Good Morning, Midnight (52 page)

Normally an operative in sleep mode is able to pass the rest of his life in what seems to the outside world a normal state of retirement from whatever job he may claim to have had. But in times of need, you are always likely to be reactivated.

When I heard of young Maciver’s death, I went straight round to Blacklow Cottage, bearing the sad news purely as a friend. But I was duty bound to report the odd circumstances of the death to my masters, since when I admit I have been acting as their ears here in Mid-Yorkshire. My conclusion about the affair is I am sure the same as yours, Mr Pascoe. Young Pal came across something which made him think again about the circumstances of his father’s death. Perhaps it was simply a record of his dealings with Gallipot. Pal followed his father’s road pretty exactly here too, hiring the man ostensibly for one purpose then gradually bringing him round to the other. How he did it I’m not sure-bribery, alcohol, drugs, perhaps a combination-but eventually he got Gallipot to reveal all, or at least as much as he knew or suspected, of the true circumstances of his father’s death. You would of course have a much fuller picture if it were not for the tragic accident which deprived you of a chance to question Gallipot. Strange are the workings of fate.

This information must have been shocking to young Pal, but I cannot believe it overthrew his reason to the point where he decided to take his own life. That decision must surely have had some other much closer occasion-I see from your face, Mr Pascoe, that I am right-but once taken, his mind was quite clearly so deranged that he opted to repeat the circumstances of the paternal death as closely as possible, using whatever garbled version Gallipot had fed him as a template.

My reactivation period has been most interesting and I am glad to have been of service to my country again. But I will not disguise the fact that now that everything is satisfactorily settled, I am looking forward to going back to sleep.

All’s well that’s ends well, a sentiment I am sure Mr Dalziel will agree with. He, I would gauge, has most to lose by any public airing of these affairs, and I should hate to see a noble career end on such a sour note.

But if I am any judge of character, I doubt whether you, Mr Pascoe, will let it come to this.

The world is a stranger place than you or I can begin to imagine. We must each cultivate our own garden, Mr Pascoe. Except for young Mr Hat, who I would guess will benefit greatly from being allowed to cultivate Miss Mac’s.

Good luck in your career, Mr Pascoe. I shall follow it with interest.

And now I bid you good day.

Pascoe switched off the tape.

He looked at Edgar Wield, who looked away.

The third person in the room, Andy Dalziel, shifted in his chair, adjusted one buttock as if contemplating breaking wind, changed his mind, and settled instead for a long exhalation of breath midway between a sigh and a whistle which had a quality of infinite distance in it.

Perhaps he’s calling something up, thought Pascoe.

He had thought long and hard about what to do with the recording.

After a while he realized he was simply looking for reasons not to play it to the Fat Man.

Upon which he’d headed straight for Dalziel’s room, pausing only to pick up the sergeant on the way, as a witness, or simply as a supportive friend, he wasn’t sure which. He suspected Wield wasn’t grateful.

The whistling sound faded away.

“Did he know you were taping him?” said Dalziel.

“I didn’t tell him. But I don’t think he cared. He took precautions.”

“Precautions?”

“He refers to your relationship with Kay at least five times. So who apart from ourselves are we going to play it to?”

“You could have burnt it, said nowt.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was concerned some future situation might arise in which I wished I had played it to you.”

Dalziel whistled again, this time the breath going in not out, then said, “You any idea what he’s talking about, Wieldy?”

The sergeant thought for a moment.

“Yes,” he said.

“Bloody hell. If this were a sodding democracy, I’d be outvoted. All right, let’s play the democratic game. We’ve all heard it. What next?”

“Now we burn it,” said Pascoe.

“Why?”

“Because, like I said, we can’t use it. And because we don’t know how much of it is true.”

“Which bit in particular?”

“Any of it. For instance, we don’t know what really happened between Kay and her husband. Did he lay hands on her? Was there an accident? Or did she take the ice axe and hit him in self-defence? Or was she so angry and fearful when he threatened to keep her and Helen permanently apart that she deliberately and with premeditation drove the axe into his head?”

