Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Yes,’ said Gidman. ‘I know I can rely on you for that. But can I ask you a really big favour, Maggie? Mammy’s really upset at the thought of leaving Goldie on his own. It’s Dean’s night off, and when Dean has a night off, it really is a night, he won’t show till breakfast. I know Sling will be here, but he’s not all that reliable these days, so I wondered…’

  He looks really uncomfortable to be asking me a favour, she thought. Have I made our relationship that impersonal?

  She said, ‘You’d like me to spend the night here, make sure Goldie gets properly fed and watered?’

  ‘Yes, please. To tell the truth, he’s not all that domesticated and, between the two of them, I think they’re quite capable of setting the house on fire! Ma would be really chuffed if you’ll stay. You know how high she rates you.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Maggie, you’re a star,’ he said with a warmth that faintly embarrassed her, mainly because it seemed so genuine.

  Flo Gidman came bustling down the stairs, an old leather grip in her hand.

  She registered Maggie, said, ‘Hello, dearie,’ then to her son, ‘David, I’m ready, we ought to be on our way. I’ve said cheerio to your father, he says he’ll manage, but I do wish Dean was here. Doesn’t everything happen at the worst possible time, Maggie?’

  She was saved from answering by Dave, who said, ‘Mammy, I’ve got some good news, Maggie here says she’ll stay the night and make sure Pappy’s properly taken care of.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie, will you?’ cried Flo. ‘That would be such a relief, you’ve no idea. It’s not that Goldie’s helpless, it’s just that he doesn’t bother. Unless there’s someone here to keep him right, he’ll sit up half the night in front of that telly, eating nothing but crisps and drinking rum. Like I say, he’s not helpless, just hopeless.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Flo, I’ll take care of him.’

  ‘Lovely. He likes a glass of warm milk with a shot of rum by his bed, and when I’m not there he usually takes one sleeping pill to help him get off. Just the one. They’re in the tea caddy in the kitchen. He hates tea so he never looks in there. But don’t let him talk you into giving him more than one. And don’t let him take the rum bottle to bed with him. And make certain he don’t smuggle a cigar in. I had a smoke alarm fixed right over the bed, but he’s quite capable of switching it off when he’s left to himself.’

  ‘Mammy, you can’t expect Maggie to be able to boss Pappy around like you do!’ protested Dave.

  ‘Why not? She gets the practice keeping you in line, don’t she?’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Maggie. ‘And I hope your sister’s OK.’

  ‘That’s in God’s hands. I’m more grateful than I can say, dearie.’

  She folded Maggie in her arms and gave her a succulent kiss on the cheek.

  Then she said, ‘Come on, Dave, I’ll just tell your pa that Maggie’s going to take care of him, then we’re off. I don’t want to get there and find poor Belle’s gone because of your dawdling.’

  She went out. Dave the Third gave Maggie a wry grin then said, ‘Oh, one thing more, you’d better know how to work the gate controls. Not that anyone’s likely to come calling tonight, but sometimes Sling goes walkabout and it could be embarrassing if there’s no one around.’

  She followed him into a control room located to the left of the main entrance. She’d only glimpsed it through the open door on previous visits and now she was surprised to see how roomy it was. Perhaps the stark décor made it seem bigger. It certainly clashed with the rather self-consciously retro ambience of the rest of the house. The only furniture was a single office chair in front of a control panel. There was no window and the illumination came from a bank of TV screens filling most of one wall. Only two of them were active. One showed the area outside the front door, the other the main gate.

  ‘You can talk to anyone at the gate by pressing this switch,’ said Dave. ‘And these two buttons open and shut the gates. OK?’

  ‘Yes. All these other screens…?’

  ‘No need to bother with those unless an alarm sounds. Then you can bring up the perimeter walls and if necessary the house interior, though I shouldn’t think they’ll ever be needed. The alarm system links directly to the police and there’s enough razor wire on the perimeter wall to shave a woolly mammoth.’

  ‘David! Are you going to take all night? Get a move on or I’ll drive this thing myself!’

  The yell came from outside.

  He grinned at her again. Sometimes she could see why he was such a successful womanizer.

