Dialogues of the Dead

2^7 now the poor sod's in the ground. That felt like indecent haste. What happened, Andy? Loopy Linda jerk your wires?' 'She's a strong woman, Charley, hard to gainsay,' said Dalziel. 'Or so I gather. Never met her myself.' 'I noticed you weren't at the funeral,' said Penn. 'Well, bury one you've buried them all,' said Dalziel. 'Went OK, did it? I gather young Roote did a turn.' 'He spoke from the heart, nowt wrong with that,' said Penn. 'Oh aye, most things he does come from the heart, I don't doubt it,' said Dalziel. 'You sound impressed, Charley.' 'He seems a good lad. He's put the past behind him. Something a lot more of us should try to do, maybe. And he's got talent. You heard he won the short story competition?' 'Aye.' There'd been a message, or rather a series of messages on Dalziel's answering machine, in which Pascoe had brought him up to speed on the events of the night. 'Good story, was it?' 'About the only one,' grunted Penn, who was notorious for stinting praise. 'When I saw some of the crud on the short list, I was glad I hadn't had to read the stuff that didn't make it. But Roote's story would have shone in any company. It was a good night for the lad, pity your lackeys had to try and spoil it for him.' 'Lackeys? Don't recall noticing I had any lackeys last time I looked. Must have drunk some genetically modified ale.' 'Yon DCI, Ellie Pascoe's man. She's a grand lass. You'd've hoped, being wed to her, he'd know better. And that one with the face. God, take him round the maternity ward, you'd not have to waste time and drugs inducing labour.' 'You should be careful what you say, Charley. Likely there's an Ombudsman and a tribunal I could report you to for nasty remarks like that.' 'I'd not be surprised. Anyway, Andy, shall we get down to it, then you can go home and crawl back into bed which is what you shouldn't have got out of?' ' Dalziel finished his pint and looked with surprise into the empty glass. With a sigh, Penn finished his drink and went to the bar for replacements. 'That's kind,' said Dalziel. 'Self-interest. You'd not arrest a man who'd just bought you a drink. Would you?' 'Well, I'd be mad to arrest the bugger afore he bought it, wouldn't I?' said Dalziel. 'Charley, I want you to think hard before you answer this. Last Sunday you said you had to go off because on Sundays you always went to visit your old ma. When you were asked later in the week where you'd been that's what you said, visiting your ma. And that's more or less what your ma said too.' 'You've been talking to my mother?' exclaimed Penn. 'Nay, Charley, did you think we wouldn't check up? We check out everything anyone tells us, especially if they make their money inventing things.' 'And my mother, what does she say?' 'She says her Karl is a good boy, a perfect son.' 'There you go then,' said Penn. 'So what are you saying, Andy?' 'I'm saying I can see where you got your talent for fiction from,' said Dalziel. 'Where were you last Sunday afternoon, Charley?' Penn took a long slow draw on his beer. Wondering whether I'm bluffing, thought Dalziel. Wondering whether he should call it. 'Is this about Sam Johnson?' said Penn, postponing the moment. 'What else?' 'You think mebbe I'm this Wordman?' 'Well, it sounds like a trade description of your job, Charley.' 'You think I may have murdered - how many is it? - five people, and you can still sit there having a drink with me?' 'Love the "how many is it?", Charley. Innocent, guilty, you know exactly how many it is. Writer like you's probably got a little notebook where you jot down owt of interest that comes up. Unless you're not interested in murder.' 'Only as a fine art,' said Penn. 'That a confession? 'Cos I get the impression that's how this lunatic keeps himself going, got his head bent round some daft idea or other in which killing isn't wrong, or at least is necessary for the sake of something more important.' 'No, it's not a confession. But yes, you're right, I've been keeping a close eye on these killings. That's what writers do. Bit like