communal jollity which often developed as the evening wore on and the dancing began.
“But why’re you asking all these questions?” enquired Xenopoulos finally. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“So far as we know,” said Bowler carefully. “But it’s possible one of the diners that night could have been a witness. You keep a record of table bookings, I suppose?”
“Natch. Like a copy of that page in the reservation diary, would you?” said the manager, pre-empting Bowler’s next request. “No sweat. Have a seat at the bar and a drink on the house, I’ll be with you in a jiff.”
Bowler had another pint of lager and was sitting staring into the empty glass like Frank Sinatra about to burst into “One More for the Road” when a hand tapped gently on his shoulder, a musky perfume rubbed seductively against his nose and a voice breathed in his ear, “Hi. Whatever you lost in that glass, I think you’ve swallowed it.”
He spun round on his stool smiling, and found himself looking at a small, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a generous mouth whose smile matched his, except that it did not fade as his now faded.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “Jax. How’re you doing?”
Jax Ripley considered the question for a moment then said, “Well. I’m doing well. And you, Hat. How are you? All by yourself?”
“Yeah. That’s right. I am. You?”
“With friends, but when I saw you at the bar, I thought no one so good looking should be so sad so early in the evening and came across. So what are you here for, Hat? Business or pleasure?”
Discretion vied with ego. She was wearing a dress which didn’t offer much hope of concealment to even the smallest of microphones, but with Jax the Ripper, you never could tell.
He said, “Pleasure. Or it would have been if I hadn’t got stood up.”
“My favourite policeman? Tell me her name and I’ll let the world know what a stupid cow she is.”
“Thanks, but maybe not. I’m a great forgiver,” he said.
She regarded him quizzically for a moment then her gaze drifted over his shoulder.
“Mr. Bowler, here’s that page you wanted. Hope it’s useful, but a lot of our customers just come in off the street on the off chance.”
He turned to find Xenopoulos proffering a photocopied sheet.
“Yes, thanks, that’s great, thanks a lot,” he said, folding it and shoving it into his jacket pocket.
He turned back to the woman to find her expression had shifted from quizzical to downright curious.
“Just improving the not so shining hour,” he said.
“Yes? Anything that would improve mine?” she asked. “Over a friendly drink?”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “Really, Jax, it’s nothing.”
Her unblinking eyes made him feel like a guilty child, so he let his gaze drift over her shoulder. And found himself looking straight at Andy Dalziel who had just come into the restaurant with the well-rounded woman rumour had it he was getting it on with. But the expression on the Fat Man’s face suggested he had slaughter rather than sex on his mind.
Bowler jerked his gaze back to Jax Ripley whose eyes by comparison were soft and kind.
“That drink,” he said, “make it a tequila sunset.”
“You mean sunrise?”
“I know what I mean,” he said.
7
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR George Headingley was a stickler for punctuality. With the end of his career in sight, he might have decided he wasn’t going to do anything he didn’t want to do, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be unpunctual not doing it. He was due at his desk at eight thirty the following morning and at eight twenty-nine he was approaching it with the measured tread which made his footsteps recognizable at fifty paces.
He could see that the cleared top which he prided himself on leaving at the end of every shift had been sullied by a document. At least the sullier had taken care to place it dead centre so that in many ways it enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of perfect order which Headingley was always at pains to achieve.
He hung his coat up, removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then sat down and pulled the document towards him. It was several pages thick and the first of these declared that its author was DC Bowler who, as requested, had gathered together all available information which might help DI Headingley to assess whether anything in the deaths of Andrew Ainstable or David Pitman required his, that is DI Headingley’s, further investigation.
Why was it that something legalistic about this form of words made his heart sink?
He opened it and began to read. And soon his heart was sinking deeper, faster. He’d wanted firm no-no’s so that he could consign these daft Dialogues to the waste bin, but all he was getting was a series of boggy maybe’s.
When he finished he sat for a moment, then gathered all the papers together and set out in search of Bowler.
There was no sign of him. He encountered Wield and made enquiry after the young DC.
Wield said, “Saw him earlier. Think he went off to do something for Mr. Pascoe. Was it urgent?”
“Was what urgent?” said Andy Dalziel, whose approach was sometimes audible at twice the distance of the DI’s but who could also exercise the option of materializing like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, moving silent as mist over the ground.
“The DI’s looking for Bowler,” said Wield.
“And the bugger’s not in yet?”
“In and out,” said Wield reprovingly.
“Aye, like Speedy Gonzales,” said Dalziel with a lip curl like a shed tyre. “What do you want with him, George?”
“Well, nothing…just a query about a report he’s done for me,” said Headingley, turning away.
“About those deaths, was it?” said Wield. “The library thing.”
Headingley shot him a glance which came as close to malevolence as a man of his amiable temperament could manage. He still had hopes of squashing this bit of awkwardness or, in the unlikely event of there being anything in it, at least shelving it till such time as he was long gone. To that end, the less Dalziel knew, the better.
“Library thing?” said Dalziel. “Not a body-in-the-library thing, I hope, George. I’m getting too old for bodies in libraries.”
Headingley explained, playing it down. Dalziel listened then held out his hand for the file.
He scanned through it quickly, his nostrils flaring as he came to the end of Bowler’s report.
“So that’s what the bugger were doing at the Taverna,” he muttered to himself.
“Sorry?”
“Nowt. So what do you reckon, George? Load of crap or a big one for you to go out on?”
“Don’t know yet,” said Headingley as judiciously as he could manage. “That’s why I want to see Bowler. Check through a couple of points with him. What do you think, sir?”
Hopeful of dismissal.
“Me? Could be owt or nowt. I know I can rely on you to do the right thing. But while you’re thinking about it, George, mum’s the word, eh? Go off half-cocked on summat like this and we’ll look right wankers. Don’t want them blowflies from the media sniffing around till we know there’s dead meat, and it’s not us.”
A mobile rang in Headingley’s pocket. He took it out and said, “Yes?”
He listened then turned away from the other two men.
They heard him say, “No, not possible…of course…well, maybe…all right…twenty minutes.”
He switched off, turned back and said, “Need to go out. Possible information.”
“Oh aye. Anything I should know about?” said Dalziel.
