of delight at his luck and the sight of a wavering line of greylags crossing the rectangle of sky between the police station and the coroner’s court tuned up his spirits another notch.
He watched them out of sight then ran up the stairs to the CID floor whistling merrily.
“You sound happy,” said Edgar Wield. “Found Lord Lucan, have you?”
“No, Sarge, but got something almost as odd.”
He showed the sergeant the two Dialogues and told him the tale.
“It’s certainly odd,” said Wield, sounding like he meant daft. Bowler couldn’t blame him.
“Thought we should check it out,” he said. “Just a feeling.”
“A feeling, eh?” said Wield, those dark eyes surveying him coldly from that fragmented face, as if well aware that the feeling in question had more to do with Rye Pomona and hormones than detective intuition. “You’re a bit junior for feelings. Even sergeants are only allowed three or four a year, between consenting adults. You’d best try this out on someone with a bit more brass about him.”
Bowler’s spirits hit an air pocket and sank as he contemplated taking something as airy-fairy as this to Andy Dalziel. It had been made quite clear to him that his fast-track transfer from the Midlands had been effected without Dalziel’s approval. “We’ll see how you shape,” had been the gist of his welcome six months earlier. In his own eyes, he had shaped pretty well, or at least not made any major mistakes. But far from wriggling his way into the Fat Man’s affection, from time to time in the past few weeks he’d turned round as though prodded in the back to find those ice-pick eyes fixed on him with an expression somewhere between simple distrust and out-and-out loathing.
On the other hand, it was a comfort that only last week, the DCI hadn’t hesitated to pick him out for a bit of delicate investigation, checking out some nutter he thought was harassing him.
“Yes, I thought maybe I’d mention it to Mr. Pascoe. Need to chat to him anyway,” he said airily, trying to give the impression of a special relationship existing between graduate entrants.
Wield, noting the attempt, said, “When you next report to him about Franny Roote, you mean?”
It didn’t do to let junior members of the team imagine they knew anything he didn’t. Peter had probably stressed to young Bowler that his interest in the behaviour and habits of Roote was technically unofficial and should not be mentioned in the super’s presence. In his present mood, the Fat Man seemed to believe that telling Bowler anything was like ringing up the tabloids.
“Found anything interesting, have you?” pursued
Wield.
“Not yet,” admitted Bowler.
“Keep trying. But keep out of sight. He’s got an eye like a hawk by all accounts.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Sarge,” said Bowler confidently. “I won’t raise enough breeze to stir a feather. So what do you think about these Dialogues? Speak to Mr. Pascoe?”
“No,” said Wield judiciously. “I think you’ll find that Mr. Headingley’s your man.”
Detective Inspector George Headingley had a reputation for being a by-the-rules, straight-down-the-middle cop who treated hunches with embrocation and gut feelings with bismuth. “A safe pair of hands” Pascoe had once called him in Bowler’s hearing, to which Dalziel had replied, “Nay, that were true once, but since he started counting the days to demob he’s become a safe pair of buttocks. Give owt to George and his first thought now is to sit on it till it can’t do him any harm. I blame all this new legislation. I’d hang bent cops by the bollocks till they twanged, but you can’t do the job properly if you’ve got to be looking over your shoulder all the time.”
This was a reference to the new climate of accountability. Gone, or at least going, were the good old days when a policeman who made a mistake could slip gratefully into a secure pension “on medical grounds.” And even those who’d retired in the fullness of time were no longer secure from retrospective investigation and changed pensionable status.
So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that someone as cautious as George Headingley entering the final straight of an honourable if not over-distinguished career, should have decided that the best way of not blotting his copybook was to write in it as little as possible.
Bowler’s suspicion that Wield was saying indirectly that the best place for something as daft as the Dialogues was under the DI’s ample buttocks was slightly allayed when he discovered that the case of the AA man’s death was there already. When the coroner had adjourned the inquest for the police to make further enquiries, Uniformed had passed it upstairs for CID to take a look at. Headingley had taken a glance, yawned, and was on the point of tossing it back downstairs with the required annotation that CID found no evidence requiring further investigation.
“Now you come along with this,” said the DI accusingly. “It’s a load of nothing. Can’t see why you think it’s worth bothering with.”
“There has to be some reason why the coroner adjourned,” said Bowler evasively.
“Yeah, well, I suppose so. Silly old buffer’s always been terrified of making a mistake so when the family started causing a fuss, he took the easy way out. Anything goes wrong, it’ll be our fault.”
Takes a one to know a one, thought Bowler as he studied the inquest report.
He soon saw there was a bit more to it than Headingley had implied, but not a lot. The question of why Ainstable had stopped in the first place hadn’t been satisfactorily answered. Call of nature had been theorized, losing his balance as he relieved himself over the shallow parapet. But his wife had tearfully protested that her Andrew was not the kind of man to pee off a bridge situated on a public highway, the pathologist had pointed out that his bladder was still fairly full, and PC Dave Insole, first cop on the scene, had confirmed that his flies were fastened.
Perhaps then he’d had a dizzy turn before he got started and had fallen? The post mortem hadn’t found evidence of any kind of “dizzy turn,” though the pathologist could think of several versions of this syndrome which would have left no sign, and the police report mentioned rather tentatively some scuffs on the parapet of the bridge which might possibly indicate he’d been sitting down and gone over backwards.
But the really puzzling thing was his tool box, which had been found resting on the road by the parapet.
Headingley didn’t think this was significant.
“Clear as daylight,” he said. “Driving along, feels dizzy, stops to get some air, climbs out, automatically picks up his tool box en route, ’cos that’s what he always does and, having a dizzy turn, he’s not thinking straight, right? Sits down on the bridge, everything goes black, over he goes, bangs his head on a stone, unconscious, drowns. Pathologist found no signs of foul play, did he?”
“There wouldn’t be, would there, guv?” said Hat respectfully. “Not when the crime’s letting someone die without trying to save them.”
“Murder by neglect? On the basis of this?” Headingley waved the Dialogues folder scornfully in the air. “Get real, son.”
“And the other, guv? Driving straight at that kid on the bike? If the Wordman did that, well, that’s not neglect, is it? That’s pretty positive, wouldn’t you say?”
“What did you call him?” said Headingley, postponing answering the question.
“The Wordman,” said Hat. He explained about the In principio, then explained his joke, and if anything got an even dustier response than he had in the library. Clearly the DI felt that giving the author of the Dialogues a nickname gave him substance, making him harder to ignore, which was what he would have liked to do.
But Hat was determined to pursue him to a decision.
“So you think we should just drop it, guv?” he persisted.
He watched with hidden amusement as uncertainties chased each other like clouds across Headingley’s broad open face.
“Well, I suppose you’d better take a look. Likes his t’s crossed with a ruler, that coroner,” said Headingley finally. “But don’t waste too much time on it. I want a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow. That’s the real test of a theory, son, how much of it you’re willing to put in writing.”
“Yes, guv. Thank you, guv,” said Bowler, just staying this side of open mockery. Headingley might be a boring old fart, ambling towards retirement with little interest in anything other than protecting his ample back, but he still had rank, plus he had survived for many years under the unforgiving eye of Andy Dalziel, so there had to be something there.
He went to his desk, checked out the names and addresses he wanted, then set out on his quest. He had a double reason for being meticulous now-first, to impress Rye Pomona; second, to satisfy George Headingley. Not
