regarded him curiously then said, ‘Maybe you should. You can learn a lot about a writer from his books.’
He reached up and took from a shelf not a book but one of two leather-cased files marked SKULKER. Opening it, he found bound inside copies of a magazine with that name. It was clearly an amateur production, though well organized and laid out. He opened a page at random.
A Riddle
My first is in Dog House, though not in demand: My second’s incrassate until it’s in hand: My whole is in Simpson when it isn’t in Bland.
(Answer on p. 13)
Hat was looking over his shoulder.
‘A riddle,’ he said excitedly. ‘Like in the Second Dialogue.’
‘Don’t get excited,’ said Pascoe. ‘This is a different kind of riddle, though it is not the kind of riddle it at first appears to be. It sounds as if it should be one of those simple spelling conundrums. But in fact it isn’t.’
‘So what is it?’
‘Let’s look at the answer and see, shall we?’
He turned to page thirteen.
Answer: Lonesome’s loblance.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ said Hat.
‘I would guess it’s a schoolboy joke,’ said Pascoe.
But before he could speculate further, Penn came back in.
‘Make yourselves at home, do,’ he snarled. ‘I keep my private correspondence in the filing cabinet.’
‘Naturally, which is why I did not anticipate finding anything private on your bookshelves,’ said Pascoe urbanely. ‘But I apologize.’
He replaced the volume and said, ‘Now, those few questions …’
Penn quickly recovered his equilibrium and readily confirmed Rye’s account of the sequence of events. He explained in unnecessary detail that on his arrival in the reference library, he’d approached the desk in search of Mr Dee but, seeing he was busy in his office, he’d returned to his seat, inadvertently leaving some of his work on the counter where Ms Pomona had found it. He even produced the translated poem for them to read.
‘I got the impression,’ he added, eyes fixed sardonically on Hat, ‘that she might have mistook it for a billy-doo. Kind of billy-doo lots of lasses would like to get, I reckon. Not enough old-style romance around these days, is there?’
Hat’s hardly suppressed indignation came out as a plosive grunt and he might have got down to some really hostile interrogation if Pascoe hadn’t said, ‘That’s been very helpful, Mr Penn. I don’t imagine we’ll need a written statement. We can see ourselves out.’
In the street he said, ‘Hat, it’s not a good idea to let your personal animosity towards a witness shine through quite so clearly,’ adding, to soften the reproof, ‘I speak from experience.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry. But he really rubs me up the wrong way. I know it’s not evidence, but I can’t help feeling there’s something weird about that guy. Maybe it’s part of his job description, being a writer.’
‘I see. Writers have to be weird, do they?’ said Pascoe, faintly amused.
Suddenly Hat remembered Ellie Pascoe.
‘Oh, shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘Of course you didn’t. It’s only elderly male writers who leave romantic poems lying around for impressionable young women to find who are weird, I understand that.’
Laughing, he got into their car.
Well, so long as I’m keeping the brass amused, I must be doing something right, thought Hat.
The first few days of a murder enquiry, particularly one which promised to be as complex as the hunt for the Wordman, are always incredibly busy. At this stage it’s impossible to say what will prove productive busy-ness and what will turn out to be a complete waste of energy, so everything is done with a time-consuming attention to detail. The one positive thing that had come up was a partial thumbprint, not Ripley’s, on her left mule. Dalziel to his credit didn’t even look smug, but maybe this was because the experts said that even if they found a possible match, it was likely to be well short of the sixteen points of comparison necessary for a print to be admissible in evidence. Computerization permitted much quicker checks than in the old days, but so far nothing had come up.
The post mortem had confirmed cause of death as a single stab wound from a long thin knife. The ME’s on-site opinion that he could see no external evidence of sexual assault was also confirmed. She may have had protected intercourse some time on the day of her death, but if it had been against her will, she’d been too frightened to resist.
So the initial I’m report had not been very helpful, but later the pathologist had rung up to say that a second examination had produced evidence of a bite mark on her left buttock, difficult to spot because it was right in the area of maximum hypostasis or post mortem lividity. The implication was that it might have been missed had it not been for the pathologist’s devotion to duty. ‘More likely it was the mortuary assistant or the cleaning lady,’ said Dalziel cynically. Photographs were taken and shown to Professor Henry Muller, Mid-Yorkshire’s forensic dental expert, known to his students and the police alike as Mr Molar. The professor’s diagnosis was as vague as the fingerprint expert’s. Yes, he’d be able to say definitely which teeth had definitely not made these marks, but doubted if he would be able to go beyond a strong possibility if presented with teeth that seemed to fit.
‘Experts,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ve shat ’em. It’s blood, sweat and good honest grind that’ll catch this bugger.’
From the start Hat Bowler was one of the grinders. On the first Saturday he found he hardly had a minute to spare to ring Rye and confirm what he’d known from the moment he saw Jax’s body, that his free Sunday was free no longer, and their trip to Stangdale had to be cancelled.
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