Midnight Fugue (22 page)

By this small act of defiance he was showing himself flesh of Goldie’s flesh, blood of his blood, and that was good.

On the other hand, he needed to be reminded from time to time that, whatever power he now wielded and would in the future wield in the great world out there, in his father’s world he was and must remain a cipher.

He said, ‘What you talking about, son?’

‘I’m talking about Gwyn Jones ambushing me at the opening.’

‘Jones?’ He could see he’d caught his father’s attention. ‘That Jones the Mess?’

‘The same. The last guy a politician wants to see at his door if he’s got anything he needs to keep hidden. Have I got anything I need to keep hidden, Pappy?’

‘Just tell me what this Jones fellow said. I mean, the words he used.’

Dave Gidman had a power of recall that came in very useful in the House and he was able to repeat the journalist’s words almost verbatim.

When he finished, Goldie said, ‘What did Maggie say about this?’

Dave felt hugely irritated. The degree of respect, indeed of affection, both his parents showed to Pinchbeck really pissed him off.

He said, ‘Nothing. Why the fuck should she say anything?’

‘It got you worried, son. Anything you see, Maggie would see two minutes earlier, that’s for sure. Now go and see your mammy. Tell her you’ll be staying for supper.’

‘Is that it?’ demanded Dave, incensed by the implication that his PA was brighter than he was.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Nothing for you to worry your head about. You just concentrate on kicking them government bastards while they’re down.’

Dave the Third took a step closer to his father and glared down at him. Goldie stared back up at him with a lack of expression that those who had received the hammer treatment in his youth might have recognized. It felt like a defining moment.

Which in a way it was.

It was the younger man who broke off eye contact first and stalked out of the room.

Goldie felt almost disappointed but not quite. Now wasn’t a good time for young Dave to be rocking the boat. Way things were going, it would take a steady hand on the wheel and a clear eye at the helm.

Maybe, he thought, I should have left this alone.

But all his life he’d dealt with stuff as it came along. Tidy up behind you and you didn’t leave a trail.

Except sometimes, if things didn’t fall right, the trail could be the tidying-up.

Long way from that here, and anyway, he thought confidently, he’d got friends in high places who’d make sure the trail got brushed out long before it reached him.

Politics was a lot like fucking. Same rule about relationships applied here that he’d tried to drum into young Dave after the business with his tell-tale PA. Always make sure the woman you’re boning has got more to lose than you have if you get found out.

It had taken a conversation with Fleur Delay to show that would-be blabbermouth, Nikki the Knockers, just how much she had to lose. In the world of politics and finance, you got heavy in a different way, but it came to the same thing in the end. Over the past few years he’d made sure that Westminster and the City were full of folk who would shit bricks if they thought that Goldie Gidman was running into trouble. Couple at the Yard too. And his lunch today with that poncy peer had reinforced his protection. So he was fire-proof.

Not young Dave, though. A political career was like a delicate flower. Leave the wrong door open and a cold draught could kill it off overnight.

He’d sent Fleur Delay up to the frozen north to close a door. No one he trusted more than Fleur. So there’d been a glitch. Despite her efforts to cover for him in her phone call, it was clear that the glitch had been down to that dickhead brother of hers. But you could rely on Fleur. She always came through in a crisis. And if she didn’t, well, all relationships that aren’t blood relationships come to an end.

How did Jones the Mess play here?

No way to know yet.

Jones. The name might mean something, might not. Like young Dave had said, every second fucker in Wales is called Jones.

Time would tell.

He picked up the remote and pressed the start button. On the screen Hendrix sprang once more to noisy life.

As always when he watched this video, his mind drifted back to the sixties. He’d started them as a skinny teenager, subject to all the conflicting impulses of the time and of the times. Change had been in the air, particularly for the young. He’d wanted to be part of it, but wanted even more to be able to afford all the new goodies on offer. He’d known one or two kids who’d actually made it to the States, been at Woodstock. By ’69 he could have afforded to fly over there first class. But of course he hadn’t. Too much business to look after, too much wheeling and dealing to be done, too many people to keep in line. What the hell, those kids probably ended up in dead-end jobs, were sitting even now in some shitty little house, seeing their grandchildren yawn as they started to reminisce about Woodstock.

But watching the video, listening to Jimi, it always felt like an opportunity missed.

One thing was certain, his boy was never going to look back on missed opportunities. The world was his inheritance and his father was going to make sure he got it.

And if that long-gone loser, Wolfe, really had come crawling out of the past to threaten young Dave’s future, he’d quickly find that Goldie Gidman could still wield a mean hammer!

He pushed these thought from his mind and settled back to enjoy the music.

15.20–15.30

Andy Dalziel opened his eyes.

His old sleeping patterns had taken some time to re-establish themselves after his long sojourn in the strange never-never-land of coma, of which he had no memories but which occasionally sent him brief visionary flashes.

