Good Morning, Midnight (11 page)

He shivered, and this intrusion of meteorology bothered him like the name of the cottage. First the taste of food, now weather…

“Do you live locally, Mr Hat?” asked Waverley.

He had a gentle well-modulated voice with perhaps a faint Scots accent.

“No,” said Hat. “I got lost in the forest.”

“The forest?” echoed the man in a faintly puzzled tone.

“I think Mr Hat means Blacklow Wood,” said the witch with that nice smile.

“Of course. And you’re quite right, Mr Hat. As you clearly know, this and one or two other little patches of woodland scattered around the area are all that remain of what used to be the great Blacklow Forest when the Plantagenets hunted here.”

Blacklow again. This time the vibration was strong enough to break the film of ice through which he viewed dreams and reality alike.

Now he remembered.

A dank autumn day… but his MG had been full of brightness as he drove deep into the heart of the Yorkshire countryside with the woman he loved by his side.

One of those small surviving patches of Blacklow Forest had been the copse out of which a deer had leapt, forcing him to bring his car to a skidding halt. Then he and she had pushed through the hedge and sat beneath a beech tree and drunk coffee and talked more freely and intimately than ever before. It had been a milestone in what had turned out to be far too short a journey.

Yesterday he’d driven out to the same spot and sat beneath the same tree, indifferent to the fall of darkness and the thickening mist. Nor when finally he rose and set off back to the car did he much care when he realized he’d missed his way. For an indeterminate period of time he’d wandered aimlessly, over rough grass and boggy fields, till he’d flopped down exhausted beneath another tree and slept.

The fog had cleared, the night had passed, the sun had risen, and he, waking under branches, imagined himself still sleeping and dreaming…

The woman placed the teapot on the table and said, “So what brings you out so early, Mr W?”

The man glanced at Hat, decided he was out of it for the moment, then said, “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of ill news, Miss Mac. I take it you’ve heard nothing?”

“Heard what? You know I don’t have any truck with phones or wireless.”

“Yes, I know. But I thought they might have… no, perhaps not… I’m sure that eventually someone will think…”

“What, for heaven’s sake? Spit it out, man,” said the woman in exasperation.

“Perhaps you should sit down… As you will,” said Waverley as the woman responded with a steely stare that wouldn’t have been out of place on a peregrine. “I heard it on the radio this morning, then rang to check details. It’s your nephew, Pal. It’s very bad, I’m afraid. The worst. He’s dead. Like your brother.”

“Like…? You mean he…?”

“Yes, I’m truly sorry. He killed himself last night. In Moscow House.”

“Oh God,” said the woman. “Laurence, you are again my bird of ill omen.”

Now she sat down.

It seemed to Hat, who had emerged from the depths of his introspection just in time to take in the final part of this exchange, that the soft chirruping of the birds, a constant burden since he entered the kitchen, now all at once fell still.

The woman too sat in complete silence for almost a minute.

Finally she said, “This is a shock, Laurence. I’m prepared for the shocks of my world, but not for this. Am I needed? Will anyone need me? Please advise me.”

“I think you should come with me, Lavinia,” said the man. “When you have spoken to people and found out what there is to find out, then you will know if you’re needed.”

The shock of the news had put them on first-name terms, observed Hat. It also underlined his obtrusive presence.

He stood up and said, “I think I should be on my way.”

“Don’t be silly,” said the woman. “Carry on with your breakfast. I think you need it. Laurence, give me five minutes.”

She stood up and went out. The birds resumed their chirruping.

Hat looked at Waverley and said uncertainly, “I really think I ought to go.”

“No need to rush,” said Waverley. “Miss Mac never speaks out of mere politeness. And you do look as if a little nourishment wouldn’t come amiss.”

No argument there, thought Hat.

He sat down and resumed eating his second slice of bread on which he’d spread butter and marmalade to a depth that had the robin tic-ticking in admiration and envy.

Waverley took two mugs from a shelf, and poured the tea.

“Is there anywhere I can give you a lift to when we go?” he said.

