‘Madam, I am the constabulary,’ boomed Andy Dalziel, holding his warrant card before him like a talisman. ‘I’ve been sent by the Chief Constable to thank you personally and explain to you exactly what’s going on.’
It took several more minutes to convince her that this wasn’t simply a cunning masquerade to gain admittance to her house and have his wicked way with her, and even when she finally allowed him in, she insisted on leaving the front door wide open.
‘Now the thing is this, Esmé…can I call you Esmé?’
‘No, you may not,’ she said emphatically. ‘I deplore this instant familiarity which is not the least of the evils America has infected us with.’
‘Sorry, luv…I mean, Mrs Sheridan. Like I were saying, this morning when you saw me I were on an op–that’s an operation…’
‘Yes, yes, I know what an op is. Just because I deplore many modern trends does not mean I am out of touch. I feel it is my duty to keep up with what transpires in the world about me, even if it means watching plays and films of dubious artistic merit and ambiguous moral import.’
Dalziel had noted the 42-inch HD plasma screen that struck a rather jarring note in the stolidly Victorian décor of the room. God knows what she’d been watching the previous night to stimulate her lively imagination into identifying him as a kerb-crawler at half past eight this morning!
‘Nay, that’s my point,’ said Dalziel. ‘Bright as a button, that’s how they described you after you called in at the nick…that’s the…well, tha’ll likely know what it is. And that’s why I’m here. This morning, like I say, I were undercover following a suspect and somehow or other they got behind me…’
‘As in Bullitt,’ she said. ‘Though, now I come to think of it, in that case it was the policeman being followed who managed to get behind the criminals.’
She looked at him dubiously as if her earlier fears were reasserting themselves, and he said quickly, ‘Aye, likely he were a lot sharper than me.’
Now she nodded as if this were a persuasive argument and said, ‘So because of your incompetence, the op went pear-shaped. You see I’m completely au fait with the argot, Superintendent. And now you are here to ask for my assistance, am I right?’
‘Aye, spot on. They were right. Bright as a button. Down the nick, as well as giving them a fair description of me and my car, you mentioned that I weren’t the only one to cause you concern in Holyclerk Street this morning, and I wondered if mebbe you could be as precise about some of the others.’
She said, ‘Well, you of course were the only one who actually accosted me…why did you accost me, by the way?’
‘Playing for time,’ replied Dalziel, ‘while I collected me thoughts. Sorry if I alarmed you. I were in disguise, of course, because of being under cover.’
She let out a little incredulous snort, then went on, ‘But there were two other cars behind you. The first was bright red, low slung, of oriental manufacture, I would say. The driver was a woman. Blonde but not tarty. Behind her was a dark blue Volkswagen Golf–my nephew Justin drives a similar vehicle. Also driven by a woman, though it may have been a man in drab…’
‘I think you mean drag,’ corrected Dalziel daringly.
‘Drag? Are you sure? Why should it be drag? Drab in its sense of slattern or whore has some kind of logical link. I think you may be misinformed there, Superintendent. Which would hardly surprise me. Where was I? Yes, the driver had a square, distinctly masculine cast of feature, but it was the passenger who caught my attention. He peered out at me through the open window and if ever I read the mind’s construction in a face, there was evil intent in those grotesque features.’
‘You’d know him again then?’
‘Oh yes. Just as I was instantly able to recognize you, Superintendent.’
Deciding it was neither timely nor useful to protest this comparison, Dalziel reached into his inner pocket and drew out the envelope into which he’d put the stills from the Keldale car-park video.
Mrs Sheridan glanced at the pictures and pointed straight away at one of them.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ she said. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘That’s grand, Mrs Sheridan,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
With any other little old lady he might have expressed his delight by giving her a hug and a smacking kiss on the forehead, but in this case his courage failed him and he contented himself with an effusion of thanks and flattery as he headed for the door.
