Good Morning, Midnight (23 page)

“Junius?”

“Aye. Mean something to you?”

“Vaguely. Junius was the pseudonym of some eighteenth-century guy who used to write letters and articles saying the government was a load of crap. Had a go at the judiciary and George the Third too, if I remember right. They never found out who he was, not for certain, anyway.”

“Sounds like that’s where this Junius got his name. According to him at least one of the Ashur-Proffitt subsidiaries was mixed up in that Arms for Iran scandal, remember, when that guy North got done for sanction-breaking, arranging for arms to be sold to the Iranians then subsidizing the Contra guerrillas in Nicaragua with the profits. Lot of stuff about Iraq too.”

“You must have dug deep to get on to this Junius site,” observed Pascoe.

“Not really. Whoever set it up had managed to get a hyperlink in the A-P website, so when you clicked on More Information about our overseas operations, suddenly you were transferred to Junius with all this stuff pouring out at you.”

He sounded admiring. To Pascoe, computers were like cars, a tool. In his youth he’d felt fairly competent to deal with minor car troubles, but that had been in a gentler age when lifting up a bonnet revealed as much space as engine. Now every inch was so crammed he had to get his manual out to locate the oil dipstick. With computers he didn’t even have that distant memory to console him. Only Andy Dalziel made him feel expert. In face of real experts, like Wield and his daughter, Rosie, he felt only resentful awe.

“All that this stuff did,” continued the sergeant, “was show me how fast and how far Ash-Mac’s had moved from the old Maciver’s. It must have been a real shock to Pal senior’s system when he realized this. OK, they gave him a token job, but I guess it took a bit of time for it to sink in just how token it was. Mebbe he reacted by trying to throw his weight around till someone took him aside and spelt it out that he was yesterday’s man. He must have felt betrayed, Worse, he must have felt he’d betrayed all his employees. I could see how he might have cracked.”

“So, no loose end?” said Pascoe.

“None that I could see. Mebbe none that I wanted to see,” said Wield. “I put it out of my mind and never gave it another thought. Not till I caught the news this morning. And I found myself coming over all bothered by it, just like I had before. I thought hard about it, couldn’t see any reason why I should be bothered, so I put it out of my mind again. Next thing, I clock Andy head to head with Kay. And suddenly I’m bothered again. And now he’s throwing his toys out of the cot.”

“And his teddy’s weighted with lead shot,” said Pascoe. “Wieldy, sorry to go on about it, but you’re quite sure this doesn’t just come down to sex?”

“You think, mebbe ’cos I’m gay, I can’t crack all the hetero codes?”

Pascoe opened his mouth for an indignant denial, changed his mind and said, “Could be. Took me a long time to suss you out, remember?”

“I remember. But it’s not relevant. I don’t think the super plays the sex-for-favours game. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, Andy’s not Mrs Kafka’s type.”

“Her type being…?”

Wield described the scene with Manuel.

“He went up there looking like he was hot favourite for a gold, came down like he hadn’t even got a bronze,” he concluded. “And seems he’s not the first.”

“What?”

“There’ve been others. Not a lot, three or four, well spread out.”

“How the hell do you know this?”

“Doreen, one of the reception girls, comes from Enscombe. I got into conversation with her afore I left.”

“God, Wieldy, you live dangerously. If Himself ever found out you were asking questions…”

“No chance,” said Wield. “In Enscombe we know how to keep things close.”

“Except to other members of the coven, eh? What precisely did Doreen say?”

“Not much. Same types: young fellows who really fancied themselves was how she put it. One was a trainee manager-didn’t know the others, but they all had two things in common: they started by acting like they were God’s gift and they ended chewed up and spat out-her words.”

“Fascinating,” said Pascoe. “Makes you wonder about that stuff on the tape.”

“Does it?” said the sergeant. “Well, I’m glad it’s nowt to do with me. So what are you going to do with your loose ends, Pete? Try and tie ’em up?”

“Do I look crazy?” said Pascoe. “Over to Ireland this goes, and good riddance.”

To show he meant it, he started reassembling the contents of Maciver’s wallet, which he’d left strewn across his desk.