“Thank you, I don’t know…”

It occurred to Hat he had no idea where he was in relation to his own vehicle.

To cover his uncertainty, he said, “Did you come by car? I didn’t hear it.”

“I leave it by the roadside. You’ll understand why when you see the state of the track up to the cottage. Miss Mac doesn’t encourage callers.”

Was he being warned off?

Hat said, “But she makes them very welcome,” with just enough stress on she for it to be a counter-blow if the man wanted to take it that way.

Waverley smiled faintly and said, “Yes, she has a soft spot for lame ducks, whatever the genus. There you are, my dear.”

Miss Mac had reappeared, having prepared for her outing by pulling a cracked Barbour over her T-shirt and changing her wellies for a pair of stout walking shoes.

“Shall we be off? Mr Hat, you haven’t finished your tea. No need to rush. Just close the door when you leave.”

Hat caught Waverley’s eye and read nothing there except mild curiosity.

He said, “No, I’d better be on my way too. But I’d like to come again some time, if you don’t mind… Sorry, that sounds cheeky, I don’t want to be…”

“Of course you’ll come again,” she interrupted as if surprised. “Good-looking young man who knows about birds, how should you not be welcome?”

“Thank you,” said Hat. “Thank you very much.”

He meant it. While he couldn’t say he was feeling well, he was certainly feeling better than he had done for weeks.

They went out of the door he’d come in by. She didn’t bother to lock it. Waste of time anyway with the window left open for the birds.

They went down the side of the cottage, Miss Mac leaning on the stick in her right hand and hanging on to Waverley’s arm with the other as they headed up a rutted track towards a car parked on a narrow country road about fifty yards away.

If Hat had thought of guessing what sort of car Waverley drove, he would probably have opted for something small and reliable, a Peugeot 307 for instance, or maybe a Golf. His enforced absence from work must have dulled his detective powers. Gleaming in the morning sunlight stood a maroon coloured Jaguar S-type.

He said, “That lift you offered me, my car’s on the old Stangdale road, if that’s not out of your way.”

“My pleasure, Mr Hat,” said Waverley. “My pleasure.”

Some miles to the south, close to the picturesque little village of Cothersley, dawn gave the mist still shrouding Cothersley Hall the kind of fuzzy golden glow with which unoriginal historical documentary makers signal their next inaccurate reconstruction. For a moment an observer viewing the western elevation of the building might almost believe he was back in the late seventeenth-century just long enough after the construction of the handsome manor house for the ivy to have got established. But a short stroll round to the southern front of the house bringing into view the long and mainly glass-sided eastern extension would give him pause. And when further progress allowed him to look through the glass and see a table bearing a glowing computer screen standing alongside an indoor swimming pool, unless possessed of a politician’s capacity to ignore contradictory evidence, he must then admit the sad truth that he was still in the twenty-first century.

A man in a black silk robe sat by the table staring at the screen. He didn’t look up as the door leading into the main house opened and Kay Kafka appeared, clad in a white towelling robe on the back of which was printed IF YOU TAKE ME HOME YOUR ACCOUNT WILL BE CHARGED. She was carrying a tray set with a basket of croissants, a butter dish, two china mugs and an insulated coffee-pot.

Putting the tray on the table she said, “Good morning, Tony.”

“He’s back.”

“Junius?” That was the great thing about Kay. You could talk shorthand with her. “Same stuff as before?”

“More or less. Calls himself NewJunius now. Broke in again, left messages and a hyperlink.”

“I thought they said that was impossible.”

“They said boil-in-the-bag rice was impossible. His style doesn’t improve.”

“You seem pretty laid-back about it.”

“Why not? Some bits I even find myself agreeing with these days.”

“What bits would they be?”

“The bits where he suggests there’s more to being a good American than making money.”

“You tried that one out on Joe lately?” she asked casually.

“You know I did, end of last year when the dust had started to settle after 9/11. There were no certainties any more. We talked about everything.”

“Then after that Joe said it was business as usual, right?”

“Not so. You’ve got Joe wrong. He feels things as strongly as me. I don’t see him face to face enough, that’s all.”

