Good Morning, Midnight (49 page)

Pascoe glanced at his watch and stood up. Abandoning Dalziel at the Hall had seemed an amusing idea at the time, but it was a joke to be enjoyed from a safe distance.

“Bowler still out there?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I think I’ll take a little trip out to see Miss Mac and, from the sound of it, I may need a guide!”

After his attempt to close the gates on his exiting car had failed, Andy Dalziel went back into the big living room. Kay Kafka hadn’t moved.

“Looks like it’s just thee and me, luv,” said Dalziel.

“I’ve got no complaints,” she said, regarding him affectionately. “Your Mr Pascoe is a very pleasant man but there’s something… do you know Lamia?”

“Would that be Lamia Shufflebottom, kept a disorderly house in Neep Street?”

She smiled.

“Keats’s poem. There’s a philosopher in it, Apollonius. He sees to the heart of things and by fixing his severe eye upon Lamia turns her from the beautiful woman who has seduced his star pupil back into the serpent she was. I think Mr Pascoe fancies himself as Apollonius.”

“Waste of time, then, as you’re not a serpent. Are you?”

“What do you think, Andy?”

He shrugged.

“All yon magic stuff’s way beyond a simple soul like me. Give me a decomposing head in a plant pot any day. I’ll just do a bit of ringing round, see if they’ve got a line on your man yet.”

He took out his mobile and started making calls. She sat and watched, wondering, as often before, what to make of him. If you listened carefully to what he said, you started noticing juxtapositions which could be significant, or might simply be the product of your own over-subtlety. She liked the way he didn’t go out of the room to make his calls. If there were bad news, he was strong enough to give it to her upfront, and he believed she was strong enough so to take it.

Or perhaps he wanted to observe her reaction to his reaction as he talked.

“Nowt,” he said finally. “Which is good. But only ’cos it’s not bad. Could be he’s sitting on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic. Does he ever travel under another name?”

“Why should he do that?”

“Don’t know. Mebbe Kafka’s not his real name, just one he uses professionally, and his passport’s in his real name.”

“What a curious idea.”

“Why? He’s not Czech, is he? I mean, I know he’s Yank now, but he’s never struck me as very Middle Europe. Funny cheekbones, but they’re not Czech cheekbones.”

“You’re very observant, Andy.”

“You’ve noticed?” he said complacently. “Aye, well, I learned the hard way. When I were a young DC, I described someone as looking foreign and my boss tore a strip off me. ‘What the fuck use is that?’ he said. ‘It’s like saying you saw a vehicle and it looked like a car. You’d better start thinking in 3-D, lad, or you’re no fucking use to me.’”

“Sure you weren’t talking to yourself, Andy?”

“Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, I picked up a few tips from old Wally. Any road, you’ve not answered my question.”

She said, “No. Kafka is the name on his passport. It was the name he got from his father.”

“But mebbe not from his granddad?”

“I don’t think he went back beyond one generation,” she said. “But that didn’t bother him. He was a good man, Andy. A good American. That was important to him.”

“You said was. Twice.”

“I know. The first time was a slip. The second time it felt true. Andy, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I thought you did,” he said. “Any particular reason?”

“No. What reason could there be?”

“Threatening phone calls. Nasty letters. Sinister strangers hanging around the garden. Or mebbe he’s just been acting odd lately.”

“None of those. Just a feeling in my stomach. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not unless it’s hunger,” he said. “Which reminds me, I’ve eaten nowt since breakfast and you look like you could do with something to keep your strength up. How about we raid your larder? Or I could take you down yon pub. I’ve only been in there once since they tarted it up.”

“And it’s kind of you to offer to grit your teeth and brave the horrors again on my account,” she said, smiling. “But no thanks, Andy. Don’t worry about me. I’m not going to sit around here all day. I’ve promised Helen I’ll call in at the hospital.”

“Means a lot to you, that lass, doesn’t she?”

“Children are a gift from heaven, Andy. A very precious and fragile gift. I got mine twice. And now twice more.”

“Perfect is she, then?”

