that.'
'He may have his own reasons for wanting things quiet’ said Novello.
'Meaning?'
'Mr Dalziel thinks he might have decided he was getting nowhere barking himself, so he's decided to find himself a dog.'
‘o bark louder at me?' said Rye, amused.
'More sniffer dog than barker’ said Novello. Tress.'
'A journalist? But that's stupid. What would I have to say to a journalist?'
'Nothing, I hope. But as you've probably gathered, Mr Perm thinks that you… that all of us are hiding something. If he's managed to persuade a journalist there could be a story… point is, it won't be someone coming at you asking for an interview, it's more likely to be someone coming at you sideways. Like here at the library, say. Some fellow asking for your help with something, then striking up an acquaintance… it can happen.'
She'd taken the brief smile which touched Rye's lips as scepticism, but it was caused by her memory that this was how Hat Bowler had first attempted to get to know her.
'I'll be on my guard,' she promised.
'So it's not happened yet?'
'No. I think I'd have noticed.'
Novello said gently, 'With these people, the art is making sure you don't notice.'
'Oh dear. Now you're frightening me. But in any case, I've got nothing to hide so what can they hope to get out of me?'
Novello said, 'Can we go into your office for a moment?'
She glanced towards Penn as they went through the door behind the desk, but the writer seemed deeply immersed in his work.
Closing the door she said, 'They'll have the public records. Mr Dalziel thought it might help if you took a look at the inquest transcript.'
She produced a file from the Tesco bag.
Rye said uneasily, 'Is it OK to do this?'
'Of course it is. It's like a copper looking at his notebook in court. No one can remember everything exactly. And if someone did ask you questions, you wouldn't want to give them anything to worry at just because something slipped your mind, would you? They're experts at making owt from nowt.'
Dalziel had said, 'Make sure she understands that what she said to the coroner is all she needs to say.'
And Novello, who had not been made privy to anything but the official picture of what Pascoe and Dalziel had found when they arrived on the scene, nor anything the girl had said outside her formal statement, didn't ask the question forming in her mind, 'And could she say anything more, sir?' because she was beginning to suspect that this ignorance was part of the reason she'd been given this job. Reading everything she could find on the Wordman case had taken up most of her free time since Dalziel gave her the assignment – just because he gave you a job that took up twenty-three hours of the day didn't mean he didn't expect you to fit the rest of your work into the remaining hour.
There was a ring from the enquiry desk bell.
'Look, I've got to go’ said Rye.
'Fine. Keep this. Read it at your leisure. Nothing to worry about, we just don't want you being harassed. I'll keep in touch, if that's OK? Maybe a coffee some time?'
Rye thought then nodded and said, 'Yes, I think I'd like that.'
She ushered the WDC out of the office. Standing at the desk was a tall, blond young man looking like Arnie Schwarzenegger's handsome young brother. Novello gave him a look which was at the same time assessing and admiring. In reply she got a smile which kept up the Hollywood connection by being borrowed straight from Julia Roberts.
Half blinded by such dental effulgence, she glanced at Rye and twisted her mouth into a get-a-load-of-that! expression.
'Take care’ she said.
'You too’ said Rye with a grin.
And as Novello walked away she thought, if that hunk does turn out to be an investigative journalist, then he can investigate me to his heart's content!
At the same time as Novello left the library, about a hundred feet over her head a scene was unfolding which in prospect most investigative journalists would have given their editors' eyeteeth for.
Sergeant Edgar Wield was approaching the top floor of the Centre car park where he had a secret assignation with the teenage rent boy who was madly in love with him.
At least this was how it might be written up by some. of these investigative journalists, thought Wield. Which was why, one way or another, he was going to get things sorted between Lee Lubanski and himself today.
After a dodgy start, Edgar Wield had had a very good Christmas.
His partner, antiquarian book dealer, Edwin Digweed, had turned out to be a traditionalist in matters yulic. At first Wield had looked for an element of piss-taking as the familiar outlines of their cottage vanished beneath a folly of furbelows and he found himself sharing their small sitting room with an outsize fir-tree whose apogean fairy bowed gracefully from the waist because her head pressed against the ceiling. On a shopping expedition to a hypermarket, which during the rest of the year Digweed referred to as Hell's Cathedral, he had watched in bewilderment as their trolley piled up with crackers and baubles and puddings and pies and jars of pickled walnuts and yards of cocktail sausage and samples of every kind of exotic confectionary and savoury on display. Finally he had enquired politely if the Red Cross had perhaps warned Edwin to expect a flash flood of starving but picky refugees in remote Eendale. Digweed had laughed, a sort of jolly ho-ho-ho which Wield never heard him use at any other season, and continued down the aisle, humming along to the piped carols.
Ever a pragmatist, Wield had decided to relax and enjoy it, and discovered rather to his surprise that he did. Even his initially reluctant attendance at the midnight service had been a pleasure. The whole village had been there, and as Corpse Cottage, the Wield’Digweed residence, now festooned with winking fairy lights, snuggled handily under the churchyard wall, it seemed natural that most of the villagers should drop in for a festal warmer on the way home, and very quickly huge inroads were made into what had seemed their excessive provision.
'I was very pleased to see you at the service’ said Justin Halavant, art collector and critic in whose medieval hand a poppy or a lily would not have looked out of place. 'It's so important to demonstrate the solidarity of our faith, don't you think?'
'Oh aye?' said Wield, a touch surprised as he'd have put Halavant down as an aesthetic rather than a devout Christian. 'Look, don't be offended, I enjoyed it, but I'm not what you'd call a true believer
'My dear chap, what's that got to do with anything?' laughed Halavant. 'All I meant was, anyone who doesn't show up in the church at Christmas is likely to end up in the Wickerman at Beltane. Lovely candied kumquats, by the way. I may have some more.'
Later he'd shared the exchange with Digweed, who'd laughed, not his ho-ho-ho but his usual dry chuckle, and said, 'Justin likes his jest. But he's right. Enscombe takes care of its own, one way or another.'
Christmas morning had been going well till among the presents beneath the tree Wield had found a padded envelope marked Not to be opened till Xmas day in a childish scrawl.
'Came with the post yesterday,' said Digweed with an overstudied lack of interest.
Wield opened it to find a card with all the most sucrose elements of Christmas greetings combined in one glutinous design and something wrapped in tissue paper.
The card was inscribed To Edgar the best from your friend Lee.
He unwrapped the tissue to reveal a pair of silver cuff links engraved with his initials.
Edwin asked no questions, but questions hung in the air so Wield gave answers in his most brisk and precise style.
Digweed listened then said, 'You did not think to mention this boy to me earlier.'
'It was police business.'
'So,' said Digweed, glancing at the links and the card, 'it would appear. Isn't there a name for gifts that policemen receive from criminals?'
