Death

she got into her tracksuit and set off.

Since Dalziel had given her the special assignment, her chosen route usually took her along Peg Lane.

Her task of making sure Rye Pomona wasn't being harassed by investigative reporters was either very easy or quite impossible, depending on how you looked at it. The impossible bit was sticking with her twenty-four hours a day. On the other hand she'd been put on her guard, she was an intelligent woman (formidably intelligent, in Novello's estimation) and quite capable of taking care of herself. So the active part of the assignment had soon diminished to a daily check with her for oddities plus the occasional morning diversion just to make sure there wasn't some low life waiting to buttonhole her at this hour most favoured by police, bailiffs and buttonholers generally.

After the events at the Mayor's Hogmanay Hop, it had seemed that even this small routine wouldn't be necessary for some time, but last Thursday Hat had turned up at work, full of joy, to announce that Rye had rung him the previous night to say she'd been discharged from hospital with a clean bill of health and this morning she'd gone back to work.

Novello, guessing that Dalziel would expect her to know all the ins and outs before he'd even heard the substantive news, headed straight round to the library for a chat.

Rye had greeted her like an old friend. To Novello's enquiries after her health she'd replied that the hospital staff hadn't been able to assign any specific cause to her collapse, suspected it might be viral, had given her a couple of shots of God knows what, and sent her home with instructions to make an appointment with her GP.

Novello had been unconvinced. She had a sharp female eye and a proper detective scepticism, both of which detected tell-tale signs of worry and debility. Had she been a closer mate of Hat Bowler's, she might have looked for a diplomatic way of hinting her concern, but even then his boundless relief and joy at Rye's return home could have made her hesitate. As it was, with their uneasy relationship, any hint of reservation on her part was likely to be regarded as peeing on his parade.

Her relationship with Andy Dalziel had no such ambiguities. If he gave you a job, even if you thought it was a complete waste of time, you did it, and you didn't skimp. She'd read every syllable of the Wordman archive twice. Asked for her conclusions, she'd taken a deep breath and told the Fat Man, 'If Dee hadn't been caught in the act of attacking Pomona, there's not enough evidence against him to get him community service let alone a conviction for serial killing. And if he hadn't been killed resisting arrest, which is how we sold it, I can think of half a dozen stories he might have told which would have made CPS very unhappy about charging him.'

Them dozy buggers got hold of Hitler, he'd have pled down to a misdemeanour’ said Dalziel, but without any real force.

'So if there is a journalist on the case, all he has to do is find some way of picking holes in the Pomona attack and after that it's straight through to the goal mouth. Tabloids twenty. Police nil.'

'Play a lot of soccer, do you?'

'Six-a-side down the gym’ she said.

'Don't know what the world's coming to. OK, you've not told me owt I don't know. You could make an old man very happy by pointing out some loose end in the killings that we could tie round Dee's neck.'

'Only loose end I could see was that chap Pyke-Strengler who was found shot and decapitated out at Stang Tarn. There was some blood on one of his fishhooks, human, group AB. Not Pyke-Strengler's, but not Dee's either, and not belonging to either of the other two suspects, Penn and Roote, who, to be honest, sir, look about as suspicious as the Pope. How they got in the frame beats me.'

'Wishful thinking’ growled Dalziel. 'You'll do more of it as you get older. So one loose end you can't tie up except to say it definitely doesn't point to Dee. That it? Nothing you can cheer me up with by saying, 'Please, sir, here's something no one can argue with 'cos you definitely got it right?''

'Yes, sir, there is something’

'Spit it out.'

'I think you're definitely right to be worried if it turns out there is an investigative journalist on the job.'

He stared at her till she began to regret her boldness, then said, 'Nay, lass, I'm not worried about that, 'cos I've got this smartass cop on his case who's going to find him for me before he prints a word.'

'Yes, sir. And then…?'

'Then I'll kill him’ said Dalziel. 'But if the first I hear of him is when I open my Daily Crap, then I'll have to find someone else to kill.'

So at eight twenty this Monday morning, Novello was jogging down Peg Lane.

Its once fashionable Victorian townhouses were now given over to multi-occupation and small businesses. There were no garages (presumably the fashionable Victorians kept their broughams in some nearby livery) so the house as opposed to the church side of the street was lined with parked cars for its full length. She slowed down as she passed Church View. The usual cars stood outside. The front door seemed firmly closed. It tended to be left ajar during the day which wasn't very good security. Open or locked, it made no difference to Novello as she'd checked out the lock and got herself a suitable key from the vast selection on offer in CID's boy scout (i.e. be prepared) cupboard.

So all quiet on the Peg Lane front. With a feeling of duty done, she speeded up again. And almost missed them.

Right at the end of the Lane where it went into a bit of a chicane an old white Merc was parked. There were two people in it, a man and a woman. And the man she recognized as Charley Penn.

They were deep in conversation. Or something. They didn't even glance her way as she passed. She crossed the road, ran back a bit till she reached the old wall running round St Margaret's, and scrambled over it.

Here she had a good view of the Merc. She wished she'd got a camera, then remembered that she had. Gleefully she dug it out. There were Dalziel Brownie points to be had here, and an ambitious girl snapped these up avidly.

The woman got out of the car. It didn't seem all that amicable a parting, but at the last minute Penn said something and they exchanged a peck. Then he drove off towards town and the woman started walking in the other direction.

Novello kept pace with her, popping up to take the occasional snap. The woman seemed too preoccupied to notice.

Then she reached the steps of Church View, turned up them, pushed the door open and went inside.

Novello vaulted over the wall with the explosive speed which had made her a sprint champion in her school days. She had her key at the ready but the door hadn't shut properly so she didn't need it. She could hear the woman's steps on the stairway above.

As she began to mount towards Rye's landing, it occurred to Novello for the first time to wonder what she was supposed to do now. Journalists, particularly investigative journalists, are not the kind of people it's advisable to arrest without good reason. In such a situation, Dalziel no doubt had many tried and tested techniques at his disposal. Like grievous bodily harm. Pascoe's diplomatic skills would probably come into their own. And Wield would merely stare for a while then say 'Boo!' to get a result.

But how could a young ambitious WDC deal with the situation without getting herself the kind of bad press which got your card marked by the Chief Constable?

And a little way behind these somewhat selfish thoughts came the question, what the hell was this woman up to anyway?

She reached Rye's landing. It was empty. Shit! Had she had time to ring Rye's bell and talk her way into the flat? Novello didn't believe so. Maybe Rye had coincidentally opened her door just as the woman arrived and been pushed back inside. But such behaviour from a stranger would surely elicit protest. She pressed her ear to Rye's door and heard nothing. What now? Ring the bell and check all was well inside? Or continue her pursuit up the next flight of stairs?

A voice said, 'Can I help you?'

Startled she turned to see a bright-eyed foxy-faced woman of indeterminate age peering at her from the next door to the right.

This made up her mind.