“Sorry,” said Pascoe. “Hey, now, how about this. The OED always gives the earliest known usage of the word and in this case it’s, wait for it, Lord Lyttelton, 1760, Dialogues of the Dead. How’s that for coincidence?”

“I don’t know. How is it?” said Dalziel. “And what’s it mean, this word?”

“Well, seems it’s a factitious word, formed from a union of paronomasia and mania…”

Dalziel ground his teeth and Pascoe hurried on.

“… and it means basically ‘an obsessive interest in word games.’ Since 1978, it’s also been the proprietary name of this board game Penn and Dee are so fond of.”

“Never heard of it,” said Dalziel. “But I lost interest in board games after I found you got more rewards for climbing boring ladders than sliding down lovely slippery snakes.”

Pascoe avoided Wield’s eye and said, “Looking at the rules, I’m surprised anyone has ever heard of it: ‘language of shuffler’s choice

…double points for intersecting rhymes…quadruple points for oxymorons

…’ Jesus! Who’d want to play this?”

“Dee and Penn play it all the time evidently,” said Hat.

“Miss Pomona told you that too, I presume?” said Pascoe. “And how long have you been nursing this interesting information to your bosom?”

He spoke with studied politeness but Hat caught his drift instantly and said, “Not long. I mean, I only found out about it last week, and then I went sick, and really it didn’t seem to mean much, not till I heard Dr. Urquhart and Dr. Pottle going on today, then Mr. Pascoe said about Penn giving Dee his alibi for one night last week, and I thought…”

“Nay lad, wait till you’re in the dock afore you start summing up for the defence,” said Dalziel, not unkindly. “Likely it’s a load of nowt anyway. I mean, you can’t go to jail for playing games, not even two fellows having a romp together, so long as it’s between consenting adults in private, eh, Wieldy?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Except if you call it rugby football, when you can sell folk tickets to watch, so they tell me.”

Emotion always found it hard to get a fingerhold on the sergeant’s face but this was said with a lack of expression that made Charles Bronson look animated.

“Rugby,” said Dalziel. “Aye, that’s a point. The Old Unthinkables. Nice one, Wieldy.”

To be complimented on his attempted gibe at Dalziel’s favourite sport did bring a look almost recognizable as surprise to the sergeant’s features.

“Sir?” he said.

“The Old Unthinkables,” repeated Dalziel. “That’s what they call Unthank College’s Old Boys’ team. Not bad for a bunch of pubic school poofters, saving your presence. Not afraid to put the boot in, that’s one thing they’ve learned for their daddies’ money.”

He spoke approvingly.

Wield said, “Missing your point, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Penn and Dee went to Unthank, and so did John Wingate, yon telly belly, Ripley’s boss. I know ’cos he used to play for the Unthinkables. Scrum half. Nice reverse pass.”

The phone rang again.

“And?” said Pascoe.

“He must be about the same age as Penn and Dee. Might be worth a chat, Pete. Find out what they got up to as kids. Christ, I must be desperate, can’t believe I’m saying this. I’ve spent too much time listening to your mate Pozzo.”

The phone was still ringing.

Pascoe said, “Shall I answer that? Could be the Chief’s office again.”

“Then he’ll think I’m on my way,” said Dalziel indifferently.

He glanced at his watch.

“Tell you what, Wingate’ll be at your press conference with all the other vultures. Reel him in when it’s over. Knowing your style, Pete, that should be about half twelve. These telly bellys like shooting the questions, let’s see if he can take his own medicine.”

“You’ll be finished with the Chief by then?”

“Unless he opens a new bottle of Scotch,” said Dalziel. “Bowler, you be there too. After all, this is your idea.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Hat, delighted.

“Don’t get carried away. Likely it’ll turn out a waste of time, and I just want you close so I don’t waste my energy kicking summat inanimate.”

He left. Hat turned to the others, smiling, inviting them to share Dalziel’s joke.

They didn’t smile back.

Pascoe said thoughtfully, “Not like the super to chase rainbows.”

“Not unless he’s got an itch in his piles…”

They contemplated the Fat Man’s famous haruspical piles for a moment, then Pascoe said, “Wieldy, the OED’s online now. Ellie’s a subscriber, if I give you her details, can you whistle it up on the computer?”

“You authorize it, I can whistle up the PM’s holiday snaps,” said Wield.

They followed him to his computer and watched as he ran his fingers over the keyboard.

“Right,” he said. “Here we are.”

“Great. Now find paronomania,” said Pascoe.

But Wield was ahead of him.

“Paranomasia we’ve got. And paromphalocele we’ve got too, which from the sound of it we could do without. But no sign whatsoever of paronomania. So unless the great Oxford English Dictionary’s missed a bit, there’s no such word.”

“And yet,” said Pascoe, “we have all seen it, and its definition. Interesting. While you’re at it, Wieldy, try contortuplicated.”

“That’s what the super said,” said Hat. “I thought he just made it up.”

“No,” said Wield. “It’s here. ‘Twisted and entangled.’ But it’s obsolete. Just one example and that’s 1648.”

“Not attributed to A. Dalziel, is it?” said Pascoe. “Let that be a lesson to you, Hat. Never underestimate the super.”

“No, sir. Sir, how did Mr. Dalziel know about Mrs. Blossom’s tattoo?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Pascoe. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

38

THE PRESS CONFERENCE lasted a good hour.

The technique preferred by most policemen when dealing with the gentlemen of the press, hungry for information, is the response monosyllabic. Yes and no, as appropriate, blossoming into an euphuistic No Comment when neither of these will do.

Pascoe, however, favoured the sesquipedalian style. As Dalziel put it, “After thirty minutes with me, they’re clamouring for more. After thirty minutes with Pete, they’re clamouring to be let out.” Tyro reporters had been known to leave one of his sessions with several pads crammed with notes which on analysis had not rendered a single line of usable copy.

Only once on this occasion did anyone come close to laying a finger on him and that was Mary Agnew, editor of the Mid-Yorkshire Gazette, whose personal attendance signalled the importance of the story.

“Mr. Pascoe,” she said, “it appears to us out here that these so-called Wordman killings are systematic rather than random. Is this your opinion also?”

“It would seem to me,” said Pascoe, “that the sequence of killings plus the associated correspondence, details of which I am, for obvious reasons of security, unable to share with you at this juncture, predicates what for the want of a better term we might define as a system, though we should not let the familiarity of the term confuse

Вы читаете Dialogues of the Dead
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату