Good Morning, Midnight (35 page)

“You’re looking well,” agreed Wield. “You don’t recollect another ex-job guy, name of Jake Gallipot, who worked for Security here about ten years back?”

“Gallipot? DS from Harrogate? Him there used to be the stories about? Aye, I remember him. I recall thinking, if retired DSs are reduced to wandering around in peaked caps with a big stick, then mebbe I’m not doing so bad. He didn’t last long, though. Couple of months at the outside, could have been less.”

“Did he leave or was he pushed?”

“Think he just handed in his cards. Never heard nowt to the contrary. He were pretty popular, always ready to stand and have a chat with anyone. Aye, everyone liked Jake. I heard later he’d got his own business, security or investigation or something, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Good luck to him. Wouldn’t have done for me. Start sticking your nose into other people’s business you never know what they’ll end up sticking into you.” He regarded Wield shrewdly and asked, “Is it Gallipot you’re here about?”

“If it was, who’d I want to speak to?” said Wield.

Edwards laughed.

“You don’t change, do you? Give nowt that’s not paid for and then ask for change. It ’ud be Tom Hoblitt. He does the hiring and firing. If this were the army, he’d be the RSM or top sergeant, him being a Yank.”

“Mr Hoblitt it is then. Where do I find him?”

“Nay, I’ll take you across to Admin myself,” said Edwards. “Can’t have suspicious characters wandering around the plant unaccompanied, got strict instructions about that. Leave your bike here, it’ll not get nicked.”

He spoke briefly to another man in the kiosk then led the way towards the plant at a brisk pace as though determined to demonstrate how fit he was.

You didn’t have to be an industrial archaeologist to plot the history of Ash-Mac’s, thought Wield. The story of the firm was written quite clearly in the ugly sprawl of buildings that lay before him. The initial basic workshop where Liam Maciver had started all those years ago was still there, with around it all the brick-built development that marked the company’s rapid expansion in the late thirties and forties. A keener eye might have been needed to detect the point where consolidation finished and decline began, but the reversal of that decline was unmistakable in several brand-new concrete-and-glass structures including a small office block over which flew both the Stars and Stripes and the Union flag.

Edwards led Wield in here. An unwelcoming receptionist wearing more paint than a bellicose Mohawk listened as the gate-man explained the sergeant’s purpose, her gaze running over his leathered body as though assessing where best to place her tomahawk. She then picked up her phone, pressed a button, spoke rapidly in what might as well have been Iroquoian, listened, then said, “Thank you, Mr Edwards. Sergeant Wield, will you come this way?”

She rose and set off rapidly up a flight of stairs.

Wield looked at Edwards, who made a face, murmured, “I think she likes you,” and left.

The woman, as if unable to conceive her instruction would not be instantly acted upon, was already out of sight but Wield was able to detect her progress by the sonar click of stiletto heels and soon fell into line astern. On the second landing she passed through a door without knocking, said to another woman, whose face differed from hers only in that the tribal artist had painted a smile on it, “This is Sergeant Wield,” and left.

The smiling woman went to an inner door, tapped once, opened it, and said, “Sergeant Wield.”

He went through. A man was sitting behind a desk. He was in his forties, stockily built, with vigorous hair on the turn from black pepper to sea salt. He rose, extended his hand and said, “Tony Kafka. How can I help you?”

“Must be a mistake, sir,” said Wield, shaking the proffered hand. “It was Mr Hoblitt I wanted to see.”

“So I understand, but this time you got on a fast track to the organ grinder himself. Hoblitt’s around the plant somewhere, so maybe I can clear up whatever it is you want clearing up.”

“Just a routine enquiry, sir. Hardly worth bothering you with.”

This was his first encounter with Kafka. There’d been no reason to have any direct contact with him when Pal Senior topped himself and less reason since. But he’d often wondered what kind of man it was that had taken on the enigmatic Kay Maciver and her stepdaughter after the tragedy.

