Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  This time I’ll kill him, thought Wield. But that pleasure would have to wait.

  He jumped down from the caravan and headed into the building.

  As he ran up the stairs he could hear raised voices drifting down from above.

  He found their source on the second floor outside number 39.

  The young man from the white van was having a row with PC Jennison, who was on guard outside the fatal flat. The SOCO team had finished and now its sole occupant was the faceless corpse waiting to be bagged and transported to the morgue. Joker Jennison had risked a peep and wished he hadn’t. Now the door was firmly closed and he was concentrating on his appointed task of keeping unauthorized personnel out.

  At sixteen and a half stone, he formed a pretty effective barrier, but while he was winning the battle he was clearly being worn down by the argument and he spotted Wield’s arrival with relief.

  ‘Sarge,’ he called. ‘This gent says he wants to go inside and he won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘No, I bloody well won’t!’ exclaimed the man, turning. ‘You in charge here? Then tell your pet ape to let me in.’

  He had a lilting Welsh accent and a fiery Welsh tone.

  ‘I’ll do what I can, sir, but first why don’t we calm things down a touch, and take a close look at this thing together?’ said Wield.

  His words were softly spoken and would have won plaudits in a bedside manner contest. But he knew it wasn’t his soft answers that turned away wrath but the agate-hard face they came out of.

  ‘Yes, all right, it’ll be good to talk to somebody who’s got two penn’orth of sense for a change,’ said the man, shooting a twelve-bore glance at Jennison.

  He allowed himself to be led away to the far end of the corridor.

  ‘Now, sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Wield of Mid-Yorkshire CID,’ said Wield, producing his ID.

  He let the man study it for a moment, then put it away and took out his notebook and pen, by these small rituals providing a space for the more volatile vapours of anger to dissipate.

  ‘OK, sir,’ he said, pen poised. ‘Could you start by giving me your full name and address, and then explain why you want to get into number 39?’

  The man let out a long sigh, but his voice was relatively calm as he answered.

  ‘My name is Alun Gruffud Watkins,’ he said. ‘My address is Flat 39, Loudwater Villas. And I want to get inside because that’s where I bloody well live!’

  16.00–16.30

  Maybe I ought to play the lottery today, thought Maggie Pinchbeck. Clearly I’m on a roll.

  Her first stroke of good fortune had been the timely phone call from Gwyn Jones.

  The reasons for the Bitch’s anger had been made clear on the journey from the Shah-Boat to Marina Towers.

  ‘Family fucking emergency! His old gran seriously ill. Got to go back to fucking Wales to help sort things out. God, you could almost hear the tears in his voice! And all the time he’s heading up to Yorkshire chasing a story! Bastard! There’s got to be trust, hon. Once a man starts treating you like an idiot, that’s finito.’

  Maggie noted that it wasn’t the lie that bothered her, it was the assumption she wasn’t smart enough to spot it.

  It had been an easy job for Beanie to get Gareth Jones to repeat a full account of what he’d overheard when bugging the terrace table, almost as easy as it was for Maggie to get the Bitch to repeat the story.

  ‘Like any kid, he really wants to impress big brother,’ said Beanie, ‘and knowing that Gwyn’s got this thing about Dave the Turd, soon as he heard the name Gidman, he couldn’t wait to pass the info on to Gwyn.’

  In fact there wasn’t all that much to pass on, and from what Beanie relayed to her, Maggie wasn’t any clearer why the possible resurfacing of an amnesiac cop should have got Gwyn Jones salivating. From Dave the Third’s reaction, she was pretty convinced the name Wolfe didn’t mean a lot to him either. She didn’t anticipate getting much more from Beanie Sample, but she was presently her only link to what was going on in Yorkshire. So when they got to Marina Tower, and the Bitch got out of the car still talking, Maggie followed her up to her apartment.

  Inside, Beanie poured herself a large vodka and invited Maggie to help herself. She matched the size of Beanie’s drink but hers was mostly soda.

  The Bitch went wandering off. Maggie followed her into a palatial bedroom.

