Good Morning, Midnight

5

The first person Pascoe ran into when he entered the station was DC Shirley Novello. He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. She rarely did, and never automatically.

He had long since decided that here was a young officer worth taking notice of. She was sharp, direct, a quick study, could take orders, think for herself, kept in good trim and when put to the test had proved she was physically brave.

All this was on her record. Not on her record, because the modern politically correct police force eschewed such inconsequential trivia, was any comment on her appearance. This erred on the plain side of unremarkable. A strong face untouched by make-up, short mousy brown hair showing no sign of recent acquaintance with coiffeur or coiffeuse, clothes which were usually some variety of loose-fitting combats in colour ranging from drab grey to drab olive.

Pascoe, however, had seen her dressed for action and knew that the way she looked at work was a deliberate choice. His guess was that here was an officer in a hurry who didn’t want to waste time or energy dealing with the Neanderthal dickheads who clutter up every police force. Early in his own career he had let his admiration for the physical attributes of a female colleague show too clearly and he still winced with embarrassment when he recalled how before a raid she had taken him aside and said seriously, “Peter, your wet dreams are your own affair, but tonight I’d like to be sure you’ll be watching my back and not my backside.”

So, though regrettable, there was no escaping the fact that the initial strategies of a young man and a young woman in a hurry must diverge. Perhaps equally regrettable was the fact that there comes a point when they must rejoin. This was the age of the image, of sharp suits as well as sharp minds. For a man just as much as for a woman it was hard to win the hearts and minds of a promotion board if you went around looking like a loosely tied sack of potatoes.

Pascoe hoped that Novello would suss this out. He balked at the idea of dropping a hint himself, partly because such a comment, however kindly meant, was very much against the spirit of the age, but mainly because he sensed that, despite all his efforts to be approachable, Novello didn’t much care for him.

In this he was right, but for the wrong reasons.

What she didn’t care for was slim clean-cut men full of boyish charm. What turned her on was a chunky build, good muscular definition and an abundance of body hair. Whenever Pascoe flashed the smile and said something nice to her, he lost all individuality and became a type. But in detective mode, with his mind focused firmly on the task in hand and herself being treated as no more than one of the tools of his job, she admired him greatly. A good-when-she-remembered Catholic girl, she found it easy to think in religious imagery.

There abideth these three, Dalziel, Wield and Pascoe; but the greatest of these (promotion prospects and the present state of the Service being tossed into the pot) had to be Pascoe.

Now the Greatest was asking if the Scariest was in.

“No sign yet, sir,” she said. “And Sergeant Wield’s got the morning off too.”

“So it’s only thee and me,” said Pascoe. “Here’s what I’d like you to do.”

Quickly he brought her up to speed on the events of the previous night.

“And, just to be thorough, and in order to see exactly how much of a copycat it is, I’d like you to dive into the evidence store and see what you can find relating to the suicide of Palinurus Maciver Senior. Discreetly. You know how leaky this place is, and I shouldn’t like the press making a thing about the copycat element.”

In fact he didn’t give a toss about the press, it was Andy Dalziel whose antennae he didn’t want to alert.

With only a sigh too light to shake a rose leaf down to indicate she thought this was a more than usually sad waste of her valuable time, Novello strode off.

Pascoe watched her go. Nice buttocks, shame about the combat trousers. Then mentally slapped his wrist.

Seated at his desk, he rang Forensic, to be told with some acidity that they too required sleep like normal human beings. So far there was nothing to suggest that Pal Maciver’s death had been anything but what it seemed, a suicide bizarrely configured to reproduce an exact imitation of his father’s ten years earlier.

Next, witnesses. The circumstances of the previous night hadn’t been conducive to getting formal statements from those attending the scene of the death, and the birth. The coroner would certainly want to hear from some of them.

Definitely a job for Uniformed, he could hear Dalziel say. But when Fat Men are away, Thin Men can play, and approaching a newly bereaved wife was surely a task more suited to the diplomatic skills of CID than the Blitzkrieg of the plods.

He dialled the Casa Alba number.

A man’s voice said, “Yes?”

He said, “Could I speak to Mrs Maciver, please?”

“I don’t know,” said the voice cautiously. “Who’s calling?”

He identified himself.

“Sorry, thought you might be press,” said the voice. “I’m David Upshott, the Vicar of Cothersley. I’ve just been in to see Mrs Maciver, trying to offer what comfort I could at this terrible time, but I’m afraid she’s not in a very receptive mood. The doctor’s with her now. I’ll just let them know who’s calling.”

