Good Morning, Midnight (29 page)

It was a small but very smart modern office, light years away from the studied untidiness of the traditional hard-nosed private eye’s den. Jake had been a hi-tech cop before many senior officers had learned how to use the redial button on their telephones. It was reported that when a search was made of his flat after his initial suspension, they’d found a computer system that made the one down the nick look antique. It was also reported they’d found nothing remotely incriminating on it, not even a bit of straight porn.

Here in his office, a fully-kitted work station occupying half the left wall confirmed he was still at the cutting edge. Only two things disturbed the reassuring impression of order and efficiency.

One was the fact that the computer tower was twisted round with its rear panel unscrewed.

And the other was the presence on the floor alongside the tower of the body of a man.

Neither the passage of years nor the angle of view prevented Wield from instantly recognizing Jake Gallipot. Even supine and unmoving, with his lips set in a grimace that revealed perfect white teeth, he still looked solid and dependable, a man you could safely buy a used car or a used alibi from.

In his outstretched right hand he held a screwdriver with its end melted by heat.

Pausing only to check that it was no longer in contact with any part of the computer, Wield knelt down and checked for a pulse. There was none. Immediately he went into the resuscitation procedure. His mind ticking off seconds and counting sequences of fifteen chest presses and two mouth-to-mouths. After four sequences, he checked the carotid pulse again. Still nothing. Another four sequences. Still nothing. Another four.

Nothing.

He stood upright, took his mobile from his pocket, dialled 999 and asked for the ambulance service and the police.

An hour later he was standing in the empty office with DI Collaboy.

Gallipot had been rushed off to hospital in an ambulance but Wield knew that not even the wonders of modern technology could bring him back to life.

“So what’s this all about, Wieldy?” said the DI.

“What’s it look like to you, Jim?”

“Looks like Jake decided to change the hard drive on his computer, got careless, and forgot to switch off at the mains.”

They had found the packaging for a new hard drive in the waste bin.

“That’s how it looks to me, too.”

“But?”

“You’ll recall Jake and computers. He were playing around with them when folk like Andy Dalziel still thought the abacus was a tool of the devil.”

“Familiarity breeds carelessness,” said Collaboy.

“Where’s the old drive, the one he were replacing?” asked Wield.

“Packed up, got wiped, so he took it out to have a look, decided it were knackered and dumped it when he went to buy a new one.”

“Then where’s his back-up disks? You knew Jake. He’d have everything backed up.”

“Could be anywhere,” said Collaboy, looking round the office.

“Let’s look, shall we?”

It was a pointless search as Wield had looked already. In the drawers and cupboards he’d found all the tools of Gallipot’s trade-various bugging devices, a digital camera, a set of pick-locks, a bunch of dodgy-looking keys, a collection of business cards with a variety of names and businesses-but no trace of any back-up disks. He’d also checked the filing cabinet. There was a wallet marked Maciver. It was empty.

“I think you’d best tell me what this is all about, Wieldy.”

Wield looked at the DI. Time had not been kind to him. Since last they met, his hairline had receded and turned grey in retreat, while his face had-in one of the phrases Andy Dalziel claimed to have learned from his old Scots grandma-enough wrinkles to make a cuddy a new arsehole.

He told him the story, explaining his own presence there by the truth, more or less.

“I didn’t think he was being straight with me,” he concluded.

“Because he talked to you like you were his best friend in the world?” said Collaboy sceptically. “You know Jake. That’s how he talked to everybody! The bugger still used to ask me for favours long after I’d made it clear I didn’t want owt more to do with him. Come to think of it, you mentioning the name Maciver reminds me, long time back, can’t have been long after he got his cards, he asked me if I’d give him a reference for a job on the security team at some outfit in your neck of the woods that had Maciver in its name…”

“Ashur-Proffitt-Maciver’s?” asked Wield.

“That could have been it. Any connection with this dead guy?”

“It was the family firm till it got took over. Did you give him the reference?”

