“Sure.”
She called, “It’s Jase. Pal’s stood him up. He wants to know if he’s left a message here.”
“No, nothing—tell Jase to get himself something at the Club like he usually does—don’t want him spoiling our evening just because Pal’s spoilt his.”
“Jase, did you get that?”
“Yes. Who needs phones when you’ve got a wife who could yodel for Switzerland? OK, tell her I’ll get myself a pasty, then go up on the balcony and see if I can find a couple of sweaty girls to watch. How are you keeping, Kay?”
“Mustn’t complain.”
“Why not? Everyone else does. Probably catch you before you leave. ’Bye.”
Kay put down the receiver and stood looking at her reflection in the gilt mirror on the wall behind the phone table. Her face wore the contemplative almost frowning expression which Tony had once caught in a snap which he labelled La Signora Borgia checks her guest list. She relaxed her features into their normal edge-of-a-smile configuration and went back into the lounge.
4 • an open door
“There we go,” said PC Jack “Joker” Jennison, placing the two newspaper-wrapped bundles on the dashboard. “One haddock, one cod.”
“Which is which?”
“Mail’s haddock, Guardian’s cod.”
“That figures. What do I owe you?”
“Don’t be daft. Chinese chippie two doors up from the National Party offices, they’d pay good money to have us park outside till closing time.”
“Then they’ll be getting a refund,” said PC Alan Maycock. “We’re out of here.”
He gunned the engine and set the car accelerating forward.
“What’s your hurry?” asked Jennison.
“Just got a tip from CAD that Bonkers is on the prowl. Don’t think he’d be too chuffed to find us troughing outside a chippie, so let’s find somewhere nice and quiet.”
Bonkers was Sergeant Bonnick, a new broom at Mid-Yorkshire HQ who was hell bent on clearing out its dustiest corners. Also he was big on physical fitness and had already been mildly sarcastic about the embonpoint of the two constables, saying that watching them getting into their car was like seeing a pair of 42s trying to squeeze into a 36 cup.
“Not too far, eh? I hate cold chips,” said Jennison, pressing the warm packets to his cheeks.
“Don’t fret. Nearly there.”
They’d turned off the main road with its parade of shops and were speeding into the area of the city known as Greenhill.
Once a hamlet without the city wall, Greenhill had been absorbed into the urban mass during the great industrial expansion of the nineteenth century. The old squires who bred their beasts, raised their crops, and hunted their prey across this land were replaced by the new squires of coal and steel and commerce who wanted houses to live in that had land enough to give the impression of countryside but without any of the attendant inconveniences of remoteness, agricultural smells or peasant society. So the hamlet of Greenhill became the suburb of Greenhill, in which farms and cotts and muddy lanes were replaced by urban mansions and tarmacked roads.
From the naughty nineties to the fighting forties, many of the great and the good of Mid-Yorkshire paraded their pomp in Greenhill. But after the war, the rot set in. Old ways and old fortunes faded, and though for a while the makers of new fortunes still turned their thoughts to what had once been the arriviste’s dream, a Greenhill mansion, there rapidly developed an awareness of their inconvenience and a sense that they were at best démodé, at worst crassly kitsch, and by the seventies Greenhill was in steep decline. Many of the mansions were converted into flats, or small commercial hotels, or corporate offices, or simply knocked down to make room for speculative development.
Some areas hung on longer than others, or at least by sheer weight of presence managed to preserve the illusion that little had changed from the glory days. Chief among these was The Avenue, which, if it ever had a praenomen, had long ago shed it as superfluous to general recognition. Here on nights like the present one, with mist seeping in from the already shrouded countryside to blur the big houses behind their screening arbours into vague shapes, still and awe-inspiring as sleeping pachyderms, it was possible to drive slowly down the broad street between the ranks of leafy plane trees and imagine that the great days of Empire were with us yet.
In fact, driving slowly down the Avenue was still a popular pursuit among a certain section of Mid-Yorkshire society, but they weren’t thinking of Empire, except perhaps metaphorically. The shade against the elements provided by the trees, the privacy afforded by many of the dark and winding driveways, plus the thinness on the ground of complaining residents, made this a favourite parade ground for prostitutes and kerb crawlers. In the misty aureoles of the elegantly curved Greenhill lampposts, the Avenue might look deserted. But set your car crawling sedately along the kerbside and, like dryads materializing from their trees at the summons of the great god Pan, the ladies of the night would appear.
Except if the car had POLICE written all over it, when the effect was quite other.
Jennison hadn’t been able to last out and was already unfolding his parcel, releasing the pungent smell of hot battered fish and vinegary chips.
“Can’t you bloody wait till I get parked?”
“No, me belly thinks me throat’s cut. This’ll do. Pull over here.”
“Don’t be daft. We’d have the girls throwing bricks at us for frightening off the punters. I know just the spot. Bonkers’ll never find us here.”
He swung the wheel over and ran the car under the plane trees into a gravelled driveway between two stone pillars. Stumps of concrete at their tops suggested that they had once been crowned with some ornamental or heraldic device but this had long since vanished, probably at the same time as the ornate metal gate. Its massy hinges were still visible on the right-hand pillar, however, while on the left, graven deep enough in the stonework to be still readable though heavily lichened, was the name MOSCOW HOUSE.
