‘I may puke anyway,’ he said.
Shirley Novello was a good Catholic, if Catholic goodness means believing all the rules and keeping as many as you can without bursting. The one she had most problems with was the one that says sex outside marriage is sinful, which was perhaps why, as she once tried to explain to Father Joseph Kerrigan, she got involved with a married man from time to time, as in a way that was sex sort of half in marriage, wasn’t it?
Father Joe had shaken his head and said, ‘If the SJ’s took women, I’d enter you straight off. Next time you feel the urge coming on, pray for strength to resist. Miracles do happen. And while you’re at it, make the sign of the cross, but make it with your legs.’
In fact a miracle had happened at Christmas, that most miraculous of times. It had started well. Her Transport sergeant had managed to spend the morning with her using the pretext of a duty-sharing roster, which, considering that there were no trains on Christmas Day, meant his wife must be pretty thick. He’d given Novello a digital camera which must have cost an arm and a leg, so in return she’d given him both her arms and legs and every other part of her anatomy she could bring into contact with every part of his she could reach. How he explained the exhausted state in which he returned home she did not know, but when she next saw him, the day after Boxing Day, she found that memory of their festive fuck plus a vast excess of family festivity had combined to make him start talking seriously of escaping to the wildwoods with her and building a willow cabin or some such nonsense.
Now the miracle occurred.
In the twinkling of an eye he was transformed from a strong handsome interestingly hairy lover in the prime of life to a middle-aged beer belly with the beginnings of a bald patch and four noisy, ill-mannered kids. She gave him his marching orders and even thought of returning the camera, but in the end thought what the hell! she’d earned it.
So Novello had begun the New Year as New Years should be begun, with a clean slate and a whole cageful of lively resolutions. They beat their wings at the bars in vain till a Twelfth Night party from which she woke with the certain knowledge that they’d all flown the coop, though in what order she could not say. But the experience, she seemed to recollect, had been splendidly epiphanic. In other words her head felt fuzzy but her body felt great.
She rolled out of bed – her own – checked that no one was crapping in her bog or cooking in her kitchen – they weren’t – complimented herself on having a great time without paying the high price of conversation over breakfast, and knocked back her usual hangover cure of a fried-egg sarnie and a litre of coffee black as a Unionist’s heart.
Then she noticed the digital camera next to her party clothes on the floor.
She checked the pictures, didn’t, thank God, find anything too naughty, but did come across a snap of a good-looking guy with a nice crinkly grin sitting on her sofa. She couldn’t put a name to him, but his face sent a distinct mnemonic tremor through her erogenous zone.
She wanted a close-up, but when she tried to feed it into her computer she found the bloody thing was knackered. Never mind. The station was full of bloody things.
Then she set out for work. She was proud of her fitness and she jogged to the station every other day. This was an other day. A lesser woman might have chickened, but not Novello. She’d woken up at her usual time and she was resolved to follow her usual routine. Sticking a change of clothes plus her camera into a small rucksack, she got into her tracksuit and set off.
Since Dalziel had given her the special assignment, her chosen route usually took her along Peg Lane.
Her task of making sure Rye Pomona wasn’t being harassed by investigative reporters was either very easy or quite impossible, depending on how you looked at it. The impossible bit was sticking with her twenty-four hours a day. On the other hand she’d been put on her guard, she was an intelligent woman (formidably intelligent, in Novello’s estimation) and quite capable of taking care of herself. So the active part of the assignment had soon diminished to a daily check with her for oddities plus the occasional morning diversion just to make sure there wasn’t some low life waiting to buttonhole her at this hour most favoured by police, bailiffs and buttonholers generally.
After the events at the Mayor’s Hogmanay Hop, it had seemed that even this small routine wouldn’t be necessary for some time, but last Thursday Hat had turned up at work, full of joy, to announce that Rye had rung him the previous night to say she’d been discharged from hospital with a clean bill of health and this morning she’d gone back to work.
