“Not my end of it, sir. Some folk you can’t deter, you’ve got to catch ’em.”
“And some don’t even give a damn about being caught. What do we do about those, Sergeant?”
“Suicide bombers and the like, you mean?” Wield shrugged. “Build thicker walls. Retaliate. Persuade. No simple answer, sir. Hope the politicians find a way through, like they did in 1918.”
Kafka frowned.
“1918? There weren’t any suicide bombers back then, were there?”
“Oh yes, sir. On both sides. Only they called them infantry and didn’t give them a choice. You closed down for the weekend?”
“More or less. It’s the way of the world. Recession, competition and automation. Fewer orders harder to get, and we don’t need so many bodies around all the time anyway.”
He led the way into a long, low, windowless building from which the hum of machinery was still emanating, up a short stair and out onto a narrow catwalk overlooking a central area divided into several glass-enclosed sections joined by a heavyweight version of the moving belt used on an airport carousel. A piece of machinery—some form of lathe, Wield guessed—appeared at one end and began to move forward.
“This is A-P’s own prep system,” said Kafka proudly. “Some very clever guys back in the States devised it. Four separate stages, all fully automated. First there’s the oiler, except of course its not oil but a polymeric silicon compound that coats the machine completely, then the wrapper where it’s wrapped in a sheet of modified polyethylene which is then seam-sealed so that the vaccer can suck every molecule of air out before the final seal is completed. After that it will be suspended in an aluminium crate and completely enclosed in a polyurethane foam shell. When that hardens, you could drop the crate from a third-floor window and not do the contents any harm, and even if the machine’s left lying around some damp or freezing or sandy or red-hot storage area for the next several years before being put into use, it will stay in perfect working condition. And all this requires just one guy to operate it.”
And a dozen guys to collect the dole, thought Wield.
He said, “Do you have a lot of customers who’ll pay a small fortune for goods they’re going to leave lying around to get dusty and rusty?”
Kafka frowned and said, “Once they pay, what they do with it is their business. We just guarantee it reaches them in the same condition it leaves here. There’s Hoblitt. Hey, Tom!”
They had walked slowly along the catwalk keeping pace with the processes below. At the far end, a single silhouette against a strip light, stood two men deep in conversation. They looked round at the sound of Kafka’s voice, then the silhouette divided, revealing one of the pair to be of almost Dalzielesque proportions. He came towards them, his bulk blocking sight of the other who vanished down the stairs leaving only the impression of conventional proportions and a hat.
“Hi, Tony,” said the large man with an American twang that made Kafka sound like Noel Coward. “You still here?”
“Evidently,” said Kafka. “This is Sergeant Wield from the local CID. Something he wants to ask you about some old employee of ours. Name of Gallipot, was that it, Sergeant?”
“That’s it, sir,” said Wield, who would have preferred to start from scratch with Hoblitt.
“I’ll leave you to it then. Goodbye, Sergeant.”
“Goodbye, sir. Thank you.”
Kafka turned away then turned back.
“Tom, just to be sure there’s no confusion, I’ve left instructions this order’s to be put on hold till I get back.”
“Yeah, I was there when you said so, Tony. You just go and enjoy yourself. Lucky bastard. Wish it was me. Give my regards to the folks back home.”
“It’s business, Tom,” said Kafka sternly. Then he smiled and added, “But I’ve got to admit it will be good to see the old place again.”
He strode away and vanished down the stairway.
“Right, sergeant,” said Hoblitt. “You want to come to my office and tell me what this is all about?”
Which proved to be a great deal harder than it sounded, and Hoblitt, though almost parodically American, turned out to have absorbed enough of Yorkshire to be determined not to give anything without getting something in return.
“Look, Sergeant, before I go digging through old records, which will cost me time, and give you personal information about a former employee, which may itself be an offence under the Data Protection Act if not Human Rights legislation, you’ll need to give me a hint. At the very least I’m entitled to know if this has got anything to do with anything that could affect the reputation or integrity of the Ashur-Proffitt Corporation.”
Wish to hell I knew! thought Wield.
He said, “Not that I’m aware, sir. I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Gallipot is dead. Can’t go into details, you understand. This is just in the nature of gathering background information. It’s pretty routine in such circumstances.”
“Gathering information about a job a dead guy had for a couple of months ten years back is routine? No wonder you guys moan about being overworked!”
“You do remember Mr Gallipot then, sir?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you recall he only worked here a couple of months.”
“Didn’t you say that?”
Wield pursed his lips in a parody of attempted recollection.
“Don’t believe I did, sir.”
“No matter,” said Hoblitt, making a visible decision to relax and be jolly. “Yeah, I remember Jake. Ex-cop wasn’t he? Kind of guy could sell rubbers to a eunuch. I tried to get him to apply for a job in our Sales department, that’s how I remember him. But he said he wanted to stick with what he knew. Didn’t stick with it long though, if I recall aright. Let’s see …”
He put a floppy into the computer on his desk, hit a couple of keys, then said, “Yeah, there he is. He came, he saw, he went. Of his own accord, no problems. Two months almost to the day. Nothing remarkable. You want a printout of this?”
