Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  Fleur worked out the reason simultaneously with having her conclusion confirmed. A man approached the exit on a small motor bike. Most of his features were hidden by his helmet and goggles, but she could see he had a moustache. As he passed the young woman, her gaze followed him. The bike turned left, passing the entrance gap close to where Fleur was standing. She took out a ballpoint and scribbled its number down on the palm of her hand.

  Could it be as easy as this? she wondered. She needed to move quick. If, as she assumed, the young woman was working for Tubby, then it would only take a single phone call for her to get all known details of the motor cyclist.

  Two could play at that game if you had the right contacts, and one thing Fleur Delay had was the right contacts. The young woman didn’t seem in any hurry to get on the phone. In fact she was standing in the same place, giving every impression of uncertainty over her next move. So there could still be time here to get ahead of the game.

  She put a number into her mobile as she walked towards the VW.

  ‘I need a vehicle check,’ she said. ‘Quick as you can.’

  She rang off then speed-dialled her brother.

  ‘Vince,’ she said, ‘come to the car.’

  ‘They’re still at the table,’ he protested. ‘And my pudding’s just arriving.’

  ‘The car, Vince. Now!’

  She opened the door of the VW and slid into the driver’s seat.

  The young woman was on the phone now but she looked as if she were having a conversation rather than simply making a request.

  Vince came out of the hotel, looking sulky.

  Fleur’s phone rang.

  ‘Alun Watkins, Flat 39, Loudwater Villas,’ she repeated.

  By the time Vince got into the car, she’d entered the address into her sat-nav.

  ‘What’s happening, Sis?’ asked Vince.

  Fleur started the engine and smiled at him.

  ‘We may be going home sooner than you think.

  12.35–13.15

  The Fat Man rarely needed an excuse to be hungry, but this morning he’d been in such a rush that he’d scrimped on breakfast. Now he tucked into his roast beef with relish. And with horseradish too.

  Gina on the other hand merely poked her fork at the wafer-thin slices on her plate, but nothing got near her mouth except her wine glass.

  Finally she said, ‘If Alex is behind this, then I don’t need to worry about getting his picture in the paper or on the box, do I?’

  He said, ‘I’d say not.’

  She went on, as if thinking aloud, ‘But I can’t make that assumption, can I? If the photo didn’t come from him, then I’ve got to do everything I can to find him.’

  ‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

  For a second she looked at him as if he’d asked a stupid question. But the look faded as she started to answer and discovered her reasons were not so clear cut as she’d imagined.

  ‘Because…because I need…because of what we felt for each other…what we went through together…Because I need to know!’

  She stared at him defiantly, as if challenging him to ask, know what?

  Instead he said, ‘What about him? Mebbe he doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘We don’t know that. He may still be in a state of fugue.’

  ‘Like old Bach, you mean? Thought you said he weren’t all that musical.’

  ‘I think you know very well what I mean,’ she said dismissively.

  Reckons she’s got my number now, he thought complacently. That was OK. He liked dealing with folk who believed they knew how his mind worked.

  He said, ‘So if he’s in trouble, all mixed up, don’t know who he is or what’s gone off or owt, you’d like to help him, right?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘And if you find he’s alive, but not in trouble, what then?’

  She took another drink of wine then said, ‘I may just kill the bastard!’

  She spoke with deadly emphasis. Dalziel pursed his lips as if pondering the idea before nodding in approval. Now her features relaxed into a smile and finally she laughed out loud.

  ‘Sorry! What am I like? Mixed feelings is putting it lightly, Andy. Can I call you Andy?’

  ‘Why?’ said Dalziel.

  ‘Because Mick says it’s your name. Also because anyone overhearing me call you Mr Dalziel will imagine you’re either my boss or my sugar daddy.’

  ‘And calling me Andy ’ull make them think I’m your toy boy, is that it?’