“Aye, I did, oddly. Just said he’d been a serving cop for however long it were and that he’d retired as a sergeant. Don’t know why I bothered… no, that’s a lie. I knew he’d set up as a PI and I thought this meant he hadn’t made a go of it and I’ve got to admit the thought of Jake wearing a peaked cap and wandering round a factory site in the early hours of a winter morning didn’t displease me. Looks like I were wrong, but. Bit of money went into this set-up.”

The two men looked around the office, both of them perhaps wondering what the future held for them when their time came to hand in the badges.

“Right,” said Collaboy. “I’ll need a statement, Wieldy, and I’ll get a SOCO team in here just in case, but unless they or the medics come up with something significant, I can’t see I’m going to be able to tell my boss this is anything but accidental death. Not unless you’ve not told me everything you know?”

This is what working on a hunch gets you into, thought Wield.

He said, “I can just give you the facts as I know them, Jim. How you move forward from there is down to you. Anything else comes up, you’ll be the first to know.”

He hoped he sounded sincere.

Back in the Penetralium of Mid-Yorkshire CID, Dalziel stood by his window apparently staring out into the bright spring air, but it might as well have been a-swirl with smoke for all that his unblinking gaze was seeing.

He was listening to a tape. Not the one Pascoe had tossed on to his desk with a casualness more cutting than accusation. How that had come to be stored with the Pal Senior suicide stuff he didn’t know, which bothered him. Pascoe in prissy mode liked to quote one of them foreign psycho-wankers- there’s no such thing as accident. Mebbe some imp of uncertainty dwelling deep in that darkness which lies at all our centres had made him leave the tape there. He didn’t like the feel of that, which was why he was listening to this other tape now, the original of the one he’d tossed back at Pascoe.

The voice on the tape, a woman’s voice, its soft American accent melodious on the ear, fell silent. It had worked its magic. He felt reassured. The imp was back in its dark cave. His sight cleared and took in the blue sky, the golden sun, the budding lime tree overhanging the corner of the car park. Once more he was Andy Dalziel, monarch of all he surveyed. In his mind’s eye he beheld the towns, villages, fields, woods, and rolling hills of Mid-Yorkshire, his proper dominion, and he saw that it was good; and the reason it was good was that behind him on the CID floor the massed ranks of his minions waited with bated breath for the commands which would send them galloping forth to defend the persecuted and bring the wrongdoer to justice.

His phone rang.

He picked it up and pronounced, “Dalziel,” with more than usual authority.

“God, Andy, that hurt! I’m on the phone, man, not standing on the next mountain top!”

He recognized the voice of Chief Constable Dan Trimble.

“Sorry, sir. And what can I do for you?”

“I just want to confirm a staffing detail. Your DC Bowler is still on sick leave, is he?”

“Yes, sir. He is. Leaving us short-handed and overstretched, as usual,” said Dalziel with only ritualistic force. His mind was too busy looking for the reason behind the query.

“Good, yes, I see. So there’s no way he could be operationally active, on say DCI Pascoe’s behalf? Without your knowledge, I mean.”

“No way,” said Dalziel firmly. He meant it. Pascoe was capable of pulling many clever strokes, but not this. In fact in the case of young Bowler, he’d got up Dalziel’s nose a bit, the way he clucked around like a mother hen, insisting that it might be a good six months before the lad was fit to return.

“Good, fine, didn’t think so,” said Trimble. “Thank you, Andy.”

The phone went dead.

Dan Trimble hailed from Cornwall, a county much admired by Dalziel for the unflinching brutality of its rugby players, the subtle ingenuity of its entrepreneurs, the vibrant beauty of its womenfolk, and the deep distrust of London shown by all its natives. After an initial sniffing-around period, he and Trimble had come to a series of mutually beneficent working understandings, and the Chief was looked up to with considerable respect by his fellow high-fliers as the man who could handle Fat Andy.

But though he had learned much, he had not yet learned that if you wanted to avoid awkward questions from Dalziel, it wasn’t enough to ring off quickly and order your secretary not to take the Superintendent’s calls, you must also pack a suitcase and flee the country.

“Mr Trimble’s office,” fluted his secretary when the phone rang a few seconds later.

“Bishop’s chaplain here,” said a high, faintly Welsh voice. “Could His Grace have a word?”

