Good Morning, Midnight dap-21

by Reginald Hill

“Any of it. For instance, we don’t know what really happened between Kay and her husband. Did he lay hands on her? Was there an accident? Or did she take the ice axe and hit him in self-defence? Or was she so angry and fearful when he threatened to keep her and Helen permanently apart that she deliberately and with premeditation drove the axe into his head?”

  “Or mebbe he wasn’t dead at all,” said Wield.

  “Eh?” said Dalziel.

  “Waverley’s right about an axe falling on you from a wall. Could knock you out, leave a lot of blood, but chances of it killing you are pretty small. Even a single blow by a woman isn’t all that likely to do the trick. Top of the head’s one of the hardest parts of the body. When Waverley realizes Maciver’s just unconscious, he’s got a problem. Call ambulance and police? Suddenly him and Gallipot have got to explain themselves. It’s going to be a headline case, this business about the wife trying to shag the son, all that. Very messy once the papers get their big yellow teeth into it. But if Maciver’s dead, and he can fake it as suicide, all the problems go away. And Kay thinking she did it means her co-operation is guaranteed for ever.”

  “So it’s not a corpse he fakes the suicide on,” said Pascoe. “That would be a lot easier than fooling a pathologist about the cause and time of death. Which means all that stuff about the central heating was just a smoke screen for my benefit.”

  “Yes. He’d be willing to admit a lot to get you off his back, but likely he reckoned that murder would be an admission too far. Which is what it was if he just tied Pal Senior up and came back to finish the job a day or two later.”

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Dalziel. “You two have got more stories than yon Arabian bint who didn’t want to get topped. How about it’s all a lie, and Maciver really did kill himself, and Waverley just thinks he can make me run scared, thinking I’ve got myself involved in a cover-up?”

  “Possible,” said Pascoe. “Possibly also Waverley really is just a VAT inspector with a very active fantasy life and an obsession with Miss Maciver. We don’t know. In fact we’ve got a whole bunch of statements from just about everyone involved in this business, and I’ll tell you what, there’s not a one of them I’m one hundred per cent certain of. And that includes even those I think believe they’re telling the truth.”

  “So what are we going to do?” said Wield.

  Pascoe liked the we. A lesser man would have said you.

  He looked at Dalziel and said, “Sir?”

  He said, “There’s nowt we can do about any of the big stuff, sanction busting, politics, all that shit. And despite your fancy theories about murder, I reckon this guy Waverley’s untouchable. The best we could do by hassling him is get his boss, Mr sodding Gedye, nervous enough to have Waverley permanently retired. But we’re all happy that Pal Junior actually did kill himself, right? For which in my book he deserves a vote of thanks. Always had him marked for a right nasty bastard.”

  “The blue beer and the bullshit were quite amusing,” ventured Pascoe.

  “I give you that. Yon so-called captain had it coming,” agreed Dalziel. “But it don’t make up for trying to destroy his kid sister’s marriage, does it?”

  “I didn’t say that. His mental condition was, to say the least, suspect. But in fairness to him, I don’t believe he ever thought there was a real chance of getting Kay sent down for murdering him. Embarrass her, piss her off, yes. But in the end he knew we were bound to work it out. His real aim was to make us think seriously about the circumstances of his father’s death.”

  “So why not come to us with his suspicions? Or leave a letter detailing them?” asked Wield.

  “Perhaps because he thought that with Kay having such good friends in high places, any suggestion that Ash-Mac’s management might have been involved would be kicked into touch without a second thought. In any case, accusations contained in suicide notes are always treated with a pinch of salt and he had no real evidence to offer. So he set out to show us how it could be done. By imitating the exact circumstances, he ensured that any investigation of his own death would be an investigation of his father’s also. He dropped the letter addressed to the Officer i/c the Maciver Murder Enquiry in the post after the last pick-up on Wednesday evening so that it wouldn’t reach us till Friday. He left Gallipot’s card in his wallet so that we’d be straight on to him. And he’d given Gallipot a key to Casa Alba and instructed him to e-mail any incriminating photo he got to Mrs Lockridge, to give us another possible link to the man.”

