Good Morning, Midnight

13

As they drove away from Moscow House, Pascoe and Novello exchanged notes.

“The aunt is a few twigs short of a tree, but she’s not a nut,” said Novello.

“Nutty enough to go hunting green woodpeckers in the garden of the house where her nephew has just topped himself,” said Pascoe.

“Yeah, that was a bit tedious,” said Novello with the distaste of an unreconstructed townie for rural pursuits that didn’t involve taking your clothes off. “Would have suited Hat Bowler down to the ground. Any word when he’ll be giving us the benefit of his expertise again, by the way?”

“When he’s ready,” said Pascoe shortly, detecting a certain lack of sympathy for her absent colleague. “But given that your ornithological small-talk is indeed small, what did you find to chat about?”

Novello noted the shortness and was tempted to be short in reply. Doing extra work because a colleague was injured in the course of duty was one thing. She’d been there herself. But finding your recreational time eaten into because same colleague’s girlfriend had died in a motor accident two months ago was a pain. Whoever started these New Men getting in touch with their feelings had a lot to answer for. The only feelings she wanted her men to get in touch with were…

She shoved the thought to the back of her mind for later delectation and said, “Well, that’s what I was going to say. OK, we crawled through the undergrowth, looking for birdshit and such, but in between all the twitter, I got the feeling I was getting a good quizzing. Like they felt having little junior me away from big important you was a good chance to find out what was really going on.”

“They?” said Pascoe.

“Yes. If anything, the old geezer was worse. She asked questions direct. He was much more oblique. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’d done a bit of this before.”

“He was a VAT investigator,” said Pascoe. “Did he go for a pee at any time?”

She hid her surprise and said, “No. I think I’d have noticed.”

Pascoe drove in silence for a while. He’d been pleased to get Cressida separated from the others, but it had never occurred to him that they too might be pleased to get Novello to themselves. He recalled an early warning the Fat Man had given him. “I can see you’re a clever bugger, lad. But are you clever enough to see there’s other buggers cleverer? Present company not excepted.”

He said, “So what did they want to know?”

“The bird lady just wanted details. How exactly had her nephew died? Just how similar was it to her brother’s death? The old boy seemed more interested in checking if we thought there was anything dodgy about the business.”

“To which you were suitably noncommittal, I trust.”

“Couldn’t tell him what I don’t know, sir,” she said spiritedly. “But he struck me as bright enough to wonder without encouragement why a DCI and DC are sniffing around the locus in quo.”

Give him his poncy Latin back.

“Could be,” said Pascoe. “Check him out, but don’t waste time on it.”

“What about the sister-Cressida, is it? Anything there, sir?”

“A trip down memory lane. Thinks her brother was some sort of closet saint. Confirms most of what he said on tape after their father’s death. If there were a tape, of course.”

“Seems like every time there’s a death in Moscow House, someone points a finger at the stepmother.”

“Yes. Though I suppose to make the copycat exact, it ought to be Sue-Lynn Maciver the finger’s pointed at this time.”

“We going to see her too, sir?”

He noted the we. Despite herself Novello was getting interested.

“Oh yes. When she rises from her bed of grief. And little sister when she gets over giving birth. More visits to look forward to than a Jane Austen heroine newly arrived in Bath! But our first call is on Jason Dunn who got stood up.”

Novello yawned, a Pavlovian reaction to mention of Austen, who’d been a favourite of her convent-school teachers, the lack of Roman doctrine being more than compensated by the equal lack of sex, violence, bodily functions and male interiorization. To the young Novello, all these dull women seemed to do was visit other dull women and have dull conversations with them. By contrast, discovering the Brontes had been like a pubescent lad chancing on his father’s copy of Playboy. OK, the books were a bit long-winded in places, but if you persevered, you soon realized that, even though hairy chests were never actually mentioned, Heathcliff and Rochester certainly had them, while it was hard to believe Mr Darcy had any body hair at all.

Her flagging interest in the case was hugely revitalized when they arrived at the Dunn’s house and she saw the hunk who opened the door. This was serious sex on the hoof, about six feet four of it, gorgeous to look at with the kind of body that tapers down from broad shoulders to a dinky waist then broadens out just enough to give promise of a deliciously compact ass. Though her own preferences generally ran more to the solid weight-lifting type, she didn’t mind making an exception in the event a Greek discus thrower came along, especially unshaven and looking like he’d slept in the clothes he wore.

His eyes ran over her as she guessed they did over any new woman. Nor, she assessed, was he put off by her bromidic clothing. To see the choc bar not the wrapping was one of her own talents. But what conclusion he came to wasn’t on offer today. His main focus of interest was the DCI.

“Mr Dunn!” said Pascoe. “DCI Pascoe. We met at Moscow House. Hello again. And many congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Dunn, returning his smile.

“I wonder if I can have a quick word.”

The smile faded.

