Midnight Fugue (dalziel and pascoe)

by Reginald Hill

  And just how much would she by now have guessed about his role in recruiting Alex on behalf of Gidman?

  These concerns he was confident of finding ways to deal with. They were mere midges in the ointment. But the one big blue-bottle potentially buzzing its way alongside them was Andy Dalziel.

  How would he be reacting to all that had happened?

  No doubt he’ll let me know, thought Purdy. In fact, he’ll probably be ringing shortly to tell me Gina’s OK. Got to be careful I don’t let him see I know already.

  He was too tired for all this. Maybe he was too old for all this.

  It was funny, but the one element he wasn’t worried about was Goldie Gidman.

  As on so many occasions in the past, including some he had personal knowledge of during the man’s early career, some he guessed at in his latter corporate manifestations, Gidman had steered very close to the wind. But he carried with him an aura of invincibility.

  Bit like Andy Dalziel, thought Purdy.

  Two great survivors, two untouchables.

  Pointless worrying about them any more than there’s any point worrying about God.

  Time to go home and sleep. The rest would keep till he awoke.

  23.15-23.59

  Shirley Novello opened her eyes for the second time since being brought to hospital.

  The first time she been surrounded by masked strangers who had bustled around her, poked and prodded, adjusted wires and tubes, until finally an unmasked man had introduced himself as her surgeon, asked a couple of simple questions, appeared delighted with her monosyllabic answers, then taken his leave, which she had read as permission to go back to sleep.

  The second time she opened her eyes, there was no sound or bustle, just a single monumental figure sitting by the bed. She might have thought it was God if it hadn’t been reading a Sunday tabloid.

  ‘How do, luv,’ the figure said. ‘It says here that the Tory Party’s put together a think-tank to take a close look at the recession and come up with ideas to fix it, and one of its five wise men is Goldie Gidman. Can you credit it?’

  ‘Who…he…?’ she managed faintly.

  ‘He’s the bastard who’s ultimately responsible for putting you in here,’ said the apparition who might not be God but was a dead ringer for Andy Dalziel. ‘And the bad news is, looks like it’s going to be bloody hard making him pay for it. The good news is the bastard who actually cracked your skull is downstairs in the morgue with his sister.’

  This was all so surreal she decided it must be part of a post-anaesthetic delusion so she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again he was still there.

  ‘The big question’, said the Dalziel eidolon, ‘is how much to believe of yon mate of Pete Pascoe’s story. He says he were at the Lost Traveller talking to the landlord about a catering job, and when he were driving away, he looked down the hill and saw Gina being bundled into a car and he got worried so he followed. So, a real have-a-go hero, and modest with it, doesn’t want any fuss. Gina says she’d gone for a drive, got lost, got out of the car to get some air and her bearings, then the Delays showed up and kidnapped her. Does owt of that sound plausible to you, lass?’

  Novello tried closing her eyes again, but far from shutting up the speaker, this seemed to be taken as a comment.

  ‘You’re right, luv. Sounds bloody thin to me too. But the thing is, if I give ’em a dose of good old Andy Dalziel deep questioning, where’s it going to lead but endless dole, eh? He’s just had a babby by young Rosie’s clarinet teacher, and Gina wants to get on home to claim a widow’s pension and marry Mick Purdy. Now there’s another problem, as you’ll not be slow to point out.’

  ‘Wa…er,’ gasped Novello, opening her eyes.

  ‘Eh? What…her? Is that like who…he?’

  Wa…er,’ she repeated in exasperation.

  ‘Oh, water! Right.’

  He poured a glass of water from a bottle on her bedside locker, put his arm round her shoulder and set the glass to her lips. When she indicated she’d had enough, he gently set her head back down on the pillow.

  She said, ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Good question, luv. Kind of day I’ve had, I’m not sure how to answer it. We were talking about Mick. I’ve got me doubts there. Nobody hates a bent cop more than me, but we all cut a few corners when we’re young, look the other way for a pint of beer here, a quick jump there. Could be straight as a die now. One thing I’m sure of is, it weren’t himself he were worried about, it were Gina. He really loves that lass. Do I want to muck that up? She’s not daft, but. I reckon she’s going to be giving him a hard time when she gets back, and I don’t mean that kind of hard either. So what should I do, lass? You’re going to have to make these decisions afore too long. You’re going far, I can always spot a good ’un, and you’ve got the makings. So what do you think I should do?’

