Death's Jest-Book (40 page)

So young Bowler was on a freebie.
Couldn't blame him for accepting it, thought Dalziel as he saw the
champagne corks flying from the mayoral table. And in fact as the
evening went on, the average age of the guests seemed to get lower
(or maybe it was just the huge quantities of various elixirs of youth
being sunk!) and the band had proved up to anything from Scots
traditional through strictly ballroom to dirty disco.

Rye, Dalziel decided, was chaste
cheek territory, but as he stooped to administer the salute, she
turned her head and kissed him on the lips, not long, but long enough
to make him think longer would have been nice.

'I hope you find everything your
heart wants, Mr Dalziel’ she said seriously.

'You too, luv. You too.'

His gaze drifted to the woman
standing next to her. Bit dumpy, but he liked that. Not bad looking,
honey blonde hair over good shoulders, wearing a clinging blue dress
cut low enough to show a piste of bosom it would be a pleasure to ski
down. He didn't know her though she wasn't totally unfamiliar. There
was a man by her side. He didn't know him either, but he looked a bit
of a tosser. Narrow, pointed face with restless eyes, one of those
linen jackets that looks like it's travelled from Hong Kong scrunched
up in the bottom of a rucksack, brightly flowered silk shirt that
showed his nipples, and a pair of trousers cut so tight it would take
a chisel to get into the pockets which presumably was why he carried
a handbag. No doubt there was some modern macho term for the male
version, but Dalziel liked to call a spade a spade.

'Happy New Year to you, too, luv’
he said, giving her the peck.

'You too, Superintendent,' she
said.

'Do I know you?' he asked.

'We met briefly on Christmas Day
but we weren't introduced,' she said.

'This is Myra Rogers, my
next-door neighbour’ said Rye.

'I remember’ he said. 'Nice
to meet you again.'

'And this is Tris, my escort’
said Mrs Rogers.

Tris, the escort! Has she hired
him for the night then? wondered Dalziel. Hope she got a money-back
guarantee.

The band which had greeted the
New Year with a furious outburst of 'Happy Days Are Here Again' now
decided that the time had come when the kissing had to stop and, with
a bagpipe skirl, they announced the onset of 'Auld Lang Syne'.

Cap appeared at his side as they
formed a circle.

'Had a good snog then?' he asked
her.

'Bruised but unbowed’ she
said, 'Here we go!'

'Should auld acquaintance be
forgot and never brought to mind

They sang it once with feeling,
then repeated the chorus at speed, all rushing into the centre of the
circle. Dalziel targeted a man in the Social Service Department who'd
given him some grief in a recent case and was pleased to see him
retire badly winded.

'Well, that was fun, wasn't it?'
said Cap.

'It were all right. Only one
verse but, and even then they get the words wrong’ said
Dalziel, who tended to get a bit SNP at Hogmanay.

'And you know them all, I
suppose?'

'Bloody right. Me dad taught me
and I've got the bruises to prove it. My favourite verse is second
from last:

And here's a hand, my trusty
fiere,

Andgie's a hand o' thine;

We'll tak a right good
willie-waught

For auld lang syne.'

'Lovely’ she said. 'But
what on earth's a "right good willie-waught"?'

'Don't know, but I'm hoping to
give you one when we get home. Hello, young Bowler. Enjoying
yourself?'

'Yes, sir. Very much.'

'Grand. Don't get a taste for
free champagne but. It can come pricey. Here, don't rush off, they've
just announced a Dashing White Sergeant.'

'That would be Sergeant Wield,
would it, sir?'

'Don't be cheeky. Grab that lass
of thine and show us your style.'

'Don't think we can do this one,
sir.'

'Then it's time you bloody
learnt.'

It was a terrifying experience
being in the same set as Andy Dalziel, who moved his great bulk
around with what at first seemed like reckless abandon, but quickly
it dawned on Hat that the Fat Man was in perfect control. Like Henry
VHI shaking a leg at Hampton Court, he was at the centre of all
movement, directing by command and example. And if he was the king,
Rye was the queen. Hat knew from visits to discos what a natural
mover she was, but tonight was the first time he'd seen her in more
formal dances and it was a revelation which made him feel gauche and
inadequate.

As the music came to an end and
the dancers started to move away in search of refreshment, Dalziel
clapped his hands thunderously and shouted, 'Nay, lads, we're just
getting warmed up! More! More!' Recognizing the voice of authority
when they heard it, the band launched into the tune once again, and
Hat too reluctantly turned back to the fray. But strangely it was Rye
who resisted. Her hand felt cold and limp in his and her body, which
a moment ago had seemed to be floating weightlessly, seemed stiff and
heavy.

He said, 'Hey, come on, can't let
him think he's worn us out, can we?'

She looked at him and tried to
smile. Suddenly he noticed how very pale she was.

He said, 'You OK, love?'

She said, 'Yes, fine.' And indeed
as she moved back on to the floor, her step seemed as light and
graceful as ever.

They took their places, the band
started playing, fairly sedately at first but under Dalziel's booming
demands that they 'put a bit of oomph into it!' the beat got faster
and faster and soon Hat found himself spinning round at a pace that
set his head reeling. He abandoned any attempt to put in the steps
but simply concentrated on keeping up with the other members of the
set, all of whom seemed determined not to let a big fat cop outface
them. But it was no contest. Dalziel danced like a man possessed, but
also like a man perfectly under control, never off-balance, never
missing a step. Only Rye kept up with him without giving any sign she
found it an effort. She winked at Hat whenever the pattern of
movement brought them together and when she encountered Dalziel, she
looked straight into his eyes with a faintly mocking smile on her
lips.

