Midnight Fugue (39 page)

‘Talking of understanding lasses, yon Fleur did you a favour, son,’ said the Fat Man, looking down at the corpse. ‘Everyone should have a sister like her.’

‘Loving, you mean?’ said Pascoe, control of his voice restored.

‘Dead, I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.

19.22–19.30

Goldie Gidman sat staring at the blank TV screen as if still watching his old favourite Hendrix strutting his stuff at Woodstock. The silence stretched into a minute. Things to say bubbled up in Purdy’s head but they all sounded like pleas or provocation. He tried to think of ways of dealing with Slingsby. The guy was an old man with incipient dementia, but he was in the good physical shape that often goes with the condition, and in any case it didn’t take much strength to slice through flesh and vein with what felt like a razor-sharp blade.

Cave in, he told himself. Make Goldie think you’re backing off. But don’t be obvious. He’s no fool, he hasn’t got where he is today by being a fool.

To which was added the uncomfortable thought, Nor has he got where he is today by being unwilling to remove obstacles in his path with extreme prejudice.

If that divine intervention were written into the score, it was time for it to play now.

His phone rang.

Its ring-tone, downloaded for him by Gina, was based on the aria from Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
. He’d protested, ‘Jesus, girl, they’ll all think I’ve gone weird when they hear that.’ And she’d replied, ‘Yes, but you’ll always think of me.’

He thought of her now.

The notes were repeated.

Goldie said, ‘Better answer that, Mick. But be careful what you say.’

Moving carefully to keep the pressure of steel on his throat constant, he took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

‘Purdy,’ he said.

He listened. Gidman, watching him carefully, saw with interest that whoever he was listening to had caught his attention so absolutely that Slingsby and his knife had gone completely out of his mind.

After the best part of a minute, Purdy burst out, ‘And she’s OK? Is she there? Can I speak to her?’

He listened again, then said, ‘OK, I understand. And that’s both of them dead. You’re sure of that?’

Another short period of listening then he said, ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself? Yes, he’s here. Hang on.’

He took the phone from his ear and said, ‘Goldie, I think you might want to hear this.’

Gidman stared at him for a moment then made a gesture. The blade went from his throat, he rose and moved forward and handed the financier the phone.

He said, ‘Goldie Gidman.’

Now it was his turn to listen.

After a while he repeated Purdy’s question.

‘Both of them? You’re sure?’

Another listen, then he said, ‘If you can make that play, then I’m OK with that. Believe me, I only ever wanted to talk.’

He switched off and handed the phone back. Then he smiled, gold fillings gleaming like Tutankhamen’s tomb, and Purdy knew he was safe. He touched his neck then examined his finger. Blood
and
sweat.

Gidman said, ‘You were right, Mick. Things got a bit out of control. We all have off days, right? But they’ve fixed themselves now. Thing I’ve found out as I’ve got older, nothing you can’t fix by talking.’

Purdy put his handkerchief to his neck.

‘Hard to talk with your throat cut, Goldie.’

Gidman laughed.

‘Would never have come to that, Mick, Sure you won’t have that cigar now? Drop of rum for the old days? OK, I understand. Don’t mind me saying, but you look a bit peaky. I’d say the best place for you is back in your bed, get some sleep in before your woman comes home. Sling will see you out. And, Sling, when you’ve said goodbye to the commander, have a word with young Maggie who’s volunteered to take care of me. Flo said she’d left one of her meat-and-potato pies for my supper. Show Maggie where she’ll find it. And tell her I’ll be honoured if she’ll join me at the table. Bye, Mick. Don’t be a stranger.’

Outside Mick Purdy watched as Slingsby, with the gentle smile that one uses to speed a parting friend, closed the door of Windrush House.

Then he took a deep breath of the evening air and looked up at the darkling sky.

Life felt good, even though there were difficult times ahead.

Alex had sounded confident he didn’t need to break whatever cover he’d created for himself. Purdy could accept that, but harder to accept was Wolfe’s assurance that Gina was going to go along with this. And if she did, what was going to be her attitude when she returned? Would she be willing to marry him, knowing that her husband was still alive? Would she let her lawyer go ahead with the petition for assumption of death?

And just how much would she by now have guessed about his role in recruiting Alex on behalf of Gidman?