  She laughed again. A couple of glasses of wine had really loosened her up. What might a third do? It occurred to him that if Pascoe was keeping an eye on him, he might be getting the wrong idea about this lunch date. Serve the bugger right!

  Gina said, ‘The thing is, Andy, you’re Mick’s idea, not mine. When he suggested contacting you, I thought that probably it would be a complete waste of time.’

  ‘And you don’t now? Why’s that?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s done some checking up,’ she said provocatively.

  ‘You’ve been checking on me, you mean? How’d you manage that?’

  ‘For a start, I spoke to Mick. I asked him to tell me all about you.’

  ‘Can’t have been that much to tell, we only ever met the once.’

  ‘Your reputation seems to have spread pretty widely in police circles, Andy. Do you like cowboy movies?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Mick’s a great fan. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood. We often spend a night watching old DVDs. When it’s my turn, it’s The Red Shoes or Tales of Hoffman. With Mick it’s Unforgiven or True Grit. That’s his favourite.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen it. Good movie.’

  ‘You remember the bit where the girl is looking for a marshal to pursue the man who killed her father? Depends what she’s looking for, she’s told. But if it’s true grit she wants, Rooster Cogburn’s her man. That’s what Mick said about you.’

  Dalziel massaged his chins reflectively.

  ‘I told you already, I don’t kill people, not unless I really don’t like them,’ he said.

  ‘Same as Rooster, then,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I put together what Mick said with what I’d picked up from you in our short meeting. And I decided I’d be mad not to accept any help you can give me, if you’re up for it, that is.’

  Dalziel looked at her over his wine glass. Were Mick Purdy and this woman jerking him around? But he had to admit the True Grit bullshit gave him a warm glow.

  ‘So what might you want me to do?’ he asked.

  She became very businesslike as she said, ‘Well, here’s how I see things. There are only two possibilities that concern me. One, Alex is alive and will want to make contact with me if he knows I’m here. Two, Alex is alive and either won’t want to make contact or isn’t in a fit mental state to recognize me.’

  Three, Alex is alive and doing the horizontal tango with some bit of dusky chuff in Buenos Aires, thought Dalziel. Or four, he’s a seven-year-old corpse.

  He said, ‘Sounds reasonable. So?’

  ‘If it’s the first, I can take care of that myself. But if it’s the second, I’m going to have a hell of a job tracking him down on my own. Whereas someone with your experience and resources…’

  ‘You reckon? Any tips where I might start?’

  She produced the envelope containing the page from MY Life.

  ‘You could start here. There are other people standing around him. I’m sure you’ve got the resources to blow their faces up then set about tracking some of them down. They might remember him, even know him.’

  ‘Mebbe,’ he said, taking the envelope. ‘Worth a try.’

  Though he’d been planning to get the photograph from her so that he could test Purdy’s theory that it was a fake, getting it this way made him feel slightly uncomfortable. But it wasn’t his job to suggest to her that this might all be a put-up job with Mick as the main target. Was it?

  He was saved from further debate by his mobile ring
ing once more.

  ‘He’s left,’ said Novello.

  ‘You mean you’ve lost him?’

  ‘He’s on a motorbike. I’ve got the number. Shall I run it?’

  Dalziel took the point without need of elaboration. All requests to run vehicle numbers were logged and an off-duty DC would be expected to explain herself.

  He could of course by a mere word turn this from unofficial to official. Even if Purdy’s notion that it was nothing more than a sick joke were right, the fact that their table had been bugged upped the ante considerably. But it could still be either owt or nowt. A couple of months back he could have shrugged off nowt with an even-Homer-nods indifference, but now he felt himself being weighed in the balance of his colleagues’ judgment.

  Sod it. He was king of the castle, wasn’t he? And being king meant not having to explain yourself.

  He said, ‘Give it to me.’

  He scribbled it on his hand.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said.

  He disconnected, thumbed Wield’s speed-dial number.

  ‘Wieldy, check this for me. And get back to me soonest, OK?’

