Dialogues of the Dead by Reginald Hill Page A

in for the Centre Director's job too.' 'Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?' asked Rye. 'Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It's quite fan to watch them, actually. They don't try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people play ing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.' 'Smells?' 'Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I'm beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion's share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.' 'So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?' said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation. She said defensively, 'It's no big deal. I'd have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He's a bit of an artist.' She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea. 'In that case,' he said, 'and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?' 'Dress artistically,' she murmured. 'Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well-dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?' He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, 'Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?'
    71 Chapter Eight
    Jax Ripley's colleagues had noticed that she was in vacant or pensive mood all that Friday afternoon. Normally as she put together the items for her early evening show, she was incisive and openly impatient with anyone who wasn't moving at her speed. But today she didn't seem to be able to make up her mind about things. Out and About was usually made up of several pre-recorded pieces linked by Jax, concluding with a live studio piece on some topic of particular local interest. All that she had pencilled in for this today was short story comp trail? 'Who'are the guests?' asked John Wingate, the station manager. He was a middling aged plump man with a lean and hungry face, as if his chronic anxiety about everything had done a deal with his body and drawn a demarcation line around his neck. Below this, the soft folds of pink flesh glowed with health, and, warmed by sun or sex, gave off an odour which reminded Jax of her childhood bed beneath which her provident mother laid out rows of apples to see them through the North Yorkshire winter. Screwing Wingate had been a pleasure as well as a career move. 'No guests ... Just me.' 'So, couple of minutes,' he said doubtfully. 'That leaves us well short, Jax.' 'No, I need the time.' 'Why? How the hell can you spin something as boring as a short story competition trail out beyond ninety seconds?' 'Trust me,' she said. 'You up to something, Jax?' he said suspiciously. 'I hate it when you say "trust me".' She finally made up her mind, reached out a hand to rest on his thigh and smiled. 'It'll be all right, John,' she said. In a life of bad career moves, John Wingate wasn't certain where he placed screwing Jax Ripley. She'd been a journalist on the Gazette when they first met and the chance of a one-night stand after a media party which Moira, his wife, hadn't attended because she was over in Belfast visiting her sick mother had seemed too good to pass by. And it had been good. He grew warm now just recalling it and the other encounters that followed, one in particular which had taken place in his office a couple of weeks later when she