Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  The two policemen stood outside the caravan. It had a door at the back as well as at the side, so they were able to descend unseen by the inquisitive media cameras. Sunset was over an hour away, but the day was clearly in decline. A light mist rising from the river turned the derelict mills on the far side into romantic ruins. The air still retained something of its earlier warmth but there was in it a hint of a chilly night to come.

  Pascoe said, ‘Right, Wieldy, so now it looks like we’ve got ourselves a dead journalist. Let’s have the grisly detail.’

  Wield said, ‘Like I told you, the guy in the caravan is this Alun Gruffud Watkins the Duttas told us about. Age twenty-three, he works as a rep for Infield-Centurion, the agricultural supplies company. The dead man, subject to forensic confirmation, seems likely to be Gareth Jones, nineteen, a reporter with the Mid-Wales Examiner. He has been staying with Mr Watkins since Friday last.’

  He paused, seeing that Pascoe had a question. He knew what the question was going to be, but he also knew that, whether dealing with superiors or suspects, it generally paid to give the impression of genuine dialogue.

  Pascoe said, ‘This Watkins, how’s he look?’

  Not an enquiry after the man’s health but his status. Witness or suspect.

  Wield said, ‘Mr Watkins has been working this weekend. He left on Friday lunchtime and has not been back since. I have the address of the farm he claims to have been visiting this afternoon. It’s just south of Darlington. I’ve got the locals taking a statement, but a telephone call has confirmed Mr Watkins’ story that he was there from two until four thirty, which takes him out of the frame.

  ‘He was here when Jones arrived on Friday morning. The young man’s old banger just made it and Watkins got a local garage to send someone round to check it. They took one look and said they would need to take it in, start work on it straight away and hopefully finish on Monday morning. Mr Watkins didn’t want to leave his friend without transport so he offered him the use of the Yamaha which he normally takes with him in the back of his van on his trips.’

  ‘So we’ve got Watkins out of the frame,’ said Pascoe. ‘And we know how Jones came to be riding his bike. But why, if his friend was coming for the weekend, did Watkins take off and leave him?’

  ‘Because Jones invited himself,’ said the sergeant. ‘He rang up mid-week to say he had to be in Mid-Yorkshire at the weekend and asked if he could doss down on Watkins’s floor. Watkins said he could do better than that, Jones was welcome to his bed as he was going to be away. I asked him if he knew why his friend was coming here. He said Jones indicated he was working on a story. No details and he didn’t press.’

  Pascoe said sceptically, ‘Didn’t press? And him an old mate?’

  Wield said, ‘Seems that Jones’s older brother, Gwyn, is an investigative reporter…’

  He paused to see if this rang a bell.

  Pascoe said, ‘Gwyn Jones, you mean, on the Daily Messenger?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Wield. ‘Mr Watkins knows the Jones family well, he’s from the same village, three years younger than Gwyn and the same older than Gareth. When Gwyn started in journalism, he was always quoting some famous reporter who said, Never tell your story till it’s ready to be told. That became Gareth’s motto too when he started following in big brother’s footsteps. So Watkins reckoned asking questions was pointless. Also, he was in a hurry.’

  ‘Does he work a lot at weekends then?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘Business and pleasure, I gathered. Farming’s a seven-day job, so the farmers don’t mind. And I’d guess he’s got at least a couple of girlfriends scattered around the county that he likes to keep happy. He’s a bit of a chancer, I’d say. That so-called apartment’s pretty basic, and he’s got a camp bed in the back of his van. But when I was checking his laptop, I found he’d got templates for the letterheads and account invoices of good class hotels all over the North, plus several local garages. Looking at the expense claims he makes to Infield-Centurion could be instructive.’

  ‘Perhaps, but not to us. Not unless we need something to put a bit of pressure on the guy,’ said Pascoe. ‘Let’s concentrate on making sense of what we’ve got, which appears to be a young journalist come all the way from Wales to snoop around this woman, Gina Wolfe. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘Mebbe. Snooping around’s what journalists do, isn’t it?’ said Wield.

