Dialogues of the Dead

by Hill, Reginald

• ISBN13: 9780440237280
• ISBN10: 0440237289
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2035-01-01
• Publisher: Dell

Summary

From "the master of form and sorcerer of style," comes the latest Dalziel/Pascoe challenge. In the beginning was the Word... And the Word was Murder. A motorist dies after plunging off a bridge ... A motorcyclist is found dead after an encounter with a tree: two apparently separate tragedies. Until two Dialogues are submitted to a local literary competition claiming responsibility for the deaths. But has anybody heard the Word? When a beautiful, unscrupulous journalist meets her maker as the apparent victim of a third Dialogue, Dalziel and Pascoe find themselves embroiled in a deadly duel of wits against a killer known only as the Wordman: a brilliant sociopath who leaves literary clues in his wake and who hides in plain sight. Contestants, are you ready? There are enough clues to weave a tapestry. But is this lethal test of wills the Wordman versus the police? Or the killer against his victims? Or is the real game between you, dear reader, and Reginald Hill himself, at the suspense master's most intriguing, most enticing, most elusive best? Let the games begin! From the Hardcover edition.

Author Biography

Reginald Hill has been awarded Britain’s most coveted mystery prize, the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award, as well as the prestigious Golden Dagger, for his Dalziel/Pascoe series. In the United States, On Beulah Height was nominated for an Edgar award. He lives with his wife in Cumbria, England.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts

Chapter I

The first dialogue

Hi, there. How’re you doing?

Me, I’m fine, I think.

That’s right. It’s hard to tell sometimes, but there seems to be some movement at last. Funny old thing, life, isn’t it?

OK, death too. But life . . .

Just a short while ago, there I was, going nowhere and nowhere to go, stuck on the shelf, so to speak, past oozing through present into future with nothing of colour or action or excitement to quicken the senses . . .

Then suddenly one day I saw it!

Stretching out before me where it had always been, the long and winding path leading me through my Great Adventure, the start so close I felt I could reach out and touch it, the end so distant my mind reeled at the thought of what lay between.

But it’s a long step from a reeling mind to a mind in reality, and at first that’s where it stayed, that long and winding trail, I mean, in the mind, something to pass the long quiet hours with. Yet all the while I could hear my soul telling me, “Being a mental traveller is fine but it gets you no suntan!”

And my feet grew ever more restless.

Slowly the questions began to turn in my brain like a screensaver on a computer.

Could I possibly . . . ?

Did I dare . . . ?

That’s the trouble with paths.

Once found, they must be followed wherever they may lead, but sometimes the start is, how shall I put it? so indefinite.

I needed a sign. Not necessarily something dramatic. A gentle nudge would do.

Or a whispered word.

Then one day I got it.

First the whispered word. Your whisper? I hoped so.

I heard it, interpreted it, wanted to believe it. But it was still so vague . . .

Yes, I was always a fearful child.

I needed something clearer.

And finally it came. More of a shoulder charge than a gentle nudge. A shout rather than a whisper. You might say it leapt out at me!

I could almost hear you laughing.

I couldn’t sleep that night for thinking about it. But the more I thought, the less clear it became. By three o’clock in the morning, I’d convinced myself it was mere accident and my Great Adventure must remain empty fantasy, a video to play behind the attentive eyes and sympathetic smile as I went about my daily business.

But an hour or so later as dawn’s rosy fingers began to massage the black skin of night, and a little bird began to pipe outside my window, I started to see things differently.

It could be simply my sense of unworthiness that was making me so hesitant. And in any case it wasn’t me who was doing the choosing, was it? The sign, to be a true sign, should be followed by a chance which I could not refuse. Because it wouldn’t be mere chance, of course, though by its very nature it was likely to be indefinite. Indeed, that was how I would recognize it. To start with at least I would be a passive actor in this Adventure, but once begun, then I would know without doubt that it was written for me.

All I had to do was be ready.

I rose and laved and robed myself with unusual care, like a knight readying himself for a quest, or a priestess preparing to administer her holiest mystery. Though the face may be hidden by visor or veil, yet those with skill to read will know how to interpret the blazon or the chasuble.

When I was ready I went out to the car. It was still very early. The birds were carolling in full chorus and the eastern sky was mother-of-pearl flushing to pink, like a maiden’s cheek in a Disney movie.

It was far too early to go into town and on impulse I headed out to the countryside. This, I felt, was not a day to ignore impulse.

Half an hour later I was wondering if I hadn’t been just plain silly. The car had been giving me trouble for some time now with the engine coughing and losin

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Excerpted from Dialogues of the Dead by Reginald Hill
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