Dialogues of the Dead

This was Mr. Xenopoulos, short, fat and genuinely Greek though he spoke English with a disconcerting Liverpool accent. Suspicious at first that Bowler was an Environmental Health snoop, he became more helpful when he learned that his enquiries were to do with Dave Pitman, though he did wonder mildly whether it might not have been more sensible for the detective to have started interviewing his staff an hour earlier when he first arrived rather than now when the restaurant was getting busy. Both he and the waiters expressed what seemed like genuine sorrow at the dreadful accident which had overtaken their bazouki player, but were unable to recall anything pertinent about the patrons that night. Solitary diners were not unusual, attracted by the sense of communal jollity which often developed as the evening wore on and the dancing began.

“But why’re you asking all these questions?” enquired Xenopoulos finally. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“So far as we know,” said Bowler carefully. “But it’s possible one of the diners that night could have been a witness. You keep a record of table bookings, I suppose?”

“Natch. Like a copy of that page in the reservation diary, would you?” said the manager, pre-empting Bowler’s next request. “No sweat. Have a seat at the bar and a drink on the house, I’ll be with you in a jiff.”

Bowler had another pint of lager and was sitting staring into the empty glass like Frank Sinatra about to burst into “One More for the Road” when a hand tapped gently on his shoulder, a musky perfume rubbed seductively against his nose and a voice breathed in his ear, “Hi. Whatever you lost in that glass, I think you’ve swallowed it.”

He spun round on his stool smiling, and found himself looking at a small, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a generous mouth whose smile matched his, except that it did not fade as his now faded.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Jax. How’re you doing?”

Jax Ripley considered the question for a moment then said, “Well. I’m doing well. And you, Hat. How are you? All by yourself?”

“Yeah. That’s right. I am. You?”

“With friends, but when I saw you at the bar, I thought no one so good looking should be so sad so early in the evening and came across. So what are you here for, Hat? Business or pleasure?”

Discretion vied with ego. She was wearing a dress which didn’t offer much hope of concealment to even the smallest of microphones, but with Jax the Ripper, you never could tell.

He said, “Pleasure. Or it would have been if I hadn’t got stood up.”

“My favourite policeman? Tell me her name and I’ll let the world know what a stupid cow she is.”

“Thanks, but maybe not. I’m a great forgiver,” he said.

She regarded him quizzically for a moment then her gaze drifted over his shoulder.

“Mr. Bowler, here’s that page you wanted. Hope it’s useful, but a lot of our customers just come in off the street on the off chance.”

He turned to find Xenopoulos proffering a photocopied sheet.

“Yes, thanks, that’s great, thanks a lot,” he said, folding it and shoving it into his jacket pocket.

He turned back to the woman to find her expression had shifted from quizzical to downright curious.

“Just improving the not so shining hour,” he said.

“Yes? Anything that would improve mine?” she asked. “Over a friendly drink?”

“Don’t think so,” he said. “Really, Jax, it’s nothing.”

Her unblinking eyes made him feel like a guilty child, so he let his gaze drift over her shoulder. And found himself looking straight at Andy Dalziel who had just come into the restaurant with the well-rounded woman rumour had it he was getting it on with. But the expression on the Fat Man’s face suggested he had slaughter rather than sex on his mind.

Bowler jerked his gaze back to Jax Ripley whose eyes by comparison were soft and kind.

“That drink,” he said, “make it a tequila sunset.”

“You mean sunrise?”

“I know what I mean,” he said.

7

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.