  She drew all her strength together and forced out the words very distinctly.

  ‘Go…home!’

  ‘Ay, you’re right, Sleep on it. Except I can’t go straight home. After we got most of it tied up back at the factory, Pete said he were going to buy the lads a drink down the Black Bull. I said I wanted to call round here, see how you were, but I’d likely look in on my way home. Not that there’ll be anyone there now, it’s well after closing time, but Pete and Wieldy might hang on for me. I’ll give them your best, shall I? Don’t expect you’ll be back for a couple of days. You don’t want to hang about this place too long, but. Full of sick people, never know what you’ll catch.’

  She heard the chair being pushed back, large feet hitting the tiled floor as he proceeded slowly to the doorway. Was it all a delusion? Most of it had been incomprehensible, but there was one bit she wanted to cling on to and believe in. The bit where he said she was a good ’un and would go far. She could never ask him if he’d really said it, but some sort of authenticating sign that he’d actually been here in the flesh would be a comfort and an inspiration.

  The footsteps paused. Distantly she heard the voice say, ‘Oh, one thing more, Ivor. That forty quid I gave thee for tha lunch. In the circumstances, we’ll not bother about the change, eh?’

  Asked for and given.

  Smiling, she fell asleep.

  Dalziel left the hospital and drove through the quiet streets. It had been a hell of a day. Could have turned out a lot worse. That poor Welsh lad getting killed were bad, but he’d thought a lot about it and it weren’t down to him any more than it had been down to randy old Hooky. But if Ivor’s injuries had been fatal, if they hadn’t got to Gina in time, then he had a feeling he’d have asked for his papers. Mebbe he wouldn’t have had to. Mebbe they would have given them to him anyway.

  He’d skidded close to the edge round a very dangerous corner, but he was still on the bloody road!

  He pulled up on a double yellow in front of the Black Bull. Not another car in sight out here, it was well after closing. There was a dim light showing through a window and hardly any noise. Jolly Jack the landlord and his team of innumerate zombies would likely be clearing up. He almost pulled away but just on the chance Pete Pascoe had hung on, he got out and tried the pub door.

  It opened and he stepped into the gloomy entrance hall, then turned right towards the doorway marked Bar.

  First time I’ve come in here and not really wanted a drink, he told himself sadly. Nowt more depressing than a silent pub after throwing-out time.

  He stepped pushed open the door and was hit by a cacophony of cheers and hoots and whistling.

  They were all there, his motley gang, crowded into the raised area at the far end that CID had made its own. You could tell by their clothes what they’d been doing when news of the assault on Novello reached them. No one had paused to change. They’d all rushed in to offer their help, and though some of them had turned out to be superfluous to requirement, none of them had gone home. But why were they cheering so much? This was the kind of reception he might have expected to get at the successful end
of a long and difficult case.

  But somehow it felt different. Somehow it felt like they were welcoming him back after a long journey.

  ‘You buggers got no homes to go to?’ he demanded. ‘Jack, draw us a pint and whatever this short-armed lot are having. Likely they’ve been waiting hours for some mug to come in and stand them a drink. Just the one, mind you. It’s nigh on midnight and you’ve all got to be up for the crime-review meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Standards have been slipping. I’ll have the bollocks off anyone who’s late.’

  He sat down in his wonted chair of state beneath an ancient Vienna clock whose eagle had long since flown at the end of some previous night of constabulary triumph, took a long pull at his pint, and delivered an optimistic bulletin on Novello that won another cheer.

  ‘So all’s well that ends well,’ murmured Pascoe in his ear.

  Was there just a touch of irony there?

