Dialogues of the Dead

163 you have to produce the things themselves, and you end up like the academicians in Swift's Lagado, dragging around a bagful of articles you may possibly want to refer to. In primitive societies the belief still exists that knowledge of the real names of individuals or even certain objects gives you power over them which is why they are at such pains to keep them secret. Spells are words arranged in a significant order and often coupled with the secret names of deities or devils .. .' 'So we're looking for a nut who probably likes doing riddles and crosswords?' Dalziel crashed in brutally. 'Dr Pottle?' 'I think your Wordman is a seriously disturbed personality who will show very little sign of this on the surface, in fact may appear a particularly laid-back and unflappable individual. But this will have been acquired behaviour and if you look back far enough in their lives, such individuals will almost inevitably have done something or experienced something which gives a hint that dangerous currents and tangling weeds may lie beneath that placid surface.' 'Well, that really narrows things down,' said Dalziel. 'That it, then?' His tone didn't invite further discourse but Pascoe said, 'Before you go, I wonder if this means anything to either of you?' He showed them a piece of paper on which was drawn P TV Pottle examined it, turned it round, shrugged and said, 'I'd need to know much more about its context to even hazard a guess.' Pascoe said, 'There was a wound on Councillor Steel's head. It may be, and certainly we can find no other candidate, the necessary mark referred to in the Dialogue. When the blood was washed away, these are the marks left by the burin. They could of course be accidental, but their resemblance to letters, a P certainly, and a badly formed M perhaps. The squiggle between could be simply an incidental ripping of the skin or it may be another less well-defined but nonetheless deliberate mark.' Dalziel looked sceptical but his left hand was scratching his stubble pate as if impelled by some irresistible sympathy. Urquhart suddenly snickered a laugh. 'Share the joke, sunshine?' suggested Dalziel. 'The councillor was called Cyril, wasn't he?' said the linguist. 'In the Russian Cyrillic alphabet, what looks like our P is in fact

164 an R, while that thing that you called a badly formed M could be a Cyrillic P. And if the scratch in between is just a shorthand I which is rather a complex letter in Russian and not easy to do in a hurry on a head with an engraving tool, this could simply be RIP in the Cyrillic alphabet. Gerrit?' Dalziel shook his head as if to clear it of the after-effects of long slumber and rose slowly to his feet. 'Gorrit,' he said in a mild, long-suffering voice. 'Right joker, this Wordman, ain't he? What's it they say? Laugh and the world laughs with you. Thanks, gents. That's definitely it. Sergeant Wield will show you out.' Pascoe, clearly feeling that this expression of appreciation fell some way short of warm, said, 'It's been really useful. Many thanks for giving us your time this morning. We'll look forward to hearing from you again as soon as you've had time for mature reflection, won't we, sir?' 'Can't wait,' said Dalziel. 'And Sergeant Wield; be sure to arrest Dr Urquhart if he starts smoking that stuff afore he leaves the building.' The linguist, who had once more taken his leather pouch from his pocket, paused in the doorway, smiled at Dalziel and said, 'Away play wi' yersel', Hamish.' It wasn't often his underlings had the pleasure of seeing their Great Master nonplussed but for a moment after the door closed behind Pottle, Urquhart and Wield, this was an experience Pascoe and Bowler enjoyed. Then he turned his gaze on them and they both smoothed away all signs of anything but alert intelligence from their faces. 'So, Peter, you happy now?' demanded Dalziel. 'I think it was a very useful meeting, sir, and with luck we'll get a great deal more help from the pair of them.' 'You reckon? And mebbe I'll join the Women's Institute. Jesus, you'd think on the Sabbath, we could get just a little bit of real help in taking things forward. Owt 'ud do. Just a name with enough justification for me to go and kick shit out of it.' 'There's always Roote.' 'Still whistling that tune, Pete? Thought your dog here had sniffed him out and found nowt.' First Wield, now the Fat Man. Not forgetting, of course, Roote