‘Pulled your irons out of the fire, have I?’ she said, not without complacency when he was safely over the threshold. ‘Good. Now I suggest you go home and remove the rest of your disguise before you spread any more despondency and alarm in the neighbourhood, Superintendent.’
The door closed firmly in his face.
They don’t make ’em like that any more, thought Dalziel as he returned to his car. More’s the pity!
He slid on to the driver’s seat. He was getting somewhere at last. He had a face and he had a name. He didn’t yet have any direct connection between their owner and his lass, Ivor, lying in hospital with her head cracked open, but if there were a connection he reckoned he knew half a dozen not very subtle ways of finding it.
He realized he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white. Deep breath, Andy, he admonished himself. This could still be owt or nowt. Deep breath, then drive back sedately to the Keldale.
But first he’d better bring Pascoe up to speed as promised, else the lad might go into one of his strops.
He took out his phone, but before he could thumb in the number, it rang again.
For a moment he was tempted to hurl it out of the window.
The bloody things had their uses, but sometimes they got on his wick end!
He bellowed, ‘What?’ into it, listened, then said, ‘Mick, where the hell have you been? We got problems.’
17.40–17.55
Mick Purdy awoke with a start. The room was almost totally dark, but that meant nothing. In a job that turned night into day, the wise detective quickly learned to buy curtains that turned day into night.
He turned his head so he could see the digital read-out on his bedside alarm.
He’d been asleep for nearly two hours.
The deputy assistant commissioner who was his immediate boss had come into his office and found him slumped at his desk, his eyes open but clearly not focused on the file that lay open before him.
‘Mick, what the fuck are you trying to do? It’s been a very successful weekend and I don’t want it ruined by having my main man drop dead of exhaustion. You’ve done all that was asked of you, now it’s up to those plonkers at the CPS. You’re out of here, and that’s an order.’
It was nice to feel appreciated even if he’d hardly turned a page of the file since Gina had rung him.
His mind had chased round and round her account of her lunch with Dalziel. What was the fat bastard up to? All that stuff about dropping a water jug and getting lots of phone calls, what was that all about? Purdy knew what he’d have done in Dalziel’s shoes. Was he still the sharp knife he’d been when they met nine years ago or had time and his recent explosive experience blunted his edge? Drinking so much that he had to lie down suggested the latter. Back on the Bramshill course, he’d amazed everybody by the amount he could put away without the least visible reaction. Or maybe this present debility had been a ruse to get access to Gina’s room. Maybe as soon as she left him there alone, he’d been rifling through her stuff.
His attempts at analysis, as non-productive as the efforts of a hamster on a wheel, only added to his sense of exhaustion, and he was almost comatose when the AC had intervened.
He’d come home and fallen on to his bed. His two hours’ sleep felt like two minutes and he woke to find his mind still trapped on the hamster wheel.
He switched on a bedside lamp and checked his mobile, hoping to find Gina might have rung again.
There was a message, but not from her.
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Andy Dalziel.
He listened.
‘Don’t care if you’re saving the fucking universe from aliens, ring me!’
Not a friendly chat then, not a simple progress report. One thing he was certain of was that the Fat Man didn’t do pointless hysteria. Something had happened. He tried Gina’s number without any expectation of a reply. When he got the answer service, he said, ‘Ring me. Please. Soon as you can.’
Then he accessed Dalziel’s message again, but he didn’t press the hash key to return the call. Between sensing and knowing disaster there’s a space where a man can linger, can even imagine he might be able to take a backward step and press the delete button.
He wished his head were clearer. He went to the bathroom and threw handfuls of cold water over his face. God, how great it must be to have a job that didn’t leave you constantly fatigued. It wasn’t just the bastards you were working against but the bastards you were working with that demanded your total concentration. Sleep and someone would fuck you! Practise and a steady supply of Provigil had minimized his rest needs and helped his nimble progress up the main-mast of promotion. With luck–and luck was what it came down to when you got within striking distance of the top–one day soon he might be able to haul himself into the secure crow’s nest of deputy assistant commissioner level.
