Dialogues of the Dead

“So, have you drawn any conclusions, Charley?”

“Only that there’s a lot more mileage in it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“’Cos he’s obviously a clever sod, and if the sharpest brain in our CID has got to waste time suspecting me, then you can’t be within a moonshot of catching him.”

“Charley,” said Dalziel softly, “there’s one way you can stop me wasting time. Make up your mind if you’re going to come clean or try to tough it out. Last Sunday afternoon …?”

“And if I tell you I went to see my mother, what then?”

“Then I invite you down the nick where the refreshments aren’t half as good as this and the service is twice as lousy,” said Dalziel.

“Oh well, if you’d put it like that to start with …I was with a friend. A female friend.”

“They’re the best kind,” said Dalziel. “But, let me guess, she’s married and being a true gent, you can’t possibly give me her name.”

“Andy, I don’t know why we bother to have conversations when you know everything in advance.”

“Because it’s words that make the world go round,” said Dalziel.

“I thought it was love.”

“Same thing. Nowt that doesn’t come down to words.”

“You’re getting too deep for me, Andy. So what do we do now?”

“You? You do nowt. Me, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m not going to press you to reveal a name, Charley, because I respect your loyalty and delicate feelings in this matter. But you’re right about us being alike. I keep a little notebook too where I jot down oddities. And I reckon when I go through my notes, I’m going to come across-it might be a couple, it might be half a dozen, it might even be more-names of women who could be the femme I’m cherchezing. I’ll put ’em in alphabetic order then I’ll call round to see each of them in turn, preferably at night just when they’re serving up supper to hubby and the family, and I’ll ask ’em, ‘Were you fucking Charley Penn last Sunday afternoon? I need to know else he’s in big trouble.’ And I’m sure that the lady in question will stand up and be counted rather than let you stay in that trouble. In fact, if she’s tired of her old man and fancies getting together with you on a more permanent basis, she might jump at the chance to get this out in the open. Could even be that more than one will see this as too good a chance to miss and I may be stuck with a superfluity of admissions, which could be awkward. But that’s a risk I’ll just have to take. Unless you care to save me from it.”

He nodded as if to affirm his readiness to undertake such a perilous mission and drank his beer.

“Fuck you, Dalziel,” said Penn.

“I take it that’s a ‘yes,’” said Dalziel.

34

Hat Bowler’s lunch had passed with much less drama.

He had taken Rye first of all into a wooded gully where they spotted enough birds to justify the expedition. She listened to his expert commentary with apparent interest but he was careful not to go on too long and risk boredom setting in. Also he was aware that the clouds were getting ever lower and wanted to make sure that their lunch at least was not spoilt by the inevitable rain.

They found a sheltered spot under a huge outcrop of rock from which several loose boulders had detached themselves over the years. He set about kicking it clear of sheep droppings and, when he caught her watching him with some amusement, he said apologetically, “Yeah, I know, it’s like eating in a sheep’s toilet, but they know a thing or two about shade in summer and shelter in winter.”

“Where there’s shit there’s shelter, isn’t that what the shepherds say?” laughed Rye.

“I’ll have to remember that. OK, that does it, I think.”

They sat and ate the assortment of sandwiches he had provided. Despite his promise to be founder of the feast, Rye produced from her knapsack a chocolate-iced sponge cake which she sliced in two.

“Hey, this is good,” he said. “You bake it?”

“That’s not surprise I hear, I hope?”

“Gratitude and delight,” he said.

Things were going well, he felt. She gave every sign of enjoying his company as much as he was enjoying hers, but any hope he had of their growing closeness easing itself into a bit of al fresco grappling vanished when as they drank the rest of the coffee, the rain began, not much, more an undeniable moistness of the air than real spots, but enough he guessed to dampen ardour if applied to naked skin.

Quickly they packed up.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“I haven’t come all this way to leave without taking a look at the famous tarn,” she said. “And I’ve not forgotten your interesting bits.”

The rain still hadn’t really taken a hold by the time they reached the tarn, with the dampness in the air manifesting itself in the form of a general mistiness rather than a downpour. They stood at the water’s edge, straining their eyes through the vaporous air towards the further bank where a low stone building was just visible.

“Isn’t that the view that Dick painted?” said Rye.

“More or less. Slightly different angle, and a lot better visibility. But that’s certainly Stangcreek Cottage.”