  He said, ‘Open the gate, will you, then shut it behind me? I’ll ring you later.’

  He gave her a kiss on the cheek, not as warmly moist as his mother’s, but more than a simple peck. That was a first too.

  He left. She waited till she heard the Audi start up then pressed the button that opened the gate. A few moments later the car appeared on the TV screen. As it went through the gateway, Dave’s arm came out of the driver’s window and waved a clenched fist farewell.

  She pressed the close button. It was easy to categorize people, she thought. This was a side of her employer she hadn’t seen enough of. With the right guidance, maybe he could make it all the way. The UK’s first mixed-race prime minister. And he had the qualities to make a good if not a great one. With the right guidance.

  Her shift of feeling about Dave made her feel suddenly guilty at the dark suspicions about Goldie that today’s events had sent fuguing around her mind once more. If the combined efforts of Scotland Yard, the left-wing media, and Tory Central Office hadn’t been able to lay anything on Gidman, then he really did have to be clean, didn’t he?

  Her phone rang. The display said Number withheld but she recognized instantly the voice that said, ‘That you, Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, Beanie,’ she said.

  She listened as the Bitch talked. After a few seconds she sat down on the chair in front of the control panel.

  ‘Listen, hon, don’t know why I’m doing this, except maybe you ought to know and also ’cos I gotta talk to someone about it. I’ve just had a call from Gwyn. I was ready to chew his balls off over lying to me, and banging that Huntley child and all, but I could tell something was wrong soon as I heard him. My ma used to tell me, never tell lies ’cos you never know when they’ll come true. Gwyn said he had to deal with a family crisis. Well, he’s really got one now. That kid brother of his, the one he was going to see up in Yorkshire, he’s been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ echoed Maggie incredulously. ‘How? Why?’

  ‘Shot in the face. And some cop woman who was there got put into hospital too. I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s anything to do with that stuff we were talking about, I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Do you have any more details?’ demanded Maggie. ‘Have they got anyone for it?’

  ‘He’d have said if they had. He’s really shook up. Never known him like this. He’s even going on about the intrusive fucking press! Listen, hon, I’ve told you all I know, but you’ve heard nothing from me. And one thing more, that’s you and me squared off, OK? Take care.’

  The line went dead.

  For another minute Maggie Pinchbeck didn’t move.

  Then she got up and went into the hallway just in time to see Sling leading Purdy upstairs, presumably for his meeting with Goldie.

  The commander looked like a man with something important on his mind. She knew how he felt.

  She watched them out of sight then went back into the control room.

  18.20–18.48

  As the old Rover sped north out of the city, Dalziel told Pascoe about his conversation with Purdy.

  ‘Tried to hide it at first, but he’s really worried,’ said the Fat Man.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be? With his girlfriend missing and these Delays on the loose, that would worry anyone.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Dalziel.

  Pascoe frowned and said war
ningly, ‘Andy, is there something else here, something to do with Purdy? I thought we agreed. No more secrets.’

  You agreed, thought the Fat Man. It’s me as makes the rules, remember?

  But he didn’t say it aloud. There would be a time for such reminders. Also it was good to have it confirmed just how fine-tuned his deputy’s sensors were.

  He said, ‘I’m not keeping anything secret ’cos I really don’t know anything. Remember, I’ve not seen Purdy for ten years and we weren’t much more than drinking buddies back then. So the way this thing’s panning out, I’m not taking owt for granted.’

  ‘You think he might be more than romantically involved?’

  ‘Romantically involved? You been at the Barbara Cartland again? I’ve no idea, Pete. There’s one thing, but. That stuff in the note Gina got about the plucky little trooper and the general. Two ways that might have got into circulation. One is the guy boasting in his cups to an old mate, the other is the girl reminiscing in her bed to a new mate. Mick Purdy fits both bills.’

  They drove in silence for a while. Then Dalziel’s phone rang. It was lying on the dashboard.

  He said, ‘Could you get that, else I might have to arrest myself.’

  Pascoe picked up the phone and bellowed, ‘What?’ in a fair parody of the Fat Man’s telephone style. His reward was a verbal assault that made him wince.