Novello, guessing that Dalziel would expect her to know all the ins and outs before he’d even heard the substantive news, headed straight round to the library for a chat.
Rye had greeted her like an old friend. To Novello’s enquiries after her health she’d replied that the hospital staff hadn’t been able to assign any specific cause to her collapse, suspected it might be viral, had given her a couple of shots of God knows what, and sent her home with instructions to make an appointment with her GP.
Novello had been unconvinced. She had a sharp female eye and a proper detective scepticism, both of which detected tell-tale signs of worry and debility. Had she been a closer mate of Hat Bowler’s, she might have looked for a diplomatic way of hinting her concern, but even then his boundless relief and joy at Rye’s return home could have made her hesitate. As it was, with their uneasy relationship, any hint of reservation on her part was likely to be regarded as peeing on his parade.
Her relationship with Andy Dalziel had no such ambiguities. If he gave you a job, even if you thought it was a complete waste of time, you did it, and you didn’t skimp. She’d read every syllable of the Wordman archive twice. Asked for her conclusions, she’d taken a deep breath and told the Fat Man, ‘If Dee hadn’t been caught in the act of attacking Pomona, there’s not enough evidence against him to get him community service let alone a conviction for serial killing. And if he hadn’t been killed resisting arrest, which is how we sold it, I can think of half a dozen stories he might have told which would have made CPS very unhappy about charging him.’
‘Them dozy buggers got hold of Hitler, he’d have pled down to a misdemeanour,’ said Dalziel, but without any real force.
‘So if there is a journalist on the case, all he has to do is find some way of picking holes in the Pomona attack and after that it’s straight through to the goal mouth. Tabloids twenty. Police nil.’
‘Play a lot of soccer, do you?’
‘Six-a-side down the gym,’ she said.
‘Don’t know what the world’s coming to. OK, you’ve not told me owt I don’t know. You could make an old man very happy by pointing out some loose end in the killings that we could tie round Dee’s neck.’
‘Only loose end I could see was that chap Pyke-Strengler who was found shot and decapitated out at Stang Tarn. There was some blood on one of his fishhooks, human, group AB. Not Pyke-Strengler’s, but not Dee’s either, and not belonging to either of the other two suspects, Penn and Roote, who, to be honest, sir, look about as suspicious as the Pope. How they got in the frame beats me.’
‘Wishful thinking,’ growled Dalziel. ‘You’ll do more of it as you get older. So one loose end you can’t tie up except to say it definitely doesn’t point to Dee. That it? Nothing you can cheer me up with by saying, “Please, sir, here’s something no one can argue with ’cos you definitely got it right?”’
‘Yes, sir, there is something …’
‘Spit it out.’
‘I think you’re definitely right to be worried if it turns out there is an investigative journalist on the job.’
He stared at her till she began to regret her boldness, then said, ‘Nay, lass, I’m not worried about that, ’cos I’ve got this smartass cop on his case who’s going to find him for me before he prints a word.’
‘Yes, sir. And then … ?’
‘Then I’ll kill him,’ said Dalziel. ‘But if the first I hear of him is when I open my Da
ily Crap, then I’ll have to find someone else to kill.’
So at eight twenty this Monday morning, Novello was jogging down Peg Lane.
Its once fashionable Victorian townhouses were now given over to multi-occupation and small businesses. There were no garages (presumably the fashionable Victorians kept their broughams in some nearby livery) so the house as opposed to the church side of the street was lined with parked cars for its full length. She slowed down as she passed Church View. The usual cars stood outside. The front door seemed firmly closed. It tended to be left ajar during the day which wasn’t very good security. Open or locked, it made no difference to Novello as she’d checked out the lock and got herself a suitable key from the vast selection on offer in CID’s boy scout (i.e. be prepared) cupboard.
So all quiet on the Peg Lane front. With a feeling of duty done, she speeded up again. And almost missed them.
