Good Morning, Midnight

by Reginald Hill

  She shoved the thought to the back of her mind for later delectation and said, “Well, that’s what I was going to say. OK, we crawled through the undergrowth, looking for birdshit and such, but in between all the twitter, I got the feeling I was getting a good quizzing. Like they felt having little junior me away from big important you was a good chance to find out what was really going on.”

  “They?” said Pascoe.

  “Yes. If anything, the old geezer was worse. She asked questions direct. He was much more oblique. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d done a bit of this before.”

  “He was a VAT investigator,” said Pascoe. “Did he go for a pee at any time?”

  She hid her surprise and said, “No. I think I’d have noticed.”

  Pascoe drove in silence for a while. He’d been pleased to get Cressida separated from the others, but it had never occurred to him that they too might be pleased to get Novello to themselves. He recalled an early warning the Fat Man had given him. “I can see you’re a clever bugger, lad. But are you clever enough to see there’s other buggers cleverer? Present company not excepted.”

  He said, “So what did they want to know?”

  “The bird lady just wanted details. How exactly had her nephew died? Just how similar was it to her brother’s death? The old boy seemed more interested in checking if we thought there was anything dodgy about the business.”

  “To which you were suitably noncommittal, I trust.”

  “Couldn’t tell him what I don’t know, sir,” she said spiritedly. “But he struck me as bright enough to wonder without encouragement why a DCI and DC are sniffing around the locus in quo.”

  Give him his poncy Latin back.

  “Could be,” said Pascoe. “Check him out, but don’t waste time on it.”

  “What about the sister—Cressida, is it? Anything there, sir?”

  “A trip down memory lane. Thinks her brother was some sort of closet saint. Confirms most of what he said on tape after their father’s death. If there were a tape, of course.”

  “Seems like every time there’s a death in Moscow House, someone points a finger at the stepmother.”

  “Yes. Though I suppose to make the copycat exact, it ought to be Sue-Lynn Maciver the finger’s pointed at this time.”

  “We going to see her too, sir?”

  He noted the we. Despite herself Novello was getting interested.

  “Oh yes. When she rises from her bed of grief. And little sister when she gets over giving birth. More visits to look forward to than a Jane Austen heroine newly arrived in Bath! But our first call is on Jason Dunn who got stood up.”

  Novello yawned, a Pavlovian reaction to mention of Austen, who’d been a favourite of her convent-school teachers, the lack of Roman doctrine being more than compensated by the equal lack of sex, violence, bodily functions and male interiorization. To the young Novello, all these dull women seemed to do was visit other dull women and have dull conversations with them. By contrast, discovering the Brontës had been like a pubescent lad chancing on his father’s copy of Playboy. OK, the books were a bit long-winded in places, but if you persevered, you soon realized that, even though hairy chests were never actually mentioned, Heathcliff and Rochester certainly had them, while it was hard to believe Mr Darcy had any body hair at all.

  Her flagging interest in the case was hugely revitalized when they arrived at the Dunn’s house and she saw the hunk who opened the door. This was serious sex on the hoof, about six feet four of it, gorgeous to look at with the kind of body that tapers down from broad shoulders to a dinky waist then broadens out just enough to give promise of a deliciously compact ass. Though her own preferences generally ran more to the solid weight-lifting type, she didn’t mind making an exception in the event a Greek discus thrower came along, especially unshaven and looking like he’d slept in the clothes he wore.

  His eyes ran over her as she guessed they did over any new woman. Nor, she assessed, was he put off by her bromidic clothing. To see the choc bar not the wrapping was one of her own talents. But what conclusion he came to wasn’t on offer today. His main focus of interest was the DCI.

  “Mr Dunn!” said Pascoe. “DCI Pascoe. We met at Moscow House. Hello again. And many congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” said Dunn, returning his smile.

  “I wonder if I can have a quick word.”

  The smile faded.

  “I was just going to tidy up and then head back down to the hospital,” he said.

