Good Morning, Midnight

14

Back at the station, Novello was amused to see the DCI move past the Super’s door if not exactly on tiptoe, certainly with a stealth that confirmed her judgment that their morning activities did not have the seal of divine approval.

But flee him as you will down the nights and down the days, the Hound of Heaven will get you in the end, or a bit earlier if he answers to the name of Dalziel.

Pascoe’s sense of relief at reaching his office unintercepted drained away as he saw protruding from the centre of his desk a paper knife, impaling a sheet of paper across which was scrawled SEE ME!

A natural indignation at being summoned like some errant schoolboy rose in his craw. His pride demanded that he didn’t rush to present himself instantly so he busied himself examining his in-tray. An evidence bag had been deposited there containing a snakeskin wallet and labelled Wallet found in jacket of deceased male, Moscow House. Examined and recorded. Nil. Meaning that, as far as Forensics were concerned, it could be handed over to the grieving widow.

He opened it and shook its contents on to the desk. Not much. Eighty pounds in notes. Three credit cards. A couple of business cards inscribed Archimagus Antiques, plus phone, fax and e-mail numbers. And another card, this one an eye-catching gold, embossed in red with the name JAKE GALLIPOT and a Harrogate phone number. He thought of ringing it but what the hell for? It would just be procrastination. His risen indignation had declined to a queasy heaviness in the pit of his stomach. Time to face the music. He looked around for some talisman to wear against the impending discord. Finally he opened his desk drawer and took out the tape cassette which Novello had brought to him that morning.

Slipping it into his pocket, he headed for the headmaster’s study.

Edgar Wield was standing by the door, his fist raised to knock. He froze as Pascoe approached and mouthed the words, See me?

Pascoe nodded and motioned to indicate, you first.

But before they could sort out precedence, the door was flung open to reveal the Arch-fear in a visible form.

“Here they are then, Beauty and the Beast! Don’t hang around blocking my light. Step inside, do!”

They advanced and the door crashed shut behind them. The Fat Man then moved to his desk and sat down heavily.

Pascoe contemplated taking a seat also, just to show that senior officers were not to be treated like naughty children, but that would have left Wield standing.

It’s always nice to have a good reason for not doing what you’re afraid of.

“Right,” said the Fat Man, fixing his Medusa stare on Wield, “let’s start with thee. What were you doing skulking around the Golden Fleece this lunchtime?”

“I weren’t skulking. I went there for lunch,” said Wield.

“Not skulking? Coming out of the car park, clocking me in the conservatory, then going into retreat so’s you could spy on me through the hedge, and that’s not skulking? Nay but, I’d like to see you when you do skulk! Who sent you there?”

His gaze flickered to Pascoe as he spoke.

The neurotic old sod thinks I’m having him tailed! thought Pascoe in amazement.

“No one. There’s a booksellers’ convention at the Fleece. Edwin’s doing the arrangements and I went there to meet him for lunch,” said Wield. For the first time Pascoe found himself envying the sergeant’s face. Like a cobbled farmyard, it stayed the same no matter what kind of crap got dropped on it.

“Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “So not skulking, just dropping in to enjoy a literary fucking lunch. Very reasonable.”

He said this like a Scottish judge pronouncing a Not Proven verdict.

His gaze shifted to Pascoe.

“Chief Inspector, I ran into Paddy Ireland just now. Asked him how he were doing with the Maciver suicide. He said as far as he knew you were still dealing with it. When I went to check, I found out that you’d got Novello to dig up all the files on old Pal’s suicide ten years ago, then you’d gone walkabout with her. So spit it out, lad. What the fuck’s happened that I don’t know about?”

What would dare to happen that you didn’t know about? wondered Pascoe.

He said, “Nothing as far as I’m aware, sir.”

“Nothing? Nay, lad, surely summat must have happened to make you decide to ignore my instructions to offload this business on to Uniformed where it belongs. Or did you just forget mebbe? Early onset of Alzheimer’s?”

