Dialogues of the Dead

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Pascoe would have paid cash money for the pleasure of stretching out in his favourite armchair and letting the inanities of weekend television lull him to sleep. The call of duty demanding his presence at the short story result ceremony was growing ever fainter. Nothing was going to happen relevant to the Wordman enquiry and, in any case, Edgar Wield would be there to keep an eye on things. Even Elbe generously encouraged him stay away. 'As a judge, I've got to go,' she said. 'No need for you to suffer though. Put your feet up. I'll cancel the baby-sitter.' He thought of all the tedious police social occasions she'd endured on his behalf and his conscience pricked him mightily. 'No, I'll go,' he said. 'It's not like it's the Oscars with acceptance speeches going on forever. How long is the TV spot? Half an hour?' 'That's it. Plus there's drinks before for distinguished guests and their undistinguished partners. Few snorts of the hard stuff and a bit of lively conversation might be just the thing you need.' 'We'd better take a taxi then,' said Pascoe. But to start with, it looked like Ellie had got it entirely wrong. If anything, the atmosphere at the drinks party was slightly less lively than the university church that morning. The last time most of those present had been gathered together in the Centre, Councillor Steel had been murdered. And enough of them had attended Sam Johnson's funeral for his death to darken their thoughts too. But as with most wakes, two or three drinks eventually brought light and a dawn chorus of chatter, and though the first person to laugh out loud looked a little apologetic, soon the gathering was indistinguishable in jollity from any other party which isn't