Dialogues of the Dead or Paronomania! - Hardcover

Hill, Reginald

 
9780385336000: Dialogues of the Dead or Paronomania!
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0385336004 ISBN 13: 9780385336000
Verlag: Delacorte Pr, 2002

Inhaltsangabe

While investigating the seemingly unrelated death of a motorist and a motorcyclist, Dalziel and Pascoe soon become pawns in the twisted game of a clever sociopath known as the Wordman who submits Dialogues and other literary clues after he murders his victims.

Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

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.

Aus dem Klappentext

ald Hill has raised the classical British mystery to new heights.
The New York Times Book Review

Acclaimed as the master of form and the sorcerer of style, * the Grand Master of British psychological suspense returns to weave wordplay and murder into a lethal tapestry that only Dalziel and Pascoe can unravel.

With characteristic precision,insidious wit, and unparalleled insight into the serpentine criminal mind, Hill offers readers his most diabolical surprise to date.

Dialogues of the Dead

Paronomania [n. A clinical obsession with word games]

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 a fatal encounter with a tree. Two apparently innocuous tragedies ... until two Dialogues are submitted to a local literary competition, claiming responsibilit

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

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 losing power on hills. Each time it happened I promised myself I’d take it into the garage. Then it would seem all right for a while and I’d forget. This time I knew it was really serious when it started hiccoughing on a gentle down-slope, and sure enough on the next climb, which was only the tiny hump of a tiny humpback bridge, it wheezed to a halt.

I got out and kicked the door shut. No use to look under the bonnet. Engines, though Latin, were Greek to me. I sat on the shallow parapet of the bridge and tried to recall how far back it was to a house or telephone. All I could remember was a signpost saying it was five miles to the little village of Little Bruton. It seemed peculiarly unjust somehow that a car that spent most of its time in town should break down in what was probably the least populated stretch of countryside within ten miles of the city boundary.

Sod’s Law, isn’t that what they call it? And that’s what I called it, till gradually to the noise of chirruping birdsong and bubbling water was added a new sound and along that narrow country road I saw approaching a bright yellow Automobile Association van.

Now I began to wonder whether it might not after all be God’s Law.

I flagged him down. He was on his way to a Home Start call in Little Bruton where some poor wage-slave newly woken and with miles to go before he slept had found his motor even more reluctant to start than he was.

“Engines like a lie-in too,” said my rescuer merrily.

He was a very merry fellow altogether, full of jest, a marvelous advert for the AA. When he asked if I were a member and I told him I’d lapsed, he grinned and said, “Never mind. I’m a lapsed Catholic but I can always join again if things get desperate, can’t I? Same for you. You are thinking of joining again, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” I said fervently. “You get this car started, and I might join the Church too!”

And I meant it. Not about the Church maybe, but certainly the AA.

Yet already, indeed from the moment I set eyes on his van, I’d been wondering if this might not be my chance to get more than just my car started.

But how to be certain? I felt my agitation growing till I stilled it with the comforting thought that, though indefinite to me, the author of my Great Adventure would never let its opening page be anything but clear.

The AA man was a great talker. We exchanged names. When I heard his, I repeated it slowly and he laughed and told me not to make the jokes, he’d heard them all before. But of course I wasn’t thinking of jokes. He told me all about himself, his collection of tropical fish, the talk he’d given about them on local radio, his work for children’s charities, his plan to make money for them by doing a sponsored run in the London marathon, the marvelous holiday he’d just had in Greece, his love of the warm evenings and Mediterranean cuisine, his delight in discovering a new Greek restaurant had just opened in town on his return.

“Sometimes you think there’s someone up there looking after you special, don’t you?” he jested. “Or maybe in my case, down there!”

I laughed and said I knew exactly what he meant.

And I meant it, in both ways, the conventional idle conversational sort of way, and the deeper, life-shapingly significant sort of way. In fact I felt very strongly that I was existing on two levels. There was a surface level on which I was standing enjoying the morning sunshine as I watched his oily fingers making the expert adjustments which I hoped would get me moving again. And there was another level where I was in touch with the force behind the light, the force which burnt away all fear, a level on which time had ceased to exist, where what was happening has always happened and will...

„Über diesen Titel“ kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.

Verlag
Delacorte Pr
Erscheinungsdatum
2002
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385336004
ISBN 13 
9780385336000
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
424
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

Weitere beliebte Ausgaben desselben Titels

9780007313198: DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD: A Dalziel & Pascoe Novel

Vorgestellte Ausgabe

ISBN 10:  0007313195 ISBN 13:  9780007313198
Verlag: HarperFiction, 2009
Softcover