Good Morning, Midnight

by Reginald Hill

  Self-preservation overcame political correctness. He said firmly, “No, we’ll go in my car.”

  And got that secret thought-reading smile again.

  8 • assignation

  The fog had lain thick on Enscombe village all night but it hadn’t inhibited the dawn chorus, and Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield had been further cheered by the returning memory that he wasn’t due in at work till after lunch. It would have been nice to share a lie-in with his partner, Edwin Digweed, but that was not to be. The Yorkshire Antiquarian Bookdealers Association’s annual symposium was starting at the Golden Fleece Hotel that evening and, as the member closest to the action, Digweed had taken on the job of making sure that everything was ready for the delegates’ arrival.

  Observing that Wield’s good cheer seemed to have declined a little over breakfast and putting it down to his own unavoidable absence on his friend’s morning off, he apologized again before he left, adding, “Look, you pass the road end. Why don’t you call in and we’ll have lunch together? My treat.”

  “And my pleasure,” said Wield.

  In fact his apparent depression of spirits had had nothing to do with Edwin’s absence, but was merely a retrospectively pensive mood provoked by the news on local radio of Palinurus Maciver’s death in Moscow House the previous night.

  By midday, with the sun soaring high in an almost cloudless sky, and the fog and the chill of the previous night vanished like a dream, he was in no mood for retrospection, and as he rode his Thunderbird along the narrow road that led out of Eendale, he sang in a voice to make a rook wince, “The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Breathe promise of merry sunshine.”

  Normally his speed of choice would have blown the words back down his throat, but today he was moving at a pace sedate enough, if not to let him enjoy the scent of the flowers as he passed, at least to take in the full beauty of the landscape which in a single night seemed to have shrugged off the debilitations of winter and risen refreshed to garb itself in the clean bright fabrics of spring.

  Eventually the road emerged from the steep-sided valley into a flatter, more conventionally pastoral landscape still very attractive in its variety of vernal greens. A couple of miles ahead lay the junction with the main east–west arterial, the fastest way into town for a man in a hurry, which was what Wield usually was as he found himself increasingly reluctant to leave Enscombe village of a morning. Today, however, he turned off to the left about a mile before the arterial junction, entering what to the casual tourist looked like a pleasant minor country road. But this too had once enjoyed the hustle and bustle and self-importance of a major thoroughfare before the road improvers of the sixties discovered a better, more Roman line for the main east–west route.

  Those with farms or houses along the old main road had been mightily relieved to learn that the new highway wasn’t going to affect them except by rendering their everyday lives a lot more peaceful. Only the owner of the Golden Fleece, the old coaching inn at Gallow’s Cross, had been dismayed, and rightly so. With the passing trade which had been the Fleece’s life blood for a century and a half now coursing with ever-increasing force two miles to the south, the Fleece had rapidly declined to a run-down country pub with only its incongruous dimensions to remind anyone of the glory days.

  Then, just as rumours gathered strength that it was to be demolished completely to make way for an intensive pig farm, it was bought in the eighties by a national hotel chain specializing in establishments that could combine the snobbish attractions of the country house hotel and the corporate attractions of the conference centre plus health and leisure club.

  The old coaching inn was completely refurbished and extended to provide all the necessary concomitants of hospitality in the late twentieth century, and though the result might not have satisfied Prince Charles, with its ease of access to the fleshpots of urban Mid-Yorkshire in one direction and the beauties of rural Mid-Yorkshire in the other, it succeeded in satisfying the demands both of those in search of peace and quiet and those intent on expense-account conviviality.

  As a coaching inn, the Golden Fleece had naturally had an entrance straight off the road under an archway into its courtyard, but that was impracticable in days when they might be expecting several dozen cars and now you approached along a sweeping driveway through pleasant parkland under whose scattered trees sheep paused in their grazing and lambs in their gambolling as a leather-clad figure rode by, carolling, “We welcome the hope that they bring, Tra-la, Of a summer of roses and wine …”

  There were plenty of spaces in the car park but Wield’s eye was caught by a station wagon so long unwashed that its colour was hard to determine. He parked the Thunderbird next to it, dismounted and peered through the grubby window.

