Free Dialogues of the Dead by Reginald Hill Page A

eating on the hoof and became uneasy if they found themselves spending more than ten minutes on a meal - but he had followed Franny Roote there one night last week, watched him go inside, thought, Sod this, it's unofficial and Pm not on overtime, and headed home to a takeaway and a soccer match on the telly. That was when? Suddenly he felt uneasy. Wednesday, Pascoe had given him the job, so it had to be ... He pulled over and took out his pocketbook to check the date. Shit! It was Friday, the same night that young Pitman had had his 'accident'. Best not to mention it, he decided. It would just muddy the waters. He hadn't gone inside, he hadn't seen any other customers, he hadn't done anything except sit in his car for a minute watching Roote go into the building. If his own bad vibes about the two deaths were translated by the brass into a fall-scale investigation - which he doubted, given George Headingley's determination not to let his boat be rocked with the harbour of retirement in sight - then he might speak. Or perhaps not. Somehow he sus pected from the way Dalziel had been looking at him lately that the fat bastard would be glad to put a black mark against his name simply for being in the vague vicinity of a possible crime. For a moment he even thought of scrubbing his plan to visit the Taverna, but only for a moment. Wanting to cover his back didn't stop him from being conscientious. Then, because he was a positive thinker, much happier looking on the upside of things than contemplating possible downsides, he suddenly grinned as he saw a way of getting something good out of the situation. He took out his mobile and dialled the Central Library number. It rang for a long time before someone answered. He recognized the voice. 'Mr Dee? Hi, it's DC Bowler. Listen, is Rye there?' 'I'm sorry, she's gone home, like all sensible people,' said Dee. 'The only reason you got me was that I often stay on after closing time to do some work.' 'That's very noble of you,' said Bowler. 'I fear you credit me with more virtue than I possess. I don't mean work for the public weal. This is private research for a book I'm writing.' 'Oh yes. Detective story, is it?' Dee laughed, picking up the irony. 'I wish. No, it's a history of semantic scholarship. A sort of dictionary of dictionaries, you might call it.' 'Sounds fascinating,' said Bowler unconvincingly. Dee said, 'I think I should work on your projection of sincerity if you fancy trying your hand at undercover work, Mr Bowler. Now, is there any way that I can be of help to you?' 'Only if you've got a number I can reach Rye at,' said Bowler. There was a pause then Dee said, 'Well, I do have her home number, but I'm afraid we're not allowed to give such things out to the public at large. But I could pass on a message, if you like.' Bastard! thought Bowler. He said, 'It was just about my enquiries. I'm going to the Tavema this evening to check out a few things and I thought as Rye was so interested she might care to join me. I'll be there at seven.' 'Now that does sound fascinating. I'll pass your message on. I'm sure Rye will be as intrigued as I am.' But you're not invited, Dick-head Dee, thought Bowler. Then, being both a fair and a self-analytical young man, he asked himself, Am I jealous? But quickly, because he was above all a young man, he went on to dismiss as absurd the idea that in matters of love a dotard of at least forty years could give him any cause for jealousy. Showered, shaved, and arrayed in his sharpest gear, he was in the Taverna by six forty-five. He ordered a Campari soda because he loved the colour and it gave him a sense of sophistication. At seven ten he ordered another. A third at seven twenty. At seven thirty, tired of sophistication, he ordered a pint of lager. At seven forty-five he ordered a second pint and asked to see the manager. This was Mr Xenopoulos, short, fat and genuinely Greek though he spoke English with a disconcerting Liverpool accent. Suspicious