  “Some link, with the bugger dead,” growled Dalziel. “You saying that was down to Waverley?”

  “That would be my guess,” said Pascoe. “The funny buggers, certainly. Pal knew that when they caught on what was happening, Gallipot would be at risk, but he thought we’d get to him before they did, and that Jake would reckon the best way to defuse a potentially deadly secret was to share it.”

  “So everyone’s been jerking us about,” said Wield. “And we don’t know the half of it. I don’t much care for being kept in the dark.”

  “Aye, where do we go from here, Pete?” said Dalziel. “You started with one suspicious death and now you seem to be saying there could be at least two more, Gallipot and Pal Senior.”

  “And what about Tony Kafka? Is he on the run, or what?” said Wield.

  Tony Kafka who wanted to be a good American…

  In his mind’s eye Pascoe was seeing Kay Kafka run out of Cothersley Hall to embrace her husband as he left the previous afternoon. There had been something very final in that embrace. She had clung to him as if she meant to keep him with her by main force. He had turned away from the intensity of the scene, feeling like a voyeur. When she came back into the room she’d said, “Tony is a good man. He wants to be a good American,” as if this were an aim fraught with difficulty and peril.

  He pushed the scene out of his mind like a slide and replaced it with another.

  After talking with Waverley, he had watched the Jag drive away and then returned to the cottage.

  “Time to be off, Hat,” he’d said.

  “So soon, Mr Pascoe?” said Miss Mac. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me about?”

  “No need. Just a small matter that Mr Waverley was able to clear up. Ready, Hat?”

  Bowler clearly wasn’t. He began to rise with all the reluctance of a small boy told it was time to abandon his computer game and go to bed.

  Miss Mac said, “I must say I don’t reckon much to the youth of today, Mr Pascoe. In my time, if I’d offered to help a poor old pensioner with her garden, I’d have been too ashamed to leave the job half-done. What do you say?”

  Pascoe said, “I think it would be most reprehensible behaviour. What on earth are you thinking of, Bowler? But I’ve got to go so you won’t have a lift.”

  “Got my mobile, I can easily ring a taxi,” said Hat.

  “You’ll stay for supper then we’ll see about that,” said Miss Mac firmly.

  “Goodbye then,” said Pascoe. “I’ll see myself out.”

  At the front door he’d paused and glanced back. Hat was sitting at the table again. He had picked up his wedge of bread and was laughing at something Miss Mac had said. There was a flutter of birds about his head.

  Pascoe smiled at the memory then realized his two colleagues were watching him very seriously. It occurred to him that a propos the Maciver affair they were looking to him for words that would give them, to use the modern cant term, closure.

  Why should it be down to me? he asked himself angrily. How come I get elected moral arbiter of this odd little trinity?

  He’d once said something similar to Ellie, demanding rhetorically, Why do they treat me like I’m CID’s moral conscience? To which she’d replied, How else should they treat you? and would not stay for an answer.

  Right, he thought. If that’s what they want…

  He put on a parsonical voice and declaimed, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against
the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.”

  He smiled at the baffled expressions before him and said, “That’s one way of looking at things. How does it grab you?”

  Dalziel said, “Me, I’m a dedicated flesh and blood man.”

  “Me too,” said Wield.

  “Then we have a majority. Pal Maciver found he had an inoperable brain tumour and he took his own life. That will be the inquest verdict. Whether it will mark the end of the affair I don’t know, but it will certainly mark the end of our part in it. We have done all we can, I think. Whether we’ve done enough, we won’t find out till the evil day, whenever that is.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “End of sermon. Andy, the tape’s all yours. Try to be a bit more careful with this one. I’m going home and I shan’t be in till Monday. Not unless someone starts a war, that is.”

