Death's Jest-Book (47 page)

'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.

'No thanks. Just visiting Ms
Pomona,' said Novello, pressing the bell.

A long minute passed before the
door opened.

Rye stood there wearing only a
cotton wrap. She looked terrible. Either, thought Novello, casting an
expert eye over the deep shadowed eyes, the pallid cheeks, the
hunched shoulders and the lifeless hair, she'd been at a Twelfth
Night party even wilder than the one she herself didn't remember
attending, or she was sick.

'Hey, I'm sorry, have I got you
out of bed?'

'No, I was up.'

'Can I come in?'

Rye looked as if she'd like to
say No, then glanced at the still-spectating neighbour and said,
'Morning, Mrs Gilpin. Yes, come in.'

Unless as well as admitting the
suspected journalist, Rye had also hidden her in the bedroom, it
looked as though she was alone.

'So what do you want. . .
nothing's happened to Hat, has it?'

For the first time some spark of
life touched the lacklustre eyes.

'No, nothing to do with Hat. He's
fine.'

‘Relief, then the light
died. No need to worry her with anything else, not till she'd got the
photos developed and had a word with King Kong. 'No, I was just
passing and thought I'd say hello, check that everything was all
right.'

'Yeah, fine. Why shouldn't it
be?'

'You know, what we talked about,
journalists and such. There hasn't been anyone bothering you?'

Rye said, 'How could anyone
bother me?'

Strange answer, but she was a
strange girl. And not a well girl by the look of her.

'Sorry to bother you then. I'll
let you get back to bed.'

'Bed? No, I'm getting ready for
work.'

'Work?' said Novello. Then,
catching the echo of her own incredulity, she went on rapidly,
'Monday morning's are hell, aren't they? Especially if you've been
partying over the weekend. You should have seen me an hour ago.
Coffee and a spot of breakfast's the thing for getting back on track.
You had any breakfast yet? Let me give you a hand. I could murder
another cup of coffee.'

'No thanks,' said Rye. 'I'm not
hungry. Bit of an upset tummy.'

Hell, thought Novello. Has Hat
got carried away, put her in the club? Stupid sod! Or maybe (don't
rush to judgment in this world 'cos you surely won't want to be
rushing to judgment in the next, as Father Kerrigan was forever
telling his flock) it was planned, what they both wanted, only as
always the woman gets the shit, the man gets the cigars.

'Look, none of my business, but
are you sure you're OK? You look, well, not a hundred per cent

'Is that right? How much would
you say then? Ninety-five per cent? Fifty? Less?'

That was better. Spark back in
her eyes, bit of a flush in her cheeks.

'Sorry,' said Novello. 'I'll be
off then, let you get dressed. Take care.'

'Yes. Thank you for calling.'

Again a strangeness of phrase and
intonation, this time sounding like Eliza Doolittle reciting some
newly learned social mantra.

Novello left. No sign of Mrs
Gilpin, thank God. She ran lightly up the next flight of stairs. The
top landing was empty. The woman must have heard her pursuing feet
and continued up here, listened to the exchange below, then slipped
back down and away while she was wasting time in Pomona's apartment.
So, a bad decision, she didn't doubt that was how the Fat Man would
see it, though she still didn't know what she was supposed to have
done if she had confronted this putative journalist.

At least he wasn't going to be
able to say she took her time facing the music. As soon as he came in
she was knocking at his door. In her hand she held her camera.

'What's this then? Want me
picture for your scrap-book?'

Quickly she explained what had
happened, playing up her foresight in having the camera, playing down
her failure to keep track of the mystery woman. As she spoke she
hooked up the camera to the computer which stood on a side table in
the superintendent's office, like a memorial to futurity.

When the woman's face came up, he
crashed a great fist down on his desk. Novello, anticipating this was
the first salvo in a full-blooded assault on her performance, winced.
But all he said was, 'Can I send this down the tube so it comes out
at the other end?'

'Yes, sir’ she said. 'But
I'll need an address.'

'Commander Jenkinson, Scotland
Yard’ he said.

There was a service directory by
the phone. She picked it up, thumbed through and said, 'Would that be
Aneurin Jenkinson? Media Division?'

'That's the bugger.'

'And a message, sir?'

He thought a
moment then dictated
Nye - who she? - luv Andy.

She typed the message, attached
the photo and sent it. Dalziel twisted the screen round so that he
could see it.

Novello recalled a story told by
the nun who taught deportment at the convent school she'd been
expelled from. It concerned Queen Victoria attending a banquet hosted
by the Empress Eugenie in Paris. Taking her seat at the dinner table,
the Empress momentarily glanced down as most people do to make sure
the flunkey was manoeuvring her chair into position. But to the
French guests' huge admiration, Victoria seated herself without
hesitation or downward glance, as if completely confident that,
should the flunkey be remiss in his duty, God Himself would move the
chair forward to receive her royal behind.

So, it seemed to her, the Fat Man
glowered at the computer in the God-underwritten certainty that his
message would receive an instant reply.

It took only a couple of minutes,
but that great slab of a face was already beginning to darken with
impatience.

She Mai Richter German
journalist. CV follows. Watch your balls. She bites. Nye

She printed off the CV, handed it
to the Fat Man and read it on the screen herself.

Mai Richter was thirty nine years
old, set out to be an academic, had her proposals to do a thesis on
American political patronage in the post-war era blocked, dug into
the reasons for this and found that certain very senior state
officials who controlled the university purse-strings had made it
clear this was not an area they cared to see put under the
microscope, got her findings published in a national paper, was sued,
fought the case to a draw, found that her academic career was on the
rocks before it had left harbour, so directed her talent for digging
beneath the surface of things to journalism instead.

A list followed of her
investigations, mainly in Germany but with some forays into France
and the Netherlands. She was an accomplished linguist with perfect
Dutch, English, and French. She worked freelance, selling her stories
to the highest appropriate bidder. She wasn't a member of any
political party but had strong left-wing radical sympathies. She trod
a narrow line of legality which, it was theorized, she probably
crossed far more often than the couple of times when she'd been
caught, which occasions justified her inclusion in international
police records. Another reason was that there had been death threats
made against her and at least one known attempt.

'Seems to be a dangerous trade,
hers’ said Novello.

'She'll find out just how
dangerous next time I get my hands on her’ growled Dalziel.
'Let's have another look’

'Next time . . . ? There's been a
first time, sir?' said Novello, bringing the image back up.

'Oh aye. I've danced with her and
given her a big wet kiss’ said Dalziel. 'This cow calls herself
Myra Rogers. She's Rye Pomona's next-door neighbour and best mate!'

Novello's surprise was diluted
with relief. She hadn't cocked up after all. That's how she'd
disappeared, simply by going into her own apartment. The Fat Man
dictated another note.

So she bites? Well, I'm used to
that, you Welsh git! And I've still got the scars to prove it. How
about a spiky-haired runt, answers to Tris, face like a fucked-up
ferret, tanned like an old pub ceiling, dresses like a Polynesian
pox-doctor and carries a handbag?

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?'