board. Presumably this was Paro-whatsit, the crazy word game Rye had told him about.
He caught her eye and risked a smile.
She didn’t smile back.
Pascoe took her and Dee through the events of the morning with clinical precision while Hat took notes, glancing through the panel from time to time to make sure the journalist was keeping a safe distance.
When she said that the first thing she picked out of the open sack had been Charley Penn’s translation of one of Heine’s poems, Hat felt yet another pang of this silly jealousy.
‘So Mr Penn was in the library already when you arrived?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And saw everything?’
‘Mr Penn doesn’t miss much,’ said Rye carefully.
‘I didn’t notice him when we arrived just now,’ said Pascoe.
‘No,’ intervened Dee. ‘Charley said that there would probably be so much fuss in the library that he’d be better off working at home.’
From the faint smile that accompanied this, Hat guessed it was a paraphrase of what Penn had actually said.
‘And home is where?’
Dee stumbled over the address and Rye came in and recited it correctly. Did this mean she’d actually been there? wondered Hat, jealousy once more bubbling up, without, he hoped, showing on his face. She’d already picked up he was jealous of her fondness for Dee. Let her get the impression he was some kind of possessive nut and that could really fuck up his prospects.
Finally Pascoe was satisfied.
Leaving the two librarians in the office, he moved out with Hat. Near the library door, Bird and Follows were continuing their running row while Ruddlesdin, chewing on an unlit cigarette, spectated with world-weary indifference. The dispute stopped when Pascoe called, ‘Gentlemen!’ and all three moved to join him.
He stepped aside to usher them into the office.
‘I’m finished here,’ he said. ‘Thank you for waiting so patiently.’
Then, to Hat’s delight and admiration, he gently closed the door behind them and moved towards the exit at a pace which stopped just short of running.
Ruddlesdin caught up with them just before the door of the car-park lift closed.
‘Quote, Pete,’ he gasped. ‘Give us a quote.’
‘Smoking can seriously damage your health,’ said Pascoe.
‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Hat as they got into the car.
‘To talk to Charley Penn, of course,’ said Pascoe.
Penn’s flat was on the top floor of a converted Edwardian townhouse which was corralled in scaffolding and resonant with the shouts, crashes, clangs and radio music which proclaim to the world that the British workman is earning his pay.
They found Penn on his way out. With a resentful glower, he turned round and led them back into his apartment, saying, ‘Would you bloody believe it, I fled the library, thinking it was soon going to be echoing to the heavy plod of constabulary feet, making it impossible to work, and came back to this hell?’
‘But you must have known that work was going on,’ said Pascoe.
‘They hadn’t started when I left and I thought, Saturday morning, maybe the buggers refuse to get out of their pits unless they get quadruple time.’
‘So what are they doing?’
‘My landlord’s tarting the building up, reckons he can get five times what he paid for it a couple of years back if he sells it as a single dwelling.’ The writer showed his uneven teeth in a canine grin. ‘But he’s got to get shut of me first, hasn’t he?’
While these pleasantries were being exchanged, Hat took a look around.
The flat, so far as he could work out without being too obvious, consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and the room they were in. High-ceilinged and with a deep bay window which gave a good view (even framed in scaffolding) over the interesting roofscape of the older part of town, it had a sense of spaciousness which not even the detritus of a determined bookman could disguise. There was a huge desk in the bay, its surface completely hidden by papers and books which overflowed on to the floor a couple of metres in all directions. At the other side of the room stood a green-baized antique card table with a rotatable top on which very neatly laid out was a large board in the shape of a five-pointed star, marked in squares, some coloured, some bearing strange symbols, flanked by a dish full of letter tiles and three wooden tile racks.
They really must enjoy this game, him and Dee, thought Hat. A board each! Maybe there were more. Presumably there’d be one in Dee’s home too, and God knows where else.
Then his attention was diverted to the wall directly behind the table on which hung a framed photograph. It showed three boys standing close together, arms round each other. It was the same picture he’d seen on Dick Dee’s desk, except that this print was much larger. The enlarging had exaggerated the fuzziness caused by the poor focus to produce a strange otherworldly effect, so that the boys appeared like figures seen in a dream. They were standing on grass and in the background were trees and a tall castellated building, like a castle in a misty forest. The two outer boys were almost of a height, one perhaps two or three inches taller than the other, but they were both a good six inches taller than the boy in the centre. He had a mop of curly blond hair and a round cherubic face which was smiling with undisguised delight at the camera. The shorter of the other two, the one who looked like Dee, was smiling also, but a more inward-looking, secretively amused kind of smile, while the third wore an unambiguous scowl which Hat saw again as a voice snarled, ‘Having a good poke around, are you?’ and he turned to look at Charley Penn.
‘Sorry, it was just the game,’ he said, indicating the board. ‘Rye – Miss Pomona, mentioned it … some funny name … para something …’
‘Paronomania,’ said Penn, regarding him closely. ‘So Ms Pomona mentioned it, did she? Yes, I recall her taking an interest when she saw me and Dick playing one day. But I told her that like all the best games, only two could play.’
He smiled salaciously, his gaze fixed on Hat, who felt his face flush.
‘Some kind of Scrabble, is it?’ said Pascoe.
‘Oh yes. Like chess is some kind of draughts,’ sneered Penn.
‘Fascinating. My young daughter loves board games,’ murmured Pascoe. ‘But we mustn’t detain you any longer than necessary, Mr Penn. Just a couple of questions …’
But before he could begin there was a loud knock at the outer door.
Penn left them and a moment later they heard the outbreak of a loud and increasingly acrimonious discussion between the writer and the foreman of the renovators, who required access to the windows of Penn’s flat and seemed to think some written instruction from his employer gave him a legal right to this.
