Beanie, known both eponymously and epithetically as the Bitch, had a reputation for devouring young journalists, then dumping them when she’d had enough. Gwyn Jones had no problem with this. As he told his friends, why would a virile youngster want a long-term relationship with a woman twenty years his senior? Nonetheless, since moving into her Docklands apartment, he’d come to the conclusion that maybe long term wasn’t so bad. A man could put up with a lot of this luxury. Also it was within a fit man’s strolling distance of Canary Tower, which housed the Messenger offices. Compared to this, his own flat above a dry-cleaners in Bromley seemed like a particularly remote and ascetic monk’s cell.
Somewhere his phone was ringing. He recognized the ring tone, the opening bars of ‘Cwm Rhondda’, chosen to remind him he need never listen to a male voice choir again.
The ringing stopped and Beanie came out of the bedroom. She had slipped a robe on. That was the difference between twenty-six and forty-seven, he told himself complacently. She was holding his phone.
‘Someone called Gareth,’ she said. ‘Says he’s your brother.’
‘Yeah. Then probably he is.’
He held out his hand for the phone.
‘You never said you had a brother,’ she said as if it were a major infidelity.
‘You never asked.’
She tossed the phone into his lap with some violence.
‘Ouch,’ he said.
That seemed to mollify her a little.
‘I’m going to run through the shower. Some coffee would be nice when I’m done.’
At least the command still came over lightly disguised as a request.
‘Gar, boy,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be praising the Lord?’
Unlike himself, Gareth had been a lovely treble who’d broken into a fair tenor.
‘No, today I’m pursuing the ungodly and watching them in their ungodliness.’
‘What? You’re actually doing it? Great. Rung up for some advice, is that it?’
‘No, I’m managing very well, thank you, bro. But something’s come up I thought might interest you.’
‘OK, boyo, but make it quick. Me and Beanie are on our way to Tris’s party…yeah, Tris Shandy, eat your heart out. So shoot.’
Jones listened for a couple of minutes, hardly interrupting at all. Then he heard the shower stop.
He said, ‘OK, Gar. Thanks. No, I don’t know if it means anything…yeah, sure I’m grateful…How grateful? That depends…’
He listened again and said, ‘Jesus, Gar, if you’re going to be Sam Spade you need decent wheels! OK, I’ll sub you, but you hang on to the bill. Of course I think you’re trustworthy–about as much as I was your age!’
He saw Beanie come into the room, towelling down and concluded hastily, ‘Got to go, Gar. Any developments, keep me posted. Take care now.’
‘So where’s that coffee?’ said the Bitch.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to talking. Family stuff. Kid brothers can be a real drag, eh?’
‘Much younger than you, is he?’
‘Nearly eight years. He was an afterthought.’
‘And he does what?’
‘Wants to be a journalist. In fact, he’s in much the same job I started in.’
‘With his eyes on London eventually, no doubt. Maybe I can help him when he gets here.’
Help yourself to him, you mean, thought Jones. Publicly, his attitude to his brother was one of weary exasperation, but beneath it he was, and always had been, fiercely protective. No way he was going to let the Bitch get her claws into young Gareth till the boy had been properly schooled!
‘Doubt he’ll ever make it,’ he said dismissively. ‘One genius a family, that’s the ration.’
‘Oh, he’ll make it. I know you thrusting Welshmen.’
‘We like a good thrust, that’s true,’ he said, looking at his watch.
‘Man should have what he likes, darling,’ she said, misinterpreting. ‘And it will be another hour before Tristram’s party really warms up…’
She let the towel slide to the floor and slipped on to the sofa beside him. To her surprise he stood up.
‘Beanie,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve just remembered. Somewhere I’ve got to be, so I’ll have to give Tris a miss. Say I’m sorry, OK?’
She had learnt long ago never to let a man think he had the power to irritate her.
‘Don’t suppose anyone will notice, darling,’ she said indifferently.