  ‘I can’t see how there’s anything here to interest the readers of the Mid-Wales Examiner,’ retorted Pascoe.

  ‘What if he weren’t working for his local rag? What if he were doing a bit of moonlighting on brother Gwyn’s behalf?’ said Wield. ‘Something to do with the Gidmans, for instance? That would really get the Messenger’s sensors twitching.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got a feeling we need to tread carefully here, Wieldy.’

  ‘Not worried about treading on someone’s toes, are you?’ said the sergeant, regarding him doubtfully.

  ‘No, but I’m worried about being warned off anyone’s toes before I’ve had the chance to give them a good treading,’ grinned Pascoe. ‘Didn’t you say that when you started digging for info about Macavity, you felt things had been very carefully tidied up? From what I’ve read about him, this Goldie Gidman wields a lot of influence now. Any whiff of a scandal touching him, them buggers in London will be covering themselves like tarts in a raided brothel!’

  Wield hid a smile. There were times when Pete sounded so like the Fat Man it was hard to tell the difference.

  ‘What?’ demanded Pascoe, eyeing him sharply.

  This was another area where they’d grown together, thought the sergeant. Was a time when only Dalziel came close to being able to read his face, but now the DCI was starting to get the knack.

  As he opened his mouth to prevaricate, the caravan door burst open and DC Bowler jumped down the steps, his face split by a huge smile.

  ‘Just had a bulletin from the hospital, sir. Seems Shirley’s woken up and they say she knows who she is and where she is and everything. Probably too woozy to answer questions before tomorrow, but she’s definitely off the critical list. She’s going to be all right, sir!’

  It was good to see his pleasure. Bowler and Novello were fierce rivals in their work, each determined to be the leader in the race for advancement. But when it came to mutual support and comfort in times of trouble, neither had ever been found wanting.

  ‘Great news, Hat,’ said Pascoe. ‘Spread it around, will you.’

  ‘The Super will be mighty relieved to hear that,’ said Wield after the DC had gone back into the caravan.

  ‘Yes. I must remember to tell him,’ said Pascoe, but not in a tone which suggested putting the Fat Man out of his misery was a high priority.

  Oh dear, thought the sergeant. He’s really got it in for Andy at the moment. OK, so the fat sod has it coming to him, but the sooner these two get themselves sorted, the better it will be for all of us.

  As he mused on how he might contribute to establishing peace in our time, Pascoe’s phone rang.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, glancing at it. ‘Hi, Andy. How’s it going?’

  Friendly informal, or familiar impertinent? wondered Wield.

  Then he saw Pascoe’s expression change as he listened, and he knew it didn’t matter which.

  ‘No, Andy, for God’s sake, wait for me to…Andy? Andy!’

  He took the phone from his ear and said, ‘The bastard’s rung off.’

  ‘What did he say?’ demanded Wield.

  ‘He said he thinks he knows who killed Jones and attacked Novello, and the guy’s staying at the Keldale, and he’s on his way there now. He rang off before I could tell him to stay put till I whistled up an Armed Response Unit. You know what that means, Wieldy!’

  ‘He’s being John Wayne again,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll organize the ARU and look after things here. You’ll want to get back to the Keldale quick as you can, Pete.’

 
Sometimes you didn’t have the time to wait and let them speak for themselves.

  ‘Right, Wieldy. Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.’

  He headed off towards his car, trying not to look in too much of a hurry in case that aroused the watching journalists’ interest.

  ‘Hey, Pete, don’t forget to tell him Novello’s on the mend,’ Wield called after him.

  Over his shoulder Pascoe rasped, ‘I’ll do better than that, Wieldy. I’ll maybe put him in the next bed so he can find out for himself.’

