there’s something weird about that guy. Maybe it’s part of his job description, being a writer.”
“I see. Writers have to be weird, do they?” said Pascoe, faintly amused.
Suddenly Hat remembered Ellie Pascoe.
“Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Of course you didn’t. It’s only elderly male writers who leave romantic poems lying around for impressionable young women to find who are weird, I understand that.”
Laughing, he got into their car.
Well, so long as I’m keeping the brass amused, I must be doing something right, thought Hat.
The first few days of a murder enquiry, particularly one which promised to be as complex as the hunt for the Wordman, are always incredibly busy. At this stage it’s impossible to say what will prove productive busy-ness and what will turn out to be a complete waste of energy, so everything is done with a time-consuming attention to detail. The one positive thing that had come up was a partial thumbprint, not Ripley’s, on her left mule. Dalziel to his credit didn’t even look smug, but maybe this was because the experts said that even if they found a possible match, it was likely to be well short of the sixteen points of comparison necessary for a print to be admissible in evidence. Computerization permitted much quicker checks than in the old days, but so far nothing had come up.
The post mortem had confirmed cause of death as a single stab wound from a long thin knife. The ME’s on- site opinion that he could see no external evidence of sexual assault was also confirmed. She may have had protected intercourse some time on the day of her death, but if it had been against her will, she’d been too frightened to resist.
So the initial PM report had not been very helpful, but later the pathologist had rung up to say that a second examination had produced evidence of a bite mark on her left buttock, difficult to spot because it was right in the area of maximum hypostasis or post mortem lividity. The implication was that it might have been missed had it not been for the pathologist’s devotion to duty. “More likely it was the mortuary assistant or the cleaning lady,” said Dalziel cynically. Photographs were taken and shown to Professor Henry Muller, Mid-Yorkshire’s forensic dental expert, known to his students and the police alike as Mr. Molar. The professor’s diagnosis was as vague as the fingerprint expert’s. Yes, he’d be able to say definitely which teeth had definitely not made these marks, but doubted if he would be able to go beyond a strong possibility if presented with teeth that seemed to fit.
“Experts,” said Dalziel. “I’ve shat ’em. It’s blood, sweat, and good honest grind that’ll catch this bugger.”
From the start Hat Bowler was one of the grinders. On the first Saturday he found he hardly had a minute to spare to ring Rye and confirm what he’d known from the moment he saw Jax’s body, that his free Sunday was free no longer, and their trip to Stangdale had to be cancelled.
To his delight she said, “No sweat. The birds won’t have all migrated by next week, will they?”
“Hell, no,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’ll drop them a line to tell them to hang on.”
“Do that.”
They’d then talked about the case till Hat became aware of Dalziel’s bulk looming in the doorway of the CID room and hastily brought the conversation to a close.
“Witness?” said the Fat Man.
“Yes, sir,” said Hat.
“Things have changed. Talking to witnesses didn’t used to be a laughing matter. I were looking for Sergeant Wield.”
“He’s talking to a witness too, sir.”
“Hope he’s not laughing,” said Dalziel. “Not that any bugger would notice.”
Edgar Wield certainly wasn’t laughing.
The witness he was talking to was Franny Roote and Wield was playing this completely deadpan. He didn’t want to give the slightest hint that they’d had Roote under surveillance. Wield thought his friend Peter Pascoe was treading a very narrow line with Roote. There’d been no official complaint against Pascoe after the events which had led to the young man’s so-called suicide attempt, but hints of undue pressure had been made in certain quarters of the press, and notes would have been taken in the Force’s press monitoring division. Another “incident” would probably get a more direct response from both bodies. So Wield had been meticulous in his approach to the Taverna. He needed a reason for knowing Roote had been there on the night in question and it had come as a relief to discover that his bill had been paid by credit card. Sight of the bill also confirmed that he’d been there alone but even with the help of a photo, none of the waiters remembered him particularly.
Wield had then set out to interview everybody else known to have dined there that night, putting Roote well down the list.
Yet, for all this, he found himself greeted by a very faint, very knowing smile, as if the man recognized every inch of the path that had been trodden to his door.
He answered the questions courteously.
Yes, he’d been to the Taverna, just the once, not his kind of food. Yes, he remembered the young bazouki player. No, he couldn’t recollect noticing anyone in particular chatting to him.
“And you, sir, did you talk to the lad?” asked Wield. “Give a request, mebbe?”
“No, not my kind of music.”
“Not your kind of music.
Not your kind of food. If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you choose to visit that restaurant in the first place?”
This got the Roote open shy smile.
“Don’t know, really. I think someone may have recommended it. Yes, that’s it. A recommendation.”
“Oh yes. Someone you can remember?”
“Not really,” said Roote. “Just somebody I met in passing, I think.”
And that was it. He reported back to Pascoe who brought Hat in to listen.
“And none of the other diners we’ve talked to recall seeing David Pitman talking to a single diner?” said Pascoe.
“No. Sorry,” said Wield. “Dead end. Any word yet on that partial they found on Ripley’s mule?”
“No match in the records, Sarge,” said Hat.
Which meant, thought Wield, that it wasn’t Roote’s; as a convicted felon, his prints would be on record.
But he didn’t rub the point in.
As the weekend approached, things slowed down a little, which wasn’t good for the atmosphere in CID but gave Hat hope that he might be able to keep his rearranged date. Also he was determined to make it to the lunchtime preview on Saturday, fearful that if he didn’t show there, Rye might back off from their rearranged Sunday afternoon trip to Stangdale.
On Friday morning he presented his weekly report on Roote to Pascoe. Any hope he’d had that the Ripley murder enquiry would get him off this deadly dull surveillance had vanished when the DCI had used Roote’s visit to the Taverna to make the job official. Dalziel hadn’t looked happy, however, and Wield’s report plus the negative fingerprint evidence gave Hat hope the job wouldn’t last forever.
“And you’re sure he didn’t clock you?” asked Pascoe, still seeking a reason for Roote’s innocent behaviour.
“Stake my life on it, sir,” said Hat confidently. “If I’d been any discreeter, I’d have lost sight of myself in my shaving mirror.”
This had made Pascoe smile. Then he said resignedly, “OK. I think we’d better call it a day. Thanks for all your hard work. You did well.” Which Hat took to mean the Fat Man had finally sat heavily on the surveillance job.
But he was careful not to let his interpretation show, especially as, emboldened by the praise, he seized the chance to ask, with explanation, if he could have time off to attend the preview.
“Why not?” said the DCI. “Everyone else seems to be going. And who am I to stand in the way of true love?”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hat. And not wanting to appear too young and frivolous, he’d added, “Sir, it did strike me, with the Wordman using the library to get his Dialogues noticed, and this preview taking place in the Centre, do you think there’s any chance he could turn up there?”
