“Don’t recall it precisely, but it sounds likely.”
“Simpson? Bland?”
“Head Prefect of Dacre and his second-in-command. Dee and Penn’s greatest enemies. They had a running battle with them.”
“Who won?”
“It was no contest by the time they got to the Fifths. Dee and Penn were in pretty well total control. From time to time they would even call each other Kraut and Whoreson very publicly, though no one else dared, of course. It was like they were saying, Just because we condescend to coexist with you lot doesn’t mean we’ve really got anything in common. We’re still different, and different means better. Anyone care to argue?”
“And did anyone?”
“Occasionally. But by the time Dee had sorted them out verbally and Penn physically, they realized the error of their ways.”
“And little Johnny Oakeshott, did he stay part of the team?” asked Pascoe.
“Johnny? Sorry, didn’t I say? He died.”
“Died? Just like that? Christ, I know they’re all stiff upper lip, these places, but I’d have thought they took notice of dead kids!” said Dalziel.
“How did he die?” asked Pascoe.
“Drowned. Don’t ask me how. There were all kinds of stories but all that ever came out officially was that he’d been found early one morning in the school swimming pool. Midnight bathing was a favourite rule-breaking sport. It was assumed he’d gone in by himself, or joined some group and got left behind. We don’t know. Penn and Dee went ballistic. They brought out a special edition of The Skulker. Front page was all black with J’ACCUSE scrawled across it in white.”
“Who did they accuse?”
Wingate shrugged.
“Everyone. The system. Life. They claimed to have got in touch with Johnny through a Ouija board and promised that all would be revealed in the next edition.”
“And was it?”
“No. Someone told the Head and he came down hard. Told them what they’d written already was enough to get them expelled. Anything more and they’d be finishing their education in a pair of crummy comprehensives, miles apart. That was a clincher. Together they could survive, even prosper. Apart…who knows?”
“So they caved in and conformed?”
“Caved in? Perhaps. Conformed? No way. From that time on, the pair of them refused to have anything at all to do with the formal structures of the school. They never became prefects, refused to accept prizes, had nothing to do with organized sports or any other extramural activities. And as far as I know they’ve never attended any Old Boys’ get-together or responded to any Appeal. They went through the sixth form, got university places, did their exams, walked out after the last one, and were never seen at Unthank again.”
“Did they go to the same university?”
“No. They went their separate ways, which surprised a lot of people. Dee went up to John’s, Oxford, to read English and Penn went off to Warwick to do modern languages. I meet them both occasionally through my job. We get on fine. But if I ever refer to our schooldays, they look at me blankly. It’s as if they’ve wiped that part of the slate clean. You won’t even find any mention of it in Penn’s publicity material.”
Now Wingate fell silent as if his memories had stirred up stuff he’d sooner have forgotten.
After a while Pascoe asked, “Anything else you can tell us, John?”
“No, that’s it.”
“You sure?” said Dalziel. “Not holding owt back, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” retorted Wingate angrily.
“If you say so,” said Dalziel. “But I can’t think why you made such a fuss about talking in the first place if that’s all you had to say.”
“Oh, there were several reasons, Superintendent,” said Wingate. “Let me list them if it will make you feel happier and hasten my departure…First because what I had to say doesn’t show me or my fellows in a particularly good light; secondly, because I see no reason why I should retail personal details of people’s lives to the police unless I feel they are truly relevant to some matter of importance; and thirdly, as a journalist, I am in the business of collecting rather than dispensing information, unless I feel there is some positive professional quid pro quo.”
“Seems to me secondly and thirdly must sometimes trip over each other,” said Dalziel. “Any road, you can run along now-so long as you remember that, while it weren’t much of a quo, you’ve had your quid for it. Any mention of owt about this in any of your little programmes and I’ll be asking for a refund. Bye now.”
“Goodbye, Superintendent,” said Wingate.
Pascoe, trying for a conciliatory tone, said a touch over effusively, “Thanks a lot, John. That was really most helpful.”
The producer looked at him for a long moment then said, “And goodbye to you too, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Bang goes another nearly friend, thought Pascoe.
When the door had closed behind the departing man, he said to Dalziel, “So, how did you know about Wingate and Ripley?”
“Lucky guess,” said the Fat Man. “Not mine. Young Bowler here said summat.”
“Is that so?” said Pascoe, giving the DC a not altogether friendly glance. “Well, I don’t think we’ll be getting much co-operation from our local TV station from now on.”
“Nay, I think we’ll be getting all the co-operation we ever want,” said Dalziel, grinning sharkishly. “Shouldn’t waste your sympathy there, Pete. Married man who can’t control his own loblance has to be a right twilly-flew. Question is, was it worthwhile squeezing his goolies? Did we get owt useful? Young Bowler, you looked like you were wetting your knickers to say summat back there.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hat eagerly. “Two things really. First, this boy Johnny who drowned, in this game Penn and Dee play, even though it’s just for two players, they set up a third tile rack and when I saw them playing-when they called each other Kraut and Whoreson-the letters on this rack were J, O, H, N, N, and Y. Also, they’ve both got this photo of the three of them at school, at least I presume the third one’s the dead boy.”
“They’ve got a picture of themselves with a dead boy?” said Dalziel, interested.
“No, sir. I mean, he wasn’t dead when the picture was taken.”
“Pity. Go on.”
“And his real name’s St. John, and that drawing that came with the First Dialogue, didn’t Dee say it was from the Gospel according to St. John…?”
He felt himself running out of steam.
Dalziel said, “That your first thing finished then? Let’s hope you’re working upwards. Next?”
“It just struck me, with Dee’s real name being Orson, it made me think of what Councillor Steel said before he died which sounded like rosebud-didn’t someone say that was the last word that someone said in that film Citizen whatsit which Orson Welles directed and starred in
…isn’t that right…? I never saw it myself…”
He looked around hopefully, not for applause but at least a shred of interest.
Pascoe gave him an encouraging smile, Wield remained as unreadable as ever, and Dalziel said, “What’s your point, lad?”
“It’s just the association, sir…I thought it might be significant
…”
“Oh aye? I suppose if Stuffer Steel were a film buff, which he weren’t, and if he were an old Unthinkable, which he weren’t, and if he knew Dee’s real first name, which I doubt, then it might come in sniffing distance of significant. Don’t cry, lad. At least you’re trying. What about you two big strong silent types? Wieldy?”
“This thing about the dead boy sounds a bit odd, but I don’t see that it adds up to much,” said the sergeant.
“More than just a bit odd, wouldn’t you say?” said Pascoe.
“Mebbe. But it’s not something Dee and Penn try to keep hidden, is it? Photo’s on display, name on the tile rack which anyone can see. It’s what folk want to hide that usually means most. And it seems to me we’re getting
