Death's Jest-Book (30 page)

'Aye, and she's probably
terrified 'cos this idiot's been banging and shouting out here on the
landing. So what makes you think she's going to open up straight off
when some other idiot starts banging and shouting?'

It was a good point and Hat
seemed to be taking it on board till Mrs Gilpin's door opened
revealing the red and yellow hat.

Is it safe now?' said Mrs Gilpin.
'I told them when I rang, I thought they might need an armed response
team, he was making such a racket. You've not shot him, have you?'

'Just the anaesthetic dart, luv,'
said Dalziel.

Hat cried, 'It was you who rang,
not Rye?'

And started bouncing himself off
the door again till Dalziel got him in a neck lock.

'Missus,' he said. 'Would you
mind tapping at that door and telling Ms Pomona who you are and
asking her if she'd mind opening up? Thank you.'

Moving gingerly around the
slumped form of Penn, Mrs Gilpin did as she was asked.

After a long pause, they heard
the lock click and the door swung slowly open.

Rye stood there, and Dalziel's
first thought was maybe she'd been attacked after all.

She was wearing a bathrobe and so
far as he could see not much else. Her face was deathly pale except
for the twin black pits out of which her eyes peered like those of a
prisoner who does not know if she's been called forth to freedom or
execution.

Then they registered Hat and her
features were suffused with such joy that even Dalziel's hyperborean
heart had to admit a respondent glow.

He relaxed his grip on the boy
and watched with sad envy as he rushed forward to fold his arms round
the girl.

'I knew you'd come,' she said,
collapsing against him. 'Such dreams I was having . . . horrid,
horrid . . . but I knew you'd come

'I always will,' said Hat
fervently. 'Let's get you inside, shall we?'

He half carried her into the
flat.

'Story of my life,' said Dalziel
to Mrs Gilpin. 'I take the call, someone else gets the girl.. Thanks
for your help, luv. You can get back to your party now. Merry
Christmas.'

Reluctantly the woman retreated
behind her door, which she left slightly ajar till Dalziel glared it
shut. Then he turned to Charley Penn, who was showing signs of
revival. Dragging him over to the stairs, the Fat Man cuffed his left
hand to the metal balustrade.

As he straightened up he heard
footsteps on the stairs. He looked down to see a woman ascending. She
was in her thirties, with fashionably short hair and a pleasant round
face well suited to show concern, which was what registered there now
as she took in the manacled man and his menacing captor.

'Police,' said Dalziel. 'Who are
you?'

'Mrs Rogers. Myra Rogers. I live
there -' She indicated the door on the other side of Rye's from Mrs
Gilpin. 'What's going on?'

'Just a drunk causing a fuss. You
heard nowt?'

'No. I've been out. . .' Her gaze
went to Rye's open door. 'Is Miss Pomona all right?'

'I think so. This man look
familiar?'

'Vaguely. He could be the one I
glimpsed that morning the nice young officer asked about, Rye's
boyfriend, only I didn't know that till later. You're sure she's all
right?'

'Aye, she's grand,' said Dalziel.
'Young Hat's in with her now. You know her well?'

'Quite well .. . not that I've
known her long ... in fact just since that same day, you know, when
she came back and there'd been the bother .. . it's good for us both,
I think, women alone, to know we've got a friend next door ... just
for reassurance

More reassuring than Mrs Gilpin,
Dalziel guessed. There was beneath her diffidence an air of
competence about Mrs Rogers. Widow? Divorced? Didn't matter. On her
own long enough to know she could hack it. Not that she'd be without
offers. Hers wasn't a face to stick in your mind - though there was
something familiar about her - but close up, those gentle brown eyes
and smoothly rounded features were rather attractive.

There's nowt like a good
neighbour for reassurance,' he said. 'Nice to meet you, missus. Merry
Christmas.'

The woman came on to the landing,
skirted Penn fastidiously, and went into her flat.

'Don't go away, Charley,' said
Dalziel.

He went through Rye's door.