These concerns he was confident of finding ways to deal with. They were mere midges in the ointment. But the one big blue-bottle potentially buzzing its way alongside them was Andy Dalziel.

How would he be reacting to all that had happened?

No doubt he’ll let me know, thought Purdy. In fact, he’ll probably be ringing shortly to tell me Gina’s OK. Got to be careful I don’t let him see I know already.

He was too tired for all this. Maybe he was too old for all this.

It was funny, but the one element he wasn’t worried about was Goldie Gidman.

As on so many occasions in the past, including some he had personal knowledge of during the man’s early career, some he guessed at in his latter corporate manifestations, Gidman had steered very close to the wind. But he carried with him an aura of invincibility.

Bit like Andy Dalziel, thought Purdy.

Two great survivors, two untouchables.

Pointless worrying about them any more than there’s any point worrying about God.

Time to go home and sleep. The rest would keep till he awoke.

23.15–23.59

Shirley Novello opened her eyes for the second time since being brought to hospital.

The first time she been surrounded by masked strangers who had bustled around her, poked and prodded, adjusted wires and tubes, until finally an unmasked man had introduced himself as her surgeon, asked a couple of simple questions, appeared delighted with her monosyllabic answers, then taken his leave, which she had read as permission to go back to sleep.

The second time she opened her eyes, there was no sound or bustle, just a single monumental figure sitting by the bed. She might have thought it was God if it hadn’t been reading a Sunday tabloid.

‘How do, luv,’ the figure said. ‘It says here that the Tory Party’s put together a think-tank to take a close look at the recession and come up with ideas to fix it, and one of its five wise men is Goldie Gidman. Can you credit it?’

‘Who… he…?’ she managed faintly.

‘He’s the bastard who’s ultimately responsible for putting you in here,’ said the apparition who might not be God but was a dead ringer for Andy Dalziel. ‘And the bad news is, looks like it’s going to be bloody hard making him pay for it. The good news is the bastard who actually cracked your skull is downstairs in the morgue with his sister.’

This was all so surreal she decided it must be part of a post-anaesthetic delusion so she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again he was still there.

‘The big question’, said the Dalziel eidolon, ‘is how much to believe of yon mate of Pete Pascoe’s story. He says he were at the Lost Traveller talking to the landlord about a catering job, and when he were driving away, he looked down the hill and saw Gina being bundled into a car and he got worried so he followed. So, a real have-a-go hero, and modest with it, doesn’t want any fuss. Gina says she’d gone for a drive, got lost, got out of the car to get some air and her bearings, then the Delays showed up and kidnapped her. Does owt of that sound plausible to you, lass?’

Novello tried closing her eyes again, but far from shutting up the speaker, this seemed to be taken as a comment.

‘You’re right, luv. Sounds bloody thin to me too. But the thing is, if I give ’em a dose of good old Andy Dalziel deep questioning, where’s it going to lead but endless dole, eh? He’s just had a babby by young Rosie’s clarinet teacher, and Gina wants to get on home to claim a widow’s pension and marry Mick Purdy. Now there’s another problem, as you’ll not be slow to point out.’

‘Wa…er,’ gasped Novello, opening her eyes.

‘Eh?
What… her
? Is that like
who… he
?’

Wa…er,’ she repeated in exasperation.

‘Oh,
water
! Right.’

He poured a glass of water from a bottle on her bedside locker, put his arm round her shoulder and set the glass to her lips. When she indicated she’d had enough, he gently set her head back down on the pillow.

She said, ‘Is it really you?’

‘Good question, luv. Kind of day I’ve had, I’m not sure how to answer it. We were talking about Mick. I’ve got me doubts there. Nobody hates a bent cop more than me, but we all cut a few corners when we’re young, look the other way for a pint of beer here, a quick jump there. Could be straight as a die now. One thing I’m sure of is, it weren’t himself he were worried about, it were Gina. He really loves that lass. Do I want to muck that up? She’s not daft, but. I reckon she’s going to be giving him a hard time when she gets back, and I don’t mean that kind of hard either. So what should I do, lass? You’re going to have to make these decisions afore too long. You’re going far, I can always spot a good ’un, and you’ve got the makings. So what do you think I should do?’