Leaning over the high ivied garden wall was an estate agent’s board reading FOR SALE WITH VACANT POSSESSION.
Maycock drove up the length of the drive till he could see the house. Its complete darkness and shuttered windows confirmed the promise of the sign that there was no one here to disturb or be disturbed by.
“That’s funny,” he said as he brought the car to a halt.
“What?”
“Isn’t that door open?”
“Which door?”
“The house door, what do you fucking think?”
The two men strained their eyes through the swirling mist.
“It is, tha knows,” said Maycock. “It’s definitely open.”
Jennison leaned across, dropped the warm newspaper packet on to his colleague’s lap and switched off the headlights.
“Can’t see it myself,” he said. “Now shut up and eat your haddock afore it gets cold.”
They munched in silence for a while. Then the radio crackled out their call sign and a voice they recognized as Bonnick’s said, “Report your position.”
“Shit,” said Maycock.
“No sweat,” said Jennison.
He switched on his transmitter and said, “We’re in the Avenue, Sarge. Checking out an unsecured property.”
“The Avenue? Which Avenue?” demanded Bonnick, sounding irritated. “Use proper procedure, full details when reporting location.”
Jennison grinned at his partner and replied mildly, “Just the Avenue, Sarge. In Greenhill. Thought everyone knew that. The property’s called Moscow House. It’s on the left-hand side as you’re heading east, about one hundred and five metres from the junction with Balmoral Terrace. There’s a name on the gate pillar. Moscow House. That’s M, O, S, C, O, W. Moscow. H, O, U, S, E. House. Bit misty out here but if you get lost, there’s one or two helpful young ladies around who’ll be glad to show you the way. Over.”
There was silence, though in his mind Maycock could hear police consta
bles pissing themselves laughing all over Mid-Yorkshire.
“Report back to me as soon as your check’s finished. Out,” said the sergeant in a quiet controlled voice.
“Think you’ve made a friend there,” said Maycock.
“He can please his bloody self.”
“Aye, but we’d best do what you’ve told him we’re doing,” said Maycock, getting out of the car. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
“I’ve not finished me cod yet!” protested Jennison.
But to tell the truth his appetite was fading. For Joker Jennison had a secret. He was scared of the dark, and particularly scared of old dark houses. His fear was metaphysical rather than physical. Muscular muggers and crazy crack-heads he took in his stride. But in his infancy he couldn’t sleep without a night-light and as a teenager he’d fainted while watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show. On reviving and realizing the damage this was likely to do to his street cred, he had faked every symptom of every illness he could think of, causing a meningitis scare in his school and getting him confined to an isolation ward in the infirmary while they did tests. It had worked as far as his mates were concerned, but on joining the police force (which itself had been an act of denial), he had soon realized that if he fainted every time he had to enter a deserted property with only his torch for light, pretence of illness would get him thrown out as quickly as admission of terror. So he had learned to grit his teeth and keep his true feelings hidden behind the screen of pleasantries that got him his nickname.
Now he remained stubbornly in his seat as his partner mounted the steps to the open door. Moscow House seemed to grow in bulk as he watched, towering high into the swirling mist where it wasn’t hard for his straining eyes to detect ruined battlements around which flitted squeaking bats.
Then the mist came rolling down the dark façade as if bent on putting a curtain between himself and Alan Maycock.
“Oh shit,” said Jennison again. What was worse, out here alone or in there with his partner?
That part of his mind still in touch with reason told him that if anything happened to Maycock he’d have to go into the house anyway.
With a sigh of desperation, he rolled his bulk out of the car, crushed the remnants of his fish supper into a ball and hurled it into the darkness, then jogged towards the house shouting, “Hang about, you daft bugger. I’m coming!”
5 • a tight cork
“What do they put these things in with? Sledgehammers?” snarled Cressida Maciver, gripping the bottle between her knees and hauling at the corkscrew with both hands.
Ellie Pascoe smiled uneasily and glanced at her watch. Half-eight, two empty bottles lying on the floor, and they hadn’t even eaten yet. Nor could her sensitive nose detect any evidence of food in preparation wafting from the kitchen, and Cress was one of those cooks who couldn’t scramble an egg without sprinkling it with spices.
But it wasn’t the thought of going hungry that caused her unease. It was the fact that on a couple of previous occasions, even with food, the opening of a third bottle had been closely followed by an attempt at seduction which came close to sexual assault. After the second time, Ellie had been ready with various stratagems to pre-empt the well-signalled pounce, and though their farewell hug sometimes came close to frottage, she had managed to escape without damage. Sober, next time they met, Cress seemed to have forgotten everything in the same way that, drunk, she clearly had no recollection of Ellie’s having confided in her that once, at university, curiosity and a determination not to appear repressed or naive had got her into a female lecturer’s bed, but the experience had done nothing for her and wasn’t one she had any desire to repeat.