The room itself gave little clue to character. Hanging on the wall was a photograph of the rock carvings of the heads of some American presidents which Wield recalled seeing in an old Hitchcock movie. On the clutter-free desk stood another photo in a silver frame, this one of a smiling soldier with a medal on his chest. He had to be some close relative of Kafka. The cheekbones and the nose were unmistakable. Nothing else which could be called personal was on view.

“You won’t be bothering me, Sergeant,” said Kafka in a tone which clearly implied, How could you?

“Just an old employee we’re interested in,” said Wield. “Man called Gallipot. He worked for your Security people about ten years ago.”

“Gallipot?” said Kafka. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

But it did. And not a very sweet chime either, thought Wield. The guy was good but it took best actor Oscar ability to deceive this critical gaze.

“No reason it should,” said Wield. “Maybe I should talk to Mr Hoblitt…?”

“Of course. Sorry. Let’s see if we can find him for you. I’m just on my way out. Off to the States first thing tomorrow so I’m heading down to London tonight. And I’m still not packed.”

This sudden flood of information affably expressed was a natural reaction, often observed by Wield, in a witness who has decided to move swiftly away from an area he’s not comfortable with. Kafka was a man more at home with directness than deceit, which did not necessarily mean he was not deceptive.

He picked up a briefcase and led the way out of the office block. A man in a rather Ruritanian uniform was walking toward them with a huge German Shepherd whose expression reminded Wield of the receptionist.

“Seen Hoblitt, Joe?” said Kafka.

“In Despatch,” replied the man.

No sir. Was this American democracy at work?

Kakfa glanced at him amusedly and said, “What do you think of the uniform?”

Perceptive as well as deceptive.

“Love the tunic,” said Wield. “Not very practical though.”

“Very visible though, which is the point, like those tall pointy hats your lot used to wear before they stopped pounding the beat. In Security, deterrence is the name of the game. In your business too, I guess.”

“Not my end of it, sir. Some folk you can’t deter, you’ve got to catch ’em.”

“And some don’t even give a damn about being caught. What do we do about those, Sergeant?”

“Suicide bombers and the like, you mean?” Wield shrugged. “Build thicker walls. Retaliate. Persuade. No simple answer, sir. Hope the politicians find a way through, like they did in 1918.”

Kafka frowned.

“1918? There weren’t any suicide bombers back then, were there?”

“Oh yes, sir. On both sides. Only they called them infantry and didn’t give them a choice. You closed down for the weekend?”

“More or less. It’s the way of the world. Recession, competition and automation. Fewer orders harder to get, and we don’t need so many bodies around all the time anyway.”

He led the way into a long, low, windowless building from which the hum of machinery was still emanating, up a short stair and out onto a narrow catwalk overlooking a central area divided into several glass-enclosed sections joined by a heavyweight version of the moving belt used on an airport carousel. A piece of machinery-some form of lathe, Wield guessed-appeared at one end and began to move forward.

“This is A-P’s own prep system,” said Kafka proudly. “Some very clever guys back in the States devised it. Four separate stages, all fully automated. First there’s the oiler, except of course its not oil but a polymeric silicon compound that coats the machine completely, then the wrapper where it’s wrapped in a sheet of modified polyethylene which is then seam-sealed so that the vaccer can suck every molecule of air out before the final seal is completed. After that it will be suspended in an aluminium crate and completely enclosed in a polyurethane foam shell. When that hardens, you could drop the crate from a third-floor window and not do the contents any harm, and even if the machine’s left lying around some damp or freezing or sandy or red-hot storage area for the next several years before being put into use, it will stay in perfect working condition. And all this requires just one guy to operate it.”

And a dozen guys to collect the dole, thought Wield.

He said, “Do you have a lot of customers who’ll pay a small fortune for goods they’re going to leave lying around to get dusty and rusty?”

Kafka frowned and said, “Once they pay, what they do with it is their business. We just guarantee it reaches them in the same condition it leaves here. There’s Hoblitt. Hey, Tom!”

They had walked slowly along the catwalk keeping pace with the processes below. At the far end, a single silhouette against a strip light, stood two men deep in conversation. They looked round at the sound of Kafka’s voice, then the silhouette divided, revealing one of the pair to be of almost Dalzielesque proportions. He came towards them, his bulk blocking sight of the other who vanished down the stairs leaving only the impression of conventional proportions and a hat.

