Dialogues of the Dead

165 himself. Did the whole world know about his so-called secret surveillance? wondered Hat. 'And there weren't owt in his statement nor anyone else's to put him in the frame for the councillor, were there?' 'He's a clever fellow,' said Pascoe. 'Ah, I see. That means the cleaner he looks, the guiltier he obviously is, does it? Tell you what, minute you see him walking on water with an angelic choir singing "Jerusalem", you pull your wellies on and put him under arrest. Bowler, how about you? Are you good for owt more than kissing strange men in public lavatories?' It wasn't a very inviting invitation, but Hat guessed it was the only one he was likely to get. He said, 'I checked out one or two people, and something came up, probably nothing . ..' 'You'd best not be wasting my time with it if it's probably nothing, lad,' growled Dalziel. 'No, sir. It's this writer fellow, Charley Penn. He was at the preview, and it's reported that he had a bit of a set-to with Coun cillor Steel, so that's why I ran him through the computer. And it turns out he has a record.' 'For writing crap?' said Dalziel. 'No, sir. For assault. Five years ago he got bound over in Leeds for assaulting a journalist.' 'Oh aye? Should have given him the George Cross. Pete, you know owt about this bugger's homicidal tendencies?' 'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe almost apologetically, not wanting to sound like he was putting Hat down. 'I mean, I've heard a story, though I wasn't sure how apocryphal it was. Version I heard, Penn got pissed off with a review and crowned said journalist with a slice of gateau, so not exactly a deadly weapon.' 'Way my missus baked, it was,' said Dalziel. 'That it then, Bowler? You reckon we should pull Penn in and wire his bollocks to a table lamp just because he shampooed some miserable reporter with a cream cake?' 'No, sir. Not exactly . . . what I mean is, I thought he might be worth a chat. . .' 'Oh aye? Give me half a good reason.' 'The journalist's name was Jacqueline Ripley, sir.' Dalziel's jaw dropped in exaggerated amazement. 'Jax the Ripper? By God! Pete, why'd you not tell me it was Jax the Ripper?' 'Didn't know, sir. Sorry. Well done, Hat.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Bowler, blushing faintly. 'I even managed to get a copy of the article.' 'How on earth did you manage that?' said Pascoe. 'Well, I rang the Yorkshire Life office. Chances of finding anyone there on a Sunday didn't seem good, but I hit lucky and got the editor, Mr Macready, and he was very helpful and dug out the piece and faxed me a copy . ..' 'You mean you've alerted a journalist to the fact that we're trying to make connections between Charley Penn and a murder victim?' snapped Pascoe. 'For God's sake, man, what were you thinking of?' Hat Bowler, who had produced the fax sheet with the flourish of a Chamberlain announcing peace in our time, looked aghast at the speed with which war had been declared. But help came from an unexpected source. 'Nay, never fear,' said Dalziel, plucking the fax from his nervous fingers. 'I know Alee Macready, big church man, big swordsman too. He'll be no bother, not if he wants to stay on the Bishop's Christmas card list. Well done, young Bowler. It's good to know there's still someone round here willing to do a bit of oldfashioned police work. Charley Penn, eh? Now, if I recall aright, his chosen place of worship on a Sunday morning is The Dog and Duck. Let's go and find him.' 'Sir, wouldn't it be better to ask him to come here perhaps . . . I mean, it's a bit public . . .' 'Aye, that's why they call them pubs, lad. For God's sake, I'm not going to arrest him. Hit Jax the Ripper with a slice of cake, did he? Good old Charley! I'll mebbe buy the bugger a drink.' 'I think,' said Pascoe, 'in view of the fact that Ripley has just been murdered it would be undiplomatic to take that line in the pub, sir.' 'Bad taste, tha means? Likely you're right. I'll not buy him a drink then. Bowler, got your wallet? You can buy us both one!'

i6'j Chapter Nineteen