She watched him leave the room. Nice tight bum, lots of other useful accessories. Made you wonder what the nineteen-year-old model might be like.
But while the sensual part of her being was toying with that interesting speculation, the journalistic part was wondering what was important enough to make Jones stand her up. He’d left the phone on the arm of the sofa. She picked it up, brought up the last call number and rang back.
‘Gar,’ she murmured in her most seductive voice. ‘Hi. This is Beanie. Beanie Sample. We spoke briefly earlier.’
She listened, grimaced, but didn’t allow any of the grimace to get into her voice as she said, ‘Yeah, that’s right, Gar. Gwyn’s girlfriend. And he’s told me all about you too. I’m really looking forward to meeting you when you get up to town. Listen, Gwyn was going to ring you back but he has to smarten himself up for this party we’re going to…yeah, Tris Shandy’s do, that’s right, Gwyn told you, did he? Anyway, we were talking about your call and there were a couple of things he wanted to check with you, make sure he got them right. So as we’re a bit pushed for time, he asked me to ring you back, OK?’
12.20–12.35
Apart from a little dampness and a few shards of crystal down the front of her dress, Gina Wolfe had taken no harm from the accident.
‘The sun will soon dry me off,’ she said in face of the Fat Man’s repeated offers to rub her dry.
The mess was quickly cleared up, the broken glass removed, and the table dried off. Almost immediately, a waiter appeared with their wine, opened the white, and asked Dalziel if he’d like to try it.
‘No,’ said the Fat Man. ‘That’s for the lady.’
She watched the waiter pour a taster, downed it all, nodded and drank half the refill.
‘You look like you needed that,’ said Dalziel, taking the red from the waiter’s hand and pouring his own.
‘It was a shock,’ she said.
‘Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t have you down as the nervous type, but.’
His phone rang again. He listened, said, ‘Grand. I’ll sort it.’ Listened again. And said, ‘Stick to the bugger. But don’t get close.’
When he put the phone back in his pocket, his hand did not reappear and she realized he was leaning forward with his arm reaching under the table. She pressed her knees tightly together in instinctive defence against a potential grope, but felt nothing. And now he was straightening up, glancing at something between his finger and thumb, before dropping it to the floor and grinding it beneath his heel.
He said, ‘Bit of glass got stuck underneath. Didn’t want you scratching your knee.’
‘What? Oh yes. Thanks.’
She wasn’t really paying attention. She seemed much more interested in the garden.
He said, ‘You sure you’re all right, luv? You look a bit pale to me.’
Now she met his gaze and with a visible effort at composure said, ‘Yes, really, I’m fine.’
He regarded her doubtfully but once again she was looking down into the garden. He followed her gaze but saw nothing to explain her interest. Then he thought he glimpsed a familiar figure. And the surprise of recognition sparked a suspicion of what might be troubling Gina.
‘It’s not just me dropping the jug,’ he said. ‘You thought you saw him again, didn’t you?’
She didn’t deny it, just nodded.
‘Like you thought you saw him when you were driving around first thing. And there’ll have been other times?’
She didn’t deny it. In fact she seemed glad to
talk about it.
‘At first it was every day,’ she said. ‘Then less and less frequently–till today, that is. Before that the last time it happened was nearly a year ago, the start of November…’
Now she paused, and he said, ‘Tell us about it, luv. No need to be embarrassed. Think of me as a priest. Or a doctor. That way I get to take your pulse.’
That should have been worth a smile, but she clearly wasn’t in the mood for smiling. Hesitantly, not looking at him, she went on with her story.
It had been a winter night. Mick Purdy had taken her out for a meal at their favourite trattoria. They had fallen into a regular pattern somewhere between friendship and dating. She’d no idea where it might lead, but she knew she enjoyed his company.