“Thank you,” said Wield.
He could think of no reason to extend his visit and a few minutes later he was walking towards the gate. A car went by him driven by Kafka, who gave him a friendly wave. It paused by the kiosk and Edwards came out. Kafka spoke to him for a moment then drove on. Edwards waited for Wield but as he reached him a phone rang in the kiosk and the gate-man made an apologetic face and went inside.
He re-emerged as Wield geared up for the bike.
“Wish they’d make their minds up,” he grumbled. “First one tells me the pick-up this afternoon’s been cancelled, then t’other says it’s back on again. I should have stopped in the job, Wieldy. At least when Fat Andy said owt, you knew it were carved in stone and it would take a sledgehammer to change it.”
“Don’t know,” said Wield. “You can do a lot of damage with a chisel if you just keep chipping away. Good to see you, Bri.”
“You too. Hope it’s not so long next time. Any chance you’ll be back?”
“Who knows?” called Wield over his shoulder. “Who knows?”
15 • our Lady of Pain
Dalziel at a case file was like a hyena at a carcase—he usually got to the heart of the matter but he didn’t half leave a mess.
Hat Bowler, schooled by that most methodical of policemen, Edgar Wield, looked uneasily at the spoor of paper which ran from the Fat Man’s side of the desk and ended accusingly at his own feet. Surely there was far more here than when they started?
The super himself seemed to have gone into some kind of trance. Perhaps his astral body was floating somewhere near the ceiling looking down on the chaos and detecting patterns not visible to mere mortal eyes.
Well, two could play the absence game, thought Hat. Officially he himself wasn’t there at all, so none of this could be his responsibility.
He returned his attention to the telephone numbers. So far they’d revealed nothing of interest, though there was one number, a pay-as-you-go m
obile, no subscriber name and address attached, which occurred a few times, both in and out, and most significantly on the evening of Pal Maciver’s death.
He took out his own mobile, entered the number, got a message.
When he’d listened to it he switched off and checked the number on the sheet. Then he entered it again, very carefully, and listened to the message once more.
“Sir,” he said.
It took three more sirs crescendo before Dalziel descended to the terrestrial plane.
“Eh? What? You got something, lad?”
“This number, sir. Round about the likely time of Mr Maciver’s death, someone rang his mobile, then his shop, and then his home, in that order.”
“Let’s have a look. Oh aye,” said Dalziel, plucking a sheet of paper apparently at random from the scatter. “That ’ud be Jason Dunn, the brother-in-law he were supposed to be playing squash with. So?”
“Think you should listen to this, sir.”
He pressed redial on his mobile and handed the phone to the Fat Man, who listened.
“Well, well,” he said. “Well, bloody well.”
He switched off, and studied the list of telephone numbers. Finally he nodded, smiled the smile of a cannibal who sees several courses of lunch rowing towards his beach, and stood up.
“Nice one, Hat. That little holiday of thine’s clearly sharpened you up. I’m off out. You hold the fort here, in case any other bugger condescends to show his face. Keep sorting through this stuff, but try to be a bit tidier. You’ve got in a right scrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hat. “Sir, if anyone asks, where shall I say you’ve gone?”
“I’ll be down at the sports centre for starters. You play squash, lad?”
“No, sir.”
“Very wise. I once gave it a try but there weren’t room to swing a cat and the other bugger kept bouncing off me and claiming the point. Told everyone later he’d whupped me, but he were the one had to be helped into Casualty, so it were one of them lyric victories Mr Pascoe keeps talking about.”
“Think maybe that would be Pyrrhic,” said Hat boldly.
“Correcting me as well? You must be good and ready to be signed off, lad.”
And whistling a tune which Hat, if he’d been a musical comedy fan, might have recognized as “Goodbye” from The White Horse Inn, the Fat Man strode out of the office.
The young man on reception at the sports complex was a walking piece of physical geography, his biceps and triceps swelling like the Cotswolds and his tight-fitting gold singlet displaying a finely detailed relief map of his pectorals.
Unfortunately his devotion to muscular development seemed to have extended to his brain and neither the flashing of Dalziel’s warrant card nor the baring of Dalziel’s teeth could persuade him to co-operate with the superintendent’s request.
Magnanimously putting this down to natural stupidity rather than wilful obduracy, Dalziel leaned over the counter and said very slowly, Take–me–to–your–leader.”
He also said it very loudly and the leader in question, the complex manager, emerged from his office. Name of George Manson, a native of the town and a long-time supporter of the rugby club bar, he recognized Dalziel immediately and two minutes later the Fat Man was sitting at a desk with a glass of scotch at his elbow and the squash court booking ledger open before him at the current page.
He went slowly back through it, making the occasional note, till he reached a point in December of the previous year. Then he reversed the process till he was back at today’s date. Then he went back again, further this time, before returning once more to the present. In a rhythm approximately matching his temporal progress, the level of his scotch sank only to rise again as Manson kept a waiter’s eye on his unexpected guest.
“Crossing out and another name being put in means a cancellation, right?” said Dalziel.
“Right.”