“No, sir. Just some small loose ends to tie up before I pass it on to Ireland.”

“Small loose ends? So the department grinds to a halt just so’s you can play with your small loose ends? Come on then. Give us a flash of one of them.”

Pascoe played the list mentally. It didn’t take long and nothing in it was going to be a hit.

“Motive,” he said. “No note, just the Dickinson poem, which only shows how religiously he was following his father’s example. And I think the coroner will want some elucidation of motive a little more persuasive than filial piety.”

“Elucidation of motive? Filial piety? Oh, Pete, Pete, why do I always think you must be scraping the bottom of the barrel when you start coming up with the fancy phrases? Balance of the mind disturbed. By what’s not our concern. Could be his hamster died or he met the Virgin Mary in Tesco’s and she said, ‘You’ve been a naughty boy.’ Doesn’t matter. We’re cops, not trick cyclists. So that’s one loose end the less for you to fiddle with. Any more you want to waggle at me?”

Pascoe, who knew when to stop digging, shook his head.

“Good,” said the Fat Man. “I’m glad that’s sorted. So you’ll be handing over everything you’ve got to Paddy Ireland, right? Straight off. Then mebbe you can get down to the job you’re paid for. Now bugger off, the pair of you.”

Wield turned instantly and opened the door.

Pascoe, though he knew like Wellington that sometimes the only choice is between retreating in good order and running like hell, hesitated, feeling deeply resentful.

“Got another fancy phrase for me, Pete?” said Dalziel, not looking up from the file he’d opened.

“No, sir. Just thought you might have been wondering where this had got to.”

He took the Maciver interview tape out of his pocket and tossed it on to the open file. Then he followed Wield out, closing the door very quietly behind him.

They made for Pascoe’s office in silence and sat down, looking at each other po-faced for a few moments. Then they began to grin, and finally laughed out loud, but not too loud.

“Beauty and the Beast!” said Pascoe.

“Aye. Wonder which of us he thinks is which,” said Wield.

“No competition. You got off light. I’m the Beast. But it doesn’t make any difference. Jemmy Legs is definitely down on both of us. You weren’t really trailing him, were you?”

“Do I look mad?” said Wield. “Pure accident. I went to the Fleece like I said and there he was, having a drink.”

“So why’s he reacting like a bishop caught in a brothel?”

The sergeant’s face, which was to rough diamonds what rough diamonds are to the Kohinoor, gave next to nothing away as he replied, “Mebbe the bishop were embarrassed to be caught doing good by stealth. Pete, I know nowt about this Maciver business except what I heard on the news. So what’s gone off?”

Pascoe gave a succinct account of the previous night’s events. When he’d finished he sat back and said, “So there it is. Your turn now.”

“For what?” said Wield.

“To fill me in on what you know and I don’t. And don’t play hard to get. Just spit it out, eh? If I don’t like it, I can always wipe it up with thy tie.”

The line was Dalziel’s. He tried the voice too, not very successfully, but at least it made Wield relax and smile.

“I’m not playing hard to get,” he said. “I’m just not sure I’ve really got owt to tell you. You weren’t around when old Pal Maciver topped himself, were you?”

“No. But Andy filled me in last night.”

“Did he now? Then you’ll know it all.”

“Wieldy, get on with it or I’ll get you crossed off Ellie’s Sticky Toffee Pudding list.”

“Threats, is it? All right, here it is for what it’s worth. The Super knew Maciver, the father I mean. Didn’t like him much. And he knew his wife too, the Yank I mean. Her he liked a lot.”

“Liked? In what sense?”

“Every sense. He once said to me, ‘Never thought I could fancy a skinny lass, Wieldy. Like mackerel. Don’t matter how tasty the flesh is if you’ve got a mouthful of bones. But yon Kay’s a grilse. Full of jilp. Fit for any man’s plate.’”

Wield’s mimicry was spot on, but of course these were his native wood-notes wild, whereas Pascoe was an off-comer, and educated at that.

“You’re not saying he put her on his menu, are you?”

