Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  ‘And I’ve regretted it every day since,’ said Purdy quietly.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart, Mick You weren’t to know it would give me grief,’ said Gidman, deliberately misunderstanding. ‘And have I ever reproached you with it? No way. Anyhow, he did good work till he went sick in the head. Got well paid for it, too. That’s what put us on to him in the end, the money. Funny thing about cop amnesia, you guys can forget everything except where you put the money.’

  He laughed melodiously.

  ‘All these years, I could have closed that account, got myself a full refund, but I didn’t need the money. Hell, it was small change anyway. So I thought, leave it, Goldie, my man. That’s where he’ll go if ever he shows his head again. And that’s what he did. Unfortunately, he just used the account to make a transfer to some hotel up there in the sticks. I thought maybe he’s working at this hotel, or staying there, so I sent my gal Fleur to take a look. After a couple of days she says she can’t get no lead on him. But I knew he was there, I could feel it. And that’s when I got the notion of using your lady friend Gina to flush him out.’

  ‘Not one of your better ideas, Goldie,’ said Purdy. ‘That’s why I’m here. Tell them to stand down till I get Gina back home.’

  ‘Does you credit to worry, Mick, but believe me, the nearest they’ll get is to see if she leads them to Wolfe. Then they’ll have a quiet chat with the guy, just check him out, know what I mean? No need for anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘You know, Goldie, I think you probably got that right. No need for anyone to get hurt. No need for any of this. If Alex is up there, and there doesn’t seem to be any evidence yet, what kind of risk is he likely to be? He’s been away for seven years. Why should he want to show up and cause a fuss now? And if he did, what the hell can he say anyway?’

  ‘Well, he could say that it was you recruited him on to my payroll. Now I wouldn’t like that. But over the years I got used to people trying to put shit on me and no one’s ever been able to make it stick. So I might be an incy bit embarrassed. You, though, Mick…’

  He shook his head sadly, regretfully.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Hey, you know better than me what them whitewashed sepulchres you work for are like. Even if they couldn’t prove anything, it would mean goodbye to your career, Mick. You done well. And you’ve done it clean, for the most part. Why risk throwing it away? And what about your lady friend? How do you think she’s going to feel when she finds out the guy who’s fucking her now had fucked her husband a long time ago?’

  Purdy said quietly, ‘I didn’t come here to listen to your crap, Goldie. I came here to tell you, anything happens to Gina, you’re going to be a lot more than embarrassed. I’ll raise such a shit storm, you’ll end up in the Bailey and that boy of yours won’t be a rising star at Westminster, he’ll be a rising stink.’

  For a moment Gidman sat stock-still, then he raised his cigar again, setting the heavy gold bracelets on his wrist jingling against the broad gold band of his Rolex.

  ‘How you going to do that, Mick?’ he asked. ‘Macavity couldn’t do it. And the Daily fucking Messenger can’t do it. And all them professional ferrets at Millbank been over me with microscopes and even my shit came out smelling like roses. You think those guys are going to let themselves be proved wrong? No, I got tank-proof protection, Mick. So what can you say to hurt me?’

  ‘You’re forgetting I was around way back before you went corporate, Goldie. I was around when you were just a jumped-up loan shark, screwing your own neighbours into the ground. I watched your back then, God help me! Remember when that Polish tailor reported you for crushing his fingers with a hammer? It was me who warned you what was going off so you had time to fix the witness he cited, your lovely Miss Delay.’

  ‘Got to interrupt you there, Mick. Fleur didn’t need fixing. I said nothing to her, just wanted to see how she’d react when you interviewed her. ’Course, if she’d blabbed, I’d have had to send Sling round to arrange another accident. But she did the right thing without needing to be told, and I knew I’d got myself a treasure. You’ve met her; you know how good she is, right?’

  Purdy ignored this and said, ‘Talking of Sling and accidents, you shouldn’t forget it was me who did the tidying up after him back then. When he burnt the tailor’s family to death, it was me spotted the butane spray he’d used to get things going and got rid of it before the fire inspection team got on the job.’

  ‘Hey, man, didn’t burn the whole family–the little girl got rescued, remember?’ interrupted Slingsby indignantly.