But sometimes when the seas got rough and your fingers got cold, the deck below became a small round mouth seductively inviting you to fall.
Jesus! Where did that come from? he asked himself. It’s all them books Gina has cluttering up the place. You’ll be writing poetry next!
He’d managed to push Gina to the back of that space for a nanosecond, but here she was again. There was nowhere to escape to. He needed to know what was going on, and there was only one way to find out.
He went back into his messages, listened to Dalziel again, then pressed hash.
After a moment a familiar voice boomed, ‘What?’
‘Andy, it’s Mick.’
‘Mick, where the hell have you been? We’ve got problems.’
‘Problems? Has something happened to Gina?’
His voice on a rising scale.
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, lad,’ said Dalziel. ‘She’s checked out of her hotel, that’s all. When did you last talk to her, Mick?’
‘This afternoon. She said you’d crashed out on her bed. Jesus, Andy, I thought you were having lunch with her to get on the case, not to get pissed!’
‘I wasn’t pissed,’ retorted Dalziel defensively. ‘And I was on the case–and a funny fucking case it’s turning out to be. Let me tell you about it. I’d set one of my WDCs to watch us, and what she spotted was some sod bugging us.’
‘Bugging? You sure?’
‘Of course I’m bloody sure. You think I’m playing games? Just listen to what happened next and then tell me I’m playing games! When the bugger left, my girl went after him. An hour or so later, the pair of them were found in his flat, her with her head cracked open, him with half of his face blown off. In the meantime, Gina checked out of the hotel and took off.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Purdy. Suddenly that space between guessing and knowing seemed very attractive. This was worse than his worst imaginings.
‘Mick, you still there?’
‘Yes,’ he said, trying to keep his voice controlled and professional. ‘Listen, have you put a call out on Gina?’
‘Now why should we do that, Mick? Presumably she’s on her way home.’
Purdy tried to sound casual, wasn’t sure if he succeeded.
‘I just thought you’d want to talk to her, in connection with this case of yours.’
‘The murder? You mean in case the dead man turns out to be Alex Wolfe? You want us to put out a call on her as a suspect?’
Is he taking the piss? thought Purdy.
‘Don’t be stupid. Of course it’s not Alex. I mean, why should it be?’
‘No reason. Oh, by the way, Mick. Does the name Delay mean owt to you? Brother and sister, Fleur and Vincent?’
There was a long pause necessary for him to make sure the panic he felt surging up his gut didn’t leak out through his larynx. Then he said, in a tone so controlled it was probably a bigger giveaway than panic, ‘Why do you ask? Are they up there?’
‘Aye, Been staying at the Keldale for a week now. So you do know them then?’
‘Know of them. There’s a Fleur Delay used to work for Goldie Gidman. Looked after his finances for years, both the stuff he let the taxman see and the stuff he didn’t. As he got bigger and went legit, Fleur dropped out of the picture. Spending more time with her family, to coin a phrase.’
‘Her family being this Vince?’
‘That’s right. Got a lot of form, but nothing recently to my knowledge. Listen, Andy, if they’re around, could just be coincidence, but I’d give them a pull. Keep them close. But you’ve probably got that organized anyway, haven’t you?’
He found he couldn’t–in fact no longer wanted to–keep the deep concern out of his voice.
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ said Dalziel. ‘We’ve got ’em in our sights.’
‘Good. And listen, Andy, do me a favour. Put out that call on Gina anyway. Please.’
‘OK, no need to get on your knees. I’ll make sure my lads are out there looking for her. If you make contact first, be sure to let me know, all right?’
‘Straight away. And you’ll get in touch with me, right?’
Of course I will. First on my list. OK, Mick, got to go now. Unless there’s anything else you want to tell me…?’
