disturbing sound of sirens.
“The meat wagon?” said Pascoe.
“Yes. And our boys too,” said Wield.
“You switched on?”
“No. I’m off-call,” said the sergeant firmly.
“Me too.”
“Sounds close, but.”
“Probably some poor old girl in the precinct’s shopped till she dropped,” said Pascoe, knowing that Ellie, alert to the dangers signalled by police alarums, was watching him keenly for sign of any inclination to get involved.
“Excuse me,” said a broad Yorkshire voice behind him. “Somebody said you were a copper, is that right?”
He turned to see a lanky woman in a red smock and black tights, with a razored haircut that gave her a look of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3. He recognized her as Jude Illingworth, the engraver.
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Is there something wrong?”
“Aye, is there. You expect it out of doors at a craft fair, mebbe, somewhere open to everybody. If it’s not nailed down, it’ll go. But at a posh do like this…”
I am in no hurry, for where there is no time, haste has no meaning. I follow with my eyes only and wait. The door opens, a man comes out. I watch him out of sight and then go in.
And there he is as I know he must be, alone, stooped over a washbasin, laving his face.
As I approach from behind he looks up and sees me in the mirror.
Oh, this is fine. This is my reward for faithfulness. I have no choice in these matters, but if I had a choice, this I might have chosen, for this allows me to be both player and audience.
I can see his face in the mirror and mine too, my lips curved in a smile, his eyes rounded in surprise but not in fear. I am not night’s dark agent but a bringer of light, and fear is no part of my message. This man with his lust to glut his own body as he starves the souls of others of their natural nourishment is driven not by evil but by a warped good which is worse. It is his own pain as much as that he causes others that I am sent to release him from.
So I speak to him reassuringly, uttering a few soft words sweetly. Then I drive the weapon into the base of his skull and up through I know not what layers of matter, certain that another hand than mine is guiding the point to its appointed destination.
He spasms, but I hold him there with ease. If a million angels can dance on the head of a pin, then a single man twisting and turning on my much broader point is a piece of cake.
And now he goes slack. I withdraw my weapon and let him slide to the floor, face down, his bald head gleaming like metal under the striplight.
Before Pascoe could ask Jude Illingworth what the hell she was talking about, there was another interruption. Hat Bowler, who’d left some time earlier, came back into the gallery, pushing between Ellie and Bird with scant ceremony, and making straight for Pascoe.
“Sir,” he said breathlessly, “can I have a word?”
His face was pale.
Pascoe said, “What’s happened?”
Jude Illingworth said, “Hang about, I was first.”
Pascoe said, “Sorry. Wieldy, could you deal?”
“Sure. Now, Miss…”
“You a cop, too?” she said regarding his cragged and potholed face doubtfully.
“Aye. Sergeant. So…?”
“So some sod’s pinched one of my burins.”
“Oh aye? Happens a lot when you’re wearing tights, does it?” said Wield.
Pascoe heard the exchange as he moved aside with Bowler and stifled a smile. Live with Andy Dalziel long enough, something was bound to rub off.
“So tell me,” he invited the DC.
“I found him, sir,” said Hat. “I went into the Gents and he was on the floor. He wasn’t quite dead, he was trying to say something and I leaned down close to try and hear what it was but it didn’t make sense and then it just turned into a death rattle. I checked his pulse and there was none, and I went through all the resuss procedures, just in case, but nothing, so I called HQ for assistance and told them to send an ambulance too, though he looked beyond help to me, then I got a Centre security man to stand by the door and keep everyone else out, and I thought I’d better get up here and let you know, sir…”
He ran out of breath.
Pascoe said, “That’s good, Hat. You’ve called up assistance and you’ve secured the scene. Now perhaps we could just slow down and get a bit of necessary detail. Like, how about telling me who it is you’ve found?”
“Councillor Steel, sir. You know, the one they call Stuffer.”
“Good God,” said Pascoe. “And he’s definitely dead, you say? What was it, you reckon? Stroke?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry. It’s daft but it shook me up a bit. He’s been murdered. I should have said, he’s got a hole in the base of his skull. And I found what could be the weapon on the floor. I marked the spot and bagged it. Didn’t want anyone else to see it, it’s a bit unusual and I thought that it was best to keep it to ourselves for a bit. I’ve got it here.”
He pulled a transparent plastic bag out of the inside pocket of his jerkin and held it up. It contained what looked like some sort of small chisel.
“Did I do right, sir?” said the young DC anxiously.
But before Pascoe could reply, Jude Illingworth edged him aside.
“Now that’s what I call service,” she said. “I don’t care what your customers say about you, I think our police are bloody wonderful. Where did you find it?”
“Sorry?” said Pascoe.
“My burin,” said the woman, her eyes fixed on Bowler’s evidence bag. “Where did you find my burin?”
I stoop and make my necessary mark.
So there he lies, brought by a burin to his buriness, that breath that sank a thousand friendships stilled forever, that appetite which seemed ambitious to devour the earth soon to be engorged by it. I look down upon him and I share his peace.
But then like the Illyrian merchant who sees the Adriatic’s silken skin wrinkle at the first touch of the bora, I suddenly feel uneasy. In here all is peace, but outside in the corridor I sense movement, as if the bora were indeed beginning to blow…
Surely the Power that guides my fate cannot permit anything to go wrong?
Yes, I know I could have asked, but just then there seemed only one way to find out.
I move swiftly to the door and pull it open.
And I laugh out loud as I realize all I have felt is the return of time, exploding along the corridor as the dam breaks.
I compose my face and step out into its rushing current, happy to let it bear me where it will, certain that it will set me ashore safe on whatever spit or island is appointed for our next thrilling Dialogue.
Talk again soon!
“He was trying to speak, you said,” said Pascoe as he hurried down the stairs with Bowler. “Could you make out anything at all? Think hard while it’s still fresh in your mind.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been trying. And…well, it’s a bit daft…but what he was trying to say sounded like…”
“Yes?” prompted Pascoe.
“Rosebud. It sounded like rosebud.”
16
“ROSEBUD?” SAID Andy Dalziel. “Go to the pictures a lot, young Boiler, does he?”
“No, sir,” said Pascoe, relieved not to have to make the decision whether to explain to Dalziel that rosebud