Right at the end of the Lane where it went into a bit of a chicane an old white Merc was parked. There were two people in it, a man and a woman. And the man she recognized as Charley Penn.
They were deep in conversation. Or something. They didn’t even glance her way as she passed. She crossed the road, ran back a bit till she reached the old wall running round St Margaret’s, and scrambled over it.
Here she had a good view of the Merc. She wished she’d got a camera, then remembered that she had. Gleefully she dug it out. There were Dalziel Brownie points to be had here, and an ambitious girl snapped these up avidly.
The woman got out of the car. It didn’t seem all that amicable a parting, but at the last minute Penn said something and they exchanged a peck. Then he drove off towards town and the woman started walking in the other direction.
Novello kept pace with her, popping up to take the occasional snap. The woman seemed too preoccupied to notice.
Then she reached the steps of Church View, turned up them, pushed the door open and went inside.
Novello vaulted over the wall with the explosive speed which had made her a sprint champion in her school days. She had her key at the ready but the door hadn’t shut properly so she didn’t need it. She could hear the woman’s steps on the stairway above.
As she began to mount towards Rye’s landing, it occurred to Novello for the first time to wonder what she was supposed to do now. Journalists, particularly investigative journalists, are not the kind of people it’s advisable to arrest without good reason. In such a situation, Dalziel no doubt had many tried and tested techniques at his disposal. Like grievous bodily harm. Pascoe’s diplomatic skills would probably come into their own. And Wield would merely stare for a while then say ‘Boo!’ to get a result.
But how could a young ambitious WDC deal with the situation without getting herself the kind of bad press which got your card marked by the Chief Constable?
And a little way behind these somewhat selfish thoughts came the question, what the hell was this woman up to anyway?
She reached Rye’s landing. It was empty. Shit! Had she had time to ring Rye’s bell and talk her way into the flat? Novello didn’t believe so. Maybe Rye had coincidentally opened her door just as the woman arrived and been pushed back inside. But such behaviour from a stranger would surely elicit protest. She pressed her ear to Rye’s door and heard nothing. What now? Ring the bell and check all was well inside? Or continue her pursuit up the next flight of stairs?
A voice said, ‘Can I help you?’
Startled she turned to see a bright-eyed foxy-faced woman of indeterminate age peering at her from the next door to the right.
This made up her mind.
‘No thanks. Just visiting Ms Pomona,’ said Novello, pressing the bell.
A long minute passed before the door opened.
Rye stood there wearing only a cotton wrap. She looked terrible. Either, thought Novello, casting an expert eye over the deep shadowed eyes, the pallid cheeks, the hunched shoulders and the lifeless hair, she’d been at a Twelfth Night party even wilder than the one she herself didn’t remember attending, or she was sick.
‘Hey, I’m sorry, have I got you out of bed?’
‘No, I was up.’
‘Can I come in?’
Rye looked as if she’d like to say No, then glanced at the still-spectating neighbour and said, ‘Morning, Mrs Gilpin. Yes, come in.’
Unless as well as admitting the suspected journalist, Rye had also hidden her in the bedroom, it looked as though she was alone.
‘So what do you want … nothing’s happened to Hat, has it?’
For the first time some spark of life touched the lacklustre eyes.
‘No, nothing to do with Hat. He’s fine.’
Relief, then the light died. No need to worry her with anything else, not till she’d got the photos developed and had a word with King Kong.
‘No, I was just passing and thought I’d say hello, check that everything was all right.’
‘Yeah, fine. Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You know, what we talked about, journalists and such. There hasn’t been anyone bothering you?’
Rye said, ‘How could anyone bother me?’
Strange answer, but she was a strange girl. And not a well girl by the look of her.
‘Sorry to bother you then. I’ll let you get back to bed.’
‘Bed? No, I’m getting ready for work.’