“Or mebbe he wasn’t dead at all,” said Wield.

“Eh?” said Dalziel.

“Waverley’s right about an axe falling on you from a wall. Could knock you out, leave a lot of blood, but chances of it killing you are pretty small. Even a single blow by a woman isn’t all that likely to do the trick. Top of the head’s one of the hardest parts of the body. When Waverley realizes Maciver’s just unconscious, he’s got a problem. Call ambulance and police? Suddenly him and Gallipot have got to explain themselves. It’s going to be a headline case, this business about the wife trying to shag the son, all that. Very messy once the papers get their big yellow teeth into it. But if Maciver’s dead, and he can fake it as suicide, all the problems go away. And Kay thinking she did it means her co-operation is guaranteed for ever.”

“So it’s not a corpse he fakes the suicide on,” said Pascoe. “That would be a lot easier than fooling a pathologist about the cause and time of death. Which means all that stuff about the central heating was just a smoke screen for my benefit.”

“Yes. He’d be willing to admit a lot to get you off his back, but likely he reckoned that murder would be an admission too far. Which is what it was if he just tied Pal Senior up and came back to finish the job a day or two later.”

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Dalziel. “You two have got more stories than yon Arabian bint who didn’t want to get topped. How about it’s all a lie, and Maciver really did kill himself, and Waverley just thinks he can make me run scared, thinking I’ve got myself involved in a cover-up?”

“Possible,” said Pascoe. “Possibly also Waverley really is just a VAT inspector with a very active fantasy life and an obsession with Miss Maciver. We don’t know. In fact we’ve got a whole bunch of statements from just about everyone involved in this business, and I’ll tell you what, there’s not a one of them I’m one hundred per cent certain of. And that includes even those I think believe they’re telling the truth.”

“So what are we going to do?” said Wield.

Pascoe liked the we. A lesser man would have said you.

He looked at Dalziel and said, “Sir?”

He said, “There’s nowt we can do about any of the big stuff, sanction busting, politics, all that shit. And despite your fancy theories about murder, I reckon this guy Waverley’s untouchable. The best we could do by hassling him is get his boss, Mr sodding Gedye, nervous enough to have Waverley permanently retired. But we’re all happy that Pal Junior actually did kill himself, right? For which in my book he deserves a vote of thanks. Always had him marked for a right nasty bastard.”

“The blue beer and the bullshit were quite amusing,” ventured Pascoe.

“I give you that. Yon so-called captain had it coming,” agreed Dalziel. “But it don’t make up for trying to destroy his kid sister’s marriage, does it?”

“I didn’t say that. His mental condition was, to say the least, suspect. But in fairness to him, I don’t believe he ever thought there was a real chance of getting Kay sent down for murdering him. Embarrass her, piss her off, yes. But in the end he knew we were bound to work it out. His real aim was to make us think seriously about the circumstances of his father’s death.”

“So why not come to us with his suspicions? Or leave a letter detailing them?” asked Wield.

“Perhaps because he thought that with Kay having such good friends in high places, any suggestion that Ash-Mac’s management might have been involved would be kicked into touch without a second thought. In any case, accusations contained in suicide notes are always treated with a pinch of salt and he had no real evidence to offer. So he set out to show us how it could be done. By imitating the exact circumstances, he ensured that any investigation of his own death would be an investigation of his father’s also. He dropped the letter addressed to the Officer i/c the Maciver Murder Enquiry in the post after the last pick-up on Wednesday evening so that it wouldn’t reach us till Friday. He left Gallipot’s card in his wallet so that we’d be straight on to him. And he’d given Gallipot a key to Casa Alba and instructed him to e-mail any incriminating photo he got to Mrs Lockridge, to give us another possible link to the man.”

“Some link, with the bugger dead,” growled Dalziel. “You saying that was down to Waverley?”