  ‘Not so well for Gareth Jones,’ said Dalziel reprovingly. ‘And I don’t see a happy ending for Hooky Glendower. But it’s ended a bloody sight too well for that bugger Gidman.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that, unfortunately,’ said Pascoe. ‘We’ll have to leave it in the hands of God. Talking of Whom, sir, one question me and Wieldy were just wondering about. When taking Mrs Wolfe’s statement, she said something about meeting you in the cathedral early this morning. That fitted in nicely with Mrs Sheridan’s mistaking you for a kerb-crawler. Wieldy and I were just wondering, what in the name of all that’s unholy were you doing in the cathedral? Sir?’

  Pascoe had that look of deferential interest on his face which was his customary mask for a bit of not so gentle piss-taking. Wield’s natural expression could have hidden anything. Both pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

  He sipped his drink slowly, buying some time.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We did meet in the cathedral. Often go there, specially on the Sabbath. Can’t say I’m surprised you two irreligious sods didn’t know that. Not much chance of running into you in church, is there?’

  ‘But why, sir?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘You’ve not been born again or something.’

  Wield hastily supped his beer. Something must have gone down the wrong way as he choked slightly.

  Dalziel said, ‘Born again? Nay. I’d guess it were a right painful experience for me mam the first time. Size I am now, I’d likely challenge an elephant. No, it’s the music.’

  His two colleagues exchanged glances then Pascoe said incredulously on a sliding scale that would have got him the part of Lady Bracknell, ‘The music?’

  ‘Aye. You ought to go there and have a listen some time. Smashing acoustic. And the organist were practising his Bach this morning: “Art of the Fugue”. My favourite. Tha knows what a fugue is? Bit of a tune that chases itself round and round till it vanishes up its own arsehole.’

  He whistled a series of random notes in alleged illustration. As if in sympathetic counterpoint, the old Vienna clock began to strike midnight.

  Man and timepiece finished together. Dalziel stared at his interlocutors as if challenging response.

  None came, and he said with some satisfaction, ‘Aye, there’s many a good fugue played on an old organ. You two might do well to remember that. Now, whose round is it anyway? I think some bugger must have drunk mine!’

  FIVE

  con fuoco poi smorzando

  POSTLUDE

  Midnight.

  Splintered woodwork, bedroom door flung open, feet pounding into the room, duvet ripped off, grim faces looking down at him…

  He sits upright and screams, ‘NO!’

  Even in his shock and terror a part of his mind is assuring him that this is a nightmare, not all that surprising in view of the evening’s stresses.

  A voice he recognizes says ‘Hello, Goldie’ and, despite the oddity of hearing it in his bedroom, the very familiarity helps soothe his fears, and he closes his eyes in relief and lies back, thinking that this must signal his awakening.

  When he opens his eyes again, the duvet is tucked under his chin and the room is full of light. But the grim faces are still there on either side of the bed, men in their twenties or early thirties, dressed in dark sweaters and jeans; only two of them, it’s true, but looking strong and active enough to dowse any thought of resistance, even if he had the strength.

  He looks to the end of the bed and sees the source of the familiar voice and tries to rekindle the initial relief he felt at hearing it, but somehow it’s reluctant to return.

  ‘Maggie…that you?’ he says.

  It takes real effort to produce the words, like squeezing toothpaste from a nearly empty tube. What the hell’s wrong with him? OK, he’d drunk a bit more than he did when Flo was around, and he’d taken a sleeping pill like he usually did when she wasn’t, but no way could that account for feeling like he was swimming in gumbo.

  ‘What’s…going…on? Something…happened…to…Dave?…crashed…that…fucking…car…?’

  Maggie Pinchbeck says, ‘No, Dave’s quite well, far as I know. Should be back from Broadstairs now. Hope he goes straight to bed and gets a bit of sleep before the police wake him up.’

  ‘Why…police…wake…him?’ asks Goldie Gidman, clinging to the fragile structure of conversation like a drowning man.

  ‘To tell him about the fire, of course.’

  ‘…fire…?’

  ‘The one at Windrush House that killed you, Goldie. That fire.’

  It is both a comfort and a pain that in some remote part of his mind his thought processes seem to be working at normal levels of efficiency. So the nightmare continues, he comforts himself. All those years of sleeping sound while he was doing all that dodgy stuff, and suddenly a little crisis brings on the night sweats! Maybe he’d hit the rum even more than he recalled last night.