  ‘That’s right, Sling,’ said Gidman soothingly. ‘Mick got it wrong, and I’m sure he’s sorry. Right, Mick?’

  Purdy felt the pressure of the knife at his throat intensify and he grated, ‘Right.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gidman. ‘Let’s clear up this other thing while we’re at it. You saying you kept that butane can all these years or something, Mick? Don’t believe you. And even if you had, don’t see how it can be tied in to Sling and me after all this time, not even with the wonders of modern science.’

  ‘That will be for the courts to decide, Goldie. And it’s not the only story I’ve got to tell.’

  Goldie stubbed out his cigar and scratched his chin reflectively.

  ‘Sounds like you’re threatening me, Mick, That’s not a friendly thing to do.’

  ‘Just warning you, Goldie. The old days are over. For Christ’s sake, you must see that. You can’t go back to using your hammer again without it coming back to you. The Delays have killed one man already. The Yorkshire police know there’s a link to you.’

  ‘A very old link, Mick,’ said Gidman. ‘Let’s see, how will my press statement go…?’

  His voice changed, became deeper, almost pontifical, as he intoned, ‘“Miss Delay once worked for me as an accounts clerk. As my affairs grew progressively more complicated, I found I needed a different kind and quality of financial help and she became redundant. So I let her go with a generous settlement well over a decade ago. Naturally I’m sorry to hear she’s got herself into trouble, but really I don’t think I can help the authorities any further in this matter.” How’s that sound to you, Mick?’

  ‘Sounds like a load of crap,’ said Purdy. ‘Goldie, I’ve said what I want to say. I came here to give you the chance to start tidying up while you still can. You’ll be stupid not to take it.’

  ‘Threatening me in my own house is what I call stupid, Mick,’ said Gidman. ‘As for tidying up, at the moment the only untidy thing I can see is you. Now give me a moment, I need to take a moment to think…’

  It felt to Purdy as if the knife at his throat was nicking his skin. Certainly he could feel something warm trickling down his neck. Had to be sweat or blood.

  ‘Take as long as you like, Goldie,’ he said. ‘As long as you like.’

  And through his mind ran the thought that finally the fatigue of the weekend operation and the pills he’d popped to counter it had taken their toll. What the fuck had he been thinking of, coming out here? This figure sitting before him might have adopted all the trappings of wealth and influence and respectability, but the very fact that he’d sent the Delays up to Yorkshire to clean up for him should have been a reminder that, beneath the surface, Gidman was the same ruthless, amoral gangster he’d always been.

  It suddenly felt that it was going to take a divine intervention to get him out of this hole.

  18.52–19.23

  Sometimes what Orphic music would fail to soothe, a simple panic bellow can freeze in its tracks.

  ‘HOY!’

  The sound hit the back of the quarry, ricocheted off and rattled around, making direction hard to pinpoint.

  For a second they all looked up, thinking such an ominous noise must have come from the skies.

  Then Alex Wolfe saw that two men had appeared at the edge of the quarry. Straight away he recognized one of them: Peter Pascoe, who’d been at his daughter’s christening.

  T
he other looked vaguely familiar. That bulk…that ursine gait…that simian head…wasn’t this the man Gina had been sitting with at the Keldale…? Wasn’t this the famous Andy Dalziel?

  He was the one who’d shouted. No way such a sound could have emerged from the slender larynx of Peter Pascoe, who anyway seemed less bewildered by the presence of a bald-headed woman with a shotgun than the apparition of his christening party host.

  ‘Ed, what the hell are you doing here?’ he called.

  Wolfe made no effort to reply. That was a question he’d need to think about. Unless things went really badly. In which case I won’t need to bother, he thought, as he watched Dalziel advancing with the majestic instancy of a disgruntled rhinoceros.

  ‘That the gun that shot yon poor lad at Loudwater? Best put it down, luv. It’s evidence.’

  This was almost an aside as the Fat Man walked past Fleur towards her brother, who had pushed himself up into a simple kneeling position.

  Hard to say which of this trio was the most grotesque, thought Wolfe with that calmness which can sometimes follow terror: the pale bald woman, the bleeding man, or the megalithic cop.