  “I’d sleep light then,” said Andy Dalziel. “The world’s full of mad buggers. It may not come tomorrow, it may not come this year, but it’ll come, sure as eggs. I’d sleep bloody light.”

  11 MIDNIGHT

  Three times the phone rang in Cothersley Hall that night and three times Kay Kafka snatched it up almost before it had started ringing.

  The first voice was American.

  “Mrs Kafka?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good evening, Mrs Kafka. I’m hoping you may be able to help me. I was expecting to meet your husband Mr Tony Kafka off a flight from London, UK, earlier today, and he hasn’t showed. I wonder if there’s been some change of plan he hasn’t told anyone about.”

  “Not that I know,” said Kay. “You work for Joe Proffitt, do you, Mr… I didn’t get your name?”

  “Hackenburg. In a way, yes, I’m working with Mr Proffitt at the moment. So Mr Kafka isn’t there with you at the current time? If he were, I’d really appreciate it if he could come to the phone.”

  “No, he’s not. What do you mean you’re working with Joe at the moment? Just who are you, Mr Hackenburg?”

  “To be honest with you, Mrs Kafka, I work for the Securities and Exchange Commission. We’re looking into one or two apparent anomalies in the Ashur-Proffitt accounts at this present moment, and Mr Kafka’s name has been mentioned as someone who might be able to help us with our enquiries. So when we learned that he was expected to land here in the States today…”

  “Mr Hackenburg, I’ve no idea where my husband is. I wish I did know. I’m putting the phone down now as I’m hoping to get a call either from Tony himself or the authorities, giving me information as to his whereabouts. Good night.”

  She replaced the receiver.

  Next time it rang, it was Andy Dalziel.

  “Andy, you’ve heard something?”

  “Sorry, luv, nowt. I’m just checking how you are.”

  “I’m fine. Worried sick, but fine.”

  “I know the feeling. Listen, Kay, it doesn’t look like Tony had an accident or anything, so we need to ask… well, was there any other reason he might just have decided to take off? Trouble at work, summat like that?”

  “You mean has he headed for the hills because of this investigation into A-P that’s just hit the headlines? The answer’s no. I’m sure he knows nothing about what’s been going on back there. He’s been away from the centre of things so long… he’s been here, with me, because of me… that’s been the trouble.”

  Dalziel said, “You OK, lass? You sound a bit upset. Shall I come round?”

  A moment of silence, then Kay spoke again, her voice at its normal controlled pitch.

  “Andy, if your lads heard you being so gallant, I think you’d have to resign. Thank you, but it’s truly not necessary. I’m fine. And I’m sure Tony is too. The next time the phone rings, it will probably be him.”

  “Well, let me know if it is,” growled Dalziel. “And I’ll give him a big wet kiss when I see him, but only after I’ve kicked the bugger up the arse first for causing you so much grief.”

  “That I would like to see,” said Kay. “Good night, Andy.”

  She put the phone down and looked at her watch.

  Time for bed. Routine is the best way through darkness. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see if you know your foot is going to hit solid familiar ground with every automatic step.

  She stood up. The phone rang again. She snatched it up and sank back into her seat.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs Kafka?” said a dry-edged voice.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “I’m a friend of your husband’s, Mrs Kafka.”

  The voice was like dead leaves drifted across a pavement by a chilly wind.

  “Where is he?”

  “Don’t you know, Mrs Kafka? Let’s assume you don’t. He needs to be out of things for a little while. No doubt he’ll contact you when he can. But meanwhile he feels the best thing for you to do is nothing that might draw attention. Yes, that would be best.”

  “Best for who? For Tony? For me? For you?”

  “For all of those, Mrs Kafka. And for your stepdaughter and her family too, I daresay. They all depend so much on you, Mrs Kafka. Don’t let them down. Goodbye now.”

  “Wait! I want to…”

  But the phone was dead.

  She dialled 1471. To her surprise she got a number. She pressed 3 to ring it back. After three rings a very English voice came on the line.