  17.00–18.00

  Maggie Pinchbeck sat in her flat, which in total occupied about the same space as Beanie Sample’s bedroom, and downloaded Gwyn Jones’s folder on Goldie Gidman. The greater part of it consisted of confidential police intelligence reports. It occurred to her that you’d probably get a longer sentence for having this stuff on your computer than you would for downloading child pornography.

  She had her own file on Gidman, compiled when putting in her application for the post of Dave’s PA. She had confronted the man himself and been impressed by the way he answered her questions. Subsequently she had found much to admire in him and she’d become really fond of his wife, Flo. Personal feelings apart, she knew that, when he became a donor, the Millbank mandarins would have sent in their most experienced investigators to run their beady eyes over him. They would probably have seen everything in Gwyn Jones’s Gidman file and found nothing that came close to usable evidence of wrong-doing.

  Nor did Maggie.

  Yet underpinning everything in the folder was the unswerving certainty on the part of at least one policeman, Owen Mathias, that Goldie Gidman was a villain. Operation Macavity had been Mathias’s last throw of the dice before Gidman moved lock stock and barrel away from his shadowy beginnings into the sunlit uplands of the commercial Establishment.

  And Macavity failed. Either because there was nothing to find, or because someone had been keeping Goldie two steps ahead of the investigation.

  Mathias, naturally, had gone for the latter option. Internal Investigations had looked for the man most likely and picked on DI Alex Wolfe, although there did not seem to have been a scrap of real evidence against the man. Even his disappearance was less suggestive than it might have been when you considered the tragic circumstances of his family life.

  She Googled Mathias. He had retired from the Met a year after the failure of Macavity. Perhaps that had contributed to his going. Or it might have been ill health as he died just a year later.

  She guessed that he had been the source of all these confidential files in Jones’s folder. And from him also she presumed Jones had inherited his strong antipathy towards the Gidmans, père et fils.

  Not that it mattered why Jones was so obsessed. What mattered was where his investigation was going to lead.

  She started reading again, this time selectively, making notes.

  What she ended up with was just one name to put alongside that of Alex Wolfe.

  Mick Purdy.

  Purdy’s name occurred only three times.

  Thirty-odd years ago DC Purdy, no initial, had taken a witness statement–or rather an alleged witness statement, as the alleged witness denied having seen anything.

  Forward a couple of decades and it’s DCI Purdy now answering the questions from Internal Investigations and giving DI Alex Wolfe a glowing testimonial.

  Jump to the present and Commander Mick Purdy is in a close relationship with Gina Wolfe, wife or, as she probably imagined until recently, widow of Alex Wolfe, tragic father and/or bent copper, who vanished without trace seven years back.

  Did it mean anything? She knew from study and observation that many of the great political scandals arose because someone got spooked into believing that something meant something it didn’t. And by the time the error was realized, it was too late, the hounds were loose, and they were not going to let themselves be whipped back into their kennel before they’d torn something to pieces.

  Another chance to quiz Goldie might be helpful, but she could hardly ring him up and demand an interview.

  She sipped on a can of orange juice and nibbled at a wedge of cheddar. It seemed a long time since she’d had a real meal. Coffee and a stale muffin for breakfast had been supplemented by a snatched half-sandwich at the Centre opening. She thought of ordering in a pizza. Then her phone rang.

  It was Dave Gidman.

  ‘Maggie, that stuff you said we should do tonight. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Pretty urgent. Why?’

  ‘Thing is, I’m not at home. I’m at Windrush House. Thought I’d probably spend the night here, make an early start in the morning. That way I can really explore Pappy’s disgustingly expensive cellar. And I don’t have to worry that my shower is suddenly going to freeze my bollocks off. You’re sure the Chuckle Brothers are coming to fix it in the morning?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll be there, don’t worry,’ said Maggie. ‘I can come up to Windrush now, if you like. Best we get things done before you start popping corks.’

  ‘If you’re sure it won’t keep,’ said Dave, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  ‘Unlike Goldie’s wine, it certainly won’t improve with keeping,’ said Maggie. ‘I’ll be there about half six.’

