Death’s Jest-Book. Reginald Hill

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      She gave him a quick kiss and said, ‘Thanks, Dad. That was great.’

      ‘Yeah. But do me another favour. Don’t tell your mum. See you in an hour.’

      He watched her run along the pavement. She paused at the top of the steps leading up to the terraced house, waved at him, then disappeared inside.

      He relaxed in his seat. Now what? With the shopping traffic the way it was, there was little point in heading home as he’d have to turn round and come back almost straight away. Too early for weddings or funerals, so he might as well wait here. Something to read would have been nice. He should have brought a newspaper. Or a book.

      All he had was Franny Roote’s letter.

      He took it out of his pocket and started at the beginning again.

      What’s the bastard up to? he thought as he read.

      In his mind’s eye he could see that pale oval face with its dark unblinking eyes, which somehow managed to be at the same time compassionate and mocking, whether their owner was beating him over the head, lying in a bath with his wrists slit, or merely observing what a lovely day it was.

      Had he got anything to reproach himself with in his relationship with Roote? Did his legitimate questioning of the man in pursuit of his investigative duties have any smack of persecution about it?

      No! he told himself angrily. If there was any persecution going on here, it was quite the other way round. The obsessiveness was all Roote’s. And why the hell was he worrying about him anyway? At this very moment the bastard would be standing up to deliver the late Sam Johnson’s paper on Death’s Jest-Book.

      ‘Hope he gets hiccoughs!’ declared Pascoe, glaring towards the church as if challenging it to condemn his lack of charity.

      He found himself looking straight into Roote’s dark unblinking eyes.

      He was standing on the path which ran down the side of the church, partially obscured by a large memorial cross in weathered white marble. The distance was thirty or forty feet, but the expression of compassionate mockery was as clear as a close-up.

      The church clock started striking the hour.

      For two strikes of the bell they looked at each other.

      Then Pascoe started to open the car door but found he’d parked too close to a wizened yew tree, so he slid over to the passenger side and scrambled out.

      As he stood upright and looked towards the church, the clock’s ninth strike sounded.

      The churchyard was empty.

      He went through the gate and hurried down the path past the white cross to the rear of the church.

      Nothing. Nobody.

      He returned to the cross and checked the ground. The grass was still laced with morning frost and showed no sign of any footprint.

      He raised his eyes to look at the inscription carved on the cross.

      It was dedicated to the memory of one Arthur Treebie who quit this vale of tears aged ninety-two, grievously deplored by his huge family and armies of friends. Possibly Treebie himself, anticipating the gap he was going to leave, had chosen the consoling text:

       ‘Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.’

      Pascoe read it, shivered, glanced once more around the empty churchyard, and hurried back to the comfort of his car.

      Earlier that same Saturday morning, Detective Constable Hat Bowler had awoken from a dream.

      Ever since the incident in which he sustained the serious head injury he was officially still recuperating from, his sleep had been broken by lurid nightmares in which he struggled once more with the naked blood-slippery figure of the Wordman. The difference from the reality was that in his dreams he always lost and lay there helpless while his towering assailant clubbed him again and again with a heavy crystal dish till he slipped into unconsciousness with the despairing screams of Rye Pomona echoing through his broken head. And when he awoke into a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, it was the memory of those screams as much as his own pain and fear that he brought with him out of the dark.

      This morning he woke once more into a tangle of sheets and a memory of Rye calling out, but this time there was nothing of fear or pain in his memory, only love and joy.

      In his dream he’d been lying in his hotel bed, his body a burning brand in a cold, cold waste of circumspection, wondering whether he was a wise man or an idiot not to have pressed his suit with Rye to either a conclusion or a rejection, when he had heard his door open and next moment a soft naked body had fused its warmth with his and a voice had murmured in his ear, ‘Thank God for equal opportunities, eh?’ And after that she had spoken no more till those final wordless but oh so eloquent cries which had climaxed their passionate coupling.

      He groaned softly at the sweet memory of the dream, tried to relax once more into that happy slumber, rolled over in the broad bed, and sat up wide-awake.

      She was there. Either he was still dreaming, or …

      Her arms went round him and drew him down.

      ‘How’s your head?’ she whispered.

      ‘I don’t know. I think I’m having delusions.’

      ‘So why don’t we delude ourselves again?’

      If this was dreaming, he was happy to sleep forever.

      Afterwards they lay intricately twined together, listening to the hotel coming to life around them and the birds, later than the humans on these dark mornings, beginning to waken outside.

      ‘What’s that?’ she said.

      ‘Goldfinch.’

      ‘And that?’

      ‘Mistle thrush.’

      ‘I like a man who knows more than I do,’ she said. ‘Hungry?’

      ‘What had you in mind?’

      ‘Sausage, bacon and egg, for starters.’

      She rolled away from him, picked up the bedside phone and dialled.

      He listened as she ordered the full English for two in his room.

      ‘Have you no shame?’ he asked.

      ‘Just as well I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Or were you planning to surprise me last night?’

      He shook his head and said, ‘No. I’m sorry. I wanted to, Jesus, how I’ve been wanting to! But I just lost my bottle …’

      ‘Why?’ she said curiously. ‘You’ve never struck me as the retiring virgin type, Hat.’

      ‘No? Well, usually … not that there’s been a lot … but in most cases it didn’t matter, being turned down, I mean. Some you lose, some you win, that sort СКАЧАТЬ