  He put the phone on the table and smiled apologetically at Gina Wolfe.

  She said, ‘This is like being with Mick on his so-called day off. You never know when his phone’s going to ring.’

  ‘You must have got used to it during your marriage,’ he said.

  ‘To some extent. But after Alex moved up to DI, he was much more concerned with paper chases than blues-and-twos hot pursuit. It was good for a while. No more long white nights wondering what he was up to. Then we had other reasons for long white nights. And days.’

  He said, ‘That must have been a terrible time. Hard to imagine worse.’

  ‘Mick told you the details about Lucy, did he?’

  Her recent brightness had faded. He found he wanted to bring it back, and he had to remind himself that he wasn’t on a date.

  He said, ‘Aye. So no need to talk about it if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, that’s OK. Talking about it’s better than keeping it all inside, eating you up. That’s what it did to Alex. It ate him up. Which in a way was good for me. Keeping an eye out for Alex gave me a function.’

  ‘But you left him all the same.’

  ‘Because he’d gone beyond my help. There was an edge he was close to falling over. I knew if I stayed I’d probably go after him. I left to find strength to come back and save him. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But by the time I came back, he’d gone. Literally. I still wonder…’

  ‘Nay, lass, don’t. You don’t measure how you feel pain by how you bear it. Surviving don’t mean you’re less sensitive, just that you’re stronger.’

  Jesus, Dalziel! he admonished himself. Might not be a date, but there’s no need to sound off like a big-tent preacher!

  She said, ‘Maybe. Maybe his weakness has given him the chance to start over from scratch while all my so-called strength does is leave me bearing it forever. Just because I’ve reshaped my life doesn’t mean I’ve escaped from the past, Andy. Not a day passes but I think about little Lucy. But I still find it hard even to refer to what happened directly. I hear myself skirting around. Like in the cathedral.’

  ‘You’re not skirting now.’

  ‘No. I suppose in the cathedral I was talking to a stranger.’

  ‘And now?’

  She smiled even though there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Now I’m talking to Rooster Cogburn.’

  ‘You’ll not get me on a horse,’ he said, seeking an escape route from this intensity.

  She was glad to take it.

  ‘Don’t need a horse to be a perfect gentle knight,’ she said, only half mocking.

  ‘I’ve been called a lot of things, but not that. Here, where’s my grub gone?’

  The Fat Man had no problem eating and talking at the same time, but the problem with this simultaneity was that often the food went down without him really noticing it.

  She said, ‘You can try mine, if you like. I’m not really hungry.’

  He looked suspiciously at her plate.

  ‘Beef, is it? How’s it cooked?’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Bloody hell! My dad used to warn me, never get mixed up with a lass who eats raw meat!’

  ‘Perhaps you should have listened to him,’ she said. ‘But it tastes fine. Really.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try owt, except for incest and the Lib Dems.’

  He cut off a sliver, chewed it, said, ‘Not bad,’ and pulled her plate towards him.

  His second bottle of Barolo was almost gone.

  She on the other hand was showing no inclination to push beyond her second glass. Pity, perhaps. But waste not, want not.

  He said, ‘The rest of yon white stuff, you’re not leaving that too, are you?’

  Smiling she pushed the bottle towards him.

  He had made good inroads into the raw beef when his phone rang again. He looked at the display and said, ‘’Scuse me, luv. Private,’ stood up and descended the steps towards the garden before answering.

  ‘Wieldy,’ he said.

  ‘That number, I’ve got a name and address,’ said the sergeant.

  Dalziel scribbled it down into his notebook.

  ‘Thanks, Wieldy.’

  ‘No problem. Owt I should know about, sir? Or Pete, mebbe?’

  ‘Talk about it tomorrow,’ prevaricated Dalziel. ‘And if I need to talk to Pete, as it happens I’m looking at the bugger right this minute. Thanks, Wieldy. Cheers.’