Usually she got a taxi home, but when her husband, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe had announced they’d need a baby-sitter as piles of neglected paperwork were going to keep him at his desk deep into the evening, she’d declared that what they lost on the sitter they could gain on the taxi and arranged for him to pick her up about ten-thirty, which was the usual danger time. Now the schedule was blown to hell, and as well as uneasy, Ellie felt cheated. She was very fond of Cress, and in matters of taste generally, politics sufficiently, and humour absolutely, they shared so much that their evenings together before the hormones took over were a delight which tonight looked like being cut well short.
The assaults always occurred when Cressida was between men, which was pretty frequently. The intensity of her commitment was more than most could abide for long. The journey from feeling adored and cosseted to feeling cribbed, cabined and confined was a short one, in some cases taking only a matter of days. In the aftermath of break-up, Cressida always turned to her female friends for comfort. Men were only good for one thing, and that was overrated. Passion was for pubescents. Female friendship was the thing. Which sensible life-view ruled her mind until the opening of the third bottle, when a meeting of mature female minds was suddenly discarded in favour of a close encounter of mature female flesh.
The last break-up seemed to have been even more than usually traumatic.
“I really liked the guy,” she bewailed. “He had everything. And I mean everything. Including a Maserati. Have you ever had sex in a Maserati, Ellie?”
Ellie pursed her lips as if running though a check list of top cars, then admitted she’d missed out.
“Never mind,” said her friend consolingly. “The driving position’s fabulous but the shagging position’s absolute agony. But you wouldn’t believe a guy driving a car like that would turn out to have five kids and a religion that won’t let his wife entertain the idea of divorce.”
Her eyes glinted malevolently.
“Maybe if I had a word with his wife that would change her religion,” she added.
“Cress, you wouldn’t.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. Not unless provoked. And why the hell am I wasting quality time with my dearest friend talking about that sunburnt shit of a witch doctor?”
She gave a mighty heave at the corkscrew and succeeded in hauling it out of the bottle, but only at the expense of leaving half the cork in the neck.
Oh well, that should delay matters a little, thought Ellie, offering up a prayer of thanks to whatever it was that almost certainly wasn’t there.
As if to reproach her for this qualification in her devotion, the phone rang.
“Shit,” said Cressida. “See what you can do with this sodding thing, will you?”
As soon as she left the room, Ellie pulled out her mobile and pressed her husband’s speed-dial key. He answered almost immediately.
“Peter,” she whispered. “It’s me.”
“What? It’s a lousy line.”
“Just listen. I need you earlier.”
“Ah,” he said. “Second bottle time already, eh?”
He was quick. That was one of the good things about him. One of many good things.
“Third,” she said. “No sign of food and she’s been dumped again. Some medic. She’s started on about the problems of sex in a Maserati.”
“Poor thing. Can’t you tell her you’ve got a headache? Always works with me.”
“Ha ha. Can you get here soon? Say it’s some problem with the sitter.”
“I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes tops. Hang in there, girl.”
She’d just got the phone into her bag when Cressida came back into the room.
“Sue-Lynn,” she said. “My sister-in-law. Wants to know if I’ve heard from Pal. Seems he didn’t turn up for his squash with Jase and nobody knows where he is. Silly bitch.”
In the five years of their friendship, she’d never talked in any detail about her family, not even her brother Pal with whom she was close and who’d been indirectly responsible for bringing Ellie and Cress together. He ran an antique shop called Archimagus in the town’s medieval area near the cathedral. Ellie had been in a couple of times without buying anything and without registering more about the proprietor than that he was a good-looking young man who after a token offer of h
elp became a non-hassling background presence. On the third occasion when she expressed interest in a seventeenth-century knife box in walnut with a beautiful mother-of-pearl butterfly inlay on the lid, he’d answered her questions with an eloquent expertise that very subtly implied that only a person of the most sensitive taste would have selected this item above all the rest of his stock. Finally he suggested she took it home to see how it looked in situ, no obligation, which had made a young woman who’d just come into the shop roar with laughter.
“I bet he hasn’t mentioned the price yet,” she said.
On reflection, Ellie had to admit this was true.
A price was mentioned. Ellie looked at the newcomer and raised an eyebrow enquiringly.
She pursed her lips, shook her head and said, “That the best you can do for a friend of your sister?”
“You two are friends?” said Pal.
Cressida had looked at Ellie, grinned and said, “No, but I think we could be.”
To which Pal had replied, “So let me know how it works out, then we can discuss a possible price cut.”
It had worked out well and the knife box now adorned the Pascoe dining room. But though her friendship with Cressida burgeoned, the brother never became anything more than an antiques dealer with whom she was on first-name terms. As for the rest of the family, Ellie had picked up that there was a younger sister, and also that they’d lost their parents some time in childhood, but she’d made no attempt to pry into the exact nature of the evident tensions and problems Cress’s upbringing had left her with. This didn’t mean she wasn’t curious—hell, they were friends, weren’t they? And knowing your friends was even more important than knowing your enemies—but in Ellie’s book though mere curiosity might get you nebbing into the life of a stranger, it was never enough to justify sticking your nose into the affairs of a friend.
But if the confidences came unasked, she was not about to discourage them, particularly in a situation where they also served the useful function of postponing the threatened pounce.
Good Morning, Midnight Page 3