There was no sign of disturbance
here, confirming his belief that Penn had never got inside. Hat had
placed Rye on a sofa and was trying to pour a full bottle of vodka
into a wine glass. The girl had recovered sufficiently to make a
protective adjustment to her robe under the Fat Man's appreciative
gaze.

'Not to worry, luv,' he said.
'When you've seen one you've seen two. Thanks, lad.'

He took the glass from Hat's
hand, emptied it with a shudder, and said, 'No wonder them Russkis
talk mush. Get the lass a cup of tea, will you? Strong, lots of
sugar.'

For a second Hat looked
insubordinate, but a narrowing of Dalziel's eyes was enough to send
him into the kitchen.

'Right, Ms Pomona,' said the Fat
Man, helping himself to another slug of vodka. 'Just a couple of
quick questions. Has Charley Penn been inside your flat today?'

'Penn?' She looked bewildered.
'No. Why?'

'That was him banging at your
door. You did hear someone banging at your door?'

'I was asleep ... I didn't feel
so good this morning, I had this dreadful headache, and I took some
tablets and went to bed. There was a lot of noise, but I thought it
was in my dream ... I was dreaming about being back out at Stang Tarn
... it was all mixed up, the noise and everything . . . even when I
woke up I didn't know if I was only dreaming I'd woken up ... then I
heard Mrs Gilpin ... it was Mrs Gilpin, wasn't it?'

'Aye. So, you weren't feeling too
well, went to bed, had a nightmare, that sum it up?'

She shook her head to clear it,
not in denial, and said in a stronger voice, 'Yes, I suppose it does.
Mr Dalziel, it's always good to see you, but why are you here?'

She was definitely coming out of
it. Hat reappeared with a steaming mug. Dalziel said, 'Young Bowler
will explain. I've got someone waiting for me outside.'

Hat looked gratefully at the Fat
Man who mouthed at him, 'Five minutes,' then left.

Outside he found Penn had been
sick on the landing.

Uncuffing him from the
balustrade, Dalziel half led, half dragged him down the stairs. In
the street the bitter east wind hit the novelist like a bucket of ice
water. He swayed for a moment then stiffened himself against the
blast.

Dalziel nodded approvingly and
said, 'Back in the land of the living, Charley?'

'Heading that way. You wouldn't
have a flask in your pocket, would you, Andy?'

'Aye, and it's staying there.'

'Can't we get in your car at
least?'

'With honk all down your gansy?
You must be joking.'

'You're not arresting me then?'

'You done owt I should arrest you
for?'

Penn tried a laugh, it changed to
a cough, then a bout of dry retching.

'How should I know?' he gasped.
'Don't remember much since lunch.'

'Which you had where?'

'None of your business.'

'No? Let me guess.'

It wasn't too difficult. Penn's
mother (original name Penck) lived in a grace-and-favour cottage on
Lord Partridge's estate at Haysgarth. She felt her son had betrayed
his Teutonic heritage, he resented the way she bowed and scraped to
the Partridges.

Dalziel went
on, 'You had a good old traditional
Wein-acht
with your good
old traditional
Mutti
out at Haysgarth, but the only way you
could block out the sight of her kowtowing to Budgie Partridge and
the sound of her going on about your dad spinning in his grave to see
how completely his son has gone native was to get pissed out of your
skull on schnapps or some such muck. Then you headed back here to
pass on a bit of your misery to some other bugger. We won't go into
how you got here, though if I hear of any corpses, human or animal,
on the road between here and Haysgarth, I'll be jumping up and down
on your belly till you bring up your ribs. How am I doing, Charley?'

'Nice story, pity about the
style. Andy, if I'm not under arrest, I'll be on my way afore I
freeze to death.'

