Dialogues of the Dead

149 he felt now, maybe there was something in it. His relationship with Rye had certainly taken a step forward; though he could see it being knocked a couple of long steps back when she realized he'd kept stumm about the Fourth Dialogue. The temptation to tell her had been strong but, over the phone at least, not as strong as Sergeant Wield's prohibition on spreading the news. 'Keep this to yourself,' Wield had said. 'As far as the world's concerned, Councillor Steel's death is an isolated incident until the super decides different. And you want the super to feel you're reliable, don't you? Especially around young women.' Hat had thought of arguing that as Rye Pomona had been instrumental in bringing them into contact with the Wordman, she had a right to know, but it wasn't an argument he felt he could sustain in face of those louring features. So instead he said, 'Any reason why the super shouldn't think I'm reliable, Sarge?' 'I think,' said Wield carefully, 'he felt you might have got a bit close to Jax Ripley.' He watched the youngster's face closely, saw puzzlement bubble to understanding then boil into indignation. 'You mean all that stuff she did about us falling down on the job, Mr Dalziel thought she was getting inside info from me? . Jesus, Sarge, nearly every time I saw her, we got in a row about those programmes. OK, so we stayed friends, sort of, but we both knew we were just using each other. I might have done the odd trade-off with her - I'll show you mine if you show me yours but if she had a real deep-throat in the Force, it certainly wasn't me!' Wield noted but did not comment on the sexual imagery used in the denial. Though unsusceptible to such things himself, he was perfectly aware when a woman was turning up the heat in his direction, and he'd got a good warm blast on the couple of occasions he'd met the TV reporter. If, and he tended to believe him, Bowler hadn't succumbed beyond the point of professional discretion, then it said much for the young man's self-control. 'Do you think I should say something to the super?' Bowler had asked in some agitation. 'I shouldn't,' said Wield. 'Denial afore you're asked is as good as an admission in our game. He seemed quite pleased with the way you handled yourself yesterday. So forget it. The future's what matters, not the past. But be warned. You see a reporter, you run a mile.' That would mean taking up the marathon, thought Hat. The media interest in Ripley's murder had been vast and though there was as yet no official acknowledgement of a link with Steele's death, they were close enough in time and location for the bloodhounds to be sniffing the air once more and sending up their howls of speculation. Privately Hat thought Dalziel's notion of keeping quiet about the Fourth Dialogue was stupid, but not as stupid as giving any hint of what he thought. 'Yes, Sarge. So what's the state of play at the moment? Any other developments?' 'Well, there's a meeting in the super's office at ten. It's the DCI's idea. The Great Consult, he calls it.' 'What's that mean?' 'Something about all the devils getting together to decide how to get out of hell. Mr Pascoe sometimes lets himself go a bit poetic when things get tough,' said Wield indulgently. 'Any road, he's persuaded the super that it's time to call on some outside expertise, like Dr Pottle, the shrink, and some language expert from the university.' 'Jesus, things must be bad!' exclaimed Hat, who knew how the Fat Man felt about what he usually referred to as arty-forty crop-merchants. 'You're right. We're really scraping the barrel. You're invited.' The?' Exhilaration fought with apprehension at the news. 'Aye. So get yourself right up to speed. But first you'd best go and ring that lass from the library and tell her you'll definitely not be coming out to play today.' As he began to dial Rye's number, Hat had wondered how the hell Wield knew he had a date with Rye. But by the time he'd pressed the final digit, he'd worked out that the sergeant must have overheard all of the conversation before the hug which might have turned into an embrace. That sod misses nothing, he thought, half admiringly, half resentfully. But I'm a lot prettier!