Good Morning, Midnight

9

Kay Kafka said, “That guy in the biker gear, wasn’t it…?”

“Unless he’s got a twin, which I doubt,” said Dalziel.

“I thought this was a private unofficial meeting, Andy,” said Kay Kafka.

“Me too. Don’t fret, I’ll be having a word. So, things all right with you generally, are they, Kay?”

“They’re fine. No worries. Not till this thing last night.”

“I’ve told you, put that out of your mind. Terrible business, but no reason you should be involved.”

“It looks to me as if Pal wanted to involve me,” she said.

“Aye, you’re right from what you said. But it hasn’t worked. So no problem.”

“I don’t need to make it official then?”

“No point,” he said confidently. “Why complicate what’s simple? As things stand, I doubt Paddy Ireland, that’s the man in charge, will even want to talk to you. No, forget it.”

“I’ll try. But it won’t be easy. He was his father’s son. My stepson. Helen’s brother.”

“He was a nasty twisted scrote.”

“He must have been in great distress to kill himself.”

“Aye, and he wanted to spread it around as much as he could. Like hearing you’ve got leprosy and drowning yourself in the town reservoir. So you forget it and concentrate on them new grandchildren.”

“Stepgrandchildren,” she corrected.

“I doubt they’ll ever see it like that,” he said, emptying his glass. “They don’t know how lucky they are, not yet. Give ’em a couple of years, but, and they’ll know.”

She smiled at him fondly and said, “All this talk of me. How are you, Andy? You still with your friend?”

“Cap? Aye, so to speak.”

“So to speak? That doesn’t sound too positive,” she said, concerned.

“Nay, all I meant was we don’t live together. Not permanent. Like our own space, isn’t that what they say? Any road, she’s away just now.”

“In her own space?”

“Summat like that. She protests.”

“Not too much, I hope?”

“Feels like it sometimes. I used to take the piss out of my lad, Pascoe, ’cos his missus were one of these agitating women. God likes a joke.”

“Because now you’ve got one?”

“Because I’ve got the one. Animal rights, the environment, that stuff. When she says she’ll be away a couple of days but don’t say where, I stop reading the paper in case I see that Sellafield’s been blown up.”

“Your womenfolk are a trouble to you, Andy.”

“Nay, them I think of as mine are worth ten times the trouble,” he said, smiling at her. “How’s that man of thine?”

“He’s away too. Just for the day. London, on business.”

“London. Poor sod,” said Dalziel with feeling. “Still, he’ll be back in God’s own country tonight.”

“I think he’d need to travel a little further to get there in his case,” said Kay.

Dalziel regarded her shrewdly and said, “Feeling homesick, is he? Never had him down as the type.”

“I think he feels that after what happened last September it’s the place to be. Get the wagons into a protective circle, that sort of thing.”

“How about you?”

“You know me, Andy. This is where I want to be, lots of reasons.”

“And two more since last night, eh?”

“Right. And one big one sitting with me now.”

Something which on a less massively sculpted face might have passed for a blush glowed momentarily on the Fat Man’s cheeks.

He pushed his chair back and said, “Now I’d best be on my way.”

“Sure you won’t have another drink?”

“No. One’s enough when I’m driving,” he said virtuously.

“You mean there’s a cop in Mid-Yorkshire who’d dare breathalyse you?”

“There’s some as ’ud pay for the chance,” he said. “You coming?”

“I may get a snack here. Sure you won’t join me?”

“No fear. They cut the crusts off your sandwiches.”

He stood up. Kay rose too, leaned over the table and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Thanks, Andy,” she said.

“For what?”

“For being my friend.”

“Oh aye. Is that all?”

“It’s a lot. Gets me served quick in pubs,” she said, smiling.

“Not all bad then. Take care, luv. And ring if there’s owt worrying you.”

He left and made for the car park. In his car he didn’t make for the exit straightaway but drove slowly round till he spotted the Thunderbird.

“Enjoy your lunch, Sergeant,” he said. And drove away.

Back in the conservatory Kay Kafka pressed a key on her mobile. She had to wait a few moments before she got a reply. She said, “Hi, Tony. It’s me. Have I disturbed your lunch?”

“Not as much as it’s disturbing me,” said Kafka. “You should see this place, except you can’t because they don’t let women in. I sometimes think it’s a movie set, or something they hire from the National Trust to keep foreign riff-raff in their place. So what’s new with Mr Blobby?”