  She sat still for a moment after the call. Her earlier feeling that she was on some kind of lucky roll had evaporated. Or rather it had changed into a sense of being pushed towards some place she might not want to be. First the lying call from Jones just before she spoke to Beanie on the Shah-Boat. Then the email from Gem Huntley stoking up the Bitch’s resentment again and giving her access to the Goldie folder.

  And now, just when she’d been thinking another chat with Goldie Gidman would be useful to clear things up, Dave had given her the chance to revisit Windrush House.

  Perhaps the wise move would be to delete the computer folder, ring Dave and say the morning would do after all, and settle down to a night with the telly.

  Except she had a job to do, and she’d decided a long time ago that doing your chosen job was the only thing that made sense out of life.

  Correction.

  The only thing that might for some portion of three score years and ten delude you into thinking life made any sense at all.

  FOUR

  furioso

  PRELUDE

  It is like waking.

  Waking is odd. Sometimes sudden, like bursting through the surface of a pool after long minutes swimming under water. Light, air, sound, all in a terrifying triumphal confusion.

  Sometimes so slow and gradual that there are stages when you still do not know if you wake or sleep.

  He has been waking gradually.

  That moment when he thought love and joy had brought him fully back to the waking world he now realizes was only a partial waking, the border country where dreams and reality meet and are still confused.

  Such certainty of happiness, such a sense of renewal, of leaving the old far behind and striding forward joyously towards the new, had made him feel invulnerable, had led him to take the risk, which of course he did not see as a risk.

  He sees it now.

  As clearly as he sees the long straight road tapering downhill before him, empty except for the bright red car.

  There is nothing in sight behind it. He has summoned it here to make sure it is alone. That piece of planning, of forethought, belongs to that old world he now knows he has to wake into. He hasn’t left it behind him. He’d been fooling himself to think there was any way he could ever do that.

  The final act of waking will take place when he speaks into his phone.

  He waits. And he waits. Then he waits some more.

  He tells himself this long wait is necessary. He has to be absolutely sure nothing has followed the red car. But he knows in truth it has nothing to do with being secure, at least not in that sense. He needs to be confident that the barriers he has built to protect his new world are strong enough to resist all onslaughts from the old.

  So stil
l he waits.

  Then finally, knowing if he does not speak now, he may never speak, he raises the phone to his lips and says, ‘Leave the car. Walk up the hill to the pub. Go to the car park.’

  The late afternoon has an autumn chill at its edges. The car park has only a handful of cars in it, mostly parked near the entrance to the pub. His is parked in the corner furthest away. He is the only person out here.

  He watches the blonde woman get out of the red car and start walking up the hill.

  He puts his phone in his pocket and gets himself ready for the final waking.

  17.55–18.15

  ‘Hello, Gina.’

  ‘Hello, Alex.’

  This was the real, the final waking. Here they were, face to face, standing awkwardly, like a pair of youngsters uncertain where their first date is going to take them.

  He made no attempt to touch her. A handshake would have been absurd, a kiss obscene. What would he say? What would for him be the most important thing to say?

  He said, ‘Let’s sit in my car.’

  She followed him to an old pale grey Astra in need of a good scrubbing. She remembered that when she used to complain about the condition of his vehicle, he’d grin and say, ‘Man in my line of work wants a car nobody takes notice of.’ She remembered…

  She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Once let memories take control and all the pain she had fought her way through seven years ago would come rushing in again, and she did not know if she had the strength to fight it a second time.

  She got into the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel.

  He looked straight ahead and said, ‘I came to see you…to see how things were.’

  She turned her head to look at him. It was definitely him, but different. Concentrate on the differences, they would help anchor her in the here and now. Head shaven, nothing remaining of those light fair locks so easily ruffled by even the gentlest breeze. Face slightly fatter. Strange. She would have looked for it to be thinner. She knew hers was.