Good Morning, Midnight (26 page)

“Nice to talk to you as well, Jake,” he said. “But it’s business, I’m afraid.”

“Private or official, Wieldy?”

“Official. Nothing to worry about. A man called Maciver, Palinurus Maciver, killed himself the night before last. We found your card in his wallet. I’m just tying up loose ends and, when I recognized your name, I thought, nice to give old Jake a ring, see how he’s doing, kill two birds with one stone.”

“Glad you did, Wieldy. I read about Maciver. Tragic.” A pause. For reflection on the mutability of things? Or…? “Any idea what drove him to it, Wieldy?”

Keeps on saying my name like we’re old drinking buddies, thought Wield.

“That’s why I’m ringing, Jake. We just wondered if anything in the work you were doing for him might throw some light on his state of mind.”

Another pause. There’s someone there, guessed Wield. Perhaps just his secretary. Then why hadn’t she answered the phone?

“Sorry, Wieldy,” said Gallipot. “I was just trying to run my mind over my responsibilities re client confidentiality. Not sure how death affects things.”

“Depends whether it’s his or yours, I should have thought,” said Wield drily.

Gallipot’s infectious laugh boomed out.

“Finger right on it as always, Wieldy,” he said. “Hang on. I’ll get the file.”

The phone went quiet, too quiet. He’s not getting a file, thought Wield. He’s sitting at his desk counting up to ten.

He joined in mentally and spot on ten Gallipot said, “Here we are. No, don’t think it’s going to be any help. Some stuff he got offered for his business. He’s in the antiques trade, but you probably know that. Thought it might be a bit iffy and wanted me to check it out. That was a couple of months back.”

“And was it iffy?”

“Not that I was able to find out. I gave him my report, he paid me, end of story. My card must have just got stuck at the back of his wallet.”

No way, thought Wield. It looked pretty new, almost pristine.

“I suppose so. Thanks anyway, Jake. Oh, by the way, how did Maciver come to choose your firm? Yellow Pages job, was it?”

Wield was so casual an old CID man like Gallipot would be on to him like a shot. Slipping in an apparently unimportant question at the end of an interview when the guard was down, a question to which the interrogator already knew the answer, was an old technique. Difference here was Wield didn’t know the answer and hadn’t the faintest idea if it were important or not. But it was slightly curious that Maciver should have opted for a Harrogate PI rather than one closer to home.

Again the pause while Gallipot weighed the risk of giving unnecessary information against the risk of being caught in a lie. Not a risk worth taking, Wield guessed he’d decide. But the hesitation was interesting.

“I did a job for his father many years ago, not long after I went private. I think Mac Junior said he came across my name in his dad’s papers and, being a bit out of the ordinary, it stuck. So after all those canteen jokes about Pisspot and Tosspot, it came in useful, eh?”

“Certainly looks like it, Jake. Thanks for your time.”

“My pleasure, Wieldy. You ever get over this way, give me a ring and we’ll get together and chew over old times. Cheers now, old son.”

Wield replaced the receiver and sat looking at it for a full minute. There was something there, but what? He’d forced Gallipot to give him the truth about how Pal Junior got on to him, but it merely transferred the question back ten years. Why had Pal Senior chosen a Harrogate PI, rather than one located in Mid-Yorkshire? Was this, or anything, worth a trip to Harrogate for a face to face? He weighed time spent against possible gain in the logical balance of his mind. It was no contest. His place was here, doing what he did best, holding things together.

Novello put her phone down, stood up and came towards him.

“That’s that fixed, then,” she said.

He looked at her in slight dismay. If she’d already done all she’d been asked to do, then maybe it was time for him to move over and let the new generation in.

“So what have you got?” he asked.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “Except an appointment in twenty minutes with Maciver’s bank manager. Got his lawyer’s name too, so I thought I’d have a word with him about the will. Better to do it face-to-face, harder for them to pull any client confidentiality crap. Will you be here if I need to check back to you, Sarge?”

He felt a rush of relief. So, not superwoman after all, but she had the makings of a very good detective. Why hadn’t he thought of the lawyer? And she was right about face-to-face, like Pete was right. If you wanted to be sure you were getting the truth, there was no other way.

