it? Who’s he going to leak it to with the Ripper dead? This Wordman bang her, front or back, before or after the event, did he?’

Dalziel’s apparent callosity in face of murder was, Pascoe hoped, his preferred way of dealing with distress. Or maybe he was just callous.

‘We’ll need to wait for the PM results, but the preliminary exam didn’t turn up signs of sexual interference in any quarter. Sir, these shoes …’

‘Mules, lad. Wordman must have put ’em back on. Ergo, he touched them. And they’ve not been dusted for prints, have they?’

He was right. Every other likely surface in the flat bore a light scattering of powder.

‘I’ll see they get done,’ said Pascoe. ‘Here’s Bowler now.’

The young DC came hurrying into the flat but stopped short when he saw Dalziel.

‘You look like you’ve just remembered somewhere else you ought to be, lad,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That this Dialogue thing drooping in your hand or are you just sorry to see me?’

‘Yes, sir. The Dialogue, sir,’ stuttered Bowler.

He handed it over in its transparent plastic folder.

Dalziel scanned through it then passed it to Pascoe.

‘Right, young Bowels,’ he said. ‘Let’s you and I have a look around, to see if she kept a notebook or a diary.’

He observed the DC closely for signs of a guilty start as he said this but got nothing, or maybe the youngster’s expression was already too unhappy for anything else to show.

When the Fat Man found a small appointments book, he tossed it to Pascoe as if afraid that Hat would snatch it from his hand and try to eat it, then said, ‘Right, lad. Why don’t you pop downstairs and tell those grave robbers out there that the late Ms Ripley is ready for removal to the mortuary?’

When he’d gone. Dalziel turned to Pascoe, who’d been riffling through the pages of the book, and said, ‘Anything?’

‘Relevant to the murder? Not that I can see, sir.’

‘Relevant to who’s been leaking this stuff,’ snarled the Fat Man.

‘Looking back, there’s a significant number of appointments with someone or something designated as GP,’ said Pascoe.

‘GP? What’s that? Her sodding doctor?’

‘Whatever it is, I can’t see how you could turn it into DC Bowler. Initial E. Nickname Hat.’

‘Code, mebbe,’ said Dalziel, disgruntled.

He turned away and Pascoe rolled his eyes upward.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me, lad,’ said Dalziel without even looking.

‘I’m just thinking, shouldn’t we concentrate a little harder on solving this case, sir, rather than finding out who the mole is?’

‘Nay, that’s down to you, Pete. This is one of them clever-cuts cases. Old-fashioned bugger like me’s right out of his depth. I’ll fade into the background and let you call the shots on this one.’

Oh yes? thought Pascoe sceptically. Previous experience had taught him that having the Fat Man in the background tended to block out the light.

He continued his examination of the appointments book and said, ‘That solves one mystery.’

‘What one’s that?’

‘Why she went public last night. She must have known that she was going to have us down on her like a ton of bricks and probably scare off her police contact forever. But it was a risk worth taking. She’s got … she would have had an interview with BBC News in London on Monday. And a big story like this a couple of days before wouldn’t have done her chances any harm, I reckon. That’s probably why she tried to sensationalize it.’

‘Well, she’s certainly succeeded now,’ said Dalziel as the mortuary men came in accompanied by Bowler and started preparing the corpse for removal.

The three policemen watched in silence, not broken till the men bore their sad burden out of the apartment.

‘Lesson to us all there,’ said Dalziel.

‘What’s that, sir?’ said Pascoe.

‘Ambition,’ said the Fat Man. ‘It can be a killer. Right, I’m off. Keep me posted.’

Hat watched him go with unconcealed relief.

Pascoe said, ‘Hat, I looked at the report you did for Mr Headingley. It was good. Really gave the indicators there was something nasty going off. Tragic it had to be confirmed like this, but no one’s going to be able to say we weren’t on the ball. Well done.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you,’ said Hat, recognizing the DCI’s kindness in so reassuring him and feeling all the worse for it. ‘Sir, there’s something else, just occurred to me now really … that guy Roote you’ve had me watching …’

He had Pascoe’s full attention.

‘I think he was … I mean, he certainly was eating at the Taverna the night David Pitman was killed …’

And now Peter Pascoe was looking at him with no kindness whatsoever in his eyes.