‘Work?’ said Novello. Then, catching the echo of her own incredulity, she went on rapidly, ‘Monday morning’s are hell, aren’t they? Especially if you’ve been partying over the weekend. You should have seen me an hour ago. Coffee and a spot of breakfast’s the thing for getting back on track. You had any breakfast yet? Let me give you a hand. I could murder another cup of coffee.’
‘No thanks,’ said Rye. ‘I’m not hungry. Bit of an upset tummy.’
Hell, thought Novello. Has Hat got carried away, put her in the club? Stupid sod! Or maybe (don’t rush to judgment in this world ’cos you surely won’t want to be rushing to judgment in the next, as Father Kerrigan was forever telling his flock) it was planned, what they both wanted, only as always the woman gets the shit, the man gets the cigars.
‘Look, none of my business, but are you sure you’re OK? You look, well, not a hundred per cent …’
‘Is that right? How much would you say then? Ninety-five per cent? Fifty? Less?’
That was better. Spark back in her eyes, bit of a flush in her cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ said Novello. ‘I’ll be off then, let you get dressed. Take care.’
‘Yes. Thank you for calling.’
Again a strangeness of phrase and intonation, this time sounding like Eliza Doolittle reciting some newly learned social mantra.
Novello left. No sign of Mrs Gilpin, thank God. She ran lightly up the next flight of stairs. The top landing was empty. The woman must have heard her pursuing feet and continued up here, listened to the exchange below, then slipped back down and away while she was wasting time in Pomona’s apartment. So, a bad decision, she didn’t doubt that was how the Fat Man would see it, though she still didn’t know what she was supposed to have done if she had confronted this putative journalist.
At least he wasn’t going to be able to say she took her time facing the music. As soon as he came in she was knocking at his door. In her hand she held her camera.
‘What’s this then? Want me picture for your scrap-book?’
Quickly she explained what had happened, playing up her foresight in having the camera, playing down her failure to keep track of the mystery woman. As she spoke she hooked up the camera to the computer which stood on a side table in the superintendent’s office, like a memorial to futurity.
When the woman’s face came up, he crashed a great fist down on his desk. Novello, anticipating this was the first salvo in a full-blooded assault on her performance, winced. But all he said was, ‘Can I send this down the tube so it comes out at the other end?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘But I’ll need an address.’
&n
bsp; ‘Commander Jenkinson, Scotland Yard,’ he said.
There was a service directory by the phone. She picked it up, thumbed through and said, ‘Would that be Aneurin Jenkinson? Media Division?’
‘That’s the bugger.’
‘And a message, sir?’
He thought a moment then dictated Nye – who she? – luv Andy.
She typed the message, attached the photo and sent it.
Dalziel twisted the screen round so that he could see it.
Novello recalled a story told by the nun who taught deportment at the convent school she’d been expelled from. It concerned Queen Victoria attending a banquet hosted by the Empress Eugenie in Paris. Taking her seat at the dinner table, the Empress momentarily glanced down as most people do to make sure the flunkey was manoeuvring her chair into position. But to the French guests’ huge admiration, Victoria seated herself without hesitation or downward glance, as if completely confident that, should the flunkey be remiss in his duty, God Himself would move the chair forward to receive her royal behind.
So, it seemed to her, the Fat Man glowered at the computer in the God-underwritten certainty that his message would receive an instant reply.
It took only a couple of minutes, but that great slab of a face was already beginning to darken with impatience.
She Mai Richter German journalist. CV follows. Watch your balls. She bites. Nye
She printed off the CV, handed it to the Fat Man and read it on the screen herself.
Mai Richter was thirty nine years old, set out to be an academic, had her proposals to do a thesis on American political patronage in the post-war era blocked, dug into the reasons for this and found that certain very senior state officials who controlled the university purse-strings had made it clear this was not an area they cared to see put under the microscope, got her findings published in a national paper, was sued, fought the case to a draw, found that her academic career was on the rocks before it had left harbour, so directed her talent for digging beneath the surface of things to journalism instead.
Death's Jest-Book Page 35