  ’Vincent Delay, I presume?’ said Dalziel. ‘You the one who did the shooting and put my DC in hospital? How do you manage when you’ve not got a gun and you’re not fighting a girl? Like to give it a try?’

  ‘Andy!’ said Pascoe. ‘Leave it. He’s hurt.’

  ‘Call that hurt? That’s a flea-bite. But I can wait. Or mebbe not. Murder, and him with his record, I shouldn’t think he’ll see the light of day in my lifetime.’

  ‘Step away from him!’

  It was Fleur, the gun trained on the Fat Man’s belly.

  Dalziel turned, a reassuring smile on his face.

  ‘Nay, luv,’ he said. ‘Tek care. I warned you not to mess with that thing. Put it down afore you do yourself an injury.’

  ‘Vince, on your feet. We’re getting out of here.’

  Now the Fat Man’s smile broadened into a grin.

  ‘Where to? Listen.’

  He cupped an ear with his great hand. Distantly but rapidly getting nearer they could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

  ‘Three of our lot, one ambulance,’ Dalziel analysed. ‘That’ll be for Sunny Jim here, so’s they can clean him up and get him looking pretty for the judge. You don’t look so clever yourself, luv. Mebbe they’ll take you along too, give you a bit of time to make your last farewells. Pity they don’t have mixed jails, else you could do your time together.’

  ‘Fleur!’

  Vince was on his feet now. He wiped the blood away from his eyes.

  ‘Shoot the bastard!’ he croaked. ‘We need to get away from here.’

  Pascoe took a step forward and said, ‘It’s over, Fleur. Put the gun down. My men will be here any minute. They’ll be armed. If they see you with that thing in your hand, they won’t hesitate to take you out.’

  The barrel moved uncertainly from the Fat Man to the slim DCI.

  At least it’s taken her mind off me, thought Alex Wolfe.

  As if by thought transference the gun arced back in his direction.

  ‘Make up your mind, luv,’ said Dalziel. ‘One shot’s all you get.’

  ‘Fleur, please! Let’s go,’ pleaded Vince, his voice almost child-like in its pitch and intonation. ‘I can’t go back inside. They’ll never let me out. We’ve got to get away, we’ll go to Spain, I’ll settle there, I’ll like it there, I promise. Please, Fleur, please.’

  He began to move unsteadily towards the blue VW. Dalziel stood aside to let him pass. The sirens were very close now.

  The woman started to follow him.

  Dalziel said musingly, ‘How old is he? Not yet fifty? He could have a good thirty years inside if he keeps in shape. Never mind. He can catch up on all them GCSE’s he missed out on.’

  She kept on walking, though every step looked an agonizing effort.

  The sirens had stopped. They heard the sound of car doors opening, voices shouting, feet running.

  ‘Last chance, luv,’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Bastard!’ she spat at him, and pulled the trigger.

  The first of the new arrivals burst on the scene, heard the shotgun blast, saw the man slump heavily to the ground.

  ‘Armed police!’ he called.

  The woman turned towards him, swinging the gun round with her.

  ‘Drop it!’ he called.

  She brought it up to point at his chest.

  He shot her through the heart.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he said, aghast at what he’d done. ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘Nay, lad, don’t beat up on thaself,’ said Andy Dalziel. ‘She were on her way out anyway, you don’t need to be a quack to see that.’

  He looked towards Gina Wolfe. He wanted to speak to her, but she was folded in the shaven-headed man’s arms and he was talking urgently into her ear. Somehow the Fat Man got the impression it was instruction rather than comfort that was being given.

  ‘You know that guy?’ he said to Pascoe, who had come to join him, looking rather shell-shocked.

  ‘Yes…it’s Ed Muir…it was his daughter’s christening I was at…’

  ‘What’s he doing here then?’

  ‘I don’t know…in fact, I don’t know anything…what’s just gone off here, Andy?’

  I’ve got to pull myself together, he thought. I’m sounding as pathetic as that poor bastard who just got shot by his sister!

  ‘Nay, lad, don’t get yourself in a tangle,’ said the Fat Man, giving Pascoe an avuncular pat on the shoulder that made him stagger. ‘Knowing stuff’s the responsibility of the man in charge, and that’s me, remember? What’s your mate doing now?’