  You been living too soft, man! he admonishes himself. Let this be a warning.

  He tries closing his eyes again, hoping to slip back into sleep. A sharp prick in his left arm brings him back upright. One of the men is stooping over him with a hypodermic needle in his hand. The other is filling the tumbler on the bedside table with rum. His hands are gloved.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Maggie. ‘Just a little Temezepam. Drugi here lives up to his name, I’m sorry to say. Knows how to get his hands on all kinds of shit. You’ve already taken a bit more Restoril than you thought. Think of it as a kindness. You should be out of it when the flames really take hold. But who knows, Goldie? Who knows?’

  ‘Maggie, what…the…fuck…you…talking…about? Sling! Sling!’

  He tries to kick off the duvet but doesn’t have the strength and in any case the man with the hypodermic has no problem holding him down with one hand. Maggie Pinchbeck comes round the bed, picks up the TV remote from the bedside table. On the wall the flat-screen fills with colour.

  ‘Say goodbye to Jimi,’ she says, turning the sound down. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll turn him up full blast before we leave.’

  ‘Sling! Where…are…you…man? SLING!’

  ‘He’s outside, Goldie. But he’ll be in here with you before you go. Faithful retainer makes brave attempt to rescue his old friend and master, breaks down locked door with axe, but the smoke gets to him and they perish together. The tabs will love it.’

  ‘Why…you…doing…this…?’ he asks, terror fighting against the drowsiness spreading through his veins. Now the deep sleep he had so desired to slip into just a few moments earlier looms like the mouth of a volcano. ‘You men…what…she’s…paying…I’ll…double…’

  ‘Come on, Goldie!’ she admonishes. ‘Double? You’re a billionaire, for God’s sake. You can do better than that. This is your life we’re talking about here. What’s it worth? How much did Mr Janowski owe you? Five hundred, was it? A thousand maybe? Surely your life’s worth a lot more than a Polish tailor’s?’

  ‘What’s…he…got…to…do…with…?’

  ‘Let’s give you a clue. Say hello to the boys. That’s D
rugi who gave you your injection, and this is Kuba. Drugi’s a plumber, Kuba’s an electrician. He’s fixed your smoke detector, by the way. They’re brothers. Very strong sense of family. Have you guessed what family that is? That’s right, the Janowski family. My family, Goldie. When you checked me out, that didn’t come up, did it? Maggie Pinchbeck is the name I grew up with. But the name I was christened, the name I had before I was adopted, was Magdalena Janowski. I’m that baby girl you and Sling tried to burn to death with my mother and father, all because he complained that you’d crushed his fingers with a hammer over a little debt.’

  ‘Not…true…not…true…’

  ‘Yes, I found it hard to believe when I first heard it. That wasn’t till fairly recently. I didn’t find out I was adopted till I was eighteen, after Mum and Dad-that’s my second Mum and Dad-got burnt to death in a car crash. I’m sure they were going to tell me, but they left it too late. Maybe that’s what started me working with ChildSave. It wasn’t till seven or eight years later I felt able to start digging deeper and found I hadn’t been abandoned. I was Magdalena Janowski and my real parents had died in a fire too. Oh yes, Goldie. Some things they say you can’t experience twice. But thanks to you, I managed to be orphaned twice, both times by fire. That’s one for the Guinness Book of Records, don’t you think?’

  She smiles, bitterly, humourlessly.

  Goldie Gidman is fighting to keep his eyes open. The man called Kuba pours rum out of the bottle on to the duvet, then replaces the bottle on the table. There is a cigar case lying alongside it. Drugi takes a cigar out, carefully cuts off the end, looks at Maggie questioningly.

  ‘Soon,’ she says. ‘So, Goldie, naturally I tried to find out more about my real parents. The street they lived in had long since been redeveloped-one of your projects, I think-and it was hard finding anyone who remembered them. I had better luck tracking down family connections in Poland. Hence my dear cousins, Drugi and Kuba.’