There was a pause of a couple of minutes then a new male voice spoke.

“Tom Lockridge here. That you, Pascoe?”

“Indeed. Any chance of a word with Mrs Maciver, do you think? Either on the phone or, preferably, I could call out there to talk with her…”

“Not a good idea,” said Lockridge brusquely. “I’ve got her under sedation. I doubt very much she’ll be fit to talk to you today.”

“Oh dear. That’s a pity.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But in the circumstances, Pascoe, I can’t imagine what on earth you might want to ask that can’t wait. Goodbye.”

Next he rang the hospital where he learned that Mrs Dunn and her twins were doing as well as could be expected and Mr Dunn, after hanging around most of the night, had finally been persuaded to go home and get some rest.

Pascoe started to dial the Dunns’ home number, recalled the state he’d been in the day Rosie was born, and replaced the receiver. Give the poor devil a couple of hours’ sleep at least.

Finally he tried Cressida’s number and got the answer machine. This was frustrating. If Thin Men were to play, they had to find someone to play with.

On the other hand, perhaps this was the act of some tutelary spirit to save him from his own impetuosity. Disobeying Dalziel was not a path to peace.

He opened a file marked “Quarterly Crime Statistics” and applied himself to the honing of a report he was preparing thereon.

After half an hour or so of this stimulating activity, he closed his eyes the better to contemplate the rhetorical structure of his peroration.

He was aroused from this creative trance by a cough. Not a Dalzielesque cough, nevertheless a good, firm, I’m-here-and-why-are-you-asleep? kind of cough.

He opened his eyes and saw Novello standing in the doorway, clutching a plastic bin liner. She looked rather dusty.

He yawned and said, “Shirley, you come bearing gifts but not as a Greek, I hope.”

She had learned to ignore Pascoe’s prattery as easily as she did Dalziel’s provocations. She advanced to the desk and deposited the bin liner before him.

“I dug up this lot, sir,” she said. “One file, some bits and bobs. There’s a gun down there, but I didn’t bring it, seeing as you didn’t want to attract attention.”

“A gun? You mean…?”

“The shotgun he used. Yes.”

“Why do we still have that? We said goodbye to deodands a long time ago.”

“Suppose the family could have had it back if they’d wanted, but you wouldn’t, would you? I mean, every time you blew a rabbit’s head off you’d be thinking… well, you’d have to be a bit insensitive.”

“So it wasn’t the same gun last night. Bang goes one bit of the copycat.”

“But it still stays close,” said Novello. “I checked the details of last night’s gun. Practically identical. Had to be the other half of a matching pair. And the original permit was for two shotguns. No one seems to have picked up on that at the time.”

“Why should they? It can hardly have been relevant. But hang about-has the permit ever been renewed for the remaining gun?”

“No, sir. Presumably it just stayed in its cabinet in Moscow House.”

“No,” said Pascoe. “It’s a single-gun cabinet and, from the look of it, there hasn’t been a gun kept in there since Pal Senior took his out to do the deed. So the other gun must have been kept somewhere else. Interesting, but as I doubt if we can pursue Pal Junior for shooting himself without a permit, not important. Worth mentioning, though. Very conscientious of you. And this stuff you did think worth lugging from the store, anything there you found significant?”

“Significant? Don’t know, sir, as I’m not sure what you’re trying to signify. But there were a couple of things struck me as a bit odd.”

“Suicides usually are a bit odd, aren’t they? I mean, even in our neurotic society, it’s a slightly offbeat thing to do.”

“You reckon, sir? Seems to me, a guy gets depressed, waits till his family are out of the way, locks himself in his room, blows his head off, that’s pretty conventional stuff.”

“Really? Didn’t realize that Vatican thinking was so laid back these days.”

Novello was surprised. Heavy-footed religious trampling from the Fat Man, who numbered Joe Kerrigan, her parish priest, among his drinking mates, she’d come to expect, but Pascoe generally tiptoed through the tulips of personal belief.

She said dismissively, “I’m talking as a cop, sir, not a Catholic.”

“Which are, I trust, both permanent conditions, having in common the ability to believe several impossible things at the same time and before breakfast. So, on the one hand, a straightforward act of self-slaughter. On the other, an instance of that denial of God which is the unforgivable sin for which Judas stood condemned in the eyes of some theologians far more than for his act of betrayal. The black midnight of the soul which holds no hope of dawn. Strong stuff. Can you really keep it out of your cop-think in a case like this?”

