Dialogues of the Dead

349 'So what relevant facts did you discover about Dick?' she demanded. Why was it when he was talking to Rye there always came a point when, despite the rasp of Dalziel's injunction in his mental ear, remember you're a cop!, it seemed easiest to tell her everything? He told her everything, picking up the framed photograph on the desk when he came to Johnny Oakeshott's death and saying, 'I presume that's him in the middle. Penn's got the same picture in his flat. Obviously he meant a lot to them both.' Rye took the picture and stared at the angelically smiling little boy. 'When someone you're close to dies young, yes, it does mean a lot. What's sinister about that?' He recalled her brother, Sergius, and said, 'Yes, of course it must, I didn't mean there was anything odd about that. But the attempts to get in touch with him ...' Then just in case it turned out that Rye had tried making contact through a spiritualist, or some such daft kind of thing that girls might do, he pressed on, 'But this stuff with the dictionaries, that's got to be a bit weird, hasn't it?' 'It's no big deal,' she said dismissively. 'Everyone who knows him well knows about the dictionaries. As- for his name, all you had to do was look at the electoral register. Or the council employees list. Or the telephone directory. The fact that he's known as Dick is no more significant than you being Hat or me being Rye.' 'Yes, but Orson ...' 'No worse that Ethelbert. Or Raina for that matter.' 'No I meant, Orson Welles...' She looked baffled for a moment then began to smile and eventually laughed out loud. 'Don't tell me. Orson Welles .. . Citizen Kane . .. rosebud'. I've heard of drowning men clutching at straws, but this is going out to sea in a colander. I mean, where does it lead next? Touch of Evil maybe? Though come to think of it, when I look at your Mr Dalziel, you may be on to something there .. .' He didn't get the reference but didn't think it sounded a useful line to pursue. 'These dictionaries of Dee's, you knew about them then?' he said. 'Yes. I've seen some of them.' He thought instantly of what Wingate had said about the Erotic Dictionary and said jealously, 'Which ones?' 'I really can't remember. Does it matter?' 'No. Where did you see them? Here?' He looked around the office in search of the offending tomes. 'No. At his flat.' 'You've been to his flat?' 'Any reason why I shouldn't have been?' 'No, of course not. I was just wondering what it was like.' She smiled and said, 'Nothing special. A bit cramped but maybe that's because every inch of space is crammed with dictionaries.' 'Yeah?' he said eagerly. 'Yeah,' said Rye. 'Not because he's obsessed or round the twist or anything like that, but because they are at the centre of his intellectual life. He's writing a book about them, a history of dictionaries. It will probably become the standard work when it's published.' She spoke with a sort of vicarious pride. 'When will that be?' 'Another four, five years, I'd guess.' 'Oh well. I'd probably wait for the movie anyway,' said Hat. 'Or the statue.' He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee and looked at the pictures hanging on the wall. Once more it struck him that they were all men. But he wasn't about to remark on it, not even neutrally. Previously any hint that Dee was in the frame had provoked angry indignation. By contrast, this rational debunking he was hearing now was affectionate banter and had to indicate that he'd made progress in his quest to win her heart. No way he was going to risk that by what might sound like a homophobic sneer! He said, 'This the Dee ancestral portrait gallery?' 'No,' said Rye. 'These are all, I believe, famous creators of or contributors to dictionaries. That one's Nathaniel Bailey, I think. Noah Webster. Dr Johnson, of course. And this one here might interest a man in your line of work.' She pointed at the largest, positioned right in front of the desk, a sepia-tinted photo of a bearded man sitting on a kitchen chair