“And all the courts are here? I mean, there’s not another court put aside for folk who just turn up?”
“No way. Most of the time, evenings and weekends anyway, we’re fully booked.”
“Oh aye? No wonder the intensive care units are overstretched,” said Dalziel. “Thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure. Owt else I can help you with, Andy?” said Manson, curious as to what it was his visitor was looking for.
“Aye,” said Dalziel. “A wee deoch an doris wouldn’t go amiss. Good stuff this, George. Long time since I had a malt at export strength. Thought it all went to the States. Not been buying off the back of a lorry, I hope?”
“Cousin in the trade,” said Manson blandly. “Get you a box, if you like. Trade price.”
“You’re a kind man, George,” said Dalziel, drinking up. “But no thanks. Small gifts I can accept, but owt that smacks of commercial advantage is right against the rules.”
The manager sighed and said, “Remind me, when’s your birthday?”
Half an hour later Dalziel was standing on the touchline of Weavers School rugby pitch on which thirty boys reduced to anonymity by several layers of mud were trying to prove their aptitude for the professional game by knocking hell out of each other. On either side of him stood parents, exhorting their offspring to greater excesses of brutality.
“Ever think of just teaching the lad to run with the ball and pass it?” he observed to the particularly vociferous father next to him.
“What the hell do you know about it, fatso?” came the snarled reply.
Dalziel turned his great head and looked directly into the man’s eyes.
The man fell silent and after a moment moved away.
A few minutes later the whistle blew for no side.
As Jason Dunn trudged off the field with the match ball tucked underneath his arm, he found his way blocked.
“In my day, lad, a ref were supposed to control the game,” said Dalziel.
Whatever retort was forming on Dunn’s lips died as he identified the obstacle.
“These days it’s a hard game,” he said.
“Always were. Ref needs eyes in the back of his head. You weren’t even seeing what you were looking at. They could’ve started gang-banging each other in the scrum and you’d not have noticed. Summat on your mind, Jason?”
He stood aside and fell into step beside the young man as he made his way towards the changing rooms.
“I’ve just become the father of twins, Mr Dalziel, or have you forgotten?”
“Nay, I recall. And mother and babbies doing fine they said when I rang the hospital just now. I’d tried your house first. Thought the family might be home by now, the way they like to clear hospital beds these days. But she’s private, isn’t she? Nice. Might as well enjoy the benefit while you can, eh? Did think you might be there by her side, getting used to the idea of being a dad.”
“I’ll be along later,” said Dunn. “I had this match to see to. Hard to get cover these days.”
“So I understand. Back in my day every poor sod of a young teacher who could summon up enough breath to blow a whistle were expected to run around a playing field at least once a week. But you’re not like that, Jason. You’re a pro. And you know the game, I’ve seen you play, remember? But your mind weren’t on it today. Just the responsibility of fatherhood is it, lad? Or is there summat else?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get showered. And we don’t allow strangers in here, for obvious reasons.”
They had reached the changing-room building. Dalziel pushed open the door saying, “Nay, lad, no need to worry on my account. I’ve seen bums and cocks, all ages and all sizes, and they do nowt for me. You go ahead. I’ll just sit around and wait till you’re ready to talk.”
“I don’t understand. What is it you want to talk to me about?”
“About sport, what else? Specifically about squash. Now I don’t play myself, but I always understood it were a game for two people, played in a court like a glass coffin?”
“That’s just
about right.”
“So there isn’t another more advanced version that’s played in a double bed with three players, one lass, two lads, all bollock naked? Let’s help remind you.”
He took out his mobile, dialled a number and held it up so that the recorded message could be heard by both of them.
It was a woman’s voice, husky, sexy, foreign.
“’Allo, ’ere is Dolores, your Lady of Pain. Sorry, got my ’ands and maybe my mouth full at the moment, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon as I am free and rested. And remember—anticipation can be part of the pleasure also.”
Dalziel switched off and said, “Is she right, do you think, Jase? Me, I never cared to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t know,” blustered Dunn. “What’s this got to do with me anyway?”
“That’s what I want to know. You told Mr Pascoe that when Maciver didn’t turn up, you tried ringing him on his mobile, at his shop and at home. This is the only number which is recorded on those three phones at that time.”
It is a cliché of the horror movie that at some point the hero sees his worst nightmare take shape before him and realizes that this time he isn’t going to wake up. Getting actors to produce the right reactive expression can be a real problem. Too little and you lose the moment. Too much and it’s ham.
They should have hired Andy Dalziel. He’d seen it again and again in big close-up.
“Oh Christ,” said Jason Dunn. “Oh Christ.”
“Sorry, lad. For the time being you’re going to have to make do with me,” said Dalziel kindly. “Why don’t you go ahead and get your body nice and clean. Then we can have a go at your soul.”
16 • Jason
It wasn’t me, it was all down to Pal, you’ve got to understand that. I know it sounds like I’m blaming the guy because he can’t answer back, but it’s true. OK, it takes two to tango, but he got me at a bad time and I thought it would be just a one-off and it was just a fill-in anyway until …
Good Morning, Midnight Page 28