“As easy as calling a doctor and saying a prayer if someone falls ill,” she said with spirit. “You’re mixing up depression and despair, sir. One’s a condition of the mind, the other of the soul.”

“And nowadays the Church can tell the difference?” he said smiling.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. God always can.”

There’s a conversation killer, he thought.

“OK,” he said. “So let’s get back to the oddities.”

“Maybe I’m overstating it,” she said, starting to empty the bag. “As you can see, it’s a very full file, chaotic, but with all kinds of stuff bundled in that you’d not expect to find when it’s not a criminal case. Looks like Mr Dalziel caught the call and stayed in charge.”

Pascoe looked at the confusion of papers on the desk. Definitely a Dalziel file. No pushing it off on to Uniformed here soon as suicide was confirmed.

Odd. Even odder than his appearance last night. Copycat suicide ten years on might just about explain a Head of CID’s interest. But why had the Fat Man involved himself so deeply the first time round? Curiouser and curiouser.

Novello said, as if he’d articulated his thought, “What’s really odd is… well, judge for yourself, sir. I made a sort of digest.”

She produced a sheet of paper and looked at him enquiringly.

He said, “I’ll stop you if I get bored.”

“OK,” she said. “On March 18th Mrs Maciver flew to New York with her younger stepdaughter, Helen. On March 20th Mr Maciver killed himself in Moscow House, the family home. His body was found by his son on his return from Cambridge on March 23rd. The news was passed on to the daughter, Cressida, at Brigstone School, Lincoln, and she came home the next day. Mrs Maciver, travelling in America with her stepdaughter, was harder to reach, so she didn’t arrive until three days later. Now it gets odd. Turning up at Moscow House, she found she couldn’t get in. She contacted the police. We assured her it was nothing to do with us, but we were able to ascertain the locks had been changed on the instructions of Mr

Palinurus Maciver Junior. We needed a contact address for Mrs Maciver and the one she gave eventually was c/o Mr Tony Kafka, Cothersley Hall, Cothersley. I expect you know she later married Kafka, who’s CEO of Ash-Mac’s-that’s Ashur-Proffitt-Maciver’s, which used to be the Maciver family firm till the Americans took it over in the eighties. Pal Senior kept a seat on the Board but seems it was just for show. There was speculation at the inquest about how much losing the top job could have contributed to his depression.”

“Othello’s occupation’s gone,” said Pascoe. “And eventually the Widow Maciver becomes Mrs Kafka. Wonder how long it took?”

“Nothing in this file about it, sir, but I checked. Eighteen months.”

Pascoe looked at her speculatively and asked, “Now why should you have checked that, Shirley?”

“Just being thorough, sir,” she said.

Long years of listening to spinners, trimmers, quibblers, equivocators and every other kind of truth-mangler had fine-tuned Pascoe’s ear, and he thought he detected something here. A hesitation? A reservation? Something.

He left it for now and asked, “And the inquest-anything interesting there?”

“Interesting?”

“Emotional outbursts. Wild accusations, that sort of thing. They didn’t come across as a very together family last night and this odd business of the young Maciver changing the locks suggests some antagonism.”

“No, sir,” said Novello. “Seems to have gone off very smoothly. Verdict of suicide. End of story. I checked out the evidence exhibits while I was at it. As well as the shotgun, there was the book they found on the desk. Family can’t have wanted that back either. Don’t blame ’em. Even cleaned up and dried off for ten years, it’s not something you want lying around your coffee table.”

From the bin liner she took a plastic evidence bag. Pascoe could see what she meant. The book it contained was open, presumably as it had been found on the desktop all those years ago. He’d looked at the volume on the desk last night before it went down to the lab for close examination. The words on the page had been hard to read under the mullock of blood and brain, but he’d made out the page numbers and the numbers of some of the small poems printed on them.

He checked these now against the older book from which the solider matter had been removed, leaving the page severely stained but legible. The page and poem numbers corresponded. Pal Junior’s imitation had been exact.

The poem numbers ranged from 1062 to 1068. How many had Dickinson written? He knew little about her except that she was American and responsible for the lines Parting is all we know of Heaven And all we need of Hell. Or was that Ella Wheeler Wilcox, someone else he knew absolutely nothing about?

Ellie would know, though he would suffer for admitting his ignorance. She was big on the neglect of female writers. Pascoe smiled as he recalled Fat Andy’s riposte after listening to a harangue which he’d deliberately provoked: “I think I’ve got it now, lass. If it’s got tits and can put two words down on paper, it’s a lost genius.”