“Everything’s fine. Any mention your end?”

“Not yet, but they don’t get on to matters of substance till the soup’s been served. Soup! If you’re looking for a weapon of mass destruction, look no further!”

“Tony, you are being careful what you say?”

“You know me. Soul of discretion. Anyway, I’m outnumbered.”

“I thought it was just Warlove.”

“He’s brought that guy Gedye along. The one who looks like a high-class mortician, always measuring you up with his eyes.”

“Tony, don’t go neurotic on me.”

“Just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean the bastards aren’t creepy. Joke. Now tell me about your chat with Mr Blobby. And the twins, have you been to see them this morning? How do they look in the bright light of day?”

They talked for several minutes more. When the conversation was done, Kay stood up and went through an inner door leading to the spacious hotel lobby, one wall of which was almost filled by a seventeenth-century fireplace in which a twenty-first-century fire looked sadly inadequate. In a deep armchair by the fire, either reading or sleeping behind the Daily Mirror, sat a man. Kay approached the reception desk where two young women, one blonde, one brunette, otherwise so alike they could have been clones, were working. The blonde greeted her brightly.

“Hello, Mrs Kafka. And how are you today?”

“I’m fine,” said Kay. “I’m just going up to the suite. I’ll be doing some work on my laptop, so would you like to send some sandwiches up?”

“Of course, Mrs Kafka,” said the young woman, reaching for a key. “Any special filling you’d like today?”

“A selection will be fine. Thank you.”

As Kay walked away the blonde raised her eyebrows at her fellow worker who mouthed, “Any special filling. You cheeky cow!” They both giggled.

Edgar Wield lowered his newspaper and watched Kay get into the lift. As it ascended, alongside it the door to the bar swung open, giving him a glimpse of Edwin Digweed sitting with a group of rather dusty, slightly foxed men. Then the door closed again behind a young waiter with golden skin, jet-black hair, sultry brown eyes and a face to turn Jove languid.

The blonde receptionist called, “Hey, Manuel. Job for you.”

“What job? I’m very busy,” he replied without slowing his graceful step.

“Too busy for Mrs Kafka?”

Now he slowed and went to the desk.

The girls spoke to him in voices too low for Wield to catch. After a moment he laughed and moved away, calling over his shoulder, “Never mind. Your turn will come.”

“Loves himself, doesn’t he?” said the brunette.

“And why not? Wouldn’t mind giving him a helping hand, how about you?” said the blonde.

She glanced towards the fireplace and saw Wield watching her. A smile lit up her face and she gave a little wave. He gave a wave and a smile back.

“Not thinking of going les, are we?” said Digweed who’d emerged from the bar unnoticed.

“It’s Doreen, Tom Uglow’s lass from the village,” said Wield.

“Yes, I do know that,” said Digweed a little tetchily. “Let’s see if we can get her to rustle up some sandwiches.”

He went to the desk and spoke to the girls.

When he returned he said, “They’ll be along shortly. The waiter’s rather busy at the moment.”

“I bet he is,” said Wield.

Twenty minutes later Wield had finished his beer and, with an afternoon’s work ahead of him, had moved on to cranberry juice, which if his partner was to be believed would help him grow up into a big healthy boy. He was thinking if the food didn’t arrive soon he would have to leave without it.

“What on earth are they doing with these sandwiches?” grumbled Digweed. “Churning the cheese? There’s the manager. I think I’ll have a word.”

A portly man in a pinstripe suit had appeared behind the desk and was talking to the receptionists. Digweed began to rise but before he was out of his chair, the lift door slid open and the handsome young waiter erupted looking like an advertisement for the Wrath of Achilles. The manager glanced towards him, pursed his lips and called, “Manuel, I’ve told you before. Use the service lift.”

The waiter didn’t even look his way but as he strode towards the main exit made a gesture whose meaning was as unmistakeable in rural Mid-Yorkshire as it was in urban Spain or even Homeric Greece.

Digweed subsided into his chair.

“Not from Barcelona, is he?” said Wield.

“Valencia, I believe,” said Digweed, pronouncing it correctly. “I think our sandwiches may be some little time.”

“Probably just as well if there’s something wrong with your teeth,” said Wield.