“He’s only a flight away,” she said gently.

It wasn’t a discussion she wanted to get into. Joe Proffitt, head of the Ashur-Proffitt Corporation, wasn’t a man she liked very much, but she didn’t feel able to speak out too strongly against him. Last September she knew that every instinct in Tony Kafka’s body had told him to head for home, permanently. But with Helen three months’ pregnant, he’d known how his wife would feel about that. So Tony was still here and, as far as she could detect, Joe Proffitt’s business certainties had hardly been dented at all.

“Yeah, I ought to go more often. It’s as quick going to the States as it is getting to London with these goddam trains,” he grumbled. “Look at me, up with the dawn so I can be sure to be in time for lunch barely a couple of hundred miles away.”

“You’ll have time for some breakfast?” she said.

“No thanks. I’ll get some on the train. What time you get back last night?”

“Late. Two o’clock maybe, I don’t know. You didn’t wait up.”

“What for? You may not need sleep but I do, specially with an early start and a long hard day ahead speaking a foreign language.”

“I thought it was just Warlove you were meeting?”

“That’s the foreign language I mean.” They smiled at each other. “Anyway, last night when you rang, you didn’t think there was anything there to lose sleep over. Has anything changed? I’ll get asked.”

“You think they’ll know already?”

“I’d put money on it,” he said.

“It’s cool,” she said pouring herself some coffee. “Domestic drama, that’s all. Main thing is Helen’s fine and the twins don’t seem any the worse for being a tad early.”

“Good. Born in Moscow House, eh? There’s a turnup.”

“Like their mother. Nature likes a pattern. She wants to call the girl Kay.”

“Yeah, you said. And the boy?”

“Last night she was talking about Palinurus. Of course she’s very upset over what happened and later she might get to thinking…”

“A bit ill-omened? Right. And your fat friend is quite happy, is he?”

“Copycat suicide, no problems.”

“Copycat suicide? He doesn’t find that a bit weird?”

“I think in his line of business he takes weird in his stride. I’m having a drink with him later, so I’ll get an update.”

“Who was it said an update was having sex the first time you went out?”

“You, I’d guess. No passes from Andy. He is, despite appearances, a kind man.”

“Yeah,” he said, as if unconvinced.

Silence fell between them broken by the distant chime of the old long-case clock standing in the main entrance hall. Though it looked as if it had been there almost as long as the house, in fact it had come later than its owners. Kay had spotted it in an antique shop in York. When she’d pointed out the inscription carved on the brass dialHartford Connecticut 1846 -Tony had laughed and said, “Real American time at last!” She’d gone back later and bought it for his birthday. He’d been really touched. It turned out to have a rather loud chime which she’d wanted to muffle, but he’d refused, saying, “We need to make ourselves heard over here!” In return, however, he’d conceded when she resisted his proposal to set it five hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.

Now its brassy note rang out eight times.

“Gotta go,” said Kafka. “Let me know how you get on with Mr Blobby, if you’ve a moment.”

“Sure. Tony, you’re not worried?”

“No. Just like to show those bastards I’m on top of things.”

“You’re sure they’re not getting on top of you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know… sometimes you get so restless… last night when I got in you were tossing and turning like you were at sea.”

For a moment he seemed about to dismiss her worries, then he shrugged and said, “Just the old thing. I dream I hear the fire bells and I know I’ve got to get home but I can’t find the way…”

“Then you wake up and you’re home and everything’s fine, Right, Tony? This is our home.”

“Yeah, sure. Only sometimes I think I feel more foreign here than anywhere. Sorry, no. I don’t mean right here with you. That’s great. I mean this fucking country. Maybe all I mean is that America’s where all good Americans ought to be right now. We are good Americans, aren’t we, Kay?”

“As good as we can be, Tony. That’s all anyone can ask.”

“I think a time’s coming when they can ask a fucking sight more,” he said.

Abruptly he stood up, removed his black robe and stood naked before her except for the thin gold chain he always wore round his neck. On it was his father’s World War Two Purple Heart, which he wore as a good-luck charm.