He ran his eyes over the tiny poems.

The first, 1062, seemed the relevant one. He scanned it-staggered Dropped the Loop

To Past or Period Caught helpless at a sense as if

His Mind were going blind- Groped up to see if God was there Groped backward at Himself

Caressed a Trigger absently

And wandered out of Life.

It was, he thought, surprisingly good.

Whoops!

There he went. Patronizing or what? Because she was female, American, and he knew sod all about her, he was surprised to be impressed.

The only thing surprising here, he could hear Ellie say, is your prejudicial ignorance, and I’m not surprised at that.

He returned his attention to the poems.

1063 had stuff about ashes in it and there had been a fire in the wastepaper bin. And 1065 began Let down the Bars, Oh Death — but then got into sheep imagery. The others had nothing suggestive in them. At least he couldn’t see anything. Maybe they needed a female eye.

He said, “You read these poems, Shirley?”

She nodded.

“What did you make of them?”

She shrugged.

“For the tape,” he said smiling.

“Load of bollocks,” she said. “But I’m not really into poetry and stuff.”

“It’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” he said.

He’d taken the volume out of the evidence bag now. After all these years, the risk of contamination hardly applied. Set in one place all these years, the spine creaked and cracked as he turned to the title page.

It bore an inscription in an elegant flowing hand. “The World ~ stands ~ solemner ~ to me~

Since I was wed ~ to You!”

For my darling Pal from your solemnly loving Kay

“Nice,” said Novello over his shoulder.

“In what way?”

“All ways. If she meant it, brings-a-tear nice. If she didn’t, nice one, Kay! Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, is there something going on here? Do you reckon there’s something dodgy about last night’s suicide?”

He said with a smile, “Just being a good housewife, Shirley.”

Despite trying to keep it light, he could see she took it as a shut-out. But explaining that he probably wouldn’t still be messing with this if his boss hadn’t told him to leave it alone wasn’t the best example to lay before a subordinate!

Was there anything here to justify further delay in passing this over to Paddy Ireland? The answer was no… except maybe for that suspicion of a hesitation…

“Right,” he said negligently. “That’s it, dear. Over to Uniformed. Could you dump this stuff back in the store, then we can both get back to some real work?”

The dear worked. He saw her jaw set and guessed he was at last going to get what was bugging her in the form of a Parthian shot.

“Oh, by the way,” she said as she started gathering the tumble of papers together, “there was that — ”

That was a tape cassette.

She pushed it across the desk towards him. He looked at it without touching. It was the kind of cassette they used in the interview room but without a label.

He said, “This was where?”

“Tucked away in one of the box files,” she said. “Could just have ended up there by accident.”

“You haven’t played it then?”

“No, sir.”

Positive without being over emphatic. She was good. But Pascoe had been where she was now.

She’d listened to the tape. It contained something she didn’t care to admit she’d heard. She’d been uncertain what to do about it till he’d got up her nose with his dear, which had made her decide it would be amusing to leave him to listen to it alone, and later observe surreptitiously how he reacted.

It was time for her to learn that DCs had no secrets from DCIs.

“OK. Probably nothing, but I’ll have a listen,” he said.

He took the tape, swivelled in his chair to face the table that bore his computer and other electronic equipment, and loaded it into the cassette player.

Novello, laden with the file material, was trying to negotiate the door.

Pascoe said, “Tell you what, Shirley. You might as well sit down and listen to this too. Then if it’s got to go back with the rest of that stuff, you won’t need to make an extra trip.”

She halted, turned, looked at him over the files.

Their gazes locked for a moment. Then she nodded as if getting a message.

“As you wish, sir,” she said, returning to her seat.

He waited till she was settled and pressed the “start” button.

A familiar voice boomed out. “Voluntary statement made by Mr Palinurus Maciver Junior in the presence of Detective Superintendent Andrew Dalziel. Date March 27th, 1992. Time one thirty-seven. God, I should be out enjoying me lunch! All the meat pies ’ull be gone. Never mind, duty calls, eh? Off you go, Mr Maciver. The floor’s yours. Tell us thy story. But try and keep it short!”

Pascoe looked at Novello and tried to keep his face as blank as hers.

An unlabelled cassette. The super’s voice casually breaking several clearly spelled out rules of procedure. Already, without hearing a word of what Maciver might say, he understood Novello’s concern-and her well-hidden glee.

He settled back to hear the dead man talking.