  The rear seats were covered with a familiar strew of clothing, maps, empty takeaway cartons plus a Spanish onion and a half-full bottle of Highland Park—the famous emergency rations.

  Wield was not much given to flights of fancy but for a moment his mind scrabbled for a parallel among the nasty shocks of fact and fiction—Friday’s footprint, Amundsen’s flag fluttering over the Pole, Pearce’s missed penalty in the ’90 World Cup—and found none.

  This was Andy Dalziel’s car.

  On the other hand, even devils must dine, and there was no rational explanation for the deep sense of foreboding the discovery roused in him.

  He set off for the hotel entrance. The car park was discreetly screened from the building complex by a box hedge. As he passed through this he came to a sudden stop. A mock Victorian conservatory had been built on the end of the hotel. Through the glass under a potted palm he saw two heads—one fine-boned, short black hair elegantly coiffured; the other solid as an ancient weathered boulder—leaning close together over a wrought-iron table, like a tableau set up by a nineteenth-century narrative painter working on a canvas entitled The Assignation.

  The woman looked in his direction and said something; the big grey head opposite her began to turn, and Wield took a hasty step backwards with the roar of Teutonic cheers and Antarctic winds echoing in his ears.

  Back in the car park, he got on his bike and went looking for a space as far from Dalziel’s car as he could get and closer to the path round to the front of the hotel which would keep him out of view of the conservatory.

  The cheers and the winds had been replaced by the song he’d been singing all the way from Enscombe, but now he’d moved on to the second verse.

  “The flowers that bloom in the spring, Tra la, Have nothing to do with the case …”

  9 • special filling

  Kay Kafka said, “That guy in the biker gear, wasn’t it …?”

  “Unless he’s got a twin, which I doubt,” said Dalziel.

  “I thought this was a private unofficial meeting, Andy,” said Kay Kafka.

  “Me too. Don’t fret, I’ll be having a word. So, things all right with you generally, are they, Kay?”

  “They’re fine. No worries. Not till this thing last night.”

  “I’ve told you, put that out of your mind. Terrible business, but no reason you should be involved.”

  “It looks to me as if Pal wanted to involve me,” she said.

  “Aye, you’re right from what you said. But it hasn’t worked. So no problem.”

  “I don’t need to make it official then?”

  “No point,” he said confidently. “Why complicate what’s simple? As things stand, I doubt Paddy Ireland, that’s the man in charge, will even want to talk to you. No, forget it.”

  “I’ll try. But it won’t be easy. He was his father’s son. My stepson. Helen’s brother.”

  “He was a nasty twisted scrote.”

  “He must have been in great distress to kill himself.”

  “Aye, and he wanted to spread it around as much as he could. Like hearing you’ve got leprosy and drowning yourself in the town reservoir. So you forget it and concentrate on them new grandchildren.”

  “Stepgran
dchildren,” she corrected.

  “I doubt they’ll ever see it like that,” he said, emptying his glass. “They don’t know how lucky they are, not yet. Give ’em a couple of years, but, and they’ll know.”

  She smiled at him fondly and said, “All this talk of me. How are you, Andy? You still with your friend?”

  “Cap? Aye, so to speak.”

  “So to speak? That doesn’t sound too positive,” she said, concerned.

  “Nay, all I meant was we don’t live together. Not permanent. Like our own space, isn’t that what they say? Any road, she’s away just now.”

  “In her own space?”

  “Summat like that. She protests.”

  “Not too much, I hope?”

  “Feels like it sometimes. I used to take the piss out of my lad, Pascoe, ’cos his missus were one of these agitating women. God likes a joke.”

  “Because now you’ve got one?”

  “Because I’ve got the one. Animal rights, the environment, that stuff. When she says she’ll be away a couple of days but don’t say where, I stop reading the paper in case I see that Sellafield’s been blown up.”

