скачать книгу бесплатно
‘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.