That night perhaps they’d drunk a little more wine than usual. On her doorstep, she’d asked if he’d like to come in for coffee. He said lightly, ‘Better not. I’m up at the crack tomorrow.’ But she’d sensed the real reason behind his refusal was he didn’t trust himself not to try and move their relationship along faster than he thought she wanted. Tonight, though, he’d got it wrong, and when he leaned forward to give her his usual formal goodnight kiss, she’d responded with a far from formal pressure. A few moments later she’d found her hands were inside his clothes and his inside hers, and she’d felt him hardening against her, felt herself softening against him, felt ready to give herself to him, here, now, in the doorway, standing up, like a pair of teenagers with nowhere better to go.
Then over his shoulder in the vaporous wintry glow cast by a streetlight she’d glimpsed a figure, muffled, indistinct, not much more than an outline, but she had known it was Alex.
She’d closed her eyes as Mick’s lips found hers again. When he broke the contact she’d gasped, ‘Let’s go inside before you have to arrest us.’
And as they’d practically fallen across her threshold, she’d glanced along the quiet street once more and of course the phantom figure had vanished. And when she woke in the morning with Mick’s arms around her, she’d felt the past and all its sorrow had vanished too.
But of course it hadn’t. How could she have fooled herself? It had been lurking, in the mist, behind the lamplight, ready to step forward once more when summoned by something as simple as a magazine photo through the post.
She told Dalziel this, or a version of it, bowdlerized, but she guessed he got the picture.
‘And now I’ve started seeing him again,’ she concluded. ‘Crazy, eh?’
Her attempt at being casually dismissive was unconvincing.
‘Can you still see him?’
She looked into the garden and shook her head.
‘Not to worry, luv,’ Dalziel reassured her. ‘Happens to us all. Look at any crowd of strangers, you’re sure to see some guy who looks like some guy you know. I mean, when I looked just now, I saw someone who’s a dead ringer for my DCI.’
The difference being, of course, that Dalziel was absolutely sure it was Pascoe he’d seen, and could still see.
Things had become very interesting, he thought. Had it been the ‘bugger’ Gina had clocked? He could have asked, but at this stage he wanted to keep ahead of the game, particularly now he was certain there was a game, and a complex one at that. And telling her about the bugger would have meant telling her about Novello, and she was a card he definitely wanted to keep up his sleeve.
That the woman might be watched didn’t surprise him. Someone had brought her here, so presumably they’d want to keep an eye on her. But from keeping an eye on someone to bugging them was a large step, suggesting a worrying level of fore-planning.
‘So where do we go from here?’ he asked.
He had detected how troubled she was and from his own reading of the woman and from what Purdy had said about her, she needed an action plan, or at least the prospect of activity, to keep her demons under control.
She said, ‘I’ve thought about what you said this morning. I don’t want to turn my search into a circus that could frighten Alex off. But I’ve got to let him know I’m here so that, if he wants to see me, he can make up his own mind.’
For the moment he let pass her implied assumption that her husband was still alive, and close.
‘Mebbe you don’t need to let him know you’re here,’ said Dalziel casually.
She said, ‘You mean, it might be Alex himself who sent me the picture? But if he wants to contact me, why doesn’t he just pick up a phone?’
‘Mebbe he wants you up here to take a closer look without you seeing him,’ said Dalziel. ‘Check out if you’re likely to be tying a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree.’
At last she smiled and said, ‘Bach, Pal Joey, and now Tony Orlando. You’ve very catholic musical tastes, Mr Dalziel.’
‘You should hear my Al Jolson imitation,’ said Dalziel. ‘So?’
‘So, if that were the case, what form do you think the yellow ribbon or its absence might take?’ she asked.
‘Wedding ring, for a start. Which you’re not wearing. On the other hand, you’re not wearing an engagement ring either.’
‘To see that would mean getting pretty close,’ she said, glancing round uneasily.
‘Nay, good pair of field glasses would do the trick,’ said the Fat Man.