A moment later, Trimble said, “Good day to you, Bishop. How can I help you?”

“Sorry, sir, must be a crossed line. We got cut off. I were just going to ask you, what’s all this stuff about Bowler about?”

Now Trimble showed his quality by hesitating only a split second before admitting the inescapable.

He said, “Andy, I don’t know, and what little I do know I’m not supposed to tell you. I had a query from an old Hendon chum at the Yard saying he’d been asked to check unofficially with me if we had some operation going involving DC Bowler in a covert surveillance role.”

“Asked who by?” demanded Dalziel.

There was a pause and he went on impatiently, “Come on, sir. I know you. You’re like me, you’d want to know the why’s and wherefore’s.”

Feeling obscurely complimented, Trimble said, “Some chap by the name of Gedye. Works out of the Home Office, my chum gathered, whatever that means.”

“I know what it means and it don’t mean he’s a cleaner,” said Dalziel. “And what did you tell your chum? Sir.”

“I explained that Bowler was on sick leave but I’d double-check just to be quite sure. He said fine but the word was I must be very careful to create no ripples. I am on the point of reporting back negatively, and that I assume will be the end of the matter. Clearly been an intelligence snarl-up, which is par for the course in those misty regions on the edge of government. So no harm done. And I hope, Andy, this is going to be the nearest we get to a ripple from your direction.”

“Of course, sir. Thanks for being so forthcoming. Cheers, now.”

Dalziel put the phone down.

“Aye, Dan,” he said to the air. “No need to worry, my little pixie. I don’t do ripples. But I’ve promised nowt about bloody great splashes.”

Not that there was anything to splash in. Like Trimble said, probably a simple snarl-up. Them buggers down south made things so complicated that when they unzipped their flies they never knew whose cock they were going to pull out.

So why was that imp so recently repulsed twitching around in his gut once more? He poured himself a scotch and tossed it down. The imp received it gratefully. It was to be expected that any entity inhabiting the Dalziel frame would have developed a taste for old malts.

A phone was ringing close by. Pascoe’s, he guessed. It stopped. Then another phone started up in the main CID room. After five rings he flung open his door and strode down the corridor to demand to know why his minions with their bated breath weren’t rushing to answer it.

The answer was clear. Not a minion in sight.

No. Wrong. There was one, by the fax machine, trying to conceal himself behind a sheaf of printouts.

“Bowler. What the fuck are you doing here?” demanded Dalziel.

He did not pause for an answer but went to Wield’s desk and picked up the ringing phone and gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Wieldy, I was trying to get hold of Pete Pascoe. He’s not around, is he?”

The voice was Paddy Ireland’s. Dalziel gave another grunt, negative this time.

“Maybe you can help. It’s about this Moscow House business. Fat Andy was really keen to dump it on me-God knows why when you think of the speed he came running to stick his big nose in-but I managed to toss it back in the DCI’s lap. Now one of my lads has just mentioned that young Bowler has been asking questions about it down here, like he thought we were still dealing, and I wondered what that was all about. I thought he was off sick. Didn’t realize he was back.”

“Oh, he’s back, but he still looks pretty sick to me,” said Dalziel grimly. “Thanks, Paddy.”

He registered the shock at the other end, put the phone down and glared at Bowler, who was still crouching by the fax machine like a downhill skier who has felt a tremor in the ground and longs to fly away but fears a very slight move could bring the whole mountain crashing down.

Then suddenly, to the DC’s amazement, that great slab face fissured into a broad grin.

“Whatever you’re up to, it’s good to see you back, lad,” said Dalziel. “Come into my office and let’s see if we can’t find you some medicine.”

A few moments later, Hat found himself seated in front of the superintendent’s desk with a tumblerful of Highland Park in one hand. In the other he was still clutching the fax sheets in a grip which the shock of seeing the Fat Man had locked tight.

Dalziel had learned through a lifetime of interrogations that scaring people shitless wasn’t always the quickest way to extracting information. In addition, after a dicey start to their relationship, he had come to feel quite fond of Hat. As he said to Pascoe, “You can do a lot with a poncy graduate if you catch him young. Look at you.”