“I was just going to tidy up and then head back down to the hospital,” he said.

“Won’t take a minute,” said Pascoe, stepping lightly but inexorably into the house. “How’re they all doing?”

“Fine, they’re fine.”

“Good. And you’re enjoying the lull before the storm.”

“The storm?”

“When you bring them home. I remember what it was like with one, and you’ve got two. It’s great, of course, but there’s no getting away from it, things feel a bit hectic to start with. You got some help? Your family? Helen’s?”

They were in a big lounge now. Novello liked the colour scheme. Lovely deep soft furniture and a shag-pile carpet your feet sank into. Shag pile. Oh yes.

“My mother’s dead,” he said shortly. “And Helen’s family haven’t exactly been close over the years. Except for Kay. Mrs Kafka, Helen’s stepmother. She’s said she’ll come round and help out all she can.”

“Oh good. Not the wicked stepmother then?”

“No, she’s great. What did you want to talk to me about, Mr Pascoe?”

“Just to get the sequence of events right about the other night. The coroner likes his tees dotted and his eyes crossed. So if you don’t mind. Better now before the family comes home and you don’t have a minute!”

Pascoe was glad Ellie wasn’t around to hear this breezy old-hand dad act, but it seemed to relax Dunn.

“OK. Shoot.”

“Your squash game was arranged for seven, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And you usually met at what time?”

“Twenty to, quarter to seven.”

“In the changing room?”

“Yes.”

“And what time did you start getting worried at?”

“When it got to seven, I suppose.”

“He was usually pretty punctual, was he, Mr Maciver?”

“Not bad.”

“So what did you do?”

“I tried to ring him on his mobile. But it was switched off. Then I tried his shop phone. No reply. Finally I rang Sue-Lynn, that’s Mrs Maciver, to see if she’d heard anything.”

“That would be about five past seven?”

“Five past, ten past.”

“And then, a bit later, I rang home in case he’d left a message there.”

“A bit later?”

“Towards half past.”

“Not straight after you rang Sue-Lynn?”

“No. I wandered round a bit, thinking he might still turn up.”

“Then you went home?”

“Not straightaway. Wednesday nights Kay comes round, it’s a sort of girls’ night in and I know how much Helen looks forward to it, so I didn’t go home till after nine.”

“Find anyone else to have a bang around with?” said Novello.

“Sorry.”

“I thought you might have looked for another partner. You did have a court booked, didn’t you? Evenings, a free slot’s worth its weight in balls.”

“You play, do you?” said Dunn, giving her the look again.

“Oh yes. Nothing like it to keep a girl fit.”

“You’re right,” he said, giving her a smile. “I’ll watch out for you, maybe we can have a knock around some time.”

“Did you find another partner?” interrupted Pascoe, who’d noted with distaste but also with envy the easy way Dunn had slipped into chat-up mode.

“No, I didn’t,” said Dunn. “I mean, I didn’t try. I just had a cup of coffee and mooched around till nine, then headed off home. I hadn’t been in long when Sue-Lynn rang. When she said you lot had been asking after Pal too, as the keyholder to Moscow House, I thought I should get round there to see what was going on.”

“Why?” said Pascoe.

“Sorry?”

“Why did you think that?”

“Because Pal was missing, obviously.”

“But there can’t have been any reason to make you think the two things were necessarily connected. I mean usually when the police ask for a keyholder it’s because they believe someone has attempted to break in to a property.”

“Yes, but… look, I don’t really see the point to your question.”

“I’m just wondering if you had any particular reason to be concerned about Mr Maciver. More than simply that he’d stood you up for a game of squash. The coroner will be very interested in his state of mind, you see, and if you can tell us anything that might throw light upon it…”

“No, not really. Last time I spoke to him he seemed perfectly normal.”

“When was that?”

“Tuesday, I think. I rang to check that our game was on. He said, yes, usual time. And that was that. Look, Mr Pascoe, he did kill himself, right? There’s not anything else you’re trying to get at here.”

“Like what, Mr Dunn?”

“You tell me, you’re the cop,” said Dunn, suddenly aggressive.

“Just routine enquiries,” said Pascoe placatingly. “Thank you, Mr Dunn. You’ve been very patient. We won’t hold you back any more. And congratulations again.”

“Yeah, congratulations,” said Novello.

In the car she said, “Nice house. Nice furniture. You say he’s a teacher?”

“That’s right. PE at Weavers.”

“Pay must have improved since I last checked.”

“I think his wife must have inherited quite a bit. You were interested in becoming a teacher, were you, Shirley?”

“No. My parents and my teachers and my parish priest were interested in me becoming a teacher,” she said. “Wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been for the money. And the kids, of course.”

“Not to mention the dinners.”

“Yes, I’d rather you didn’t mention the dinners.”

They laughed. It was a good moment. Good moments were possible, she admitted with slight surprise, even with the Mr Darcys of this world.