Dialogues of the Dead

109 called him Hat, and not pulled any vicarious rank, confirming her reputation of being all right. She was standing next to Charley Penn on the edge of a group into which Follows had just insinuated his mayoral prize, who looked as if she were already favouring them with her considered judgment of the exhibits. As Hat watched, Ellie Pascoe turned her head away to yawn behind her hand, glimpsed him, and smiled. He smiled back and continued his scan and found himself smiling at the super, who didn't smile back. Was there no escaping the man? By his side was the woman who'd been with him at the Taverna, a well-made lady but very much cruiser-weight to Dalziel's super-heavy. Still, not a mismatch, by all accounts. He broke away from the Fat Man's basilisk gaze, but his sense of being back at work still continued, for now, perhaps even more surprisingly, Sergeant Wield's unmissable features gloomed out at him like a goblin who'd strayed into an elfin rout. But why should this be a surprise? A man didn't need to be a work of art to appreciate art, and in any case, as Bowler knew himself, there were reasons other than aesthetic to urge attendance. Rye was still moving, but not in his direction, so he let his gaze keep drifting. He encountered the quiet reflective gaze of Dick Dee who gave him a friendly nod which he returned. OK, so he felt jealous of the guy, but no need to give him the satisfaction of knowing he felt jealous. Lots of others he recognized. He was good at faces and he'd made it his business on arrival in his new patch not only to study the mug-shot albums but also to get acquainted with the features of anyone else likely to prove important in an ambitious young copper's life. Journalists, for instance ... there was Sammy Ruddlesdin, the Gazette reporter, lean and cadaverous and clearly bored out of his skull, into which from time to time he inserted a cigarette until memory of the prohibitive age into which he'd survived made him take it out again ... At least his suffering seemed less than that of his editor, Mary Agnew, who was talking with head averted to a bald man shovelling canapes into his mouth from a piled-up plate like he'd just escaped from a health farm. He reached for a name .. . found it ... Councillor Steel a.k.a. Sniffer ... a man to avoid, by all accounts, not only because of his lethal breath but because it was frequently expended bad mouthing the police and all other alleged abusers of the public purse. Still, the way he was gobbling that grub, he wouldn't be long for this world! Rye had disappeared now. Perhaps she'd gone to replenish her tray. Would need to if there were many appetites like Stutter's. Or perhaps she was secretly observing him to see if he took an intelligent interest in the exhibits. He certainly felt observed. He turned his head suddenly and caught the source of the feeling. Not that it was hard to catch, as the man viewing him from behind what looked like a huge wooden phallus didn't turn away guiltily but gave him a friendly nod. It was Franny Roote. Whose discreet surveillance he'd been boasting about to the DCI only yesterday. But if he'd been so sodding discreet, how come Roote was smiting at him like an old buddy and heading his way? 'Hello,' he said. 'DC Bowler, isn't it? Are you into art?' 'Not really,' said Bowler, seriously hassled and trying for sangfroid. 'You?' 'As an extension of the word, perhaps. Words are my thing, but sometimes the word is a seed which needs to flower into something non-verbal. It's a circular thing, really. Pictures came first, of course. Nice cave paintings, a lot of them done, recent research suggests, while the artist was high on grass or whatever they used in prehistoric times. It's easy to see how their pictures might have some sort of religious significance. Also they could have been of practical use, such as saying, If you go out of the cave and turn left down the valley you 'II find a nice herd of antelope for supper. But when it came to saying, Run like bell, boys. Here comes a Tyrannosaurus, pictures left something to be desired. So language, to start with, was no doubt born out of necessity. Yet soon it must have flowered into song, into poetry, into narrative, into the exchange of ideas, and out of these developed new and subtler forms of art, which in turn . .. well, you take my point, I'm sure. It's a circle, or perhaps a wheel as it makes forward progress as it turns, and we are all bound upon it at some point or other, though for some it is a Ferris wheel, and for others it is a wheel of fire.' He paused and looked at Bowler as if he'd just said something like, 'Is it still raining outside?'