'Long as you
understand there's no one would give a toss, Charley, except mebbe
your publishers, and they'd just be thinking of their profits. Even
your old
Mutti
would likely just set about transforming you
into one of them dead Kraut heroes, my son the Teutonic bard who's up
there in Valhalla, serenading the gods. That's what you sentimental
Krauts do with dead folk, isn't it? Turn them into summat they're not
when they're too dead to answer back. Get it into that thick noddle
of thine, Charley. Your mate Dick Dee was a sick, evil bastard and if
you can't get your head round that, you'd best stand out here till
you catch pneumonia, then go and ask him yourself.'

Penn shivered and pulled his
jacket closer around him.

'You done?' he said.

'For now.'

'Thank Christ
for that. What's happened to you, Andy? Always thought of you as
vulgar and violent. But never verbose. Tell you what I think. You're
too wise an old porker to believe you're going to get anywhere
grunting at me. So just who are you trying to convince with all those
words? Yourself mebbe? Worried about how it's going to look if the
truth comes dropping through your letter box one fine morning? Or
rather not
if. When!
Watch this space, Andy. Watch this space.
I'm off. Merry fucking Christmas.'

He turned and walked away across
the road rather unsteadily. When he reached the small back gate which
led into the churchyard opposite, he pushed it open, raised his right
hand in derisive farewell without looking round, and vanished among
the gravestones.

Dalziel stood in thought for a
moment, then shook his head like a man dislodging a bee, glanced at
his watch, stooped to the car, reached in and leaned on the horn.

Upstairs, Hat heard the noise and
guessed its source.

So did Rye. She said, 'Better
run.'

'No hurry,' said Hat bravely. 'He
can wait till I'm sure you're OK.'

She looked better but was still
very pale. She said, 'I'm fine, really.'

'You don't look fine. Have you
had anything to eat?'

'What had you in mind? Roast
turkey and the trimmings? No thanks!'

'I could rustle you up . . .'

He paused while his mind scanned
his limited culinary range.

The horn sounded once more.

Rye said, 'I don't know if I'm
ready for the Bowler book of boy nosh. Go, go.'

Still he
hesitated. There was a tap at the door. He looked round and saw Myra
Rogers. He'd met her a couple of times in the last few days. Rye
seemed to have taken a shine to her and Hat had been delighted to
know she had a neighbour she felt she could turn to. Inviting Mrs
Gilpin into your life would be like volunteering to go on
Big
Brother.

Mrs Rogers said uncertainly, 'I'm
sorry, I just wanted to see if you were all right. .. I've been out
and when I came back and saw that terrifying man on the stairs

'It's all right, he's too drunk
to do any harm,' said Hat.

'Yes, well actually, I meant the
policeman. I'm sorry, I just wanted to say, if there was anything I
could do, but I don't want to intrude

She looked as if a blink of the
eye would send her running.

The horn again, this blast long
enough to summon Charlemagne back to Roncesvalles.

Rye said, 'Myra, don't be silly.
Hat's got to go, and I'll be glad of the company. Hat, give me a ring
later, will you? I think we both need to rearrange Christmas!'

Relieved, even though he
suspected Rye may have invited the woman in to make it easier for him
to go, Hat ran down the stairs.

Outside he found the Fat Man
sitting on the bonnet of the car, which gave it a very lopsided look,
and regarding him grimly.

'I hope you've not been
shagging,' he said. 'Bad manners to shag and shog off.'

'She's got someone with her, Mrs
Rogers from next door . . . Where's Penn?'

He'd just registered that the
writer wasn't in the car.

'Gone.'

'You let him go?'

'Aye. Here's a tip, lad. Always
keep in with your custody sergeant. You never know when you'll need a
favour. And one certain way to make a custody sergeant your enemy for
life is to turn up on Christmas Day with a drunk who's not got blood
on his hands.'

Hat was regarding him with a lack
of gratitude bordering on insubordination.

'What if he comes back? At the
very least shouldn't we put a watch on Rye's flat?'

'Taken care of, lad’ said
Dalziel.

He waved up at a second-floor
window where a red and yellow party hat was visible.

'Now let's get into the car and
back to the station afore my bollocks drop off and crack the
pavement’ said Dalziel.