of name change, like Jax (another!) Ripley calling Headingley “Georgie Porgie.” None of which meant that either Bowler or the DI got on to the suspect list!
Though, come to think of it, the way George Headingley had kept his involvement with Ripley under wraps demonstrated what to a CID man should need no demonstration-that human beings were of all animals the most unreadable and unpredictable.
The vicar’s sonorous seventeenth-century periods finally rolled to an end. According to him, if ever a man deserved to sit on the right hand of God, it was Percy Follows.
Though, from the sound of it, he’d probably much prefer sitting on either hand of Ambrose Bird.
It was one of those thoughts you suddenly feel you’ve spoken out loud and he glanced guiltily around, but no one was looking indignant. Dick Dee was sitting on the other side of the aisle, his eyes fixed on the pulpit, his expression either rapt or traumatized. Beside him was his assistant, Rye Pomona. Whose presence was probably the true reason for young Bowler’s keenness to attend the funeral! He’d got a hint that things hadn’t been moving too well on that front since their ill-fated expedition to Stang Tarn. If asked, he could have spoken some wise words to the DC. Police work can fascinate some civilians, especially a case like this involving mysterious communications and puzzles and all kinds of twists and turns. He’d no doubt that Bowler had, consciously or subconsciously, used this God-given turn-on, sharing more information with the girl than a young cop should, especially one who worked for Fat Andy whose attitude to sharing info with civilians was, tell ’em only what they need to know, and the buggers don’t need to know much! But when you’re young and in love, even the mountainous Dalziel could shrink to a molehill.
There was, however, another obstacle much harder to overcome because unforeseen. That sense of being special which came from being privy to the inner life of an investigation was a very intimate thing. But it was a narrow line to tread, and if something happened to bring your confidante face to face with the brutal realities of the case, her fascination could rapidly turn to revulsion.
Rye Pomona had been dragged over that line twice in rapid succession, the first time most brutally when she had been present at the discovery of Pyke-Strengler’s corpse, followed very soon after by the murder of Percy Follows and Ambrose Bird, which, though her involvement was not so direct, must have strongly reinforced the effect of that day out in Stangdale.
So now, guessed Pascoe, poor Hat was finding that the confidences which had hitherto seemed the key to her heart were merely unwelcome reminders of his essential otherness from which she wanted to retreat.
If asked, he would have said something like, if she really likes you, Hat, she’ll get over it, and though she may not like what you have to do, she’ll respect you for doing it.
But this, like most wisdom, was banal in expression and retrospective in effect, so he kept it to himself, though noting how, after the service, as the mourners filed past the grave, Hat’s eyes never left Rye who was some way ahead of them in the queue, talking quietly to Dee. At least they were free from the close attention of the media which had so infuriated Linda Lupin at her step-brother’s funeral that she’d put in an official complaint about “insensitive behaviour bordering on the depraved.” Result, a combination of editorial diktat and police street closures which had kept the hordes of Gideon at a distant prowl.
“Not a bad send-off,” said Dalziel. “Good turn-out. What is it they say? Give the punters what they want and they’ll turn up in their thousands. Why are you screwing up that skinny face of thine? Bad taste? At least I listened to the sermon while you were leafing through the prayer book, looking for the mucky bits.”
Dalziel asleep missed less than many men awake.
“I was meditating on the psalms,” said Pascoe. “Psalm 27 to be precise. ‘The Lord is my light, and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?’ The Wordman’s favourite.”
And it was still with him, still working away in his mind…
“You OK?” demanded Dalziel.
“Yes, sorry.” He came back to here and now, aware that the Fat Man had said something that he’d missed.
“I were saying, it seems to work for him.”
“What?”
“The Twenty-seventh psalm,” said Dalziel longsufferingly. “‘For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his tabernacle: yea, in the secret place of his dwelling shall he hide me, and set me upon a rock of stone.’ Bugger’s certainly well hidden. Mebbe even when we’re looking right at him. See our friend Dee’s here. No sign of Penn or Roote, but.”
“I hardly think that’s significant,” said Pascoe. “Follows was Dee’s boss.”
“Never said it was significant, did I? Well, there you go, Percy. Let’s hope that angel’s haircut of thine is standing thee in good stead. See you around!”
They’d reached the grave and Dalziel stopped to seize enough earth in his great fist to plant an aspidistra and hurled it on to the coffin-lid with a loud crash.
It was a good job, thought Pascoe, that Follows hadn’t left instructions for an ecologically correct cardboard coffin or they might have seen him sooner than expected.
As they headed out of the graveyard towards the line of parked cars, he saw Dee and his assistant get into their vehicles, then drive off in convoy. When they reached the main road junction, neither turned left towards the Lichen Hotel where funeral meats awaited, but both went straight over towards the city centre. Paid Prancing Percy their respects then straight back to work. The queen is dead, long live the queen. Or king. No doubt the battle for succession in the library was already on.
Dalziel watched them too, then as if taking this as a hint, he said, “Think I’ll give the wake a miss. I’ve seen the grub at the Lichen. Makes you understand how it got its name. But funerals always make a man thirsty. There’s The Last Gasp round the corner. Weird sense of humour some of these breweries have. You can buy me a pint and a pie there. Both of you.”
Reluctantly Pascoe and Bowler, both of whom had other things on their mind, followed their Great Master.
Dalziel’s stated purpose was only half fulfilled. After his first pint (Bowler’s treat) he postponed the pie, and halfway through the second (Pascoe’s) he opined loudly, “This ale’s almost as flat as the company. I’ll not risk the grub here. Let’s move on to the Black Bull. At least Jolly Jack knows how to keep beer.”
But now, having obeyed the dictates of duty and self-preservation, Pascoe was ready to be obstinate.
“No thanks. Lots to do,” he said firmly. Which was true but not the truth. What he really wanted was to be somewhere by himself and think.
“Jesus wept,” said Dalziel, amazed. “How about you, young Bowler?”
“No,” said Hat shortly, taking courage from Pascoe’s example. “I’m busy too.”
He too had noticed Dee and Rye driving off in convoy and wanted to brood on this and other matters.
“Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs,” said Dalziel, recognizing finality. “I’ll mebbe have to change me aftershave. But think on, I’ll be looking forward to seeing the outcome of all this busy-ness.”
Back at the station Pascoe got a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar from the machine and slumped in his office chair, while the steam died from the liquid and the confection stayed unwrapped.
Out in the CID room, Hat sat in a posture so like the DCI’s that anyone seeing both of them simultaneously might have started wondering about doppelgangers.
There was no one else on the CID floor. Elsewhere in the building, normal busy life was going on but here its attendant noises touched the ear with that sense of remoteness and distance you get when standing on a misty beach on a windless day, or in a snow-filled wood in winter.
Pascoe wanted to think about the strategy of the Wordman investigation and why it had failed. Hat wanted to think about Rye Pomona and whether she was still with Dee. But these troublesome thoughts seemed to lose their pace and energy as they ran up against the invisible barrier of this zone of calm elsewhereness.
It’s like, thought Pascoe (and even this thought did not set his pulses racing), it’s like those moments described in the Dialogues when time slows towards a halt…it’s as if the Wordman has trailed his aura and I am on the edge of his dimension, that passive world in which he is the only active element.
This is where I should be looking for him, not out there in the busy world of routines, and elimination, and forensics. This is the secret place of his dwelling.
He let his body relax even more.
Psalm 27. He is back in church reading Psalm 27. The Lord is my light. He tries to move elsewhere, that part
