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‘Speak for yourself,’ called a man’s voice from within.
‘Nowt wrong with your lugs then,’ she shouted back.
‘Nor my eyes either. I told you what I saw.’
Bowler looked at the woman enquiringly and she sighed and said, ‘If you want to waste your time …’ then turned and vanished into the house.
He followed her into a long living room which, apart from the addition of a TV set on which Mad Max was playing, didn’t look like much had been done to it since the seventeenth century. A man rose from a chair. He was a giant, at least six and a half feet, and there was very little clearance between his head and the exposed crossbeams. He shook Bowler’s hand with a vigour that made him wince and said, ‘You’ve come to ask about the lights. Didn’t I tell you, Betty?’
‘Not more than fifty times, you daft old sod,’ she said, switching off the television. ‘So tell him, you’ll not be satisfied till you do.’
There was some exasperation in her voice but it got nowhere close to overpowering the strong affection in her gaze as she looked at the man.
‘I will,’ he said. ‘I got up to have a pee – old man’s trouble, it’ll come to you, lad, if you live that long. I looked out the landing window and I saw this headlight going down the hill there, just the one. Bike, I thought. And the bugger’s moving. Then I saw these other headlights, two on ’em, so, a car, coming this way. Out of nowhere they came. One moment dark, next there they were. Then the single light were all over the place. Till suddenly it went out. And then there were a puff of flame.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘Don’t know. If I’d stayed any longer I’d have pissed down the stairs and then I’d have been in trouble.’
He roared with laughter and the woman said, ‘You’re not wrong there, lad.’
‘And did you tell this story to the other policeman who came?’ asked Bowler.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t recall it till later,’ said the man.
‘Later?’
‘Aye,’ said the woman. ‘Later. He usually recalls things later if he recalls them at all.’
There was something going on here he didn’t yet fully understand. He decided to concentrate on the woman.
‘You didn’t think it worthwhile ringing us when you heard Mr er …?’
‘Locksley,’ she said.
‘Your husband?’ he said, looking for clarity where he could find it.
‘Well, he’s not my bloody tallyman!’ she said, which seemed to amuse them both greatly.
‘You didn’t think to contact us?’ persisted Bowler.
‘What for? Sam, what night was it you saw the lights?’
‘Nay, lass, that’s not fair. It was this year, but, I’m certain of that.’
‘And what film would you have been watching that day whenever it was?’
He thought a moment then said, ‘Likely Mad Max, it’s my favourite. Do you like it, mister? He was a cop, too.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ said Bowler. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it on the box. Bit too violent for my taste.’
He was beginning to get the picture. In the interests of diplomacy he’d have liked to get the woman by herself, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t take kindly to any attempt to talk behind her husband’s back.
He said, ‘So you think that Mr Locksley might be confusing what the other policeman told you about the accident with images from the movies he watches?’
He kept his voice low but the man’s sharp ears picked him up with ease.
‘You could be right there, lad,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I do get things mixed up and as for recalling what happened when, I’m hopeless. Doesn’t bother me mostly, but there’s some things from the past it’d be nice to bring back now I’m getting old. For instance, I can’t recall the last time I had a good jump, and that’s sad.’
‘You silly old bugger,’ said his wife fondly. ‘It was just afore you had your breakfast this morning.’
‘Was it?’ he said, regarding her with bright hopeful eyes. ‘And did I enjoy it?’
‘Well, you asked for a second helping of porridge,’ she said.
Their laughter was infectious and Bowler was still chuckling as he let himself out. As he began to drive away, Mrs Locksley came to the door and called, ‘Hey, just because his memory’s going and he gets a bit confused, doesn’t mean he’s wrong, but.’
‘That,’ said Bowler, ‘is very much the trouble.’
But it wasn’t his trouble; it was or soon would be DI Headingley’s. Something obliging him to make a decision would drop into Jolly George’s broad lap like a mug of hot coffee. It was a prospect not altogether displeasing.
But the DI, when provoked to action, could be a nimble ducker and weaver, and it would be wise not to leave any gaps for him to slip through, saying accusingly, ‘But you forgot to do that, Constable.’
Bowler scanned the possibilities and saw one he hadn’t covered. The Greek restaurant where the Wordman claimed to have dined on the night he talked to David Pitman. He glanced at his watch. Five forty. Probably the Taverna didn’t open till seven or half six at the earliest. He’d never eaten there – young detectives got used to eating on the hoof and became uneasy if they found themselves spending more than ten minutes on a meal – but he had followed Franny Roote there one night last week, watched him go inside, thought, Sod this, it’s unofficial and I’m not on overtime, and headed home to a takeaway and a soccer match on the telly.
That was when? Suddenly he felt uneasy. Wednesday, Pascoe had given him the job, so it had to be … He pulled over and took out his pocketbook to check the date.
Shit! It was Friday, the same night that young Pitman had had his ‘accident’.
Best not to mention it, he decided. It would just muddy the waters. He hadn’t gone inside, he hadn’t seen any other customers, he hadn’t done anything except sit in his car for a minute watching Roote go into the building. If his own bad vibes about the two deaths were translated by the brass into a full-scale investigation – which he doubted, given George Headingley’s determination not to let his boat be rocked with the harbour of retirement in sight – then he might speak. Or perhaps not. Somehow he suspected from the way Dalziel had been looking at him lately that the fat bastard would be glad to put a black mark against his name simply for being in the vague vicinity of a possible crime.
For a moment he even thought of scrubbing his plan to visit the Taverna, but only for a moment. Wanting to cover his back didn’t stop him from being conscientious. Then, because he was a positive thinker, much happier looking on the upside of things than contemplating possible downsides, he suddenly grinned as he saw a way of getting something good out of the situation.
