Midnight Fugue

by Reginald Hill

  He took the scissors that Maggie handed him and flourished them for the cameras, making sure his head was inclined slightly to the right. Both profiles were good, but the left was slightly better. Silently he counted up to three, then he snipped the white silk ribbon stretched across the open double door of the ultra-modern reflective glass and white concrete building squatting like a crash-landed space cruiser within world record javelin-throwing distance of the no man’s land that was allegedly going to blossom into the London Olympic village.

  He acknowledged the applause, then stood aside and waved the public in towards the promised refreshments.

  First to the barricades, last to the refreshments, that’s the way to win hearts and minds, Maggie said. He looked for her now, and saw her making sure that the Centre manager had taken control of the official civic party so that she could give her full attention to the much more important posse of journalists.

  She’d vetoed Dave’s suggestion of a formal press conference.

  ‘That would make it look like it’s all about you,’ she said.

  ‘But it is,’ he objected. ‘That’s why Pappy said he’d stay away.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t want it to look like that. It’s OK, you’ll get the coverage.’

  To this end, she stage managed a series of semi-private conversations as they trailed in the wake of the civic party. All PAs like to claim they can deal with the press. Maggie was one of the few who actually could. So unobtrusive you never knew she was there till you stepped out of line, she was gaining a reputation for never failing to deliver on a promise, or a threat.

  First up was the Independent. Not their top political man; you needed something a bit meatier than an upwardly mobile young politician opening a community centre to get him off his wife’s Norfolk estate on a Sunday. No, this was a pleasant enough young fellow called…he needed Maggie’s whisper this time.

  ‘Hello, Piers. Good to see you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gidman. Your father must be disappointed he couldn’t be here today. How’s he keeping?’

  ‘He’s fine. Just a touch of cold. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Hope he shakes it off soon. But we don’t seem to have seen a lot of him recently anyway. Not leaving the field clear so you can shine, is he?’

  ‘No one shines brighter than Goldie Gidman, isn’t that what they say? No, he just likes the quiet life nowadays.’

  ‘Quiet? I understand he’s in and out of Millbank all the time, helping the shadow chancellor get his sums right in the current crisis.’

  ‘He’s always available when his country needs him, but today he really is treating himself to a day of rest.’

  ‘Unlike you, eh? Busy busy, in and out of the House. Where do you get the energy? Your friends must be worried you’re taking too much on.’

  ‘You know what they say–if you want something done, ask a busy man.’

  ‘I’m sure the PM agrees with you. There’s a rumour going around that there may be something for you in the next reshuffle. Any comment?’

  ‘I am at my Party’s and my country’s disposal.’

  ‘And the rumour…?’

  ‘Almost impossible to stop a rumour, Piers, so do keep spreading it.’

  Now Maggie Pinchbeck materialized between them and with a sweet smile indicated that the reporter’s time was up. Obediently he moved aside.

  Next up was the Guardian. Again second string, though his well-worn bomber jacket and balding suede shoes looked as if they’d been handed down by his superior.

  He too wanted to focus on Goldie Gidman’s contributions to the Tory coffers. When he started getting aggressive, suggesting that if Goldie wasn’t looking for some payback to himself, maybe he regarded it as an investment in his son’s career, Maggie stepped in again, turning as she did so to signal the next journalist on her list to move forward. It should have been Gem Huntley, a rather pushy young woman from the Daily Messenger. Instead it was Gwyn Jones, who was to political scandal what a blow-fly is to dead meat, and he’d been trying to settle on the Gidmans ever since Dave the Third burst on the scene.

  ‘Gwyn,’ she said, ‘good to see you! What happened? Shandy not sending double invites then?’

  It never did any harm to let these journalists know that they weren’t the only ones who kept their eyes and ears open. She knew about the Shandy party because Gidman had been sent an invitation which she’d made sure never reached him. While fairly confident she could have persuaded him that cancelling the Centre opening to attend what the tabloids were calling the mega-binge of the month would have been a PR disaster, it had seemed simpler and safer merely to remove the temptation.

