bogged down in words here, not real stuff.”
“The Wordman is all about words, Wieldy,” said Pascoe gently.
“Aye, but about words playing around inside him. Seems to me Dee and Penn in their different ways let their words out, don’t trap them inside where they might fester.”
Dalziel, in face of this unexpected psycho-linguistic analysis, let out an et tu Brute sigh and turned to Pascoe.
“Pete, you think we might be on to something here, do you? Makes a change not to hear you badmouthing Franny Roote, who I hear is like to turn out the next Enid Blyton. But it ’ud be nice to know what’s really going on in that mazy mind of thine.”
“I don’t know…it’s just that I can’t believe that in Dee’s case all these coincidences of place and time and opportunity and interest don’t add up to something significant.”
“So let’s talk to him again. Not you, but. If he is the Wordman, he’s a clever bugger with it and he’ll have got you sussed by now. You talk to Charley Penn, see if you can shake him on this lads’-night-in alibi. Me, I’ll see how Mr. Dee reacts to a bit of basic English. Bowler, you come with me.”
“Me, sir?” said Hat unenthusiastically.
“Aye. Any objection? From what I’ve heard you spend more time round at that library than you do here, so why so shy all of a sudden?”
Then the Fat Man let out a derisive laugh.
“Got it. Your bit of stuff, Miss Ribena, thinks a lot of her boss and you’re scared it might queer your pitch if she catches you holding him down while I stamp on his goolies! Test of character, lad. She’s going to have to choose between you and him some time, might as well force the issue afore you buy the ring. Now let’s get some forward progress on this case, right? We’ve been running across the pitch far too long, lots of fancy footwork but no territorial gain. If this bugger wants to play games with us, let’s at least start playing in his half of the field!”
Such a rallying cry, probably even more forcibly expressed, might have had some effect on a bunch of muddied oafs playing rugger, thought Pascoe. But none of those present in the CID room seemed fired by it.
He said, “Chief complaining about lack of progress, was he, sir?”
“He knows better,” said Dalziel. “Though it’s evident Loopy Linda’s still banging heads in the Home Office. But Desperate Dan’s got things closer to home to worry about.”
“Like what?”
Dalziel glanced towards the doorway where Hat and Wield stood in deep confabulation.
“Like who’s going to make the presentation at George’s farewell tonight, me or him.”
“I should have thought, in the circs, it’s got to be top man there,” said Pascoe, surprised. “Much as George loves you, I think he’ll be expecting Mr. Trimble’s honeyed words and firm handshake to accompany the clock or whatever it is we’re giving him.”
“Fishing tackle, they tell me,” said Dalziel. “Well, we’ll see.”
Wield and Bowler had stopped talking and were looking to Dalziel expectantly.
Pascoe had a sense of something unsaid, but if he were right, it was going to stop unsaid, for the time being anyway.
“Can’t hang around here all day,” declared the Fat Man. “Not when there’s goolies to stamp on. Come on, lad. We’re off to the library. Where I hope you’ll remember the first two rules of good detection.”
“What’re they, sir?” said Bowler.
“First’s no groping on the job!” chortled Dalziel. “I’ll tell thee the second on the way.”
39
DESPITE THE FAT MAN’S promise, most of the short journey to the Centre passed in silence, which Dalziel finally broke by saying accusingly, “Cat got your tongue?”
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Hat had decided that on the whole it wasn’t a good idea to enquire further about Mrs. Blossom’s tattoo.
“It’s not talk as disturbs a good cop, lad, it’s lack of it,” said the Fat Man significantly.
“Yes, sir. Is that the second rule, sir?”
“Eh?”
“Of good detective work. You said you would tell me the second on the way.”
“The second is don’t take the piss out of anyone big enough to cause you grief,” said Dalziel. “No, I just thought, you and me being together all cosy like, good chance for you to tell me owt you felt I ought to be told.”
Oh shit! thought Hat. Even with poor Jax dead, he’s still going on about me being the leak! The old sod can’t bear not to be right. He’s convinced I did it, but he won’t be happy till he hears me say it. I could really pull his plonker here, tell him, Yes, sir, I’ve got something to say about that info that was leaked to Jax the Ripper. And when he’s got himself all ready, sitting there all smug and know-it-all, expecting my confession, I’ll let him know the leak was his randy old mucker, George Headingley, whose farewell party he’s attending this evening, and what’s he going to do about it?
And what would he do about it? That was the question. Presumably, once he knew something like that, he couldn’t just let it go. There’d have to be a proper investigation and instead of sailing into the sunset, poor old Georgie Porgie would be…well, he’d rehearsed sufficiently already the possible consequences for Headingley.
He said, “Well, there was one thing…”
“Aye?”
“You know Charley Penn writes books? Well, I was thinking about what Dr. Urquhart said…”
“Should watch that, it could send you blind,” said Dalziel.
“… about the Wordman being so hung up on word games and stuff, he probably regards certain printed texts as a sort of coded gospel, and I wondered if it might be worth taking a close look at Penn’s novels
…”
“Oh aye? You volunteering to read ’em? We’re going to the right place to get a start.”
“No, sir, no way,” said Hat. “I mean, I don’t go in for that sort of thing, I thought maybe talk to someone who knows about these things
…”
“You got someone in mind? Not your ladyfriend from the library, by any chance?”
Christ, it’s like your mind is a goldfish bowl and this big cat dips his paw in whenever he fancies, thought Hat.
“Yes, she might be OK,” he said. Then because this sounded a little lukewarm, he added, “She’s been very helpful in getting my ideas sorted already.”
And saw his error even as the words came out.
“Already? Make a habit of discussing confidential police matters with pretty young things, do you?” said the Fat Man. “I hope not, lad, ’cos that’s the second rule I were going to tell you. When someone takes a hold of your bollocks, whether to twist ’em or to stroke ’em, just lie back and think of me. There’s not enough pleasure or pain in the world to cover what I’m likely to do to any bugger I catch talking out of school. You with me, lad?”
“Yes, sir. I’m with you,” said Hat, wishing with all his sinking heart he wasn’t.
But that naturally ebullient organ rose again when as they got out of the car the Fat Man said, “That weren’t a bad idea about Charley Penn’s books. Have a chat with that lass of thine. From the sound of it, she owes you one. And I don’t mean a jump. That you negotiate with your own coin, not mine.”
And things got even better when they arrived in the reference library to find Rye alone, looking very fetching in a low-cut sleeveless top and clinging hipsters.
“How do, luv,” said Dalziel. “Bossman around?”
“Sorry, no. He just popped out,” said Rye. “Can I help?”
“Not really. Need to talk to him. Any idea where he’s gone?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give members of the public…” She broke off and looked at Dalziel more closely. “Oh, it’s Mr. Dazzle, isn’t it? Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Is it police business? Then I’m sure it’ll be OK. He’s gone
