Death’s Jest-Book. Reginald Hill

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      The rambling continued.

      ‘He once said to me, old Beenie, “Dalziel,” he said, “if ever I want to torture a man of letters, I’ll make you read blank verse to him.” Right sharp tongue on him, knew how to draw blood. But, God, it were a long boring poem! Mebbe that’s why I recall the end, because I were so pleased it had got there!’

      ‘What poem?’ said Pascoe, abandoning his efforts to swim against this muddy tide.

      ‘I told you. Sore arse and rusty bum, did you learn nowt at that poncy kindergarten of thine?’ said Dalziel. Then relenting he added, ‘“Sohrab and Rustum” were its Sunday name, but we all called it sore arse and rusty bum. Do you not know it?’

      Pascoe shook his head.

      ‘No? Oh well, I expect by the time you got to school, it ’ud be all this modern stuff, full of four letter words and no rhymes.’

      ‘Blank verse doesn’t rhyme,’ said Pascoe unwisely.

      ‘I know it bloody doesn’t. But it doesn’t need to ’cos it sounds like poetry, right? And it’s a bit miserable. This poem’s right miserable. Sore Arse kills Rusty Bum and then finds out the bugger’s only his own son. So he sits there all night next to the body in the middle of this sort of desert, the Chorasmian waste he calls it, while all around these armies are busy doing what armies do, one of the saddest scenes in Eng. Lit., Beenie said, and this river, the Oxus, keeps on rolling by. Bit like “OL’ Man River” really.’

      ‘So where’s the Aral Sea come in?’ asked Pascoe.

      ‘I’m telling you,’ said Dalziel.

      He struck a pose and started to declaim in a sing-song schoolboy kind of way, end-stopping each line with no regard for internal punctuation or overall sense.

       ............................................... till at last.

       The long’d-for dash of waves is heard and wide.

       His luminous home of waters opens bright.

       And tranquil from whose floor the new-bathed stars.

       Emerge and shine upon the Aral Sea.

      ‘Now that’s fucking poetry, no mistake,’ he concluded.

      ‘And that’s the end of this sore and rusty poem?’ said Pascoe. ‘And old Beenie … ?’

      ‘Mr Beanland, MA Oxon. He could have thrown chalk for England. Put your eye out at twenty feet. He went on and on about this Aral Sea, how remote and beautiful and mysterious it were. And now this Yank says it’s drying up, and tourists go to see it, and it’s not there. Like life, eh? Like fucking life.’

      ‘It isn’t a correspondence that leaps up and hits me in the eye,’ said Pascoe sourly.

      ‘Which is what I’d do if I had a stick of chalk,’ growled the Fat Man. ‘Any road, talking of correspondence, why’m I wasting precious police time reading your mail?’

      ‘Because it’s from Franny Roote, because it contains implied threats, because in it he admits complicity in several crimes. And,’ Pascoe concluded, like an English comic at the Glasgow Empire seeing his best gags sink in a sea of indifference and desperately reaching for any point of contact, ‘because he refers to you as Rumbleguts.’

      But even this provocation to complicity failed.

      ‘Oh aye. When you’ve been insulted by experts that sounds like a term of endearment,’ said the Fat Man indifferently.

      ‘Glad to find you so philosophical,’ said Pascoe. ‘But the threats …’

      ‘What threats? I can’t see no threats. How about you, Wieldy? You see any threats?’

      The sergeant glanced apologetically at Pascoe and said, ‘Not as such.’

      ‘Not as such,’ mimicked Dalziel. ‘Meaning not at fucking all! The bugger goes out of his way to say that he’s not writing a threatening letter. In fact he seems to rate you so highly, it wouldn’t surprise me if he ended up sending you a Valentine card!’

      ‘That’s all part of it, don’t you see? Like this play he goes on about, Death’s Jest-Book, it’s all some kind of grisly joke. That stuff about the ambiguities of revenge, one brother becoming dead friendly with the Duke, the other bursting with hate, that’s Roote telling me how he feels.’

      ‘No it’s not. In fact I recall he says quite clear he feels like the friendly brother. And all these crimes you’re going on about, what would they be?’

      Pascoe opened the file he was carrying and produced several sheets of paper.

      ‘You’ve not been playing with your computer again?’ said Dalziel. ‘You’ll go blind.’

      ‘Harold Bright, known as Brillo,’ said Pascoe. ‘Banged up in the Syke the same time as Roote. Had an accident in the shower. Cracked his head. Traces of ammonia-based cleansing fluid found in eyes but never explained. Complications during treatment. Died.’

      ‘And good riddance,’ said Dalziel. ‘I remember the Brights. Hospitalized two of ours when they got arrested, one of ’em had to take early retirement. Dendo still inside?’

      ‘No. Finished in Durham, but he got out last month.’

      ‘Problem solved then. Send him Roote’s address. He sorts out your lad, we bang Dendo up again for the duration. Two for the price of one.’

      Over the years Pascoe had come to a pretty good understanding of when the Fat Man was joking, but there were still some grey areas where he felt it better not to enquire.

      He said, ‘My point is, we know a man died, and now we have Roote’s confession.’

      ‘Bollocks,’ said Dalziel. ‘His admission might as well have been written by Hans Andersen. And, like he says himself, where are you going to get witnesses? Any road, if he did do it, he deserves a medal. Owt else?’

      ‘I checked that Polchard was there the same time as Roote, and the Syke’s Chief Officer remembers they played chess together,’ said Pascoe sulkily.

      ‘You going to do Roote for cheating then? I remember Mate Polchard. Right tricky sod. He out yet?’

      Wield whose job it was to know everything said, ‘Yes, sir. Came out in the summer. Went off to his place in Wales to recuperate.’

      Polchard was out of the normal run of thugs in more than just his penchant for chess. Not for him the comforts of a Spanish villa with a plethora of Costa fleshpots on his doorstep. His preferred hideaway was a remote Welsh farmhouse in Snowdonia. But when it came to protecting his interests, he ran true to type. Shortly after he bought the farm, a barn belonging to it was burnt down and a message sprayed on a wall in Welsh with under it a helpful translation. Go home Englishman or next time it’s the house. A few days later the local leader of the main Welsh activist group awoke in the СКАЧАТЬ