“Yes, I have been wondering about that,” said Dee. “And something did come to mind. I was going to tell you, Rye. Take a look at this.”
He went to the office and returned with a large folio which he set on the table. He began turning the pages, revealing a series of, to Bowler’s eyes, weird and wonderful designs, often in rich and vibrant colours.
“I need to be able to read Celtic scripts for some research I’m doing,” he explained. “And that’s made me aware of the huge range of illuminated initials their scribes used. This is what the Dialogue illustration reminded me of. Oh, here, look at this one. The Dialogue version has no colour of course and is greatly simplified, but basically they have much in common.”
“You’re right,” said Rye. “It’s obvious now you’ve pointed it out.”
“Yeah,” said Bowler. “Obvious. What is it, then?”
“It’s the letters I N P. This particular illumination is taken from an Irish manuscript of the eighth century and it’s the opening of the Gospel according to St. John. In principio erat verbum et verbum erat apud deum et deus erat verbum. All the letters of which seem to have tumbled into that little pile under the P.”
“And what do they mean, exactly?” said Hat, adding the last word to suggest, falsely, that it was merely detail he wanted adding to his own rough translation.
“In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and God was the Word, or the Word was God, as the Authorized Version has it. An interesting way for our dialogist to introduce himself, don’t you think? Words, words, words, much in love with words.”
“Oh yes,” said Rye taking the folder from Hat and staring hard from the ornate illumination to the black and white sketch. “But maybe it means something else. As well as the words.”
“That struck me too. It’s clearly illustrative. That could be the humpback bridge with the unfortunate AA man in the water …”
“And there’s a bird, though it doesn’t look much like a pheasant …and are those things with horns meant to be cows?”
Hat, feeling he was being sidelined, retrieved the folder from her hands and said, “Let’s wait till we see if there’s been a crime committed before we start looking for clues, shall we? And if there has been, don’t worry, we’ll soon have this word-lover banged up. Pity they’ve shut Alcatraz.”
“Alcatraz?” they said in simultaneous puzzlement.
“Yes, then he could be the Wordman of Alcatraz.”
If it had fallen any flatter it would have been a map.
He said, “It was a movie …on telly the other night …there was this guy, Burt Lancaster, who killed somebody and got locked up …”
“Yes, I recall the film,” said Dee. “Well, well, the Wordman. Very droll, Mr. Bowler.”
Again, it didn’t sound like a put-down, but Hat felt put down.
“Yeah, well, thanks for your input, we’ll bear it in mind,” he said, trying to regain the professional high ground.
“My pleasure,” said Dee. “Well, back to the grind.”
He sat down at the table, picked up another story and started to read. Rye followed his example. Bowler remained standing, gradually deflating from cocky cop to would-be wooer.
There are more ways of withering than a blast of hot words, thought Rye gleefully.
Dee glanced up and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bowler, was there something else?”
“Just something I was asking Rye, Miss Pomona.”
“About the …Wordman?”
Hat shook his head.
“Ah, a library enquiry then. Concerning your ornithological studies, I’ve no doubt. Rye, are you able to help?”
“Not straightaway,” said Rye. “It’s something I’ll need to think about, Mr. Bowler …”
“Hat,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“My friends call me Hat.”
“How very paronomasiac of them,” she said, glancing at Dee, who smiled and murmured, “One might even say paronomaniac.”
“Yeah, well, what about it?” said Hat, his irritation at what felt like the intimacy of mockery making him abrupt.
“Tell you what,” said Rye. “Leave it with me. Perhaps we can talk again when you come back to tell us what you’ve found out about the accuracy or otherwise of the Dialogues. That suit you, Mr. Bowler? Hat?”
He frowned for a moment then the smile broke through.
“OK. That’s fine. I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile I’d keep this to yourselves. Not that there’s like to be anything in it, but better safe than sorry. See you.”
He turned and walked away. He moved well, with a cat-like grace. Perhaps that explained his interest in birds.
She glanced at Dee. He gave her a conspiratorial smile. Then he dropped his gaze to the sheets before him and shook his head ruefully.
“Truth really is so much more interesting than fiction, isn’t it?” he said.
She looked down at her next story.
The writing was familiar, large and spiky and purple.
It began Last night I had another wet dream …
“You could be right,” she said.
6
Detective Constable Bowler’s considered professional opinion of the suspicions roused by the two Dialogues was that they were a load of crap, but if taking them seriously was a way to Rye Pomona’s heart and/or bed, then it was pursed lip and furrowed brow time. But only in her sight. Once out of the library, he did a little jig of delight at his luck and the sight of a wavering line of greylags crossing the rectangle of sky between the police station and the coroner’s court tuned up his spirits another notch.
He watched them out of sight then ran up the stairs to the CID floor whistling merrily.
“You sound happy,” said Edgar Wield. “Found Lord Lucan, have you?”
“No, Sarge, but got something almost as odd.”
He showed the sergeant the two Dialogues and told him the tale.
“It’s certainly odd,” said Wield, sounding like he meant daft. Bowler couldn’t blame him.
“Thought we should check it out,” he said. “Just a feeling.”
“A feeling, eh?” said Wield, those dark eyes surveying him coldly from that fragmented face, as if well aware that the feeling in question had more to do with Rye Pomona and hormones than detective intuition. “You’re a bit junior for feelings. Even sergeants are only allowed three or four a year, between consenting adults. You’d best try this out on someone with a bit more brass about him.”
Bowler’s spirits hit an air pocket and sank as he contemplated taking something as airy-fairy as this to Andy Dalziel. It had been made quite clear to him that his fast-track transfer from the Midlands had been effected without Dalziel’s approval. “We’ll see how you shape,” had been the gist of his welcome six months earlier. In his own eyes, he had shaped pretty well, or at least not made any major mistakes. But far from wriggling his way into the Fat Man’s affection, from time to time in the past few weeks he’d turned round as though prodded in the back to find those ice-pick eyes fixed on him with an expression somewhere between simple distrust and out-and-out loathing.
On the other hand, it was a comfort that only last week, the DCI hadn’t hesitated to pick him out for a bit of delicate investigation, checking out some nutter he thought was harassing him.
“Yes, I thought maybe I’d mention it to Mr. Pascoe. Need to chat to him anyway,” he said airily, trying to give the impression of a special relationship existing between graduate entrants.
Wield, noting the attempt, said, “When you next report to him about Franny Roote, you mean?”
It didn’t do to let junior members of the team imagine they knew anything he didn’t. Peter had probably stressed to young Bowler that his interest in the behaviour and habits of Roote was technically unofficial and should not be mentioned in the super’s presence. In his present mood, the Fat Man seemed to believe that telling Bowler anything was like ringing up the tabloids.