The music was
now at breakneck speed and only a macho determination not to show
weakness in front of the Fat Man ... or Rye ... or maybe both . . .
kept Hat going. Dalziel had Rye in his grasp, spinning her round then
releasing her to the next in line. Like a queen she moved, such
balance, such grace, such .. . Hat felt a surge of pure pleasure at
the notion that she was his . . . no, not
his ...
not in any
controlling, possessive sense . . . but that he and she were ...

His thoughts stuttered to a halt.
There was something wrong ... no, not wrong ... it was Dalziel's
fault . . . he had thrown Rye from him with far too much force . . .
she was spinning away from the other dancers across the floor . . .
she'd come to a graceful stop in a moment then returned, smiling . ..
but suddenly there was nothing graceful about the way she was moving
. . . from Queen of the Dance under perfect control she had become
mechanical doll with the spring broken . .. still she was turning,
but now her arms were flailing the air as if to fight off a swarm of
marauding bees . . . and then she went down.

The music stuttered to a stop.
Hat was running towards that writhing, twisting form which wasn't
Rye, couldn't be Rye, mustn't be Rye! He was running with all his
power, but it felt as if he were running through water.

Her mouth was open but nothing
came out. Her eyes were wide and staring but they weren't seeing
anything that anyone else in that room could see. Hat reached her,
collapsed to his knees by her side. He was trained to deal with
emergencies, but now not a single course of action suggested itself.
He could only kneel here feeling a paralysing blackness envelope him,
unwilling, unable to let himself admit that everything he loved and
thought most lovely in the world could in the twinkling of an eye be
reduced to this.

Then Myra Rogers pushed him
aside, knelt by the young woman's head and forced open her mouth to
check that her tongue wasn't blocking the air passage.

She looked like she knew what she
was doing. Dalziel was close too, shouting, 'Get a doctor. I've seen
at least three of the buggers here. Get to the bar, that's where
they'll be.' And Cap Marvell had produced a mobile and was talking
urgently to the ambulance service.

Rye had stopped moving now. For a
moment beyond definition Hat thought she was dead. Then he saw her
chest move. A doctor arrived and began to examine her. Myra Rogers
eased Hat upright.

'She'll be OK,' she said
reassuringly. 'Probably the heat and all the activity . . .'

Dalziel said, 'Ambulance on its
way. Can hear it now. She'll be fine, lad.'

For once the Fat Man's
reassurance felt light and worthless.

The ambulance arrived. As Hat
followed the stretcher trolley out, he glanced upwards. It was a
clear frosty night. Stars crowded the dark vault of the sky. Was
there life up there? Who gave a fuck?

Somewhere close a raucous drunk
yelled, 'Happy New Year!'

Hat climbed up into the
ambulance, and the doors closed, shutting out indifferent stars and
happy drunks together.

Ell
Pascoe's New Year had been rather flat. The most bubbly thing about
it had been the two bottles of fizz Pascoe had bought. One was your
genuine vintage Widow, the other a supermarket selection Cava, the
idea being, Pascoe alleged, to test if they could spot the
difference, but really, she guessed, having forked out whatever huge
sum had been necessary to get the former, he couldn't bring himself
to double it. They had made a thing out of testing each other blind,
but the fun had been rather forced and the only significant result of
the experiment was to thwart Pascoe's efforts to make love to her on
the lounge floor. Whenever drink had disappointed them in the past,
they had been able to make jokes about it and find other ingenious
things to do, but this time he seemed to take it to heart, and her
efforts at jollity came out like the cliches of reassurance.

Happily what drink knocks down
sleep builds up and she took advantage of his matutinal stiffie
before any memory of last night's fiasco could have an inhibiting
effect.

That was good,' he said, 'though
next time I'd prefer to be awake all the way through.'

I've often wondered what it would
be like myself,' she said. 'But make a note for next year. Less
champers, more con gas.'

'Yeah, and maybe we'll go to the
Hogmanay Hop.'

'Good idea,' she said. But when
he rang her later in the morning to pass on news of how the Hop had
ended for Rye Pomona, she felt a selfish pang of relief that they
hadn't been there to see it. She'd grown very fond of Hat Bowler.
He'd gone through a lot, and to see him suffering again just when he
must have thought that from now on in it was going to be roses all
the way would have been unbearable. As it was, the shock was diluted
by the news that Rye was in no danger, and though she had not yet
recovered consciousness, it was a deep and, they hoped, healing sleep
that encompassed her.

Ellie was a
devout atheist, but it wasn't such a clinical condition that she
feared the odd tot of prayer would being about a relapse into
full religiosity.

She sat before what was to her
non-technical mind the most persuasive evidence of the supernatural
she had so far discovered i.e. her computer screen, and said, 'God,
if you're in there, spare a thought for Rye Pomona and for Hat Bowler
too. Give them the happiness they deserve. OK?'

She stabbed a finger down on the
keyboard and watched as the name Franny Roote blossomed on the
screen.

Hardly the answer to a maiden's
prayer.

So maybe it was as well a maiden
wasn't praying.

Meanwhile
in a quiet side ward of the Central Hospital Rye Pomona was aghast to
find herself once more talking to her dead brother.

What was worse, she could see him
quite clearly, and as he listened to her he was irritatedly trying to
pick bits of fluff and small shards of china out of his skin.

This was one of the things she
and Myra Rogers had been able to laugh at as they celebrated
Christmas together. Under the fertilizing influence of a bottle of
white wine the seeds of friendship sown at their first meeting in the
churchyard had burgeoned rapidly, and a bottle of red had brought it
into full bloom.

'You must think I'm really
weird,' Rye had said, laughing. 'Drunks banging on my door, me
glooming round the churchyard like I was spaced out on dope

'Well, I've got to admit, that
first time I saw you there, I thought, Hello, what kind of company am
I getting into here! I never did work out what you were up to .. .'