Every so often granny really needs to be reminded how to suck eggs!

He said, “No, I’ll be out, so you’ll need to ring me on my mobile.”

He picked up his phone, dialled Harrogate Police, and asked for DI Collaboy.

“Jim? Ed Wield here… Aye, it’s been quite a time. Everything OK with you?… Grand. Me too. Listen, Jim, this is a courtesy call to say I’m going to be on your patch later today, visiting an old chum of yours. Jake Gallipot… No, that’s not a courtesy call! It’s just he were working for some guy here who’s topped himself and I’d like to know what exactly he were doing… Just a hunch, probably a waste of time… Owt interesting, you’ll be the first to know… Promise! See you.”

He put the phone down. Collaboy had been the DI with supervisory responsibility for Gallipot at the time of his resignation. Even though there’d been no specific charges against the sergeant, Collaboy always reckoned it was the fall-out from that affair which had kept him stuck at his current rank. The thought that someone was sniffing around his former colleague would not be at all displeasing to him and, knowing Wield’s reputation, he’d pay little heed to his claim that he was coming all the way to Harrogate on a hunch.

But a hunch was all he had.

So what?

Sometimes you had to say Stuff logic! and go with the flow.

The flow Pascoe was going with took him past the Central Hospital on his way out to Cothersley.

It occurred to him that a man on his way to trample on the susceptibilities of a grieving widow need hardly feel inhibited by interrupting the joy of a newly-delivered mother and he pulled into the visitors’ car park. It was crowded. There must be a lot of sick people in Mid-Yorkshire. Of course the majority of people visiting the sick are not too displeased to have an excuse for turning up late, but to a man given twenty-four hours by Andy Dalziel, seconds are precious. He turned towards the main reception area, ignoring a sign which read Staff Parking Only, and slid his Golf between a BMW and a Maserati.

When he got out, he stood for a while looking at the Maserati, not enviously, though it was a beautiful thing, but because it brought something to mind. Then he recalled Ellie mentioning her discussion with Cress Maciver about the problems of sexual congress in the machine. He could see what she meant.

There couldn’t be many Maseratis in Mid-Yorkshire, he thought. Curiously he checked the parking slot name. V. J. R. S. Chakravarty, Neurological Consultant. Well, there was no law against it. As long, of course, as Cress wasn’t a patient.

As he strode down a long corridor en route to the maternity unit, he saw two figures coming towards him, deep in conversation. One he recognized immediately as Tom Lockridge. The other was a tall, slim, extremely handsome Asian.

So engrossed was Lockridge in his conversation, or rather his monologue, as he seemed to be doing most of the talking, that he didn’t spot Pascoe till they were almost face to face, and didn’t look too pleased when he did recognize him.

“Dr Lockridge,” said Pascoe. “Could you spare a moment?”

“I’m rather busy,” said Lockridge, looking as if he wanted to keep going.

But the other man had paused too and appeared, if Pascoe read him right, not unhappy at the chance of separating himself from his companion.

“Don’t worry about me, Tom,” he said. “Things to do before rounds. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Flashing a smile at Pascoe which might have set a more susceptible heart racing, he strode away. He was a lovely mover. Pascoe had one of his intuitions.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Vic Chakravarty.”

“The neuro-consultant?”

“That’s right. You’ve heard of him?” said Lockridge. He sounded genuinely interested.

“Only obliquely,” said Pascoe, smiling inwardly at the hidden aptness of the adverb.

For a second Lockridge looked as if he might be about to say something else then changed his mind. “So what do you want with me, Inspector?”

“I’m looking into Pal Maciver’s death,” began Pascoe, ignoring the demotion. “And I was wondering…”

“Sorry, I really can’t talk about Mr Maciver,” interrupted Lockridge.

“Why on earth not?” said Pascoe, surprised.

“Doctor-patient, you know.”

“But that’s absurd. I recall you said yourself he was no longer your patient, so your only relationship with him is as the attending police doctor. So if you can’t talk to me, how do you justify taking your fee?”

“Yes, of course, sorry. Different hats, it’s easy to get confused. But I did put everything I observed into my report,” said Lockridge, on the defensive.