  She was noticing a change in the tone of Beanie’s complaint. The initial fury had died away and though the descriptive language used about Jones was just as colourful, the target area of complaint seemed to be shifting from his demeaning attempt at deception to the fact that he hadn’t shared a possible scoop with her.

  ‘Shit, I was breaking front-page stories before his balls had dropped,’ she declared. ‘I could have run things down here for him while he was pissing about up in Yorkshire. Cover your back, hon, that’s rule number one. No fucker’s a fucking island.’

  She’d pressed a button that set the doors of a wall-length closet sliding silently open.

  ‘Look at that,’ she said, indicating the few hangers from which men’s garments hung. ‘Some women cut up their guy’s clothes when he pisses them off. This fucker, I’d be doing him a favour. Only decent things he’s got are a jacket and shirt I bought him, and the cunt’s wearing those.’

  She reached up and took a gleaming silver laptop off a shelf.

  ‘Let’s see if he’s got anything in here to show what he thinks he’s up to,’ she said.

  ‘That’s Gwyn’s laptop?’ asked Maggie as the woman opened it and turned it on.

  ‘Right,’ said Beanie as the screen lit up and invited her to enter a password.

  Without hesitation she hit the keyboard.

  ‘He gave you his password?’ said Maggie incredulously.

  ‘Not so’s he noticed,’ said Beanie, smiling. ‘But when I invite a man into my house, I expect him to give me everything. Now let’s see. No, not you, hon. He may be a creep, but he’s my creep and even a creep’s got right to some privacy.’

  She turned the computer so Maggie couldn’t see the screen. This wasn’t a good sign, possibly signalling a further softening of her attitude to her lover that could make her regret sharing her initial anger with an interested stranger.

  Well, unless she tries to silence me by chucking me out of the window, it’s too late to do anything about it now! thought Maggie as she admired the view. To see the sky out of her own bedroom window, you had to open it and lean out backwards. She didn’t envy Beanie much, but this she certainly envied.

  Behind her she heard a hiss of rage.

  She turned to see that the relatively mellow mood into which the woman had been drifting had vanished like March sunshine.

  ‘Oh, the lousy bastard. It’s not his fucking clothes I’ll take the scissors to. The bastard!’

  Maggie moved forward quickly and looked at the screen.

  It contained an email. And this, she instantly realized, might be her second stroke of fortune.

  Hi lover, sorry to hear about gran. Yes I’ll be ready with the TLC when you get back tho not sure what it means. Try Licking my Cunny maybe?!!! C u soon Gem xxxxx

  She picked up the laptop and moved out of Beanie’s reach. The Bitch looked ready to hurl it through the window if she got her hands on it.

  ‘Can you believe it? I give him a key to my apartment and he’s doing this to me! Who the fuck is this Gem, you got any idea?’

  She glared at Maggie so accusingly that she found herself answering, ‘There’s a junior on the Messenger staff called Gemma Huntley…’

  ‘A junior? You mean he’s humping some kid then coming here to stick his cock into me? Jesus, I need another drink!’

  She stormed out of the bedroom. Maggie didn’t waste time. While she doubted there’d be an early restoration of sympathy for Gwyn Jones, it seemed wise not to take the risk. Within a matter of seconds she’d located a folder marked Gidman, typed in her email address, attached the
folder, and sent it.

  It was still being downloaded when Beanie returned.

  ‘What you doing there, hon?’ she asked.

  ‘There was some stuff here about the Gidmans that I’m sending to my computer. That OK with you?’ said Maggie, thinking that if she kept the woman talking just a few minutes longer it wouldn’t matter if it were all right with her or not.

  She needn’t have worried.

  ‘You get all you want. Anything you can do to stiff Jones is all right by me. And when you’re done, I’m going to send little Miss Gem a reply that will put her off playing with the big girls forever!’

  16.30–18.05

  Fleur Delay woke out of a dream in which she saw a man get shot in the face by her brother.