  Jones smiled in sardonic acknowledgement of the suggestion that he would only have been invited on Beanie’s ticket and said, ‘Man cannot live on caviar alone. Give me a good honest sandwich any time. Anyway, young Gem wasn’t feeling too well this morning so they asked me if I could step in.’

  He made as little effort to sound convincing as Maggie did to sound sincere as she replied, ‘I’m sorry to hear that, hope she’s OK. David, we’re honoured today. The Messenger’s sent their top man to talk to you.’

  She had to give it to Dave. Not by a flicker did he show anything but pleasure as he smiled and said, ‘Gwyn, great to see you. Must have missed you at St Osith’s.’

  ‘Didn’t make the service, Dave, sorry. Good to see you’re taking your leader’s strictures to heart. What was it he said? Religion should have no politics. We will all stand naked before God. When doubtless we will find if size really does matter.’

  Gidman’s heart lurched. Could the bastard be on to Sophie?

  But his smile remained warm and his voice was light and even as he replied, ‘You’re talking about majorities, of course. So what do you think of the Centre?’

  ‘Looks great. No expense spared, eh? Folk round here must be very grateful.’

  ‘Gratitude isn’t the issue. We just want to put something back into the area.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see why you’d feel like that. Though it does raise the question, would it ever really be possible for your family to fully put back in everything you’ve taken out? You’d have to build something like Buck House, wouldn’t you?’

  Maggie was taken aback. The Messenger was never going to be Gidman’s friend, and Jones hated his guts, but even so his approach here was unusually frontal.

  Her employer’s initial reaction was relief. Sexual innuendo would have bothered him. Anti-Goldie slurs were old hat and easily dealt with.

  ‘Do what you can then do a little more, isn’t that what they say?’ he declared.

  ‘Is it? Who was that? Alex Ferguson?’

  ‘Someone even older, I think. Confucius, perhaps.’

  ‘That’s really old. But we should always pay attention to the past, right, Dave? You never know when something’s going to come up behind you and bite your bum. Man with a bitten bum finds out who his real friends are. Of course, it depends what’s doing the biting. A flea would just be irritating, but something a bit bigger, like a wolf, say, that could be serious. You wouldn’t have a wolf trying to take a bite somewhere behind you, Dave?’

  Why the hell was he stressing wolf?

  ‘Not even a flea to the best of my knowledge, Gwyn.’

  ‘Lucky you. Talking of the past, I heard a rumour your dad was thinking of writing his autobiography.’

  ‘Another rumour! Definitely nothing in that one, Gwyn. I once suggested it to him and he said, who’d want to read about a dull old devil like me?’

  ‘Oh, I think there’s quite a lot of people who’d like to hear the whole moving story, Dave, wolves and all. If he ever does go down that road, I’d be more than happy to help him out with the research. It’s never easy digging up the past. People move on, disappear. That’s where a journalist could come in really useful. We’ve got the skills. Finding disappeared people’s a bit of a specialty of mine.’

  ‘That’s a kind offer. I’ll be sure to ment
ion it to him, Gwyn.’

  His gaze flickered to Maggie, who took the hint and brought the interview to a close by advancing the friendly face of the Daily Telegraph. For which relief much thanks, thought Gidman. The Telegraph loved him. But as he answered the bromidic questions, the voice he was hearing in his mind was still Gwyn Jones’s.

  13.00–13.50

  Goldie Gidman watched his guest’s reaction to the food that Flo had set before him with an amusement he took care to hide.

  The man had been an hour late for his eleven o’clock appointment at Windrush House. As his purpose was basically to beg for money, it might have been expected that he would be punctual. On the other hand, as a peer of the realm condescending to visit the tasteless mansion of a self-made black man, he perhaps did not feel that the courtesy of kings need apply. Certainly his explanation for his lateness with its casual reference to the number of roadworks between Sandringham and Waltham Abbey had more of condescension than apology in it.

