This reply was even quicker.
At least you can show your scars. If I start flashing the stud marks where you stomped me, I'll get arrested! Your ferret (very apt) sounds like Tristram Lilley which probably means there's some serious hi-tec surveillance going on. And if he was carrying a handbag, you're probably on Candid Camera! Sounds interesting. Anything we should know about?
Dalziel's reply read Just a little local difficulty. Thanks, mate. I owe you a pint. Hwyl fawr! Andy
'So she simply went into her flat’ said Novello, thinking there was no harm in underlining her innocence.
'Aye. Let that be a lesson. Don't look for magic when the obvious is staring you in the face.'
The Fat Man spoke without force, or at least not with a force aimed in her direction. He brought up the woman's image again (he was, noted Novello, despite his assertive Ludditism, a quick learner) and sent his mind back to his encounter with Charley Penn in Hal's. As he'd approached the writer's table, a woman approaching from the opposite direction had veered off. She had been unmemorable – except as a niggle which made the unremarkable face of Myra Rogers ring a very faint bell when he first met her. Man who didn't listen to bells could end up late at his own funeral, he told himself scornfully.
Another thing popped into his mind, the dedication in the Hacker novel he'd bought – An Mai ~ wunderschon in alien Monaten! – and Penn's suspicious glance as he saw which book it was. Bugger must have thought I was on to him! Well, I am now, Charley!
Novello picked up the CV print-out which Dalziel had dropped on to his desk and read it again. Then she said thoughtfully, 'Funny, though. This doesn't look like her kind of story at all, does it? It's the big political stuff she usually goes for, cock-ups in Cabinets, corruption in high places. Mid-Yorkshire CID might have got it wrong isn't exactly going to be syndicated round the world, is it? So why put in so much time and effort when there's not much in it for her, even if she does find out whatever there is to find out?'
It was Dalziel's turn to shoot a suspicious glance but she met it boldly. She wasn't about to ask him direct what it was he didn't want anyone to find, but after a lot of deep thought she'd come to the conclusion there had to be something and she'd made a pretty good guess at what it might be. Being on Dalziel's team meant you often had to put up with being treated like a personal slave, but the upside of this was that his pride of possession was second to none, and if anyone tried to mess with one of his cubs, they found themselves messing with Daddy Bear too. Finding a wounded officer and dead suspect after a struggle, and being persuaded the suspect had it coming, Fat Andy wouldn't hesitate to tidy things up to remove any ambiguity about the killing. She'd now looked at every photo and read every bit of paper relating to the affair, and marvelled at how cleverly the selections offered to first the coroner then the Board of Enquiry had underlined the proper roles of the trio involved – Maiden in Distress, Noble Rescuer Sorely Wounded and Foul Fiend Slain With a Single Blow. Had a case ever come to court, then a good defence counsel would surely have picked up on this manicure job. But dead men didn't get tried.
'So what do you think got Richter interested, clever clogs?' he growled.
'Money? Penn must be worth a bob or two, all this telly stuff.'
'She sound to you like someone who'll do owt just for the brass?'
'Not really,' admitted Novello.
'Look at her list of publications.'
Besides her major investigative articles, there were several books listed on what seemed to be social or socio-literary topics. The title of one was translated as Heine's Apostasy: the German Choice.
She said hesitantly, 'Isn't Penn doing a book about someone with a name like that?'
Dalziel looked upon her with the approval he saved for those of his staff whose minds weren't cluttered up with all kinds of art-farty lit. crit. nonsense.
'Aye. This Heinkel or whatever his name is. I'll lay odds they've met before and when Charley started getting these daft ideas in his head about digging up some dirt, he thought of Fraulein fucking Richter straight off!'
'But it still doesn't explain’
'Does if they'd had a roll in the hay first time they met,' said Dalziel. 'Nay, don't look surprised. I know he's no oil painting, but there's no accounting for taste, is there?'
She looked at the huge bulk slumped before her, thought of Cap Marvell, and said, 'No, that's right, sir,' realizing too late she'd not slammed down the visor over her thoughts quickly enough.
He gave her a promissory glare, then said, 'I reckon she'd spent the night at Charley's place, sorting out his irregular verbs, and he were dropping her off so she could become dear Myra, best mate, again.'
She said, 'Looked as if they might have been having a bit of a row.'
'Good. Mebbe she's decided there's nowt in it for her and is giving Charley his cards,' said Dalziel. 'Off you go, lass. Got no work to do?'
She felt dumped. At the door she paused. Nothing like a Parthian shot, was there?
She said, 'One thing, sir. How long has Rogers been living next door to Rye?'
'At least since a week before Christmas. Why?'
So, three weeks at least. And she'd stayed around over Christmas too. Either her passion for Charley Penn was very strong. Or she thought she was definitely on to something worth spending a lot of time on. She thought of saying this to see if she could get a flicker of unease into those relentless eyes. But was it worth the effort?
She didn't know much about the Parthians but she had an impression that despite all their farewell shots, they'd never made the World Cup finals.
'Just wondered, sir,' she said, heading for the door.
'Don't forget your camera. Here, I didn't realize you knew Sol.'
'Sol?' She turned, puzzled, then saw that the image now showing on the screen was the man in her flat with the nerve-tingling smile.
'Aye. Sol Wiseman. Rabbi at the Progressive Synagogue on Millstone Road.'
'Rabbi. A Jewish Rabbi?' said Novello, gobsmacked,
'A lot of them are’ said Dalziel, eyeing her sharply. 'Known him long?'
'No, not really… hardly at all… just trying out the camera.'
She was thinking with horror of her next confession. 'Father, I've screwed a rabbi
Dalziel grinned suddenly as if she'd spoken her fears out loud, unplugged the camera and handed it to her.
Once more she headed for the door.
As she opened it, his voice said, 'Another thing, Ivor. You keep this quiet. And I mean quiet. No exceptions, not even Father Joe. Right?'
'Yes, sir.'
She went out into the corridor and was shutting the door when, without looking up, he added, 'Nice work, lass. You did right well.'
Suddenly things didn't seem so bad after all.
Biting her lip to stop herself grinning like an idiot, Novello went on her way.
Rye Pomona watched out of her window as Novello drove away.
Her appointment was at nine thirty. At nine forty a grim-faced man came out of the consulting room.
'Do we need another appointment, Mr Maciver?' asked the receptionist.
'What for?' he snarled. And left. A great start.
Chakravarty appeared in the doorway, casually dressed in a shirt so white it dazzled the eye and knife- edged cream-coloured slacks. All he needed was a bat to be opening in a test match. He ushered her in, full of apology and charm.
Rye listened to him stony faced, then glanced at her watch and said, 'So let's not waste any more time.'
He blinked as if a bouncer had just whistled past his nose and said, 'Of course. I have your records here. The tests are scheduled. But first let's see things from your point of view.'
He was a good listener, and a good questioner, though after half an hour Rye felt slightly irritated that he seemed to be focusing less on what in her eyes was the most significant event of her medical history, the accident which had killed her brother and left her with her silver blaze, and more on the events out at Stang Tarn the previous autumn which had left Dick Dee dead.
Suspecting his interest was merely prurient, she said dismissively, 'I don't see how this can be relevant. I
