something she already knew or not being told something she didn’t.
“It doesn’t really signify anything,” she said. “Not if the guy’s just feeding off news items. To be significant, or even to strain coincidence, he’d have to be writing before the event.”
“Before the reporting of the event,” corrected Dee.
She nodded. It was a small distinction but not nitpicking. That was another of Dee’s qualities. The details he was fussy about were usually important rather than just ego-exercising.
“What about all this stuff about the student’s grandfather and the bazouki?” she asked. “None of that’s in the paper.”
“No. But if it’s true, which we don’t know, all it might mean is that the story-teller did have a chat with David Pitman at some time. I dare say it’s a story the young man told any number of customers at the restaurant.”
“And if it turns out the AA man had been on holiday in Corfu?”
“I can devise possible explanations till the cows come home,” he said dismissively. “But where’s the point? The key question is, when did this last Dialogue actually turn up at the Gazette? I doubt if they’re systematic enough to be able to pinpoint it, but someone might remember something. Why don’t I have a word while you…”
“… get on with reading these sodding stories,” interrupted Rye. “Well, you’re the boss.”
“So I am. And what I was going to say was, while you might do worse than have a friendly word with your ornithological admirer.”
He glanced towards the desk where a slim young man with an open boyish face and a sharp black suit was standing patiently.
His name was Bowler, initial E. Rye knew this because he’d flashed his library card the first time he appeared at the desk to ask for assistance in operating the CD-ROM drive of one of the Reference PCs. Both she and Dee had been on duty, but Rye had discovered early on that in matters of IT, she was the department’s designated expert. Not that her boss wasn’t technologically competent-in fact she suspected he was much more clued up than herself-but when she felt she knew him well enough to probe, he had smiled that sweetly sad smile of his and pointed to the computer, saying, “That is the grey squirrel,” then to the book-lined shelves: “These are the red.”
The disc Bowler E. wanted to use turned out to be an ornithological encyclopaedia, and when Rye had expressed a polite interest, he’d assumed she was a fellow enthusiast and nothing she’d been able to say during three or four subsequent visits had managed to disabuse him.
“Oh God,” she said now. “Today I tell him the only way I want to see birds is nicely browned and covered with orange sauce.”
“You disappoint me, Rye,” said Dee. “I wondered from the start why such a smart young fellow should make himself out to be a mere tyro in computer technology. It’s clearly not just birds that obsess him but you. Express your lack of enthusiasm in the brutal terms you suggest and all he’ll do is seek another topic of common interest. Which indeed you yourself may now be able to suggest.”
“Sorry?”
“Mr. Bowler is in fact Detective Constable Bowler of the Mid-Yorkshire CID, so well worth cultivating. It’s not every day us amateur detectives get a chance of planting a snout in the local constabulary. I’ll leave him to your tender care, shall I?”
He headed for the office. Clever old Dick, thought Rye, watching him go. While I’m being a smart-ass, he’s busy being smart.
Bowler was coming towards her. She looked at him with new interest. She knew it was one of her failings to make snap judgments from which she was hard to budge. Even now, she was thinking that him being a cop and possibly motivated in his visits to the library by pure lust didn’t stop him being a bird nerd.
The suit and tie-less shirt were hopeful. Not Armani but pretty good clones. And the shy little-boy-lost smile seemed to her newly skinned eye to have something just a tad calculating in it which she approved too. The way to her heart wasn’t through her motherly instincts, but it was nice to see a guy trying.
“Hello,” he said hesitantly. “Sorry to bother you…if you’re too busy…”
It would have been entertaining to play along for a while but she really was up to her eyes in work even without this short story crap.
She said briskly, “Yes, I’m pretty well snowed under. But if it’s just a quickie you’re after, Constable…”
The shy smile remained fixed but he blinked twice, the second one removing all traces of shyness from his eyes (which were a rather nice dove-grey) and replacing it with something very definitely like calculation.
He’s wondering whether I’ve just invited him to swing straight from boy-next-door into saloon-bar-innuendo mode. If he does, he’s on his way. Bird nerd was bad, coarse cop was worse.
He said, “No, look, I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask, this Sunday I was thinking about driving out to Stangdale- it’s great country for birds even this time of year, you know, the moor, the crags and of course the tarn…”
He could see he wasn’t gripping her and he changed tack with an ease she approved.
“… and afterwards I thought maybe we could stop off for a meal…”
“This Sunday…I’m not sure what I’ve got on…” she said screwing up her face as if trying to work out what she was doing seventy-two weeks rather than seventy-two hours ahead. “And a meal, you said…?”
“Yeah, there’s the Dun Fox this end of the moor road. Not bad nosh. And now the law’s changed, they’ve started having discos on Sunday nights as well as Saturdays…”
She knew it. An old-fashioned road-house on the edge of town, it had recently decided to target the local twenty-somethings who wanted to swing without being ankle-deep in teenies. It wasn’t Stringfellows but it was certainly a lot better than a twitchers’ barn dance. Question was, did she want a date with DC Bowler, E?
She studied his hopeful face. Why not? she thought. Then distantly behind him she glimpsed Charley Penn, who’d twisted round in his usual kiosk and was observing the scene with that smarl which suggested he could overhear not only their dialogue but their thoughts.
She said abruptly, “I’ll think about it. Look, sit down if you can spare a moment from keeping the world safe from crime.”
“Thought it was you who was up to your eyes in it,” he said, sitting.
Touch of satire there.
“I am. And this is work. Your work, maybe.”
She explained briefly as she could, which wasn’t all that brief as awareness of how weird it all sounded made her veer towards longwindedness.
To do him credit, he didn’t fall about laughing but asked if he could see the Dialogues. She showed him the Second which he read while she retrieved the First from the drawer where Dee had stored it.
He read this as well then said, “I’ll hang on to these. Got a plastic folder or something?”
“For fingerprints?” she said, half mocking.
“For appearances,” he said. “Don’t think there’s going to be much in the way of prints with you and your boss crawling all over them.”
She got him a folder and said, “So you think there could be something in this?”
“Didn’t say that, but we’ll check.”
Not a trace of shy smile here, just professional brusqueness.
“Like at the Gazette, you mean?” she said, slightly irritated. “I think you’ll find Dick Dee, my boss, is taking care of that.”
“Yeah? Fancies himself as a private dick, does he?” he said, smiling now.
“Ask him yourself,” said Rye.
Dee had come back into the library and was approaching them.
His gaze took in the transparent folder and he said, “I see Rye has brought you up to speed, Mr. Bowler. I’ve just been talking to the Gazette. No joy, I’m afraid. No record of time or even date of receipt kept. Stuff marked Story Competition gets dumped straight into a bag for dispatch round here when it’s full, plus anything else looking like fiction.”
“Would have thought that covered half the stuff they print,” said Bowler.
“An observation I resisted,” said Dee.
“Probably right. They can be sensitive souls, these journalists. OK, I’ll take these with me and check them out when I’ve got a spare moment.”