  Goldie Gidman was not offended. When asked as he frequently was by journalists why a man with his background should be such a staunch supporter of the Conservative Party, he had a stock reply that included references to traditional values, British justice, fair play, equal opportunity, enlightened individualism, and cricket.

  Privately, and not for publication, he had been known to say that he’d looked closely at British politics and seen that the Tories were his kind of people. Folk he could deal with, motives he understood.

  Internally, in that core of being where all men hide their truths and which will only be laid completely open at the great Last Judgment, if such an event ever takes place, Gidman believed that all politicians were little better than reservoir dogs, so you might as well run with the pack that fed off your kind of meat.

  The peer was what is known as a fund raiser. His purpose in visiting Goldie was to discover why in recent months his hitherto generous donations to the Party had diminished from a glistening flood to a muddy trickle. It should not be thought that the Party’s ringmaster was so naïve as to think that Gidman was likely to be impressed by an ancient title. Rather his thinking was that, by hesitating his payments, Gidman was taking up a bargaining position. In consequence of recent scandals, such negotiations tended to be delicate and oblique, with the attendant danger of misunderstanding. When a man who thinks he has bought a villa in Antibes finds himself fobbed off with a timeshare in Torremolinos, dissatisfaction at best, and at worst defection, will follow. So this particular peer had been chosen because he gave out such an impression of intellectual vacuity that Goldie might feel constrained to explain in words of at most two syllables what precisely it was he wanted in return for his largesse.

  But an hour had passed and the peer was no further forward.

  So when Goldie looked at his watch and said, ‘Any second now my wife’s going to call me in to lunch. Thinks if I don’t eat regular I’m going to get an ulcer. You’re very welcome to take pot luck with us if’n you ain’t got somewhere better to be.’

  ‘How kind,’ said the peer. ‘I should be delighted.’

  He meant it. Though this was his first visit to Windrush House he had heard that his host kept a fine cellar and that his wife, who apparently had a professional connection with the catering trade, could dish up some of the tastiest traditional fare a true blue Englishman could desire. This he imagined would be an old-fashioned Sunday lunch to remember.

  He was right in one respect.

  The pot from which he had agreed to take his luck held nothing more than a thin beef consommé. This was backed up by some hunks of wheaten bread and a wedge of hard cheese, all to be washed down by a small bottle of stout–a special treat, Goldie assured him, as on normal days Flo permitted him nothing but still water.

  After a cup of lukewarm decaffeinated coffee, the peer was eager to be on his way even though, with regard to his mission, he felt he now knew less than he thought he did when he arrived.

  As he rose to take his leave, Gidman said, ‘Almost forgot. Must be getting old.’ And he produced a long white envelope.

  It was unsealed and, after an enquiring glance from the peer had been met by an encouraging nod, he opened it and examined the contents.

  ‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘My dear fellow, this is extraordinarily generous.’

  ‘I like to help,’ said Gidman.

  ‘And you do, you do. Don’t think we’re not appreciative.’

  Here he paused, expecting to receive at the very least a strong hint as to how this appreciation might best be shown.

  But as he was later to explain to the ringmaster, ‘He just smiled and said goodbye, didn’t hint at a gong, never even mentioned young Dave the Turd. I mean, can it really be he’s not looking for anything in return?’

  And the ringmaster said with that insight which had put him at the centre of the circus, ‘Don’t be silly. Of course he wants something, and I don’t doubt we’ll find out what it is sooner or later.’

  He was right, but not wholly so.

  Back at Windrush House, Flo Gidman, who was more susceptible to the glamour of a title than her husband, rattled on about what a nice man the peer had been, and how you could see the family connections in his nose and ears, and finally asked, ‘Did your talk with him go well, dear?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Goldie. ‘He got what he came for.’

  ‘The donation, you mean. I hope they show their appreciation.’