“Hi, Tony,” said the large man with an American twang that made Kafka sound like Noel Coward. “You still here?”

“Evidently,” said Kafka. “This is Sergeant Wield from the local CID. Something he wants to ask you about some old employee of ours. Name of Gallipot, was that it, Sergeant?”

“That’s it, sir,” said Wield, who would have preferred to start from scratch with Hoblitt.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Goodbye, Sergeant.”

“Goodbye, sir. Thank you.”

Kafka turned away then turned back.

“Tom, just to be sure there’s no confusion, I’ve left instructions this order’s to be put on hold till I get back.”

“Yeah, I was there when you said so, Tony. You just go and enjoy yourself. Lucky bastard. Wish it was me. Give my regards to the folks back home.”

“It’s business, Tom,” said Kafka sternly. Then he smiled and added, “But I’ve got to admit it will be good to see the old place again.”

He strode away and vanished down the stairway.

“Right, sergeant,” said Hoblitt. “You want to come to my office and tell me what this is all about?”

Which proved to be a great deal harder than it sounded, and Hoblitt, though almost parodically American, turned out to have absorbed enough of Yorkshire to be determined not to give anything without getting something in return.

“Look, Sergeant, before I go digging through old records, which will cost me time, and give you personal information about a former employee, which may itself be an offence under the Data Protection Act if not Human Rights legislation, you’ll need to give me a hint. At the very least I’m entitled to know if this has got anything to do with anything that could affect the reputation or integrity of the Ashur-Proffitt Corporation.”

Wish to hell I knew! thought Wield.

He said, “Not that I’m aware, sir. I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Gallipot is dead. Can’t go into details, you understand. This is just in the nature of gathering background information. It’s pretty routine in such circumstances.”

“Gathering information about a job a dead guy had for a couple of months ten years back is routine? No wonder you guys moan about being overworked!”

“You do remember Mr Gallipot then, sir?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you recall he only worked here a couple of months.”

“Didn’t you say that?”

Wield pursed his lips in a parody of attempted recollection.

“Don’t believe I did, sir.”

“No matter,” said Hoblitt, making a visible decision to relax and be jolly. “Yeah, I remember Jake. Ex-cop wasn’t he? Kind of guy could sell rubbers to a eunuch. I tried to get him to apply for a job in our Sales department, that’s how I remember him. But he said he wanted to stick with what he knew. Didn’t stick with it long though, if I recall aright. Let’s see…”

He put a floppy into the computer on his desk, hit a couple of keys, then said, “Yeah, there he is. He came, he saw, he went. Of his own accord, no problems. Two months almost to the day. Nothing remarkable. You want a printout of this?”

“Thank you,” said Wield.

He could think of no reason to extend his visit and a few minutes later he was walking towards the gate. A car went by him driven by Kafka, who gave him a friendly wave. It paused by the kiosk and Edwards came out. Kafka spoke to him for a moment then drove on. Edwards waited for Wield but as he reached him a phone rang in the kiosk and the gate-man made an apologetic face and went inside.

He re-emerged as Wield geared up for the bike.

“Wish they’d make their minds up,” he grumbled. “First one tells me the pick-up this afternoon’s been cancelled, then t’other says it’s back on again. I should have stopped in the job, Wieldy. At least when Fat Andy said owt, you knew it were carved in stone and it would take a sledgehammer to change it.”

“Don’t know,” said Wield. “You can do a lot of damage with a chisel if you just keep chipping away. Good to see you, Bri.”

“You too. Hope it’s not so long next time. Any chance you’ll be back?”

“Who knows?” called Wield over his shoulder. “Who knows?”

Dalziel at a case file was like a hyena at a carcase-he usually got to the heart of the matter but he didn’t half leave a mess.

Hat Bowler, schooled by that most methodical of policemen, Edgar Wield, looked uneasily at the spoor of paper which ran from the Fat Man’s side of the desk and ended accusingly at his own feet. Surely there was far more here than when they started?