multiplying.”
“Helen came from Troy.”
“No she didn’t. She got abducted and ended up there. So forget the soft soap and tell me, where’s the connection, Constable?”
“Simple really and entirely soap-free,” he murmured. “The redwing is a bird with lovely chestnut colouring and a prominent pale strip over the eye. So when I saw this, I thought redwing.”
He reached over and brushed his index finger against the tongue of silvery grey running through her hair.
That’s enough, buster, thought Rye. Verbal jousting is one thing, but stroking my hair’s a familiarity too far.
“So you really are a bird nerd,” she said. “And here’s me thinking it was just a cover story. Ah well, each to his own anorak.”
She saw she’d scored a palpable hit and should have felt gleeful but didn’t.
“Anyway, it’s a better come-on than the guy who said it reminded him of Silver Blaze,” she went on.
“Sorry?”
“Silver Blaze. The racehorse in the Sherlock Holmes story? Don’t you all get issued those at Hendon, or is being a detective a cover story too?”
“No, that’s for real too, I’m afraid.”
“Oh yes? So prove it.”
“OK,” he said. “First off, this Wordman stuff is confidential,
OK?”
“Confidential? It’s me who brought you these Dialogues, remember? And now you’re telling me just because you’ve invented a nickname for him, it’s confidential.”
“What I’ve found out in the course of my investigation is police business and I can’t share it with you unless you accept its confidentiality,” he said, deliberately ponderous.
She thought, nodded, said, “OK. So let’s hear it.”
“First, all that stuff about Ainstable-the tropical fish and the Greek holiday-is true. As is the story about where the bazouki came from. Plus there’s a witness who might have seen a car’s headlights just before the motorbike crash. And there could have been a car on the humpback bridge in front of where the AA van was parked.”
“Oh, shit. So this lunatic really did kill them!” exclaimed Rye, horrified.
“Not necessarily. There are other ways the Wordman could have got the information and there’s no way of knowing for certain if Ainstable stopped to help someone. And my witness who saw the lights is going senile and isn’t a hundred per cent sure what he had for breakfast.”
“Great! And this is what I’ve been sworn to secrecy over?”
Bowler said seriously, “It’s important either way. If there’s nothing in it, then we don’t want to be spreading alarm and despondency about a possible serial killer on the loose, do we? And if there is something in it…”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “So you’re right, which could be an irritating habit. All right, Sherlock, what’s your professional opinion?”
“Me? I’m far too junior to have opinions,” said Bowler. “I just pass things up to my superiors and they’ve got to decide what to do next.”
He smiled as he spoke and Rye said coldly, “You think it’s something to joke about?”
“Hell, no. I’m not laughing at that. I’m just thinking about my DI who’s only interested in sailing into retirement peacefully and just hates the idea of having to make a decision about something as difficult as this.”
“I’m glad to know the public weal’s in such safe hands.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not typical. You should see the guy at the top.”
His expression turned sombre at the thought of Andy Dalziel. Why did the guy dislike him so much? Couldn’t just be because of his degree. Pascoe was a graduate too and he and the Fat Man seemed to be able to work together without too much blood on the carpet.
“Hello?” said Rye. “You still with me or are you getting messages from Planet Zog?”
“Yes. Sorry. Just the thought of our super does that to me. Look, I’ll keep you posted about any further developments on the Wordman front, I promise. I assume there’s been nothing more at your end?”
“Any more Dialogues, you mean? No, of course not, or we’d have called you. And the closing date for entries is tonight so there’s not much time left.”
He regarded her gravely and said, “Maybe if our Wordman really is killing people, he won’t be much bothered by a closing date for a short story competition.”
She looked irritated but with herself not him and said, “Thanks for making me feel stupid. That part of your job?”
“No. Is it part of yours?”
“When did I do it?”
“When you and Dee started using long words you assumed, rightly, I wouldn’t understand.”
“Such as?”
“When I told you what people called me, you said something about that being very paranoidistic or something.”
“Paronomasiac,” she said. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s just the adjective from paronomasia which means any form of word-play, like a pun.”
“And what Dee said?”
“Paronomaniac.” She smiled and said, “From paronomania, meaning an obsessive interest in word games. It’s also the name of a board game Dick’s very fond of. Bit like Scrabble, only harder.”
He didn’t really want to hear about Dee’s cleverness or anything which hinted at intimacy between Rye and her boss, but couldn’t help saying, “You’ve played this para whatsit, then?”
She gave him a cool smile which seemed to say she understood precisely the direction of his thoughts and said, “No. It seems only two can play and those two are Dick and Charley Penn.”
“The writer?”
“Is there another?”
He decided this was leading nowhere and said, “So now we’ve both made each other feel stupid, what about this Sunday?”
She didn’t pretend not to understand but said, “I don’t know if I’m that stupid. What’s the E stand for?”
“What E?”
“E. Bowler. On your library card. That E. Come on. What are you hiding under your hat, Hat?”
He looked at her doubtfully then took a deep breath and said, “Ethelbert.”
“Ethelbert,” she repeated, savouring the name like a jam doughnut, then running her tongue round her lips as if to pick up the residual sugar. “I like it.”
“Really?” He examined her closely in search of ambush. “You’ll be the first. Most people fall about laughing.”
“When you’ve got a name that makes you sound like an alcopop, you don’t laugh at other people’s names,” she said.
“Rye Pomona,” he said. “I see what you mean. But it’s nice. Isn’t Pomona a place in Italy?”
“No,” she said. “But it is Italian. Pomona was the Roman goddess of fruit trees.”
She watched to see if he would lumber into a joke or ooze into a compliment.
He nodded and said, “And Rye, is that a nickname, or what?”
“Short for Raina,” she said.
“Sorry? Never heard that one.”
She spelt it for him, and pronounced it carefully, stressing the three syllables, Rye-ee-na.
