Good Morning, Midnight (22 page)

“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.

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…”