Wield said, “What’s that?”

“Deceased’s wallet and watch for Paddy to return to the widow,” said Pascoe.

“No. That-’

The sergeant’s finger touched the golden business card.

“Just a card in his wallet. Why?”

Wield turned the card round and read out the name.

“Jake Gallipot. I thought that’s what it said. Hard to miss, even upside down.”

“Mean something to you?”

“There was a Jake Gallipot used to be a DS in South Yorkshire twelve, thirteen years ago. I knew him quite well. Was on a sergeants’ course with him and our paths crossed a few times after. Invalided out, in inverted commas. I heard he’d set up some kind of PI agency in Harrogate.”

“It’s a Harrogate number,” said Pascoe. “And there can’t be many Jake Gallipots around.”

Wield looked at him and said, “So?”

Pascoe took the card and replaced it in the wallet.

“So I’ll mention it to Paddy Ireland,” said Pascoe firmly. “I’ve had it with Maciver. RIP, Palinurus! And with a bit of luck maybe I can too!”

Kay Kafka sat at her computer looking at the Ashur-Proffitt website.

The site designers, alerted to the Junius invasion, had acted quickly and all traces had been removed. But Kay didn’t doubt he’d be back.

When the encroachments first started to occur, she’d looked up Junius in an encyclopaedia. Her motive had been idle curiosity. There she read that the true identity of the writer of the Junius letters had never been established but the most likely suspect was a man called Sir Philip Francis.

“Snap,” she said.

She believed in fate, she believed in various kinds of divination, but she didn’t believe in coincidence.

It had to be him. Not Philip Francis, but Francis Phillips. The coincidence was too great. And Frank certainly had cause to hate Ashur-Proffitt, just as she had cause to hate Frank.

She’d debated whether to share her suspicion with Tony but decided against it. OK, Frank had done her wrong. But that was in another country. And besides, he’d given her the greatest joy in her life and could hardly be held responsible for its greatest pain.

Not that she hadn’t taken revenge from time to time, but its nature was generic rather than particular. From the way Tony had talked this morning, he was no longer all that concerned to discover Junius’s identity but the reaction of some of his associates could be extreme… She pushed the thought from her mind.

Tony had rung a couple of hours earlier, saying the train had been held up, some trouble on the line, God knows how long it was going to take. He had sounded tired and irritable. She had asked him how the meeting had gone. He had snarled something indecipherable except for the words slug and Warlove. Then they’d been cut off, or he’d disconnected.

It sounded bad. She knew how little he’d been looking forward to this trip and if he’d let the slug see the doubts that had been troubling his mind with increasing frequency, it couldn’t have been a comfortable meeting. But her sympathy for her husband was tempered by more personal considerations. His talk of “going home” troubled her. This was home now, all the more so since last night. He must see that. So in a way she and Warlove could find themselves allies in this, neither wanting Kafka to chuck in the towel and head for retirement. And what would he do back in the States anyway?

Write his memoirs, he’d once replied when she’d questioned him.

She prayed he hadn’t hinted that, not even in jest, to Warlove. She had no illusions about the likely consequences of such a threat.

No, she reassured herself. Tony wasn’t stupid. But he was brave and that was sometimes almost as bad.

She switched off the computer, stood up and went into the lounge. Here she sat down, hesitating between the television and the scatter of newspapers on the table by her chair. Finally ignoring both she picked up the chunky volume which lay beside the papers. On its cover was a sketch of an oval-faced woman, lips pursed, mouth slightly askew, hair severe, expression unsmiling. If the artist had caught her well, here was a woman contained, giving nothing away.

Except wisdom to the devotee.

Kay closed her eyes, opened the book, put her forefinger on the page, opened her eyes and read where her finger had rested. 1742 The distance that the dead have gone

Does not at first appear Their coming back seems possible

For many an ardent year. And then, that we have followed them,

We more than half suspect,

So intimate have we become

With their dear retrospect.

Twice she read the poem, her face as unrevealing as the sketch on the cover.

Distantly she heard a door open and close.