  “Your womenfolk are a trouble to you, Andy.”

  “Nay, them I think of as mine are worth ten times the trouble,” he said, smiling at her. “How’s that man of thine?”

  “He’s away too. Just for the day. London, on business.”

  “London. Poor sod,” said Dalziel with feeling. “Still, he’ll be back in God’s own country tonight.”

  “I think he’d need to travel a little further to get there in his case,” said Kay.

  Dalziel regarded her shrewdly and said, “Feeling homesick, is he? Never had him down as the type.”

  “I think he feels that after what happened last September it’s the place to be. Get the wagons into a protective circle, that sort of thing.”

  “How about you?”

  “You know me, Andy. This is where I want to be, lots of reasons.”

  “And two more since last night, eh?”

  “Right. And one big one sitting with me now.”

  Something which on a less massively sculpted face might have passed for a blush glowed momentarily on the Fat Man’s cheeks.

  He pushed his chair back and said, “Now I’d best be on my way.”

  “Sure you won’t have another drink?”

  “No. One’s enough when I’m driving,” he said virtuously.

  “You mean there’s a cop in Mid-Yorkshire who’d dare breathalyse you?”

  “There’s some as ’ud pay for the chance,” he said. “You coming?”

  “I may get a snack here. Sure you won’t join me?”

  “No fear. They cut the crusts off your sandwiches.”

  He stood up. Kay rose too, leaned over the table and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “Thanks, Andy,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For being my friend.”

  “Oh aye. Is that all?”

  “It’s a lot. Gets me served quick in pubs,” she said, smiling.

  “Not all bad then. Take care, luv. And ring if there’s owt worrying you.”

  He left and made for the car park. In his car he didn’t make for the exit straightaway but drove slowly round till he spotted the Thunderbird.

  “Enjoy your lunch, Sergeant,” he said. And drove away.

  Back in the conservatory Kay Kafka pressed a key on her mobile. She had to wait a few moments before she got a reply. She said, “Hi, Tony. It’s me. Have I disturbed your lunch?”

  “Not as much as it’s disturbing me,” said Kafka. “You should see this place, except you can’t because they don’t let women in. I sometimes think it’s a movie set, or something they hire from the National Trust to keep foreign riff-raff in their place. So what’s new with Mr Blobby?”

  “Everything’s fine. Any mention your end?”

  “Not yet, but they don’t get on to matters of substance till the soup’s been served. Soup! If you’re looking for a weapon of mass destruction, look no further!”

  “Tony, you are being careful what you say?”

  “You know me. Soul of discretion. Anyway, I’m outnumbered.”

  “I thought it was just Warlove.”

  “He’s brought that guy Gedye along. The one who looks like a high-class mortician, always measuring you up with his eyes.”

  “Tony, don’t go neurotic on me.”

  “Just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean the bastards aren’t creepy. Joke. Now tell me about your chat with Mr Blobby. And the twins, have you been to see them this morning? How do they look in the bright light of day?”

  They talked for several minutes more. When the conversation was done, Kay stood up and went through an inner door leading to the spacious hotel lobby, one wall of which was almost filled by a seventeenth-century fireplace in which a twenty-first-century fire looked sadly inadequate. In a deep armchair by the fire, either reading or sleeping behind the Daily Mirror, sat a man. Kay approached the reception desk where two young women, one blonde, one brunette, otherwise so alike they could have been clones, were working. The blonde greeted her brightly.

  “Hello, Mrs Kafka. And how are you today?”

  “I’m fine,” said Kay. “I’m just going up to the suite. I’ll be doing some work on my laptop, so would you like to send some sandwiches up?”

  “Of course, Mrs Kafka,” said the young woman, reaching for a key. “Any special filling you’d like today?”

  “A selection will be fine. Thank you.”

  As Kay walked away the blonde raised her eyebrows at her fellow worker who mouthed, “Any special filling. You cheeky cow!” They both giggled.