He took out his mobile and dialled the Central Library number. It rang for a long time before someone answered. He recognized the voice.
‘Mr Dee? Hi, it’s DC Bowler. Listen, is Rye there?’
‘I’m sorry, she’s gone home, like all sensible people,’ said Dee. ‘The only reason you got me was that I often stay on after closing time to do some work.’
‘That’s very noble of you,’ said Bowler.
‘I fear you credit me with more virtue than I possess. I don’t mean work for the public weal. This is private research for a book I’m writing.’
‘Oh yes. Detective story, is it?’
Dee laughed, picking up the irony.
‘I wish. No, it’s a history of semantic scholarship. A sort of dictionary of dictionaries, you might call it.’
‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Bowler unconvincingly.
Dee said, ‘I think I should work on your projection of sincerity if you fancy trying your hand at undercover work, Mr Bowler. Now, is there any way that I can be of help to you?’
‘Only if you’ve got a number I can reach Rye at,’ said Bowler.
There was a pause then Dee said, ‘Well, I do have her home number, but I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give such things out to the public at large. But I could pass on a message, if you like.’
Bastard! thought Bowler.
He said, ‘It was just about my enquiries. I’m going to the Taverna this evening to check out a few things and I thought as Rye was so interested she might care to join me. I’ll be there at seven.’
‘Now that does sound fascinating. I’ll pass your message on. I’m sure Rye will be as intrigued as I am.’
But you’re not invited, Dick-head Dee, thought Bowler.
Then, being both a fair and a self-analytical young man, he asked himself, Am I jealous? But quickly, because he was above all a young man, he went on to dismiss as absurd the idea that in matters of love a dotard of at least forty years could give him any cause for jealousy.
Showered, shaved, and arrayed in his sharpest gear, he was in the Taverna by six forty-five. He ordered a Campari soda because he loved the colour and it gave him a sense of sophistication. At seven ten he ordered another. A third at seven twenty. At seven thirty, tired of sophistication, he ordered a pint of lager. At seven forty-five he ordered a second pint and asked to see the manager.
This was Mr Xenopoulos, short, fat and genuinely Greek though he spoke English with a disconcerting Liverpool accent. Suspicious at first that Bowler was an Environmental Health snoop, he became more helpful when he learned that his enquiries were to do with Dave Pitman, though he did wonder mildly whether it might not have been more sensible for the detective to have started interviewing his staff an hour earlier when he first arrived rather than now when the restaurant was getting busy. Both he and the waiters expressed what seemed like genuine sorrow at the dreadful accident which had overtaken their bazouki player, but were unable to recall anything pertinent about the patrons that night. Solitary diners were not unusual, attracted by the sense of communal jollity which often developed as the evening wore on and the dancing began.
‘But why’re you asking all these questions?’ enquired Xenopoulos finally. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘So far as we know,’ said Bowler carefully. ‘But it’s possible one of the diners that night could have been a witness. You keep a record of table bookings, I suppose?’
‘Natch. Like a copy of that page in the reservation diary, would you?’ said the manager, pre-empting Bowler’s next request. ‘No sweat. Have a seat at the bar and a drink on the house, I’ll be with you in a jiff.’
Bowler had another pint of lager and was sitting staring into the empty glass like Frank Sinatra about to burst into ‘One More for the Road’ when a hand tapped gently on his shoulder, a musky perfume rubbed seductively against his nose and a voice breathed in his ear, ‘Hi. Whatever you lost in that glass, I think you’ve swallowed it.’
He spun round on his stool smiling, and found himself looking at a small, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a generous mouth whose smile matched his, except that it did not fade as his now faded.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said. ‘Jax. How’re you doing?’
Jax Ripley considered the question for a moment then said, ‘Well. I’m doing well. And you, Hat. How are you? All by yourself?’
‘Yeah. That’s right. I am. You?’
‘With friends, but when I saw you at the bar, I thought no one so good looking should be so sad so early in the evening and came across. So what are you here for, Hat? Business or pleasure?’
Discretion vied with ego. She was wearing a dress which didn’t offer much hope of concealment to even the smallest of microphones, but with Jax the Ripper, you never could tell.
He said, ‘Pleasure. Or it would have been if I hadn’t got stood up.’
‘My favourite policeman? Tell me her name and I’ll let the world know what a stupid cow she is.’
‘Thanks, but maybe not. I’m a great forgiver,’ he said.
She regarded him quizzically for a moment then her gaze drifted over his shoulder.
‘Mr Bowler, here’s that page you wanted. Hope it’s useful, but a lot of our customers just come in off the street on the off chance.’
He turned to find Xenopoulos proffering a photocopied sheet.
‘Yes, thanks, that’s great, thanks a lot,’ he said, folding it and shoving it into his jacket pocket.
He turned back to the woman to find her expression had shifted from quizzical to downright curious.
‘Just improving the not so shining hour,’ he said.
‘Yes? Anything that would improve mine?’ she asked. ‘Over a friendly drink?’
‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Really, Jax, it’s nothing.’
Her unblinking eyes made him feel like a guilty child, so he let his gaze drift over her shoulder. And found himself looking straight at Andy Dalziel who had just come into the restaurant with the well-rounded woman rumour had it he was getting it on with. But the expression on the Fat Man’s face suggested he had slaughter rather than sex on his mind.
Bowler jerked his gaze back to Jax Ripley whose eyes by comparison were soft and kind.
‘That drink,’ he said, ‘make it a tequila sunset.’
‘You mean sunrise?’
‘I know what I mean,’ he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_fb0d207a-6aba-583e-aa79-c0be0ef4f744)
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.
