numerous tiles laid out, going in all directions, but none of the letter combinations made any sense to Hat. And there were three tile racks in use, one before each of the two facing players, the third between them. Only two can play, he recalled Rye telling him. Why should she lie? Unless she was the third player, involved in some weird menage a trois with these two?
It was a thought as disgusting as silverfish in a salad bowl, but before he rinsed it from his mind, he found himself looking to see if there were anywhere Rye could have retreated to at his approach.
There wasn’t. There wasn’t even a window to climb out of.
Jesus, Bowler! What kind of nutty creep are you turning into? he asked himself angrily.
Charley Penn was answering his spoken question.
“Not lucky, by any standards, and hardly a guess, Constable. First thing we all thought when we heard about poor Sam yesterday was, it has to be this Wordman. Then folk started whispering suicide. Well, it seemed possible. Too much Beddoes could drive anyone down that road. But the more I thought, the less likely it seemed. I’d not known him long, but I’d have put him stronger than that. I’m right, aren’t I? If this envelope Dick mentioned does contain another Dialogue, it has to be about Sam Johnson, right?”
“No comment,” said Hat. “Mr. Dee, is Rye here?”
“Sorry, you’re out of luck,” said Dee. “She’s got a touch of this flu-bug that’s around. She looked so ill yesterday, I sent her home and told her not to come back till she was better and our readers were safe.”
“Right. Thank you.”
As he turned away, Dee said, “Would you like her phone number? I’m sure she would be comforted to know you were asking after her.”
This was kind, thought Hat, recalling that not so long back, the librarian had felt unable to pass Rye’s number on. She must have said something to suggest their relationship had taken a step forward.
Before he could respond, Penn sneered, “Not got her number yet, lad? You’re not making much progress, are you?”
Hat resisted the urge to reply that he’d made a lot more progress than some geriatrics not a million miles away and she’d given him her number unasked. Instead he took out his notebook, said, “That would be kind, Mr. Dee. I seem to have mislaid my pen. May I borrow a pencil?”
He stepped forward to the desk, picked up a pencil, and stood with it poised.
From this angle he could see the tiles in the third rack.
There were six of them. J O H N N Y.
Dee, with a faintly conspiratorial smile as if he recognized a charade when he saw one, gave him the number. Carefully Hat wrote down Johnny.
“Thank you, Mr. Dee,” he said. “I’ll certainly be enquiring after Rye’s health. Good day.”
He left without looking at Penn. He could see, though he rather resented being able to, why Rye got so defensive of Dick Dee. There was something almost naively amiable about the man. However, any slight revision of his feeling towards the librarian was more than balanced by the steady augmentation of his antipathy for the novelist. Puffed-up prick!
And he found himself imagining how nice it would be to prove that Penn was the Wordman and have the fingering of his collar.
Such feelings were dangerous, he admonished himself sternly. Having got back to something like an even keel with the super, it would be foolish to risk rocking the boat by letting personal dislike cloud his judgment.
As he left the library he took out his mobile, intending to dial Rye’s number, but before he could start, it rang.
“Bowler,” he said.
“Pascoe. Where are you?”
“Just leaving the library, guv.”
“You get anything?”
“Not really.”
“You’ve been there a long time for nothing,” said Pascoe accusingly. “You’ve not been in the Reference chatting up that girl again?”
“No, sir,” said Hat indignantly. “She’s off sick.”
“Oh yes? And how do you know that? Never mind. Listen, someone’s ringing wanting to speak to you urgently. Name of Angie. I wondered, is she some snout you haven’t bothered to register? Or just one of your other conquests that you’ve got into trouble?”
Angie? For a moment his mind was blank, then he remembered. Jax Ripley’s sister.
“No, sir. But it’s personal.”
“Is that so? Wasn’t that sister we met at Ripley’s funeral called Angie?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bowler, thinking shit! “I told her if ever she wanted to chat about Jax, just to give me a ring.”
“Maybe you should have been a social worker,” said Pascoe. “But if she says anything you feel might be relevant to the case, you won’t forget you’re drawing your pay as a cop, will you? Back here soon as you can, OK?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bowler.
He switched off thinking Pascoe sounded in an untypically sour mood.
He thumbed through his wallet till he found the piece of paper he’d scribbled Mrs. Ripley’s phone number on. Angie answered on the first ring.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve got to head back to the States at the weekend and I just wanted to check what you’ve done with that stuff I gave you.”
“I’m still working on it,” he prevaricated. “It’s a delicate business…”
“The bastard who stuck a knife in my sister wasn’t being delicate,” she snapped. “This Georgie Porgie guy, is he being questioned?”
“Well, no…I mean, we don’t know who he is for sure, do we?”
“How many cops have you got that fit that description?”
“More than you’d think,” said Hat. “Believe me, Angie, if there’s anything here that helps us find Jax’s killer, I’ll leave no stone unturned.”
He spoke with all the vibrant sincerity he could put into his voice but she still sounded less than persuaded as she replied, “Well, OK. You’ll get in touch? I’m relying on you, Hat.”
“You can do. Take care,” he said and switched off.
He stood outside the Centre, trying to work up a head of indignation because there was nothing he could do except help deprive a middle-aged detective of his dignity and perhaps even his pension, but all he felt was a rat.
He felt a strong need to talk to Rye about the affair again, but not on the phone. Anyway, it didn’t seem such a good idea to ring her any more. If, as seemed likely, she was deep beneath the bedclothes feeling lousy, she wasn’t going to be very well disposed to the idiot who got her out to ask how she was. Better to go round later with a bunch of grapes and a box of chocolates. That way if he got her out of bed…
He had a sudden vision of the door opening and Rye standing there, all bed-tousled in a loosely tied robe which permitted tantalizing glimpses of firm round flesh, like sun-warmed fruit seen through shifting leaves…
A yearning groan slipped through his lips and an old bag-lady passing by looked at him anxiously and said, “Are you feeling all right, son?”
“I hope so,” he said. “Just hunger pangs, ma. But thanks for your concern.”
And dropping a handful of change into her nearest bag, he walked briskly on.
26
PASCOE WAS INDEED in a sour mood.
Wield had contacted Sheffield as requested and got the bare bones of the dead student business.
“Seems this lad wasn’t doing too well. Johnson was his main tutor and it fell to him to warn the boy that if his