  He held it away from his ear and said, ‘I think it’s your old chum Chief Constable Glendower, who seems to believe your mother had intercourse with a sow that was badly infected with both foot and mouth disease and swine fever.’

  Dalziel laughed and said, ‘Pass it here.’

  Pascoe frowned and compromised by holding it up to his boss’s ear.

  The abusive rant was unabated. Dalziel listened with a widening grin on his face.

  ‘Hooky, Hooky,’ he interrupted finally. ‘You should be careful, man of your age. Back seats are for teenagers. You’ll give yourself a hernia if you’re not careful. Nay, don’t start up again. Just listen, will you? You know a journalist called Gareth Jones?’

  There was a pause. Then Glendower’s voice, more controlled now, said, ‘Yes, I know a muckraker of that name.’

  Pascoe, hearing the reference to Gareth Jones, leaned close so that he could catch the caller’s words.

  ‘And would it surprise you if it turned out he were doing a surveillance job on you while you were enjoying your romantic weekend?’

  ‘What? The little shit!’ Glendower’s voice was now very alarmed. ‘What’s going on, Andy?’

  Dalziel spelled things out with brutal economy.

  When he’d finished, Glendower, his tone changed yet again, said, ‘Oh Christ. And it’s definitely Gareth Jones who’s dead, is it?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘He wasn’t looking to do you any favours, Hooky.’

  ‘I know that. But he was just a kid. All right, he got on my wick, always hanging around my office, asking cheeky questions, making innuendos. Deserved to have his arse kicked, fair enough. But not this.’

  ‘Aye well, does you credit, Hooky,’ said Dalziel. ‘But it’s time to look out for yourself. Listen, I’m ahead of the game right now, but my DCI–him you met in the car park–he’s a bright lad, he’ll have to be told.’

  He glanced across at Pascoe and winked.

  ‘But he’s not a blabbermouth,’ he continued. ‘And I’ll do what I can to screw things down at the Keldale. Bit like you, eh? All right, sorry, no time to be frivolous. Listen, Hooky, there’s bound to be some bugger who knows what young Jones were up to, so I doubt you’re going to be able to keep the lid on this. But you can mebbe do a bit of damage limitation, right?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Yes, Andy. You’re right. Damage limitation it is,’ said Glendower finally. ‘Thanks, mate. Sorry I blew my top. I thought you were just having a laugh at my expense.’

  ‘Nay, Hooky, if us old stagers can’t look out for each other, who will? Listen, first thing I’d do is take a close look at your staff. You did the hotel booking and everything from your office, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I wasn’t going to do it from home,’ said Glendower defensively.

  ‘Very considerate of you. But it means some bugger at work has probably been checking out your computer and phone and feeding this young reporter tit-bits. I’d look for someone who goes to chapel three times on a Sunday, sings in the choir, and reckons Sodom and Gomorrah are villages in Shropshire. But I expect you’ve got a lot of them.’

  ‘Oh yes, but I reckon I know which one it is,’ said Glendower vengefully. ‘And with luck I’ll have time to get the bugger sorted before I’m clearing my desk.’

  ‘Nay, Hooky, it needn’t come to that. A man’s entitled to a private life. Unless you’ve been charging your naughties to expenses. You’ve not been doing that, have you? Tell me you’ve not been doing that.’

  ‘There may have been some overlaps,’ said Glendower reluctantly.

  ‘Oh, Hooky, Hooky. First rule of the game is pay for your own naughties else you really will end up paying for them. Listen, I’ve got to go. Got a murder case to investigate, remember?’

  ‘Of course you have. Best of luck with that. I hope you catch the bugger. And, Andy, thanks again. Like I say, I thought that…well I thought some pretty uncharitable things…sorry. I’ll not forget this.’

  ‘Good luck, Hooky,’ said Dalziel. ‘By the by, signing in for your mucky weekend as Mr and Mrs Rowan Williams–loved it!’

  He glanced at Pascoe again, looking to share a smile, but the DCI’s face could have belonged to a Scottish Nationalist at the Glasgow Empire listening to an English comic telling kilt jokes on a Saturday night.