  Edgar Wield lowered his newspaper and watched Kay get into the lift. As it ascended, alongside it the door to the bar swung open, giving him a glimpse of Edwin Digweed sitting with a group of rather dusty, slightly foxed men. Then the door closed again behind a young waiter with golden skin, jet-black hair, sultry brown eyes and a face to turn Jove languid.

  The blonde receptionist called, “Hey, Manuel. Job for you.”

  “What job? I’m very busy,” he replied without slowing his graceful step.

  “Too busy for Mrs Kafka?”

  Now he slowed and went to the desk.

  The girls spoke to him in voices too low for Wield to catch. After a moment he laughed and moved away, calling over his shoulder, “Never mind. Your turn will come.”

  “Loves himself, doesn’t he?” said the brunette.

  “And why not? Wouldn’t mind giving him a helping hand, how about you?” said the blonde.

  She glanced towards the fireplace and saw Wield watching her. A smile lit up her face and she gave a little wave. He gave a wave and a smile back.

  “Not thinking of going les, are we?” said Digweed who’d emerged from the bar unnoticed.

  “It’s Doreen, Tom Uglow’s lass from the village,” said Wield.

  “Yes, I do know that,” said Digweed a little tetchily. “Let’s see if we can get her to rustle up some sandwiches.”

  He went to the desk and spoke to the girls.

  When he returned he said, “They’ll be along shortly. The waiter’s rather busy at the moment.”

  “I bet he is,” said Wield.

  Twenty minutes later Wield had finished his beer and, with an afternoon’s work ahead of him, had moved on to cranberry juice, which if his partner was to be believed would help him grow up into a big healthy boy. He was thinking if the food didn’t arrive soon he would have to leave without it.

  “What on earth are they doing with these sandwiches?” grumbled Digweed. “Churning the cheese? There’s the manager. I think I’ll have a word.”

  A portly man in a pinstripe suit had appeared behind the desk and was talking to the receptionists. Digweed began to rise but before he was out of his chair, the lift door slid open and the handsome young waiter erupted looking like an advertisement for the Wrath of Achilles. The manager gla
nced towards him, pursed his lips and called, “Manuel, I’ve told you before. Use the service lift.”

  The waiter didn’t even look his way but as he strode towards the main exit made a gesture whose meaning was as unmistakeable in rural Mid-Yorkshire as it was in urban Spain or even Homeric Greece.

  Digweed subsided into his chair.

  “Not from Barcelona, is he?” said Wield.

  “Valencia, I believe,” said Digweed, pronouncing it correctly. “I think our sandwiches may be some little time.”

  “Probably just as well if there’s something wrong with your teeth,” said Wield.

  10 • green peckers

  Moscow House in the clear light of day no longer looked like it had strayed out of a Poe short story. True, it was a bit run down, but nothing that a pressure gun and a paint brush couldn’t put right in a couple of days. And though the garden could certainly have done with a short-back-and-sides, Pascoe rather liked the wild-meadow look, with brassy daffs trumpeting their triumph over a wilderness of grasses.

  He was surprised to find Constable Jennison on guard duty at the front door.

  “You still here?” he said.

  Jennison, happy to be here in broad daylight, did a comic take to left and right, then said, “Oh me, sir? Yes, I’m still here. Leastways I was last time I looked.”

  Novello, who’d not been a member of Joker Jennison’s fan club ever since he’d affected to mistake her for part of a drag act booked to do a turn at the Welfare Club, grimaced at this weak attempt at humour. When I’m DCI, any plod taking the piss will wish he’d stayed in bed with a broken leg that day, she promised herself.

  Pascoe grinned broadly and said, “I mean, you haven’t been here since last night, I take it?”

  “No, sir. Got relieved about one. Came back on an hour ago and Bonk—Sergeant Bonnick told me I was off the cars today and back down here. I think he blames me for letting that lot up the drive last night.”

  Pascoe said, “Even if you’d checked them, I think we’d have had to let them up to the house. They were family, after all. Anyone been around today?”

  “Not since I came on, sir. And the guy I took over from said it had been dead quiet too.”