  But when she stooped to look at the body, the ruined features belonged to Vince.

  And when she turned to look at the gunman, it was her own pale face she saw.

  She rolled off the bed and staggered into the bathroom to pee. Then she removed her clothes and got into the shower, letting it run cold then hot then cold again. Dried off, she got dressed in fresh clothes, disguised her pallor as best she could with make-up, adjusted her wig carefully, then tried the door that communicated with her brother’s room. When she realized it was locked, she tapped on it gently, then hard.

  There was no reply.

  She took out her mobile and thumbed in Vince’s number.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Downstairs having a sandwich.’

  She didn’t reply, but switched off and hurried down the stairs.

  Vince saw her before she spotted him. He was in the spacious lobby, settled deep in the kind of armchair whose soft leather upholstery embraced you like a good woman. Seeing the look on his sister’s face confirmed his feeling that he’d rather be rolling around on a thin mattress with a bad woman as long as the action was taking place two hundred miles south of here.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Like a club sandwich? They know their meat here, got to give them that.’

  ‘How long have you been down here?’

  ‘Half an hour, maybe,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Where’s the woman?’

  ‘Her car’s still in the car park,’ he assured her. ‘No way she can come down the stairs or out of the lift without I see her. I reckon she’s got Tubby in her room, trying to give him a heart attack.’

  She sat down next to him. He was right, he did have a good line of vision on the staircase and lift.

  ‘So what’s The Man say?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s thinking about it,’ she prevaricated.

  Vince frowned.

  ‘What’s to think?’

  ‘He needs to be certain it was Wolfe.’

  Vince said, ‘Makes no difference. You always say, you down a guy, you should put space between you and the body soon as you can. So why’re we hanging around?’

  ‘Because I say so,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve told you before, Vince. Just do as you’re told and we’ll be all right. And no one told you to off that guy.’

  ‘I only shot him ’cos he was hurting you,’ he protested.

  ‘Yeah? Don’t think I’m not grateful, ’cos I’m not,’ she retorted.

  They sat in separate silences for a while, hers irritated, his hurt.

  Fleur thought, Box clever, girl. This is getting us nowhere. If I want him to be able to look after himself, I’ve got to stop putting him down.

  She forced a smile and said, ‘Fancy a ciggie?’

  ‘What about the woman?’ he said, still sulky.

  ‘We’ll just be outside.’

  They went out of the French window on to the terrace, then down the steps into the garden. There were several other addicts there already, their progress along the gravelled walks marked by clouds of tobacco smoke. They lit up and joined the parade. After a while they sat down on an elegant rustic bench and talked as they smoked. As usual, Fleur chose the topic, and as usual it was their Spanish villa.

  For once Vince seemed genuinely enthused. Normally he started yawning whenever Spain was mentioned. OK, it was great for holidays, but he couldn’t understand his sister’s desire to move out there permanently.

  What he did understand, however, was that when he and she disagreed, almost inevitably events proved her right. Not that he went in for statistical analysis. He just knew that submitting wholly to her judgment had kept him out of jail for well over a decade, which compared very favourably with the year and a half that was his previous longest non-custodial period since leaving school.

  Sitting here, listening to her rattling on about her plans for their life together, gave him a sense of continuity, of family, that his early upbringing had lacked. And being marooned in this grotty northern town made the prospect of retirement to Spain with its bars and beaches and clubs and dark-eyed senoritas seem very attractive.

  So he responded with more interest than he’d ever shown before. For Fleur, it was one of the pleasantest times she’d ever spent with her brother. So enthusiastic did he sound about the villa that all her doubts vanished and her plans for their future, or more precisely, Vince’s future, seemed perfectly feasible.

  Time flew by and it wasn’t till she glanced at her watch that she realized nearly an hour had passed.

  ‘Better get back in,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m feeling pretty hungry,’ said Vince. ‘That sandwich was OK, but I need a real meal or I may faint.’

  ‘Always thinking of your belly,’ she said, regarding him fondly. ‘I want to pick up my jacket from the car.’