“Doubt it. I reckon you’d need a finely tied fly to get a rise out of our Kay, and Andy tends to fish with sticks of dynamite. But there’s definitely something. He knew her before her man topped himself, that was clear.”

“Did he now? And this showed, did it?”

“Oh yes. There was a proper investigation, don’t misunderstand me. It was a bad situation, you could feel it from the start. There was bad feeling in that family, lot of crap flying around. Usually is when a rich widower marries a young bride and then snuffs it a few years on, but this felt worse than usual. Andy sat on it. Hard. He appointed himself Kay’s guardian angel. It was the son, last night’s copycat, who was chucking most of the dirt. Andy choked him off somehow. I expected sparks to fly at the inquest, but I’ve seen livelier games of carpet bowls. Don’t know how the old sod did it, but he did.”

“I thought something like that must have happened,” said Pascoe.

He told Wield about the tape.

“And that was the one you tossed on to his desk just now?” asked Wield.

“That’s right.”

“You made a couple of copies, but?”

“Actually, no.”

“Probably wise,” said Wield after a little reflection. “No point trying to blackmail a man who’s got pictures of the Chief Constable in a backless ball gown dancing the tango with the Mayor.”

“You’re joking,” said Pascoe alarmed.

“Yeah, I’m joking,” said Wield. “It were the veleta. Pete, I think the reason Andy got his knickers in a twist about me clocking him at the Golden Fleece was he was having a drink with Kay Maciver. Kay Kafka as she is now.”

“Ah,” said Pascoe.

They sat in silence for a moment, then he asked, “Anything bother you about what happened ten years ago, Wieldy?”

“I didn’t think so,” said Wield slowly. “You know me, I’m a details man and all the details added up. Man used to being top of the heap finds himself not even on the heap any more. And the heap’s changed out of recognition.”

“How so?” asked Pascoe.

“Maciver’s, even at its biggest and most successful, were always a family firm. They employed a lot of men but no one ever said good day to Mr Pal without getting good day back with his name attached. No clocking on or clocking off. If you were late, it were noticed. If it happened again you were spoken to and if you didn’t have a good excuse, you were warned, but if you did have an excuse, like a new babby disturbing your night so that you overslept, you got offered help. Knocking you up or a change of shift, mebbe.”

“Very patriarchal. And the new regime?”

“Modern streamlined, highly efficient, one warning and you were out on your neck. There wasn’t a strong union presence because, under Maciver, there had never been the need for one. Now the Yankee management was showing Thatcher the way to bash any sign of union life on the head. I checked out the parent firm, Ashur-Proffitt, on the net.”

“You were thorough,” said Pascoe. “That mean you were worried?”

“If a job’s worth doing…” said Wield. “Big corporation, getting bigger, lots of international subsidiaries, financially very buoyant. Made lots of dosh, made enemies too. There were this website, Junius it called itself…”

“Junius?”

“Aye. Mean something to you?”

“Vaguely. Junius was the pseudonym of some eighteenth-century guy who used to write letters and articles saying the government was a load of crap. Had a go at the judiciary and George the Third too, if I remember right. They never found out who he was, not for certain, anyway.”

“Sounds like that’s where this Junius got his name. According to him at least one of the Ashur-Proffitt subsidiaries was mixed up in that Arms for Iran scandal, remember, when that guy North got done for sanction-breaking, arranging for arms to be sold to the Iranians then subsidizing the Contra guerrillas in Nicaragua with the profits. Lot of stuff about Iraq too.”

“You must have dug deep to get on to this Junius site,” observed Pascoe.

“Not really. Whoever set it up had managed to get a hyperlink in the A-P website, so when you clicked on More Information about our overseas operations, suddenly you were transferred to Junius with all this stuff pouring out at you.”