  “Good evening. This is the Mastaba Club. I regret there is no one in attendance to take care of your call at this time. If you wish to leave a message for one of our members, speak after the tone and we will endeavour to pass it on at the earliest convenient opportunity. Thank you. Good evening.”

  All kind of rudenesses came into her mind but she put the phone down before they found utterance. You do not make faces at wolves.

  She stood up once more. There would be no more calls.

  As she crossed the entrance hall towards the stairs, the American long-case clock began to strike midnight.

  She went to it and opened the pendulum cupboard.

  As the eleventh note sounded, she reached in and stopped the pendulum.

  Then she went upstairs to bed.

  April 2003

  1 BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

  The war had been over three weeks.

  A young marine called Tod Lessing sat on a pile of rubble and lit a cigarette to mask the faint smell of decay which hung over all such ruins. He was attached to a unit searching for weapons of mass destruction in which he personally had little interest. This had been his first spell of active service and he’d rapidly learned to focus his attention on weapons of personal destruction, to wit those likely to be an immediate danger to himself and his comrades.

  So now while the men in white suits went about their so far unprofitable work in a relatively undamaged building a couple of hundred yards away, Tod grasped the chance for a spot of R and R.

  But he still remained vigilant and when he heard a noise behind him, he twisted round, bringing his weapon to bear with the unthinking instinct of a hunting dog scenting danger.

  It was a kid who called to him and beckoned. Tod rose and went towards him, but he didn’t relax. Weapons of personal destruction came in all shapes and sizes.

  The boy spoke excitedly and pointed downwards. Tod let his gaze follow the pointing finger.

  The high sun slid a ray of light deep between shattered concrete slabs till it bounced back off white bone. The rats and flies had pretty well finished their work here but the after-smell of decay was strong. Tod drew deep on his cigarette and looked enquiringly at the boy. In this country where the smart bombs had done their smart work, corpses were sadly too commonplace to be remarkable.

  The boy pointed again impatiently. Tod peered down once more and this time saw that there was something round the corpse’s neck. A chain with some kind of amulet. The
kid was jabbering away, clearly irritated at Tod’s lack of understanding. Then suddenly he seized the marine’s arm and held it up and shook it fiercely.

  It took a moment for Tod to confirm he wasn’t being attacked and another to get the message.

  The kid’s arm was too short to reach.

  Motioning the boy to one side where he could keep an eye on him, Tod inserted his arm into the crack. He had to lie flat on the rubble before his groping fingers found the chain. He pulled. It resisted. He jerked hard. It snapped.

  Slowly he withdrew his arm. A graze so close to a decomposing body could be nasty.

  The boy came close, impatient to see what they’d found.

  He looked puzzled when he saw what it was but Tod recognized it instantly. The bust of Washington bedded on purple and framed in gold.

  A Purple Heart.

  He turned it over and read the name. Amal Kafala.

  Sounded Arab. Weird but not very. Any American phone book was full of weird names. Maybe this was some poor bastard taken prisoner by the gooks who ended up getting popped by his own side. Could be he was a left-over from the first Gulf War. Smelt a bit fresh for that. Or maybe the guy down there had plundered the Heart from some dead soldier.

  Whatever, it wasn’t his business. First chance he got, he’d pass the medal on to the unit’s i-officer with details of where he’d found it and let the machine take it from there. Knowing the way it worked, they wouldn’t rest till they were knocking on someone’s door with the sad news. Unknown soldiers were OK for foreign monuments, but the US Army prided itself on keeping a close check on its own up to the grave and, where necessary, beyond. It was a thought at once comforting and disturbing.

  He scrambled off the heap of rubble.

  The kid was looking at him expectantly.

  He dug into his pack and produced a choc bar and a can of cola.

  “There you go, son,” he said.

  The boy took them, snapped a flamboyant salute, said stumblingly, “Have a nice day!” and ran off.

  “I’ll surely do my best,” called Tod after him.