he’s not my bloody tallyman!’ she said, which seemed to amuse them both greatly.
‘You didn’t think to contact us?’ persisted Bowler.
‘What for? Sam, what night was it you saw the lights?’
‘Nay, lass, that’s not fair. It was this year, but, I’m certain of that.’
‘And what film would you have been watching that day whenever it was?’
He thought a moment then said, ‘Likely Mad Max, it’s my favourite. Do you like it, mister? He was a cop, too.’
‘It takes all sorts,’ said Bowler. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it on the box. Bit too violent for my taste.’
He was beginning to get the picture. In the interests of diplomacy he’d have liked to get the woman by herself, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t take kindly to any attempt to talk behind her husband’s back.
He said, ‘So you think that Mr Locksley might be confusing what the other policeman told you about the accident with images from the movies he watches?’
He kept his voice low but the man’s sharp ears picked him up with ease.
‘You could be right there, lad,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I do get things mixed up and as for recalling what happened when, I’m hopeless. Doesn’t bother me mostly, but there’s some things from the past it’d be nice to bring back now I’m getting old. For instance, I can’t recall the last time I had a good jump, and that’s sad.’
‘You silly old bugger,’ said his wife fondly. ‘It was just afore you had your breakfast this morning.’
‘Was it?’ he said, regarding her with bright hopeful eyes. ‘And did I enjoy it?’
‘Well, you asked for a second helping of porridge,’ she said.
Their laughter was infectious and Bowler was still chuckling as he let himself out. As he began to drive away, Mrs Locksley came to the door and called, ‘Hey, just because his memory’s going and he gets a bit confused, doesn’t mean he’s wrong, but.’
‘That,’ said Bowler, ‘is very much the trouble.’
But it wasn’t his trouble; it was or soon would be DI Headingley’s. Something obliging him to make a decision would drop into Jolly George’s broad lap like a mug of hot coffee. It was a prospect not altogether displeasing.
But the DI, when provoked to action, could be a nimble ducker and weaver, and it would be wise not to leave any gaps for him to slip through, saying accusingly, ‘But you forgot to do that, Constable.’
Bowler scanned the possibilities and saw one he hadn’t covered. The Greek restaurant where the Wordman claimed to have dined on the night he talked to David Pitman. He glanced at his watch. Five forty. Probably the Taverna didn’t open till seven or half six at the earliest. He’d never eaten there – young detectives got used to eating on the hoof and became uneasy if they found themselves spending more than ten minutes on a meal – but he had followed Franny Roote there one night last week, watched him go inside, thought, Sod this, it’s unofficial and I’m not on overtime, and headed home to a takeaway and a soccer match on the telly.
That was when? Suddenly he felt uneasy. Wednesday, Pascoe had given him the job, so it had to be … He pulled over and took out his pocketbook to check the date.
Shit! It was Friday, the same night that young Pitman had had his ‘accident’.
Best not to mention it, he decided. It would just muddy the waters. He hadn’t gone inside, he hadn’t seen any other customers, he hadn’t done anything except sit in his car for a minute watching Roote go into the building. If his own bad vibes about the two deaths were translated by the brass into a full-scale investigation – which he doubted, given George Headingley’s determination not to let his boat be rocked with the harbour of retirement in sight – then he might speak. Or perhaps not. Somehow he suspected from the way Dalziel had been looking at him lately that the fat bastard would be glad to put a black mark against his name simply for being in the vague vicinity of a possible crime.
For a moment he even thought of scrubbing his plan to visit the Taverna, but only for a moment. Wanting to cover his back didn’t stop him from being conscientious. Then, because he was a positive thinker, much happier looking on the upside of things than contemplating possible downsides, he suddenly grinned as he saw a way of getting something good out of the situation.
He took out his mobile and dialled the Central Library number. It rang for a long time before someone answered. He recognized the voice.
‘Mr Dee? Hi, it’s DC Bowler. Listen, is Rye there?’
‘I’m sorry, she’s gone home, like all sensible people,’ said Dee. ‘The only reason you got me was that I often stay on after closing time to do some work.’
‘That’s very noble of you,’ said Bowler.
‘I fear you credit me with more virtue than I possess. I don’t mean work for the public weal. This is private research for a book I’m writing.’
‘Oh yes. Detective story, is it?’
Dee laughed, picking up the irony.
‘I wish. No, it’s a history of semantic scholarship. A sort of dictionary of dictionaries, you might call it.’
‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Bowler unconvincingly.
Dee said, ‘I think I should work on your projection of sincerity if you fancy trying your hand at undercover work, Mr Bowler. Now, is there any way that I can be of help to you?’
‘Only if you’ve got a number I can reach Rye at,’ said Bowler.
There was a pause then Dee said, ‘Well, I do have her home number, but I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give such things out to the public at large. But I could pass on a message, if you like.’
Bastard! thought Bowler.
He said, ‘It was just about my enquiries. I’m going to the Taverna this evening to check out a few things and I thought as Rye was so interested she might care to join me. I’ll be there at seven.’
‘Now that does sound fascinating. I’ll pass your message on. I’m sure Rye will be as intrigued as I am.’
But you’re not invited, Dick-head Dee, thought Bowler.
Then, being both a fair and a self-analytical young man, he asked himself, Am I jealous? But quickly, because he was above all a young man, he went on to dismiss as absurd the idea that in matters of love a dotard of at least forty years could give him any cause for jealousy.
Showered, shaved, and arrayed in his sharpest gear, he was in the Taverna by six forty-five. He ordered a Campari soda because he loved the colour and it gave him a sense of sophistication. At seven ten he ordered another. A third at seven twenty. At seven thirty, tired of sophistication, he ordered a pint of lager. At seven forty-five he ordered a second pint and asked to see the manager.
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