He sounded admiring. To Pascoe, computers were like cars, a tool. In his youth he’d felt fairly competent to deal with minor car troubles, but that had been in a gentler age when lifting up a bonnet revealed as much space as engine. Now every inch was so crammed he had to get his manual out to locate the oil dipstick. With computers he didn’t even have that distant memory to console him. Only Andy Dalziel made him feel expert. In face of real experts, like Wield and his daughter, Rosie, he felt only resentful awe.

“All that this stuff did,” continued the sergeant, “was show me how fast and how far Ash-Mac’s had moved from the old Maciver’s. It must have been a real shock to Pal senior’s system when he realized this. OK, they gave him a token job, but I guess it took a bit of time for it to sink in just how token it was. Mebbe he reacted by trying to throw his weight around till someone took him aside and spelt it out that he was yesterday’s man. He must have felt betrayed, Worse, he must have felt he’d betrayed all his employees. I could see how he might have cracked.”

“So, no loose end?” said Pascoe.

“None that I could see. Mebbe none that I wanted to see,” said Wield. “I put it out of my mind and never gave it another thought. Not till I caught the news this morning. And I found myself coming over all bothered by it, just like I had before. I thought hard about it, couldn’t see any reason why I should be bothered, so I put it out of my mind again. Next thing, I clock Andy head to head with Kay. And suddenly I’m bothered again. And now he’s throwing his toys out of the cot.”

“And his teddy’s weighted with lead shot,” said Pascoe. “Wieldy, sorry to go on about it, but you’re quite sure this doesn’t just come down to sex?”

“You think, mebbe ’cos I’m gay, I can’t crack all the hetero codes?”

Pascoe opened his mouth for an indignant denial, changed his mind and said, “Could be. Took me a long time to suss you out, remember?”

“I remember. But it’s not relevant. I don’t think the super plays the sex-for-favours game. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, Andy’s not Mrs Kafka’s type.”

“Her type being…?”

Wield described the scene with Manuel.

“He went up there looking like he was hot favourite for a gold, came down like he hadn’t even got a bronze,” he concluded. “And seems he’s not the first.”

“What?”

“There’ve been others. Not a lot, three or four, well spread out.”

“How the hell do you know this?”

“Doreen, one of the reception girls, comes from Enscombe. I got into conversation with her afore I left.”

“God, Wieldy, you live dangerously. If Himself ever found out you were asking questions…”

“No chance,” said Wield. “In Enscombe we know how to keep things close.”

“Except to other members of the coven, eh? What precisely did Doreen say?”

“Not much. Same types: young fellows who really fancied themselves was how she put it. One was a trainee manager-didn’t know the others, but they all had two things in common: they started by acting like they were God’s gift and they ended chewed up and spat out-her words.”

“Fascinating,” said Pascoe. “Makes you wonder about that stuff on the tape.”

“Does it?” said the sergeant. “Well, I’m glad it’s nowt to do with me. So what are you going to do with your loose ends, Pete? Try and tie ’em up?”

“Do I look crazy?” said Pascoe. “Over to Ireland this goes, and good riddance.”

To show he meant it, he started reassembling the contents of Maciver’s wallet, which he’d left strewn across his desk.

Wield said, “What’s that?”

“Deceased’s wallet and watch for Paddy to return to the widow,” said Pascoe.

“No. That-’

The sergeant’s finger touched the golden business card.

“Just a card in his wallet. Why?”

Wield turned the card round and read out the name.

“Jake Gallipot. I thought that’s what it said. Hard to miss, even upside down.”

“Mean something to you?”

“There was a Jake Gallipot used to be a DS in South Yorkshire twelve, thirteen years ago. I knew him quite well. Was on a sergeants’ course with him and our paths crossed a few times after. Invalided out, in inverted commas. I heard he’d set up some kind of PI agency in Harrogate.”

“It’s a Harrogate number,” said Pascoe. “And there can’t be many Jake Gallipots around.”

Wield looked at him and said, “So?”

Pascoe took the card and replaced it in the wallet.

“So I’ll mention it to Paddy Ireland,” said Pascoe firmly. “I’ve had it with Maciver. RIP, Palinurus! And with a bit of luck maybe I can too!”