  “Won’t take a minute,” said Pascoe, stepping lightly but inexorably into the house. “How’re they all doing?”

  “Fine, they’re fine.”

  “Good. And you’re enjoying the lull before the storm.”

  “The storm?”

  “When you bring them home. I remember what it was like with one, and you’ve got two. It’s great, of course, but there’s no getting away from it, things feel a bit hectic to start with. You got some help? Your family? Helen’s?”

  They were in a big lounge now. Novello liked the colour scheme. Lovely deep soft furniture and a shag-pile carpet your feet sank into. Shag pile. Oh yes.

  “My mother’s dead,” he said shortly. “And Helen’s family haven’t exactly been close over the years. Except for Kay. Mrs Kafka, Helen’s stepmother. She’s said she’ll come round and help out all she can.”

  “Oh good. Not the wicked stepmother then?”

  “No, she’s great. What did you want to talk to me about, Mr Pascoe?”

  “Just to get the sequence of events right about the other night. The coroner likes his tees dotted and his eyes crossed. So if you don’t mind. Better now before the family comes home and you don’t have a minute!”

  Pascoe was glad Ellie wasn’t around to hear this breezy old-hand dad act, but it seemed to relax Dunn.

  “OK. Shoot.”

  “Your squash game was arranged for seven, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you usually met at what time?”

  “Twenty to, quarter to seven.”

  “In the changing room?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what time did you start getting worried at?”

  “When it got to seven, I suppose.”

  “He was usually pretty punctual, was he, Mr Maciver?”

  “Not bad.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I tried to ring him on his mobile. But it was switched off. Then I tried his shop phone. No reply. Finally I rang Sue-Lynn, that’s Mrs Maciver, to see if she’d heard anything.”

  “That would be about five past seven?”

  “Five past, ten past.”

  “And then, a bit later, I rang home in case he’d left a message there.”

  “A bit later?”

  “Towards half past.”

  “Not straight after you rang Sue-Lynn?”

  “No. I wandered round a bit, thinking he might still turn up.”

  “Then you went home?”

  “Not straightaway. Wednesday nights Kay comes round, it’s a sort of girls’ night in and I know how much Helen looks forward to it, so I didn’t go home till after nine.”

  “Find anyone else to have a bang around with?” said Novello.

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you might have looked for another partner. You did have a court booked, didn’t you? Evenings, a free slot’s worth its weight in balls.”

  “You play, do you?” said Dunn, giving her the look again.

  “Oh yes. Nothing like it to keep a girl fit.”

  “You’re right,” he said, giving her a smile. “I’ll watch out for you, maybe we can have a knock around some time.”

  “Did you find another partner?” interrupted Pascoe, who’d noted with distaste but also with envy the easy way Dunn had slipped into chat-up mode.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Dunn. “I mean, I didn’t try. I just had a cup of coffee and mooched around till nine, then headed off home. I hadn’t been in
long when Sue-Lynn rang. When she said you lot had been asking after Pal too, as the keyholder to Moscow House, I thought I should get round there to see what was going on.”

  “Why?” said Pascoe.

  “Sorry?”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Because Pal was missing, obviously.”

  “But there can’t have been any reason to make you think the two things were necessarily connected. I mean usually when the police ask for a keyholder it’s because they believe someone has attempted to break in to a property.”

  “Yes, but … look, I don’t really see the point to your question.”

  “I’m just wondering if you had any particular reason to be concerned about Mr Maciver. More than simply that he’d stood you up for a game of squash. The coroner will be very interested in his state of mind, you see, and if you can tell us anything that might throw light upon it …”

  “No, not really. Last time I spoke to him he seemed perfectly normal.”

  “When was that?”

  “Tuesday, I think. I rang to check that our game was on. He said, yes, usual time. And that was that. Look, Mr Pascoe, he did kill himself, right? There’s not anything else you’re trying to get at here.”

  “Like what, Mr Dunn?”

  “You tell me, you’re the cop,” said Dunn, suddenly aggressive.