The plaintive wail of some reed instrument came drifting up from the garden.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Clarinet. I love the sound it makes.’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Like the bagpipes: fine at a distance out of doors if someone else is paying for it. What’s your weapon?’
‘Piano, mainly. But I play the violin too, and I can tootle a flute if I’m pushed.’
‘A real one-woman band,’ he said. ‘Alex musical too?’
‘Not so you’d notice. I mean, he doesn’t play anything. But he likes to listen.’
‘Good husband material then,’ said Dalziel. ‘So how’d you meet?’
‘At college. I was secretary of a music group. I wanted to book a room in the Union for a concert, Alex was on the Union committee, he was in charge of bookings, he had that kind of head, he was a very good organizer.’
Good enough to organize his own disappearance? wondered Dalziel.
‘So how’d you feel when he let on he wanted to be a copper?’ he asked.
‘No problem,’ she said, surprised. ‘Should there have been?’
He shook his head, smiling. He’d been drawing parallels with Peter and Ellie Pascoe. They too had met at university, but from what he’d gathered, the news that Pascoe was joining the Force had been greeted with rather less enthusiasm than if he’d announced he planned to make a living flogging his ring round Piccadilly Circus.
‘This job of yours,’ he said. ‘In a school, is it?’
‘No. I’m what you call peripatetic; that means I’m employed by Education Authorities to go round several schools. I give private piano tutorials too. What about you? Do you play anything?’
He grinned at her and said, ‘Only games that two can play. Thank God, here’s our grub. I’m fair clemmed.’
The waitress had appeared with their order. He checked the level of the Barolo. All this talking must have given him a thirst; it was well down. He was still working his way back to full capacity since his recent little set-back, and if he’d been officially on duty, he might have exercised restraint. But what the hell, this was his day off!
He picked up the wine bottle and flourished it in the air, causing the waitress and Gina a moment of serious alarm.
‘Another one of the same, luv, when you’ve a moment’ he said.
12.20–12.40
When Dalziel dropped the water jug, Vince Delay turned his head to look and said, ‘Clumsy bastard. Probably got the DTs. Only time them cunts hold their hands steady is when they’re getting a backhander.’
His sister said, ‘Don’t swear, Vince. And if all cops were as thick as you think, you wouldn’t need me to keep you out of jail.’
She was facing the garden terrace a
nd had observed the Fat Man’s brief conversation on his mobile immediately before the accident. When, shortly after the table had been reset and the debris removed, she saw him take out his phone again, she leaned back in her chair and took a long pull on her glass of mineral water, letting her gaze drift round the other diners. She spotted three using mobiles, but two of them continued talking after the Fat Man had switched off.
The third was a young woman sitting alone on a table quite close to the Delays at the edge of the upper terrace. As Fleur watched, the Iti waiter who fancied himself approached with a tray bearing an open prawn sandwich and a glass of white wine. He engaged the young woman in conversation, gently flirtatious from his body language, and she smiled back as she replied, but she seemed to be asking questions, one of which made the young man glance across the garden terrace to the couple on the corner table.
Finally he made as if to move away, but the woman, instead of settling down to her lunch, started up from her chair, an expression of dismay on her face. She was looking across the lower terrace towards the gardens where a buffet party was taking place. Then she said something to the waiter and dashed past him into the hotel.
Fleur said, ‘Vince, sit tight. Make sure your phone’s switched on. OK?’
She stood up, nice and easy with no sign of undue haste, but she still moved fast enough for the young woman to be in sight as she went through the door into the hotel.
She followed her out into the car park, digging the VW keys out of her shoulder bag in anticipation of another pursuit. But the young woman ignored the ranks of parked cars and made straight for the exit on to the road. Here she paused and took a mobile out of her pocket and started talking into it. But she hadn’t touched the number pad. She was faking it, Fleur guessed, giving herself an excuse to be standing in the car park.
Midnight Fugue Page 11