lives in a grace-and-favour cottage and seems content to remain there for the rest of her days.”
“So how come Charley went to yon posh school, Unthank College? Old Budgie pay, did he?”
“His Lordship is not quite so profligate of his money,” said Thackeray drily. “The boy won a scholarship. I’m not saying strings might not have been pulled, but he was, by all accounts, a bright child.”
“And a rich one now, I dare say. Could easily set his old mam up in a nice house somewhere.”
“Which I believe he has offered to do. I gather he regards the Partridge’s grace and favour as cause for resentment rather than gratitude. His mother, however, tends to look upon England outside of the Haysgarth estate as an extension of the old East Germany, with people like yourself as lackeys of the English branch of the Stasi.”
“So if a cop turned up asking questions about her Charley, how would she react?”
“Uncooperatively, I would guess. He would be transfigured into the perfect devoted son against whom she would not hear a word said, in English or in German.”
“But if old Budgie or one of his chums spoke to her about Charley
…?”
“If it was implied that she should feel herself lucky to have mothered a son who’d done so well in the great outside world, she would very forcibly point out his shortcomings as a good German boy. I know this because when I first encountered her, I fell into this error.”
“That’s grand,” said Dalziel. “Remind me I’m in the chair next time I see you at the Gents.”
This was a reference not to an assignation in a public toilet, but to their common membership of the Borough Club for Professional Gentlemen.
“I don’t suppose there’s any point in my asking what you are up to, Andy?”
“Right as always, Eden. Cheers!”
Dalziel put the phone down, thought for a moment, then picked it up again and dialled.
“Cap Marvell.”
“Hello, chuck, it’s me,” he said.
“Again? This is twice in a fortnight you’ve rung from work. Could I claim harassment?”
“No, them as I harass know they’ve been harassed,” he said. “Listen, luv, got to thinking, I’m a selfish sod, not good for a relationship.”
“Andy, are you feeling all right? You haven’t had a fall, banged your head, seen a flash of very bright light?”
“And what I thought was, this hop of the Hero’s out at old Budgie’s, why don’t we go? Long time since we tripped the light fantastic.”
“Sorry, Andy. I’ll have to sit down. I feel my vapours coming on.”
“That’s a date then? Grand. See you later.”
He pressed the receiver rest, dialled again.
“Hello, Lily White Laundry Service, how can I help you?”
“How do, luv,” said Dalziel. “Can you do a kilt for Saturday?”
When Pascoe arrived that morning, he reminded the others that Pottle and Urquhart were calling in later to review the latest Dialogue and give their considered judgment of the earlier ones.
“Oh God,” said Dalziel. “Wish I were ill, too.”
“Too?”
“Bowler’s gone sick,” explained Wield.
“It’s a sick world,” said Pascoe.
“Temperatures running high at home, are they?”
“Only metaphorically. Ellie and Charley Penn met to do the final judging for this short story competition last night. Sam Johnson should have been there too, so it wasn’t exactly a cheerful occasion. She came home demanding to know why we hadn’t got an inch closer to catching this madman.”
“That’s what you told her, was it?”
“She tends to go into a fit if I say things like enquiries are in progress and an arrest is expected soon.”
“I thought they might have cancelled the competition,” said Wield.
“Because one of the judges got killed? Doesn’t work like that, Wieldy. All those aspiring Scott Fitzgeralds don’t give a toss about Sam Johnson, whom they’d never heard of anyway. If it had been Charley Penn, it might have been different. As it is, far from cancelling the comp, Mary Agnew has been using the murder, all the murders, to get it a lot more publicity. Didn’t you see last night’s Gazette? She published the titles of the long short list-that’s about fifty stories. And she’s done a deal with John Wingate, the telly guy. All the short-list authors have been invited to the studio theatre in the Centre and the result is going to be announced in what used to be Jax Ripley’s Saturday-night slot.”
“Ripley’s slot? God, bloody media will cash in on owt. They’re probably going to charge folk for pissing in the bog where Stuffer Steel got topped!” exclaimed Dalziel. “I reckon if I live long enough, I’ll see them bring back public hangings. Come to think of it, there’s a few as I’d pay good money to see hanged.”
Pascoe and Wield exchanged that blank glance through which over the years they had come to share amusement at the Fat Man’s often outrageous illogicalities.
He appeared not to notice and went on, “Ellie tell you owt about the winner, did she? No doubt it’ll be some blood-and-guts story, all about perves and kinky sex.”
Putting aside the question as to whether this was a comment on public taste or his wife’s predilections, Pascoe said, “Yes, she said that I’d probably be glad to hear that the winning story was a gently amusing little tale, almost a fairy story, which would leave children and adults alike feeling good about themselves.”
“And Charley Penn went for that? Must have been sniffing lighter fluid. Who’s the genius who wrote it?”
“That we shan’t know till Saturday night when the winner’s sealed envelope is opened. You coming along, sir?”
“You must be joking!”
“Not really. I just thought there could be a chance the Wordman might turn up.”
“That’s what you said about the preview.”
“Actually it was Bowler who said that.”
“Well, I hope he’s not boasting about it,” growled Dalziel. “And if chummy does turn up, you think this time he’s going to wear his I’m the Wordman T-shirt, do you?”
“Who knows? Pottle said that as he gets more and more convinced of his invulnerability, he’ll delight in taking risks. Anyway, I’ll definitely be there, with Ellie being a judge.”
“Oh aye? And you’re worried the losers might turn nasty? Well, with the Wordman being so easy to spot, one pair of police eyes should be enough.”
“Two pairs,” said Wield.
“You’re going?”
“Edwin likes to support local cultural activities.”
This time it was Pascoe’s and Dalziel’s glances that met.
“If it’s a local cultural activity,” said Dalziel, “I’ve filled my quota for the month. Any road, Saturday night I’m going dancing.”
“Dancing,” said Pascoe, trying to keep all expression or interrogation out of the word.
“Aye. Man. Woman. Music. Rhythmic movement. If you’ve got your clothes on, it’s called dancing.”
“Yes, sir. And would that be salsa? Line? A rave? A hunt ball? A the dansant?”
“That’s for me to know and you to exercise your imaginations on,” said Dalziel, rising. “Give us a shout when Pinky and Perky show up, will you? But if I’m dead, don’t bother getting out the Ouija board.”
He went out of the room.
“Not a happy man,” said Wield.
“Probably saw that piece about him in the Sun this morning. Headline was ‘WHEN DINOSAURS RULED THE WORLD.’ He needs a result on this one pretty quick.”
“Don’t we all? You got any ideas?”
“Apart from herding everyone vaguely connected with the case into a field and beating them with a dead chicken till one of them confesses? No. Perhaps the dynamic duo from Academe will point us in the right direction.”