  Pascoe looked to see that Muir had now moved away from the blonde and was talking urgently into his telephone.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘Probably ringing Ali, his partner…’

  ‘Saying, “Sorry, luv, I’ll likely be late for supper, I’ve been held up by a pair of murderous sickos.” Hope she’s an understanding lass.’

  He walked forward to where Vince Delay’s body sat slumped against the VW, a look of faint surprise still printed on his face.

  ‘Talking of understanding lasses, yon Fleur did you a favour, son,’ said the Fat Man, looking down at the corpse. ‘Everyone should have a sister like her.’

  ‘Loving, you mean?’ said Pascoe, control of his voice restored.

  ‘Dead, I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.

  19.22–19.30

  Goldie Gidman sat staring at the blank TV screen as if still watching his old favourite Hendrix strutting his stuff at Woodstock. The silence stretched into a minute. Things to say bubbled up in Purdy’s head but they all sounded like pleas or provocation. He tried to think of ways of dealing with Slingsby. The guy was an old man with incipient dementia, but he was in the good physical shape that often goes with the condition, and in any case it didn’t take much strength to slice through flesh and vein with what felt like a razor-sharp blade.

  Cave in, he told himself. Make Goldie think you’re backing off. But don’t be obvious. He’s no fool, he hasn’t got where he is today by being a fool.

  To which was added the uncomfortable thought, Nor has he got where he is today by being unwilling to remove obstacles in his path with extreme prejudice.

  If that divine intervention were written into the score, it was time for it to play now.

  His phone rang.

  Its ring-tone, downloaded for him by Gina, was based on the aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He’d protested, ‘Jesus, girl, they’ll all think I’ve gone weird when they hear that.’ And she’d replied, ‘Yes, but you’ll always think of me.’

  He thought of her now.

  The notes were repeated.

  Goldie said, ‘Better answer that, Mick. But be careful what you say.’

  Moving carefully to keep the pressure of steel on his throat constant, he took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

/>   ‘Purdy,’ he said.

  He listened. Gidman, watching him carefully, saw with interest that whoever he was listening to had caught his attention so absolutely that Slingsby and his knife had gone completely out of his mind.

  After the best part of a minute, Purdy burst out, ‘And she’s OK? Is she there? Can I speak to her?’

  He listened again, then said, ‘OK, I understand. And that’s both of them dead. You’re sure of that?’

  Another short period of listening then he said, ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself? Yes, he’s here. Hang on.’

  He took the phone from his ear and said, ‘Goldie, I think you might want to hear this.’

  Gidman stared at him for a moment then made a gesture. The blade went from his throat, he rose and moved forward and handed the financier the phone.

  He said, ‘Goldie Gidman.’

  Now it was his turn to listen.

  After a while he repeated Purdy’s question.

  ‘Both of them? You’re sure?’

  Another listen, then he said, ‘If you can make that play, then I’m OK with that. Believe me, I only ever wanted to talk.’

  He switched off and handed the phone back. Then he smiled, gold fillings gleaming like Tutankhamen’s tomb, and Purdy knew he was safe. He touched his neck then examined his finger. Blood and sweat.

  Gidman said, ‘You were right, Mick. Things got a bit out of control. We all have off days, right? But they’ve fixed themselves now. Thing I’ve found out as I’ve got older, nothing you can’t fix by talking.’

  Purdy put his handkerchief to his neck.

  ‘Hard to talk with your throat cut, Goldie.’

  Gidman laughed.

  ‘Would never have come to that, Mick, Sure you won’t have that cigar now? Drop of rum for the old days? OK, I understand. Don’t mind me saying, but you look a bit peaky. I’d say the best place for you is back in your bed, get some sleep in before your woman comes home. Sling will see you out. And, Sling, when you’ve said goodbye to the commander, have a word with young Maggie who’s volunteered to take care of me. Flo said she’d left one of her meat-and-potato pies for my supper. Show Maggie where she’ll find it. And tell her I’ll be honoured if she’ll join me at the table. Bye, Mick. Don’t be a stranger.’