She laughed and said, “Don’t be silly. Love can be perfect but not people. In fact I’m beginning to get just a little worried about Helen. She seems to have difficulty contemplating any version of the future that doesn’t involve lying in a nice comfortable bed with nurses at her beck and call and people dropping by to tell her how wonderful she looks.”

“Understandable. Twins is a pretty big stone to have dropped in your nice calm pool,” said Dalziel. “That husband of hers, he going to be a help or a hindrance?”

“Sorry?”

“You know, these PE guys, all brawn, not much brain,” he said. “I just wondered if he were going to give her the kind of support she’ll likely need.”

“Don’t worry about Jase,” she said firmly. “He’ll pull his weight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just fix my face to meet the world.”

She stood up.

“Looks good enough to me,” he said. “You’ll need to drop me off somewhere. Them buggers have hijacked my car.”

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Twenty minutes later they were driving through Cothersley.

“Hello,” said Dalziel. “What’s going off here?”

On the green right in front of the pub reared what looked like a model of Great Gable, as if some gigantic mole had been at work under the earth. A police car was parked nearby and Constables Jennison and Maycock were standing there talking to what looked like a very unhappy man.

Kay’s attention was focused on the other side of the green where several women were spectating from the entrance to the church hall.

“Oh dear, the jumble sale,” she said. “I promised I’d look in. Do you mind, Andy?”

She brought the car to a halt.

Dalziel said, “Never mind about me, luv. I’ll get a lift with these lads. Bloody hell!”

As he opened the door of the car the nature of the strange mountain was made manifest. It was potently ripe manure.

Kay got out, her attention focused on the Church Hall rather than the steaming hillock. She started walking across the green. Dolly Upshott detached herself from the knot of watching women and came to meet her.

“You OK?” she said.

“Not sure. You?”

“The same.”

They regarded each other uncertainly for a moment then Kay said, “What’s happening over there?”

“Someone ordered that pile of manure to be dumped in front of the pub,” said Dolly. “It’s the third odd thing that’s happened this week. Blue beer, then a bunch of pensioners turned up for a cut-price lunch. I know it’s incredible, but I’ve got a feeling that Pal might be behind it. He hated the Captain and he loved a joke.”

“Yes, I do believe he did,” said Kay, sniffing the air. “Can’t be helping your sale much though.”

“They don’t seem to mind. Are you coming in?”

Kay said, “I don’t think I will. But I wouldn’t mind a talk.”

“Me too. Tell you what, let’s slip into the church.”

“But your sale…?”

“They can manage without me for a few minutes. For a few years even!”

“OK,” said Kay.

Dalziel watched the two women go up the path to the church, then strolled towards the two constables who had their backs towards him.

“Hello, hello, what’s going off here then?” he cried as he approached.

Jennison glanced round, did a comic double-take, and muttered out of the side of his mouth to Maycock, “Bloody hell, is there a CID holiday camp round here?”

Then to the Fat Man he said, “How do, sir? Seems that some joker thought it would be funny to deliver the Captain here a load of bullshit.”

“Now why on earth should anyone want to do that?” said Dalziel.

When Pascoe told Hat Bowler that they were going to see Lavinia Maciver, the young man was bewildered. No fool, he’d picked up the message over the past twenty-four hours that the brass, for reasons best known to themselves, were bent on keeping him away from Blacklow Cottage, and this morning he’d thought mutinously of ignoring Dalziel’s suggestion that he might like to spend Saturday at his desk, easing himself back in to work. He was after all still officially sick, and the sweet medicine of fresh-baked bread shared with Miss Mac’s family of birds was surely the better therapy.

But a suggestion from Dalziel was like an offer from a Mafia godfather-you rejected it at your peril.

In the car he sat in silence, his bewilderment changing visibly to distress.

Pascoe tried light conversation but in the end he pulled over to the verge and said, “Right, Hat. My idea in bringing you along was, first, to make sure I didn’t get lost. And, second, to reassure your friend, Miss Mac, that she had nothing to fear from my visit. But with you sulking and brooding in the background, she’s going to think at the very least I’ve come to put her birds in an aviary. So what’s bugging you?”

