a tequila sunset.’
‘You mean sunrise?’
‘I know what I mean,’ he said.
Detective Inspector George Headingley was a stickler for punctuality. With the end of his career in sight, he might have decided he wasn’t going to do anything he didn’t want to do, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be unpunctual not doing it. He was due at his desk at eight thirty the following morning and at eight twenty-nine he was approaching it with the measured tread which made his footsteps recognizable at fifty paces.
He could see that the cleared top which he prided himself on leaving at the end of every shift had been sullied by a document. At least the sullier had taken care to place it dead centre so that in many ways it enhanced rather than detracted from the effect of perfect order which Headingley was always at pains to achieve.
He hung his coat up, removed his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, then sat down and pulled the document towards him. It was several pages thick and the first of these declared that its author was DC Bowler who, as requested, had gathered together all available information which might help DI Headingley to assess whether anything in the deaths of Andrew Ainstable or David Pitman required his, that is DI Headingley’s, further investigation.
Why was it that something legalistic about this form of words made his heart sink?
He opened it and began to read. And soon his heart was sinking deeper, faster. He’d wanted firm no-no’s so that he could consign these daft Dialogues to the waste bin, but all he was getting was a series of boggy maybe’s.
When he finished he sat for a moment, then gathered all the papers together and set out in search of Bowler.
There was no sign of him. He encountered Wield and made enquiry after the young DC.
Wield said, ‘Saw him earlier. Think he went off to do something for Mr Pascoe. Was it urgent?’
‘Was what urgent?’ said Andy Dalziel, whose approach was sometimes audible at twice the distance of the DI’s but who could also exercise the option of materializing like the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, moving silent as mist over the ground.
‘The DI’s looking for Bowler,’ said Wield.
‘And the bugger’s not in yet?’
‘In and out,’ said Wield reprovingly.
‘Aye, like Speedy Gonzales,’ said Dalziel with a lip curl like a shed tyre. ‘What do you want with him, George?’
‘Well, nothing … just a query about a report he’s done for me,’ said Headingley, turning away.
‘About those deaths, was it?’ said Wield. ‘The library thing.’
Headingley shot him a glance which came as close to malevolence as a man of his amiable temperament could manage. He still had hopes of squashing this bit of awkwardness or, in the unlikely event of there being anything in it, at least shelving it till such time as he was long gone. To that end, the less Dalziel knew, the better.
‘Library thing?’ said Dalziel. ‘Not a body-in-the-library thing, I hope, George. I’m getting too old for bodies in libraries.’
Headingley explained, playing it down. Dalziel listened then held out his hand for the file.
He scanned through it quickly, his nostrils flaring as he came to the end of Bowler’s report.
‘So that’s what the bugger were doing at the Taverna,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nowt. So what do you reckon, George? Load of crap or a big one for you to go out on?’
‘Don’t know yet,’ said Headingley as judiciously as he could manage. ‘That’s why I want to see Bowler. Check through a couple of points with him. What do you think, sir?’
Hopeful of dismissal.
‘Me? Could be owt or nowt. I know I can rely on you to do the right thing. But while you’re thinking about it, George, mum’s the word, eh? Go off half-cocked on summat like this and we’ll look right wankers. Don’t want them blowflies from the media sniffing around till we know there’s dead meat, and it’s not us.’
A mobile rang in Headingley’s pocket. He took it out and said, ‘Yes?’
He listened then turned away from the other two men.
They heard him say, ‘No, not possible … of course … well, maybe … all right … twenty minutes.’
He switched off, turned back and said, ‘Need to go out. Possible information.’
‘Oh aye. Anything I should know about?’ said Dalziel.
‘Don’t know, sir,’ said Headingley. ‘Probably nowt, but he makes it sound urgent.’
‘They always do. Who’ll you take? We’re a bit short-handed with Novello still off sick and Seymour on leave.’
‘I can go,’ said Wield.
‘No, it’s OK. This one’s not a registered snout,’ said Headingley firmly. Registered informants required two officers to work them for protection against disinformation and attempted set-ups. ‘I’m still working on him. He’s a bit timid, and I reckon that seeing me turn up mob-handed might put him off for ever.’
He turned and began to move away.
Dalziel said, ‘Hey, George, aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Eh?’
‘This,’ said the Fat Man, proffering the Dialogues file. ‘You don’t get shut of it that easy.’
The bugger’s a mind reader, thought Headingley, not for the first time. He took the file, tucked it under his arm and headed out of the office.
Dalziel watched him go and said, ‘Know what I think, Wieldy?’
‘Wouldn’t presume, sir.’
‘I think it was his missus reminding him to pick up her dry-cleaning. One thing you’ve got to say about George, he’s been real conscientious helping us break in his replacement.’
‘Thought we weren’t getting a replacement, sir.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.
He returned to his office, sat looking at the phone for a minute, then picked it up and dialled.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice which even on the phone was filled with a husky warmth which communicated itself straight to his thighs.
‘Hi, luv. It’s me.’
‘Andy,’ said Cap Marvell.