  Though she would never press her husband on the matter, the prospect of being Lady Gidman was not altogether disagreeable to Flo.

  ‘Maybe they will,’ said Gidman, smiling fondly at her. ‘Me, I hope they won’t have to.’

  His wife smiled back, not really understanding what he meant.

  She was not alone in this, for even the subtle mind of the ringmaster only partially grasped what had gone on.

  The reason for the recent scaling down of the Gidman contributions had been that Goldie didn’t care to be taken for granted, except in matters of retribution. When it came to largesse, it was his judgment that regularity and reliability bred first disregard, then disrespect.

  It was always his intention when the right moment came to remind the Millbank mandarins what an important contributor he was. Today he felt the moment had come.

  A couple of hundred miles to the north, two of his employees were dealing with a potential problem. If, as he thought most likely, they dealt with it satisfactorily, then that was an end to the matter.

  But if, as was always possible, things went belly-up, and if, as was most unlikely but still just about possible, all his other safeguards proved to be flawed, then a wise man would be found to have grappled his influential friends to him with bands of gold.

  That was why he’d been able to remain underwhelmed by his visitor. He might have a title and a name that ran so far back into antiquity its spelling had changed at least three times, but in the Gidman scheme of things, he was nothing more than the Man from the Pru.

  He had been selling insurance.

  And having made such a large down payment on his policy, Goldie Gidman felt able to head up to his private sitting room for a cigar and an afternoon with Jimi Hendrix, confident that nothing happening up in darkest Yorkshire could disturb the pleasant tranquillity of his day.

  13.00–13.30

  Loudwater Villas was an Edwardian terrace converted to flats in the loadsamoney eighties. It derived its name from its proximity to a weir on the Trench, one of the two rivers that wound through the city. Had it overlooked the other, the placid and picturesque Till, the outlook might have added value to the property. But when the industrial revolution began to darken the skies of Mid-Yorkshire, geography and geology had dictated that the deeper, narrower, speedier Trench should be its power source. All you saw across the river from the upper windows of Loudwater Villas was a wasteland of derelict mills that successive Bunteresque city councils promised to transform into a twenty-first-century wonderland of flats and shops and
sporting arenas as soon as this postal order they were expecting daily turned up.

  Fleur Delay knew none of this, but her eye for detail told her this wasn’t the kind of apartment block that had high security.

  No main entrance security cameras; no concierge cum security man behind a bank of screens checking out visitors; no bar to unobtrusive entry but the locked front door.

  She knew it was locked because she’d just seen a man walk up to it, insert a key and enter.

  Simplest was to wait for someone else to approach, then follow them in. But she was keenly aware of the woman cop standing in the Keldale car park. She’d been talking on the phone. Presumably she’d rung in for instructions.

  And if eventually the instruction was to head for Loudwater Villas, then she could be close behind.

  Fleur made up her mind. This was after all just an initial check-up, so while a low profile was still preferable, invisibility wasn’t of the essence. The subject identified, then the serious business would begin. It had already occurred to her that the accident rate for young men on motorbikes was pretty high. Not that an old Yamaha 250 was exactly a high-performance machine, but you can break your neck hitting tarmac at forty miles an hour almost as easily as you can at eighty.

  But that was getting ahead of herself. Now she needed to get in there quick, even if it meant ringing someone’s bell.

  She said, ‘Vince, sit tight. I’ll go and take a look.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me along, sis?’

  ‘Not yet. Have your mobile handy, keep your eyes skinned, and if that woman from the car park shows, give me a ring, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She got out of the car. As she straightened up she swayed slightly. Then she was OK. Vince hadn’t noticed. Sometimes Vince’s ability not to notice things was irritating, but this time she was grateful.

  She set off for the entrance. Her luck, always good on a job, held. A car drew up behind her. She glanced round to see its driver, a young Asian man, get out. He was in a hurry, passing her without a glance, inserting a key in the lock and pushing the door fully open as he entered so that she was able to reach it before it swung shut.