Reginald Hill – Dialogues of the Dead (страница 17)
‘Hell, no. I’m not laughing at that. I’m just thinking about my DI who’s only interested in sailing into retirement peacefully and just hates the idea of having to make a decision about something as difficult as this.’
‘I’m glad to know the public weal’s in such safe hands.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s not typical. You should see the guy at the top.’
His expression turned sombre at the thought of Andy Dalziel. Why did the guy dislike him so much? Couldn’t just be because of his degree. Pascoe was a graduate too and he and the Fat Man seemed to be able to work together without too much blood on the carpet.
‘Hello?’ said Rye. ‘You still with me or are you getting messages from Planet Zog?’
‘Yes. Sorry. Just the thought of our super does that to me. Look, I’ll keep you posted about any further developments on the Wordman front, I promise. I assume there’s been nothing more at your end?’
‘Any more Dialogues, you mean? No, of course not, or we’d have called you. And the closing date for entries is tonight so there’s not much time left.’
He regarded her gravely and said, ‘Maybe if our Wordman really is killing people, he won’t be much bothered by a closing date for a short story competition.’
She looked irritated but with herself not him and said, ‘Thanks for making me feel stupid. That part of your job?’
‘No. Is it part of yours?’
‘When did I do it?’
‘When you and Dee started using long words you assumed, rightly, I wouldn’t understand.’
‘Such as?’
‘When I told you what people called me, you said something about that being very
‘And what Dee said?’
He didn’t really want to hear about Dee’s cleverness or anything which hinted at intimacy between Rye and her boss, but couldn’t help saying, ‘You’ve played this
She gave him a cool smile which seemed to say she understood precisely the direction of his thoughts and said, ‘No. It seems only two can play and those two are Dick and Charley Penn.’
‘The writer?’
‘Is there another?’
He decided this was leading nowhere and said, ‘So now we’ve both made each other feel stupid, what about this Sunday?’
She didn’t pretend not to understand but said, ‘I don’t know if I’m that stupid. What’s the E stand for?’
‘What E?’
‘E. Bowler. On your library card. That E. Come on. What are you hiding under your hat, Hat?’
He looked at her doubtfully then took a deep breath and said, ‘Ethelbert.’
‘Ethelbert,’ she repeated, savouring the name like a jam doughnut, then running her tongue round her lips as if to pick up the residual sugar. ‘I like it.’
‘Really?’ He examined her closely in search of ambush. ‘You’ll be the first. Most people fall about laughing.’
‘When you’ve got a name that makes you sound like an alcopop, you don’t laugh at other people’s names,’ she said.
‘Rye Pomona,’ he said. ‘I see what you mean. But it’s nice. Isn’t Pomona a place in Italy?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But it is Italian. Pomona was the Roman goddess of fruit trees.’
She watched to see if he would lumber into a joke or ooze into a compliment.
He nodded and said, ‘And Rye, is that a nickname, or what?’
‘Short for Raina,’ she said.
‘Sorry? Never heard that one.’
She spelt it for him, and pronounced it carefully, stressing the three syllables,
‘Raina,’ he echoed. ‘Raina Pomona. Now that’s really nice. OK, it’s unusual, but it’s not naff, like Ethelbert Bowler.’
She found herself pleased that he didn’t make a big deal of asking where the name came from but just took it in his stride.
‘Don’t undersell yourself,’ she said. ‘Think positive. Ethelbert Bowler … it has an artistic ring … makes you sound like a minor Victorian watercolourist. Are you interested in art, Ethelbert? Under any of your hats?’
‘I could probably dig out an old French beret,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why?’
‘The Centre’s new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There’s a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?’
He said, ‘Are you going by choice or because you’re on the payroll?’
She said, ‘Does it matter? OK, it’s sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘Try me till I yawn,’ he said.
‘OK. The Centre’s tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery on Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it’s all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?’
‘No, just breathing deeply with excitement.’
‘Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders’ digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing – you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?’
Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly.
‘I believe you,’ she said, not bothering to sound convinced. ‘Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she’s on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone’s had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there’s a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines he’s at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor – Managers.’
‘Who?’
‘Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Councillor Steel’s opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the Actor – Managers (that’s his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre’s much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!’
‘No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he’d like to put in for the Centre Director’s job too.’
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?’ asked Rye. ‘Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It’s quite fun to watch them, actually. They don’t try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people playing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.’
‘Smells?’
‘Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I’m beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion’s share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.’
‘So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?’ said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation.
She said defensively, ‘It’s no big deal. I’d have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He’s a bit of an artist.’
She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?’
‘Dress artistically,’ she murmured. ‘Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well-dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?’
He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, ‘Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?’
Jax Ripley’s colleagues had noticed that she was in vacant or pensive mood all that Friday afternoon. Normally as she put together the items for her early evening show, she was incisive and openly impatient with anyone who wasn’t moving at her speed. But today she didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind about things.
‘Who are the guests?’ asked John Wingate, the station manager. He was a middling aged plump man with a lean and hungry face, as if his chronic anxiety about everything had done a deal with his body and drawn a demarcation line around his neck. Below this, the soft folds of pink flesh glowed with health, and, warmed by sun or sex, gave off an odour which reminded Jax of her childhood bed beneath which her provident mother laid out rows of apples to see them through the North Yorkshire winter. Screwing Wingate had been a pleasure as well as a career move.