  “Just routine enquiries,” said Pascoe placatingly. “Thank you, Mr Dunn. You’ve been very patient. We won’t hold you back any more. And congratulations again.”

  “Yeah, congratulations,” said Novello.

  In the car she said, “Nice house. Nice furniture. You say he’s a teacher?”

  “That’s right. PE at Weavers.”

  “Pay must have improved since I last checked.”

  “I think his wife must have inherited quite a bit. You were interested in becoming a teacher, were you, Shirley?”

  “No. My parents and my teachers and my parish priest were interested in me becoming a teacher,” she said. “Wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been for the money. And the kids, of course.”

  “Not to mention the dinners.”

  “Yes, I’d rather you didn’t mention the dinners.”

  They laughed. It was a good moment. Good moments were possible, she admitted with slight surprise, even with the Mr Darcys of this world.

  14 • see me!

  Back at the station, Novello was amused to see the DCI move past the Super’s door if not exactly on tiptoe, certainly with a stealth that confirmed her judgment that their morning activities did not have the seal of divine approval.

  But flee him as you will down the nights and down the days, the Hound of Heaven will get you in the end, or a bit earlier if he answers to the name of Dalziel.

  Pascoe’s sense of relief at reaching his office unintercepted drained away as he saw protruding from the centre of his desk a paper knife, impaling a sheet of paper across which was scrawled SEE ME!

  A natural indignation at being summoned like some errant schoolboy rose in his craw. His pride demanded that he didn’t rush to present himself instantly so he busied himself examining his in-tray. An evidence bag had been deposited there containing a snakeskin wallet and labelled Wallet found in jacket of deceased male, Moscow House. Examined and recorded. Nil. Meaning that, as far as Forensics were concerned, it could be handed over to the grieving widow.

  He opened it and shook its contents on to the desk. Not much. Eighty pounds in notes. Three credit cards. A couple of business cards inscribed Archimagus Antiques, plus phone, fax and e-mail numbers. And another card, this one an eye-catching gold, embossed in red with the name JAKE GALLIPOT and a Harrogate phone number. He thought of ringing it but what the hell for? It would just be procrastination. His risen indignation had declined to a queasy heaviness in the pit of his stomach. Time to face the music. He looked around for some talisman to wear against the impending discord. Finally he opened his desk drawer and took out the tape cassette which Novello had brought to him that morning.

  Slipping it into his pocket, he headed for the headmaster’s study.

  Edgar Wield was standing by the door, his fist raised to knock. He froze as Pascoe approached and mouthed the words, See me?

  Pascoe nodded and motioned to indicate, you first.

  But before they could sort out precedence, the door was flung open to reveal the Arch-fear in a visible form.

  “Here they are then, Beauty and the Beast! Don’t hang around blocking my light. Step inside, do!”

  They advanced and the door crashed shut behind them. The Fat Man then moved to his desk and sat down heavily.

  Pascoe contemplated taking a seat also, just to show that senior officers were not to be treated like naughty children, but that would have left Wield standing.

  It’s always nice to have a good reason for not doing what you’re afraid of.

  “Right,” said the Fat Man, fixing his Medusa stare on Wield, “let’s start with thee. What were you doing skulking around the Golden Fleece this lunchtime?”

  “I weren’t skulking. I went there for lunch,” said Wield.

  “Not skulking? Coming out of the car park, clocking me in the conservatory, then going into retreat so’s you could spy on me through the hedge, and that’s not skulking? Nay but, I’d like to see you when you do skulk! Who sent you there?”

  His gaze flickered to Pascoe as he spoke.

  The neurotic old sod thinks I’m having him tailed! thought Pascoe in amazement.

  “No one. There’s a booksellers’ convention at the Fleece. Edwin’s doing the arrangements and I went there to meet him for lunch,” said Wield. For the first time Pascoe found himself envying the sergeant’s face. Like a cobbled farmyard, it stayed the same no matter what kind of crap got dropped on it.

  “Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “So not skulking, just dropping in to enjoy a literary fucking lunch. Very reasonable.”