She closed the volume, stood up, went to a sideboard on which stood decanters and tumblers and poured two fingers of scotch into one of them.

A moment later the lounge door opened and Tony Kafka came in.

She handed him the drink, which he downed in a single gulp.

“Hi,” he said, handing the glass back for a refill.

“Hi. Hard day?”

“You could say that.”

“You shouldn’t let Warlove get to you.”

“Not just Warlove. I told you, Gedye was there too.”

“So? He’s on our side, isn’t he?”

He finished the second scotch.

“Is he? I’m not sure which side is which any longer. Things have changed back home, but not here, not with guys like Warlove. Business as before. The Brits call nearly all the shots now but you can bet your sweet ass when the shit hits the fan it will be all ‘Tut-tut, old boy, what can you expect from a Yankee business?’”

“You didn’t say this?” she asked, alarmed.

“Not in so many words. Hey, don’t look so worried, they probably got the message, but they don’t kill the messenger any more, not when he’s got scary friends back home. I spoke to Joe on the train, put him in the picture far as I could on an open line. I said I’d ring him again when I got back here, but we agreed we ought to bring forward next month’s strategy meeting, so I’ll be heading home in the next day or so.”

Home, she thought.

She said, “You will be careful, won’t you, Tony? Don’t go too far out on a limb till you’re sure Joe and the others are with you, not sitting on the ground watching Warlove and his friend get to work with a chainsaw.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m always the one sitting with my back to the wall so I can watch the saloon door.”

He had filled his glass for the third time and was looking at it doubtfully. Gently she took it from him.

“You’ll need a clear head if you’re going to ring Joe again.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I had a few on the train. Fuck all else to do. These fucking trains! The Brits have invented the time machine-you get in and when you get out again centuries have passed!”

“What caused the delay this time? Leaves on the line?”

“Not leaves,” he said. “Flesh. Some sad bastard decided to step in front of us.”

“Jesus. Man? Woman?”

“Who knows? For a change, we were really moving when it happened. I guess they’ll be doing a two-mile jigsaw to put the poor devil together again. Time of the year for suicides, it seems. First Pal, now this. Don’t they say such things go in threes? Who’s next, I wonder?”

She went to him and put her arms around him. He stood quite still in the embrace, neither responding to it nor attempting to move from it.

In the entrance hall the old American long-case clock began to strike midnight. Tonight its brassy chime sounded particularly triumphant, as if to say, At last I’ve got someone to hear.

It was the kind of spring morning to make a young man’s fancy turn to thoughts of new baked bread and homemade marmalade, while Ellie Pascoe’s matutinal kiss was more than usually passionate, resulting in Peter Pascoe arriving late at work, but lighter of step and lighter of heart than usual.

The lightness of step was not enough to get him past Paddy Ireland’s ground-floor office undetected, and the lightness of heart didn’t last long either.

“Morning, Pete,” said the inspector. “Got a letter here. Think it must be yours.”

“Got my name on it, you mean?” asked Pascoe.

“Not exactly.”

He turned toward his desk and stood pointing at an envelope like the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come inviting Scrooge to look at his own headstone.

The envelope bore a local postmark with yesterday’s date and was addressed in crude block capitals to THE MACIVER MURDER ENQUIRY POLICE CID MID-YORKSHIRE

“It says Maciver,” Pascoe objected. “We’ve agreed that’s your business.”

“It says murder,” retorted Ireland. “That’s CID business.”

“I see you opened it all the same. What’s the message?”

Ireland picked up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a sheet of A4 paper.

Printed on it in the same hand that had written the address was the number 870.

“What’s this?” said Pascoe. “A date? A hymn number? An alternative solution to the mystery of Life, the Universe and All That?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Ireland. “I don’t do riddles. Pete, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seemed to me out at Moscow you had some real doubts about this business.”

“All of which have faded away, like the youth of the heart and the dew in the morning. I am a doubt-free zone. By Order. Even if I were burning up with doubt, I hardly think this would have poured oil upon it. Dotty anonymous letters full of specific accusation with lurid detail are par for the course after a suicide, so there’s certainly no need to get our knickers in a twist about a number.”