“And a very good report it was,” said Pascoe. “Why did he cease to be your patient, by the way? His choice, or yours?”

“His. He was a private patient, you understand, so the relationship was pretty flexible, none of all that NHS form-filling stuff. Didn’t see a lot of him professionally anyway, so when he announced he thought he’d take his business elsewhere for a change, it was no big deal. In fact we used to see each other more often socially, and I think maybe he liked to keep the two areas separate. A lot of people do, you know.”

“But not Mrs Maciver?”

“No. Didn’t bother her. She stayed. What’s all this got to do with anything, Pascoe?”

“Nothing really, except it’s Mrs Maciver I wanted to ask about. I need to talk to her soon and I was wondering whether you felt she was in a fit state to answer a few routine questions.”

“Oh yes, I should think so. Still a bit upset, naturally, so I’d go easy. But she’s a strong personality, very resilient. How’s the investigation going? Any sign of a note, anything like that?”

“A suicide note, you mean? Not as such,” said Pascoe, interested that after his initial reluctance the doctor now seemed happy to stand and chat.

“Not as such? But there was something on the desk, I recall. A book.”

“Yes, your memory is good, there was a book.”

“And people are saying that everything was done in pretty much the same way as his father killed himself ten years ago. Any truth in that?”

“Perhaps. What’s your interest, Doctor?”

“Just professional. It all suggests a severely disturbed state of mind, don’t you think? Very severely disturbed.”

“I suppose it does. But I imagine some degree of mental disturbance is in fact the norm in most suicides,” said Pascoe. “Thank you for your help.”

He moved away. At the end of the corridor he glanced back. Lockridge was still standing where he’d left him. It occurred to Pascoe that while he didn’t look suicidal, he certainly gave the impression that his own state of mind was far from undisturbed.

On arrival at the maternity unit, he was directed away from the ward to a private room. Nice going for a PE teacher’s wife, he thought. Though of course she did have money of her own. And well-heeled friends, one of whom was sitting at the bedside with a baby crooked in either arm.

“Good morning, Mr Pascoe,” said Kay Kafka. “How nice of you to come. But you were in at the birth, so to speak. Aren’t they just gorgeous?”

Her words were unambiguously friendly and spoken with a smile, but he felt warned. Start hassling Helen and you’ll have me to contend with.

He poked a finger in turn at the sleeping babies and made token cooing noises. He tended to be rather satirical about what he called baby-gush in order to conceal a powerful impulse to pick small children up and hold them tight and possibly burst into tears at the thought of the long haul that lay ahead for them and their parents.

“How are you, Mrs Kafka? Mrs Dunn?” he said, seating himself on the other side of the bed.

In fact the woman in the bed looked a lot better than her visitor. Sitting upright against plumped-up pillows and surrounded by a scatter of glossy magazines, expensive chocolate boxes and exotic fruit baskets as well as enough flowers to keep Eliza Doolittle going for a fortnight, she could have sat for an allegorical portrait of bountiful summer. Kay Kafka by contrast was definitely autumnal, and not the mellow fruitful end either but the frost-on-lawn, burning-of-leaves, drawing-down-of-blinds end. Yet in her way she was just as lovely as the radiant English girl; the lily and the rose, the moon and the sun.

Pascoe shook the fancy from his head and turned to the business at hand.

“Mrs Dunn,” he said. “I’m sorry to trouble you with reminders of family sorrow at such a joyful time, but I’m sure you’ll understand how important it is for the coroner to have as full a picture as possible of what it was that led up to the other night’s tragedy. Of course, I’ll quite understand if you don’t feel up to talking just yet and would prefer to wait till you got home. When will that be, by the way? I bet you can’t wait.”

In fact it wasn’t a bet he’d have cared to risk loose change on. He had a feeling that the sense of contentment radiating out of Helen Dunn had more to do with lying at her ease, the centre of attention, receiving gifts and congratulation, than with the prospect of getting home to start the long haul of parenthood.

She said, “Oh that will be a day or two yet of course I can’t wait but I’ve got to think of Jase he’s got his work and I don’t want him worrying about me while he’s at school.”