  They walked round the side of the hotel to the car park.

  As she opened the car door and reached inside for her jacket, she glanced at the next row to check on the red Nissan.

  It wasn’t there.

  Panic starting in her stomach, she ran her eyes over the other cars in case she’d misremembered its location.

  Finally there was no doubt. It had definitely gone.

  Vince was untroubled.

  ‘So she’s gone for a drive again,’ he said.

  ‘How come you didn’t notice her?’

  ‘She probably went out while we were in the garden,’ he said. ‘So she can’t be far. We’ll pick her up on the laptop. Come on, sis. Don’t always be looking for trouble!’

  He led the way up to his room. Fleur followed, thinking, Sometimes he gets it right. It might do me good to listen to him for a change. Maybe then I can stop lying awake wondering what’s going to become of him.

  The laptop was on the bedside table where he’d left it, but the screen was blank, not even a screensaver.

  He tapped a key. Nothing happened.

  ‘What’s up?’ demanded Fleur.

  ‘Nothing. Must have gone into hibernation,’ said Vince.

  ‘Let me see.’

  She touched a couple of keys, frowned, picked up the laptop and shook it in his face.

  ‘You’re on battery and you’ve run the batteries flat. Why didn’t you plug it in, for God’s sake?’

  ‘The mains lead’s in your room and I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he explained. ‘I was just being thoughtful.’

  ‘No you weren’t. Thoughtful means being full of thought. How come the batteries have run flat anyway? Should have lasted another hour at least, just checking the tracker. What the hell have you been doing, Vince? Have you been downloading your mucky videos again?’

  ‘No,’ he denied unconvincingly. ‘Maybe I did do a bit of surfing for a couple of minutes; it gets boring just looking at that green blob all the time, especially when it isn’t moving…’

  ‘It’ll be moving now!’ she screamed at him. ‘Only we can’t see it.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry…’

  She wasn’t listening. She unlocked the communicating door, went through into her own room and returned with the mains lead. Stooping, she dragged the bedside lamp out of its socket and inserted the plug. Then she connected the other end to
the computer.

  It glowed back into life. She went online, entered the tracker code.

  The sat-map came up. The green dot was stationary.

  ‘There,’ said Vince triumphantly. ‘No problem. She’s stopped.’

  ‘And that’s not a problem?’ said Fleur, studying the screen closely. ‘Why do you think she’s stopped, Vince?’

  ‘Run out of petrol? Needs a slash?’

  ‘How about she’s stopped because she’s met up with her long-lost husband and they’re sitting in her car, having a nice heart-to-heart?’

  She went into her room again, this time returning with an OS map.

  ‘Now let’s see exactly where they are. Got you! Come on, it’s going to take us about twenty minutes, half an hour, depending on traffic. Let’s hope she doesn’t move off before we get there!’

  ‘No problem,’ said Vince. ‘We can track her through the laptop.’

  ‘And how are we going to manage that, Vince? You ran the battery flat, remember? It won’t work in the car.’

  ‘It’s working here,’ objected Vince.

  ‘Great. So all we’ve got to do is find a way of moving the hotel! Come on!’

  ‘So I shan’t bring the laptop then?’

  She felt an urge to scream at him, but what was the point?

  ‘Shove it under the bed out of the way. Leave it switched on. At least it’ll be charging up the battery while we’re out. Though let’s hope we get there quick enough not to need it again.’

  She led the way out of the door. Vince followed. They didn’t wait for the lift but hurried down the stairs, not the main stairway but a service stair that would bring them out at the rear of the hotel, near the car-park entrance.

  Of course, thought Fleur, if Gina Wolfe had come down this way, she wouldn’t have passed across Vince’s line of vision. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier? Why had she sat in the garden, smoking and babbling on about Spain, instead of heading straight out into the car park to confirm the Nissan was still there?

  Because you’re sick, she answered herself. Because you’re losing the capacity to think straight. Or to walk straight, for that matter, she thought, staggering a little as she hurried towards the VW.