  He said this like a Scottish judge pronouncing a Not Proven verdict.

  His gaze shifted to Pascoe.

  “Chief Inspector, I ran into Paddy Ireland just now. Asked him how he were doing with the Maciver suicide. He said as far as he knew you were still dealing with it. When I went to check, I found out that you’d got Novello to dig up all the files on old Pal’s suicide ten years ago, then you’d gone walkabout with her. So spit it out, lad. What the fuck’s happened that I don’t know about?”

  What would dare to happen that you didn’t know about? wondered Pascoe.

  He said, “Nothing as far as I’m aware, sir.”

  “Nothing? Nay, lad, surely summat must have happened to make you decide to ignore my instructions to offload this business on to Uniformed where it belongs. Or did you just forget mebbe? Early onset of Alzheimer’s?”

  “No, sir. Just some small loose ends to tie up before I pass it on to Ireland.”

  “Small loose ends? So the department grinds to a halt just so’s you can play with your small loose ends? Come on then. Give us a flash of one of them.”

  Pascoe played the list mentally. It didn’t take long and nothing in it was going to be a hit.

  “Motive,” he said. “No note, just the Dickinson poem, which only shows how religiously he was following his father’s example. And I think the coroner will want some elucidation of motive a little more persuasive than filial piety.”

  “Elucidation of motive? Filial piety? Oh, Pete, Pete, why do I always think you must be scraping the bottom of the barrel when you start coming up with the fancy phrases? Balance of the mind disturbed. By what’s not our concern. Could be his hamster died or he met the Virgin Mary in Tesco’s and she said, ‘You’ve been a naughty boy.’ Doesn’t matter. We’re cops, not trick cyclists. So that’s one loose end the less for you to fiddle with. Any more you want to waggle at me?”

  Pascoe, who knew when to stop digging, shook his head.

  “Good,” said the Fat Man. “I’m glad that’s sorted. So you’ll be handing over everything you’ve got to Padd
y Ireland, right? Straight off. Then mebbe you can get down to the job you’re paid for. Now bugger off, the pair of you.”

  Wield turned instantly and opened the door.

  Pascoe, though he knew like Wellington that sometimes the only choice is between retreating in good order and running like hell, hesitated, feeling deeply resentful.

  “Got another fancy phrase for me, Pete?” said Dalziel, not looking up from the file he’d opened.

  “No, sir. Just thought you might have been wondering where this had got to.”

  He took the Maciver interview tape out of his pocket and tossed it on to the open file. Then he followed Wield out, closing the door very quietly behind him.

  They made for Pascoe’s office in silence and sat down, looking at each other po-faced for a few moments. Then they began to grin, and finally laughed out loud, but not too loud.

  “Beauty and the Beast!” said Pascoe.

  “Aye. Wonder which of us he thinks is which,” said Wield.

  “No competition. You got off light. I’m the Beast. But it doesn’t make any difference. Jemmy Legs is definitely down on both of us. You weren’t really trailing him, were you?”

  “Do I look mad?” said Wield. “Pure accident. I went to the Fleece like I said and there he was, having a drink.”

  “So why’s he reacting like a bishop caught in a brothel?”

  The sergeant’s face, which was to rough diamonds what rough diamonds are to the Kohinoor, gave next to nothing away as he replied, “Mebbe the bishop were embarrassed to be caught doing good by stealth. Pete, I know nowt about this Maciver business except what I heard on the news. So what’s gone off?”

  Pascoe gave a succinct account of the previous night’s events. When he’d finished he sat back and said, “So there it is. Your turn now.”

  “For what?” said Wield.

  “To fill me in on what you know and I don’t. And don’t play hard to get. Just spit it out, eh? If I don’t like it, I can always wipe it up with thy tie.”

  The line was Dalziel’s. He tried the voice too, not very successfully, but at least it made Wield relax and smile.

  “I’m not playing hard to get,” he said. “I’m just not sure I’ve really got owt to tell you. You weren’t around when old Pal Maciver topped himself, were you?”