She drew all her strength together and forced out the words very distinctly.

‘Go… home!’

‘Ay, you’re right, Sleep on it. Except I can’t go straight home. After we got most of it tied up back at the factory, Pete said he were going to buy the lads a drink down the Black Bull. I said I wanted to call round here, see how you were, but I’d likely look in on my way home. Not that there’ll be anyone there now, it’s well after closing time, but Pete and Wieldy might hang on for me. I’ll give them your best, shall I? Don’t expect you’ll be back for a couple of days. You don’t want to hang about this place too long, but. Full of sick people, never know what you’ll catch.’

She heard the chair being pushed back, large feet hitting the tiled floor as he proceeded slowly to the doorway. Was it all a delusion? Most of it had been incomprehensible, but there was one bit she wanted to cling on to and believe in. The bit where he said she was a good ’un and would go far. She could never ask him if he’d really said it, but some sort of authenticating sign that he’d actually been here in the flesh would be a comfort and an inspiration.

The footsteps paused. Distantly she heard the voice say, ‘Oh, one thing more, Ivor. That forty quid I gave thee for tha lunch. In the circumstances, we’ll not bother about the change, eh?’

Asked for and given.

Smiling, she fell asleep.

Dalziel left the hospital and drove through the quiet streets. It had been a hell of a day. Could have turned out a lot worse. That poor Welsh lad getting killed were bad, but he’d thought a lot about it and it weren’t down to him any more than it had been down to randy old Hooky. But if Ivor’s injuries had been fatal, if they hadn’t got to Gina in time, then he had a feeling he’d have asked for his papers. Mebbe he wouldn’t have had to. Mebbe they would have given them to him anyway.

He’d skidded close to the edge round a very dangerous corner, but he was still on the bloody road!

He pulled up on a double yellow in front of the Black Bull. Not another car in sight out here, it was well after closing. There was a dim light showing through a window and hardly any noise. Jolly Jack the landlord and his team of innumerate zombies would likely be clearing up. He almost pulled away but just on the chance Pete Pascoe had hung on, he got out and tried the pub door.

It opened and he stepped into the gloomy entrance hall, then turned right towards the doorway marked
Bar
.

First time I’ve come in here and not really wanted a drink, he told himself sadly. Nowt more depressing than a silent pub after throwing-out time.

He stepped pushed open the door and was hit by a cacophony of cheers and hoots and whistling.

They were all there, his motley gang, crowded into the raised area at the far end that CID had made its own. You could tell by their clothes what they’d been doing when news of the assault on Novello reached them. No one had paused to change. They’d all rushed in to offer their help, and though some of them had turned out to be superfluous to requirement, none of them had gone home. But why were they cheering so much? This was the kind of reception he might have expected to get at the successful end of a long and difficult case.

But somehow it felt different. Somehow it felt like they were welcoming him back after a long journey.

‘You buggers got no homes to go to?’ he demanded. ‘Jack, draw us a pint and whatever this short-armed lot are having. Likely they’ve been waiting hours for some mug to come in and stand them a drink. Just the one, mind you. It’s nigh on midnight and you’ve all got to be up for the crime-review meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Standards have been slipping. I’ll have the bollocks off anyone who’s late.’

He sat down in his wonted chair of state beneath an ancient Vienna clock whose eagle had long since flown at the end of some previous night of constabulary triumph, took a long pull at his pint, and delivered an optimistic bulletin on Novello that won another cheer.

‘So all’s well that ends well,’ murmured Pascoe in his ear.

Was there just a touch of irony there?

‘Not so well for Gareth Jones,’ said Dalziel reprovingly. ‘And I don’t see a happy ending for Hooky Glendower. But it’s ended a bloody sight too well for that bugger Gidman.’

‘Nothing we can do about that, unfortunately,’ said Pascoe. ‘We’ll have to leave it in the hands of God. Talking of Whom, sir, one question me and Wieldy were just wondering about. When taking Mrs Wolfe’s statement, she said something about meeting you in the cathedral early this morning. That fitted in nicely with Mrs Sheridan’s mistaking you for a kerb-crawler. Wieldy and I were just wondering, what in the name of all that’s unholy were you doing in the cathedral? Sir?’