“It’s just that I don’t know what’s going on, sir,” he said.

“Join the club. But it’s part of a DC’s job description that much of the time he won’t have the faintest idea what’s going on, so there has to be more. Either spit it out, or I’ll get on the radio and rustle up a car to take you back to the station.”

The thought of Pascoe going on alone did the trick.

Hat said at a rush, “It’s just that there’s something you might notice when you’re there, and I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it was any of our business, not in the circumstances, and what with the new guidelines and everything…”

“Whoah!” said Pascoe. “Take it slowly, Hat. Like you were giving evidence in court. Then maybe I’ll have some faint idea what you’re talking about.”

Hat took a deep breath and started again.

“The first time I was there, I noticed there was a bit of a smell but what with bread baking, and the windows open so that the birds can get in and out, it didn’t really register. Then yesterday I started working in the garden, and though the stalks were all dried up I thought, hello. Then I checked in the lean-to greenhouse and there were these trays of shoots and, though I’m not an expert, I thought I recognized what they were.”

He halted as though he’d reached a conclusion.

“Radishes?” suggested Pascoe. “Spring onions? Jerusalem artichokes? Come on, Hat. Spit it out.”

“Cannabis,” blurted the youngster wretchedly.

“At last. So let’s get this straight,” said Pascoe. “You’re saying Miss Maciver smokes cannabis? And grows it in her garden?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s medicinal, it’s for her MS and, like I say, I thought with the new guidelines coming in…”

“We apply the law. We don’t interpret it, nor do we anticipate it,” said Pascoe sternly. “Have you talked to her about this?”

“No, sir.”

“That at least is a relief.” Pascoe looked at the unhappy young man for a moment then went on, “Are you going to lighten up or would you rather stand by the roadside looking miserable till the car comes to pick you up?”

Hat said, “I’ll be fine, sir. Really.”

He wanted to ask what Pascoe was going to do about the dope but, though young, he was wise enough to know that some answers were like plastic filler-they only hardened up when exposed to air.

He didn’t know whether to be pleased or not when, on approaching the cottage, he saw the wine-coloured Jaguar parked outside.

“Mr Waverley’s here,” he said to Pascoe.

“So I see.”

On setting out, if asked, Pascoe would have declared a preference for finding Miss Maciver alone. But now, instead of disappointment, he began to see a way of short-circuiting matters.

The front door was open so Hat led the way straight in with the confidence of an habitue. He found there was no need to affect relaxation and pleasure; the smell of new-baked bread, the welcoming smile on Miss Mac’s face, the excited flutter of wings, all these combined to flood his heart with content.

Even Mr Waverley, seated at the kitchen table, seemed pleased to see him, though his gaze grew speculative as it passed to Pascoe whose nose so far had picked up nothing but the mouth-watering smell of baking.

“Hello, Miss Mac,” said Hat. “How’re you doing? You’ve met Mr Pascoe, I think. He said he was coming out this way, so I got a lift.”

Pascoe noticed the not-too-subtle effort at dissociation and smiled.

“Good morning, Miss Maciver,” he said. “And Mr Waverley, too. How are you, sir?”

“I’m feeling particularly well at the moment,” said Waverley. “The year’s at the spring and day’s at the morn: God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.”

“I’m glad to hear it, said Pascoe. “Though you might get an argument in Whitehall or Washington.”

Miss Mac had pulled out a chair for Hat and when he sat down she pushed the loaf on the table invitingly towards him and a couple of tits fluttered down from the roof beam to settle on his shoulders.

“And Mr Pascoe, won’t you sit and have a bite or a cup of tea at least?” she said.

“Yes, Mr Pascoe, why don’t you take my chair?” said Waverley, rising. “I have to be on my way, I’m afraid.”

“You keep busy for a retired man then?” said Pascoe.

“Oh yes. When you’ve spent a lifetime in my kind of work, even in retirement you’re always in demand,” said Waverley, meeting his eye and smiling. “Tax problems never go away, do they?”

“Indeed not. In fact, you might be able to help me there, if you wouldn’t object to my picking your brain,” said Pascoe.