“That would be my guess,” said Pascoe. “The funny buggers, certainly. Pal knew that when they caught on what was happening, Gallipot would be at risk, but he thought we’d get to him before they did, and that Jake would reckon the best way to defuse a potentially deadly secret was to share it.”

“So everyone’s been jerking us about,” said Wield. “And we don’t know the half of it. I don’t much care for being kept in the dark.”

“Aye, where do we go from here, Pete?” said Dalziel. “You started with one suspicious death and now you seem to be saying there could be at least two more, Gallipot and Pal Senior.”

“And what about Tony Kafka? Is he on the run, or what?” said Wield.

Tony Kafka who wanted to be a good American…

In his mind’s eye Pascoe was seeing Kay Kafka run out of Cothersley Hall to embrace her husband as he left the previous afternoon. There had been something very final in that embrace. She had clung to him as if she meant to keep him with her by main force. He had turned away from the intensity of the scene, feeling like a voyeur. When she came back into the room she’d said, “Tony is a good man. He wants to be a good American,” as if this were an aim fraught with difficulty and peril.

He pushed the scene out of his mind like a slide and replaced it with another.

After talking with Waverley, he had watched the Jag drive away and then returned to the cottage.

“Time to be off, Hat,” he’d said.

“So soon, Mr Pascoe?” said Miss Mac. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask me about?”

“No need. Just a small matter that Mr Waverley was able to clear up. Ready, Hat?”

Bowler clearly wasn’t. He began to rise with all the reluctance of a small boy told it was time to abandon his computer game and go to bed.

Miss Mac said, “I must say I don’t reckon much to the youth of today, Mr Pascoe. In my time, if I’d offered to help a poor old pensioner with her garden, I’d have been too ashamed to leave the job half-done. What do you say?”

Pascoe said, “I think it would be most reprehensible behaviour. What on earth are you thinking of, Bowler? But I’ve got to go so you won’t have a lift.”

“Got my mobile, I can easily ring a taxi,” said Hat.

“You’ll stay for supper then we’ll see about that,” said Miss Mac firmly.

“Goodbye then,” said Pascoe. “I’ll see myself out.”

At the front door he’d paused and glanced back. Hat was sitting at the table again. He had picked up his wedge of bread and was laughing at something Miss Mac had said. There was a flutter of birds about his head.

Pascoe smiled at the memory then realized his two colleagues were watching him very seriously. It occurred to him that a propos the Maciver affair they were looking to him for words that would give them, to use the modern cant term, closure.

Why should it be down to me? he asked himself angrily. How come I get elected moral arbiter of this odd little trinity?

He’d once said something similar to Ellie, demanding rhetorically, Why do they treat me like I’m CID’s moral conscience? To which she’d replied, How else should they treat you? and would not stay for an answer.

Right, he thought. If that’s what they want…

He put on a parsonical voice and declaimed, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.”

He smiled at the baffled expressions before him and said, “That’s one way of looking at things. How does it grab you?”

Dalziel said, “Me, I’m a dedicated flesh and blood man.”

“Me too,” said Wield.

“Then we have a majority. Pal Maciver found he had an inoperable brain tumour and he took his own life. That will be the inquest verdict. Whether it will mark the end of the affair I don’t know, but it will certainly mark the end of our part in it. We have done all we can, I think. Whether we’ve done enough, we won’t find out till the evil day, whenever that is.”

He rose to his feet.

“End of sermon. Andy, the tape’s all yours. Try to be a bit more careful with this one. I’m going home and I shan’t be in till Monday. Not unless someone starts a war, that is.”

“I’d sleep light then,” said Andy Dalziel. “The world’s full of mad buggers. It may not come tomorrow, it may not come this year, but it’ll come, sure as eggs. I’d sleep bloody light.”

Three times the phone rang in Cothersley Hall that night and three times Kay Kafka snatched it up almost before it had started ringing.

The first voice was American.

“Mrs Kafka?”