  ‘So that’s how you guessed the dead man might be a Welsh journalist,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said the Fat Man. ‘Remember that bint in the white Mondeo? I clocked it had the same registration letters as Hooky’s tank. So I checked if there were a wedding on at the Keldale over the weekend. There weren’t. And when I saw there was no Glendower in the registration book, just a Mr and Mrs Rowan Williams, I rang our Control and put out a call on Hooky here and in Lancs. Guessed he’d be heading west.’

  ‘You wanted to warn him,’ said Pascoe accusingly.

  ‘Aye. Why not?’ said Dalziel. ‘I’d do the same for you, and hope you would for me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Pascoe. ‘But this is really going to turn a spotlight on us. The press will love it. Top cop’s dirty weekend gets teenage reporter killed. Jesus.’

  ‘It’s not Hooky’s fault,’ protested Dalziel. ‘Any more than it’s my fault for getting him bumped off that table. Any more than it’s your fault for not checking up on me yesterday like you promised Cap you would.’

  Pascoe looked at him in alarm and puzzlement.

  ‘Did she tell you that she’d asked me?’

  ‘No, but I’d lay money on it she did. You were too busy, though. Right?’

  ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact. But I don’t see what on earth this has to do with anything.’

  Dalziel thought of explaining that if he hadn’t spent such a miserable Saturday he might not have woken on Sunday thinking it must be Monday…but it didn’t seem worth the effort.

  He said, ‘All I mean is, if there’s only one guy this is all down to, I reckon it has to be yon Tory milch-cow, Goldie Gidman.’

  Before Pascoe could deconstruct this, his phone rang.

  He said, ‘Hi, Wieldy,’ listened, said, ‘OK. I’ll let you know what we find,’ and switched off. Dalziel wasn’t surprised. A Wield call to give information was inevitably compact and comprehensive.

  Pascoe said, ‘Gwyn Jones has turned up. That idiot Watkins managed to give him the bad news before Wieldy could get to him. He’s gone from being shattered to screaming that it’s all down to Goldie Gidman and why aren’t we sticking red-hot needles under his nails to get him to talk?’

  ‘Don’t often
agree with a journalist, but maybe he’s got something,’ said Dalziel. ‘Here we go!’

  He swung across the carriageway to a fanfare of horns from the oncoming traffic and turned eastward down a narrow unclassified road.

  ‘You’re sure this is right?’ said Pascoe a few minutes later, after he’d recovered his composure sufficiently to speak without a tremolo.

  ‘When I were a young cop, you had to do the Mid-Yorkshire Knowledge,’ said Dalziel. ‘Find your way to every pub within twenty miles of the town centre. There. Told you.’

  Ahead they saw a roadside pub with a sign swinging in the evening breeze. On the sign was painted a dejected-looking figure sitting at the foot of a bald hill.

  ‘The Lost Traveller,’ Pascoe read. ‘After Blake, do you think?’

  ‘As in, “I’ve lost me way, send for Sexton Blake,” you mean?’ said Dalziel.

  Pursuit of this interesting literary divagation was prevented by the sight of a red car parked at the bottom of the steep hill that fell away from the pub.

  Dalziel pulled in to the side and dug up a pair of binoculars from the clutter on the back seat.

  ‘No sign of life,’ he said.

  He let the car roll down the hill and braked a few yards short of the Nissan.

  The two detectives got out and approached cautiously.

  The car was unlocked and empty, a mobile phone sat in its holder.

  They looked at each other then went round to the rear.

  Pascoe opened the boot and they both let out a sigh of relief when they saw nothing but luggage.

  Dalziel headed back to his car while Pascoe got on the phone to Wield and told him what was happening. As they spoke, his eyes were on the Fat Man who was studying a map. Suddenly he nodded, hurled the map unfolded into the back of the car and called, ‘Right, come on!’

  ‘Where? Why? Andy, we should wait here. The ARU will be here in a couple of minutes…’

  The Fat Man ignored him and bellowed in the general direction of the phone, ‘Wieldy, tell ’em to follow us. Straight on down past the red car, T-junction, turn left, quarter mile on right, small quarry.’