  It was true, more or less. He could distantly see Pascoe’s head among a group of people at the buffet party.

  He thumbed in Novello’s number.

  ‘Ivor, here’s the name and address. Alun Watkins, 39 Loudwater Villas. Listen, see what you can find out, but softly softly, OK? Good girl. No, no need to get back to me. Unless something really important comes up, it’ll keep till the morning. Enjoy thasel!’

  He suddenly felt very relaxed. Maybe it was the fact that he’d sunk two bottles of lovely Italian plonk, but relaxing here in the sun looking out over a garden where the glories of summer were enhanced rather than threatened by the first touch of autumn, with that pleasantly mazy music drifting up from the gazebo while behind him, impatient (he hoped) for his return, sat a golden-haired damsel begging him to ease her distress, he found he’d shed all the doubts and concerns that had beset him since his return to work.

  And there was still pudding to come!

  Once more master of his soul and captain of his fate, he could do anything he wanted.

  Except maybe drive home.

  But sufficient be the evil…

  He turned round and realized Gina Wolfe had risen too and was standing close behind him. Close enough to have overheard? Mebbe. But it didn’t matter. He’d said nowt that suggested the calls had anything to do with her.

  She said, ‘This is a lovely spot, isn’t it? It seems somehow, I don’t know, ungrateful to be unhappy in such a place on such a day.’

  ‘Then let’s try not to be unhappy,’ he said, leading her back to the table and pouring an inch of golden wine into her glass and filling his own to the brim. ‘Let’s have a toast. To a bright future, eh?’

  ‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘Don’t tempt fate by bringing in the future.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Wise man sticks to here and now. So, let’s see. Here’s to Iti wine, English weather, and a little chance music out of doors. Cheers!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said, smiling.

  13.00–13.40

  David Gidman the Third stepped up to the microphone and acknowledged the applause.

  Pinchbeck had been right. Again. The crowd at the opening was at least fifty per cent larger than the church congregation. The bloody woman had probably also been right to run interference when that dishy deaconess had tried to top up his glass on the vicarage lawn. The notion of pleasuring a woman in canon
icals was strangely appealing.

  He shook the thought from his mind and concentrated on carrying his audience back to 1948 and the arrival in England of the Empire Windrush, bringing with it David Gidman the First and his young son, not yet known as Goldie.

  Maggie listened critically as he outlined his grandfather’s early days in the East End, his emergence as a community leader, his rise from railway cleaner to guard on the Flying Scotsman. She had to acknowledge he was good. More convincing than Cameron, beefier than Brown, less lachrymose than Blair, he had it all. In the right hands he could really go far.

  He made the transition from his grandfather to his father with consummate ease, projecting Goldie as a hard-working, self-made entrepreneur who’d used the opportunities offered by a benevolent state to get an education and make a fortune.

  ‘There was one other thing my dad shared with his dad as well as a capacity for hard work,’ he declared. ‘Neither of them ever forgot where they came from. They always gave something back and the more they earned the more they gave.

  ‘Now here am I, the third generation of the UK Gidmans. By their standards, I’ve had it easy. Not for me the long journey across a wide ocean to a new land, a new life. Not for me the long journey from the back streets of the East End to the boardrooms of the City. No, I stand before you, benefiting from the advantages of going to a first-rate school and a first-rate university.

  ‘Yet I do not feel any need to apologize for these advantages. They’ve been paid for, and paid for with interest, by the love and the devotion and the damned hard work of my father and his father.

  ‘But I’m always aware that, if I’m to show myself worthy of their efforts, their love, their sacrifice, then I too have payments to make.

  ‘I’m proud of my pappy and of my granpappy, and I want to make them proud of me. It’s people like you standing here before me today who will tell me by your comments and your votes if I succeed.

  ‘But I won’t be doing my political career much good if I keep you any longer from the refreshments waiting inside! So without further ado, I would like to declare the David Gidman the First Memorial Community Centre well and truly open.’