‘I don’t think so. Andy, thanks for putting me in the picture. I’ll not forget it.’
‘I’ll not let you. And I’ll try to keep you posted. But, Mick, remember this is official now, so at some point we may need to talk to you officially. You hear what I’m saying? Get your act together. Cheers.’
The line went dead.
Purdy switched off, hurled the phone on to his bed, and let out a sobbing, snarling cry that contained all the doubt, anger and fear that had been repressed during the conversation. It made him feel better, but not much.
He retrieved the phone and tried Gina’s number again. Still nothing. He brought up another name and looked at it for a while before cancelling.
Some things needed to be done face to face.
He went back into the bathroom, turned the shower on cold and stripped off. From the wall cabinet he took a small plastic bottle, shook a couple of Provigils into his hand, tossed them into his mouth then stepped under the jets, his head thrown back to let the icy water drive the tablets down his throat.
Until this lot got sorted, until he knew where Gina was and that she was safe, sleep wasn’t an option.
17.10–17.55
Edgar Wield was not a man who boasted about his skills, but he took a quiet pride in his ability to get the best out of a witness. Dalziel’s analysis of his success was typically direct.
‘The bugger’s got a head start, hasn’t he? Seeing yon face t’other side of the table is like being shown the torture kit in the Tower of London. It doesn’t half loosen the tongue!’
After viewing the documentation produced by the new arrival to prove that he was in fact Alun Gruffud Watkins of 39 Loudwater Villas, Wield had rung Pascoe then settled down to extract a detailed statement. The trouble was that, after learning what had happened in his apartment, Watkins’s tongue was not so much loosened as liberated. It was hard to get him to stop talking, which might not have been so bad if he hadn’t moved rapidly from offering answers to requiring them. His favourite, most frequently iterated question was, ‘Why will you not let me see the body?’ and he grew progressively more irritated each time Wield steered him away from the topic.
He was seated in the caravan, Wield facing him, his back to the window, which any fan of crime fiction knows is the approved interrogation set-up with the interrogator’s face in shadow and the light streaming into the interrogatee’s eyes.
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It has the disadvantage that the latter can see out of the window while the former can’t. So it was that over the sergeant’s shoulder, Watkins saw an ambulance arrive and two paramedics enter the building, bearing a stretcher.
He stood up, saying, ‘I need a breath of air,’ went to the door, jumped down from the caravan, and then he was off and running towards the Villas.
Wield was fit and had the high muscular tone of a sprinter, but even moving at full speed he didn’t get the man in his sights till he burst through on to the second floor and saw him vanishing into his apartment behind the stretcher bearers.
Jennison was inside, holding the door open, so he couldn’t be blamed for not bringing Watkins to a halt. But once in the room, no human agency was needed.
The sight of the near faceless body lying on the floor stopped him in his tracks.
‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Oh Christ.’
His legs were buckling and Wield and Jennison had to practically carry him back down the stairs and out into the open air, which he drew into his lungs in great rasping gulps.
A constable came hurrying from the caravan.
‘Sarge,’ he said, ‘there’s a TV crew turned up at the barrier.’
It was bound to happen sooner or later, thought Wield. Sooner, if Mrs Dutta had anything to do with it. Thank God he’d ordered the tape to be replaced by a metal barrier and removed Hector from duty. He’d have probably waved the TV van through!
But even from a distance their cameras would be nosing up close.
He said, ‘Let’s get you back into the caravan, sir. What you need is a cup of hot sweet tea. Give him a hand, lad.’
By the time Pascoe arrived a few minutes later, the Welshman was looking a lot better, but he hadn’t spoken another word. Wield had seen this kind of reaction before–imminence to tragedy triggering logorrhoea, sight of a bloody corpse producing lingual paralysis. But Wield’s skill at plucking relevant facts from a flood of verbiage meant he already had plenty of information to offer the DCI.
Midnight Fugue Page 23