He wondered if he was having one now, but it seemed more than a flash. Perhaps he had suffered a complete relapse?

He was lying beneath a silky smooth feather-light duvet with his head buried deep in a mountain of soft pillows. The air was sweetly perfumed, there was music sounding in his ears and through the dim religious light surrounding him moved a lovely blonde angel in a diaphanously revealing negligee.

He applied his mind to a cool consideration of the possibilities.

Did he wake or sleep?

Was he dreaming or dead?

The angel dropped something on to his face.

It bounced off his nose. He said, ‘Ouch.’

‘At last,’ she said. ‘This thing’s been ringing ever since I got back. I’d have chucked a bucket of water over you if it hadn’t been my bed.’

Her bed. Slowly it came back to him. By the end of the meal he’d felt definitely languorous. Coffee had had no restorative effect. Mebbe the fact that it was accompanied by a large malt hadn’t helped. As they left the terrace, he checked his watch. Their early start meant it was only just after half past one.

‘You got any plans for this afternoon?’ he’d asked.

‘Plans?’ she said, as if not recognizing the word. ‘Why?’

‘Just that I could do with getting me head down for half an hour afore I set off driving. Snoring in the lounge might be a bother. Some people are funny. So I wondered, any chance of crashing out on your bed?’

‘As long as I’m not in it,’ she said. ‘And as long as you’re out of it in half an hour.’

‘Cub’s honour,’ he said gravely.

Only he’d never been a cub.

But he really had thought that his internal clock would wake him after thirty minutes. It always had in the past. Instead, he realized as he stared blearily at his watch, he’d been sleeping for nigh on two hours.

‘I’m now going to have a shower,’ said Gina. ‘When I come out, I definitely don’t expect to find you still here.’

She drifted out of his line of vision.

He sat up and threw back the duvet, realizing as he did so that, apart from his shoes and his jacket, he was fully clothed. His phone had stopped ringing so he didn’t need to bother about that.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

The movement made him aware of two things. He had a bit of a headache and he needed a pee.

The headache was nothing that a breath of fresh air and a cup of strong tea wouldn’t take care of. The pee was rather more urgent.

It occurred to him that Gina Wolfe was unlikely to feel the enjoyment of her shower in any way enhanced by the arrival of a fat policemen in her bathroom, no matter how urgent his need.

He slipped his feet into his shoes and put on his jacket. There was a notepad by the room telephone. He scribbled a couple of lines on it and tucked it between the pillows on the double bed, then headed for the door.

By a great effort of will he made it to the ground-floor toilet without incident, then he headed out on to the terrace.

As he sat down, a young man he recognized as Pietro, the highly efficient restorer of order after his demolition of the water jug, appeared at his side.

‘
Buon giorno, Signore
Dalziel. Can I get you something?’

Remembered names too. That was good.

‘Pot of strong Yorkshire tea, thanks. And mebbe a parkin.’

‘Subito, signore.’

‘By the by, did I settle up for the lunch?’

‘No problem, sir.
Signora
Wolfe said to charge it to her room.’

Shit. Would a knight errant let a distressed damsel foot the bill?

Probably not. But it wouldn’t bother Rooster Cogburn.

‘Grand,’ he said. ‘Quick as you can with the tea.’

He remembered about his phone and took it and checked for messages.

There were several, the first couple from Wield asking him to ring back urgently.

Then the message repeated in Pascoe’s voice.

And finally, ‘Andy, where the hell are you? I’ve got search parties out. We’ve an emergency here. Get in touch the second you get this, understand? This is important. Don’t muck me about!’

This was not the language of a deferential 2 i.c. to his superior. This was angry and imperious.

He brought up Pascoe’s number.

‘OK, lad,’ he said. ‘What’s all the panic? Forgot where I keep the key to the stationery cupboard? It had better be good — this is my day off, remember?’

If he’d hoped by his bluster to fend off bad news, he was disappointed.

Pascoe said, ‘Andy, thank God. Listen, it’s Novello. Someone’s bashed her over the head and she’s in Intensive Care. It gets worse. She was found lying next to a man’s body. He’s had his face shot off!’

‘Oh Christ. Found where?’

He knew the answer before he heard it.

‘Loudwater Villas. Number 39. Wieldy says he ran a number plate for you this lunchtime and that was the address. Andy, what the hell’s going on?’

‘You there now?’ said Dalziel, ignoring the question because he couldn’t answer it.

‘Of course I bloody well am!’

‘I’m on my way.’

He set off, passing en route without a glance Pietro bearing a silver tray on which rested a pot of tea and a freshly baked parkin.

It had been a crazy day, thought the young waiter. This was the third time someone had ordered then rushed off without touching a thing!

But at least the good-looking young woman who’d abandoned her prawn sandwich had said she’d be back. Pietro prided himself on recognizing genuine interest when he saw it.

Oh yes, he told himself complacently.

That one would definitely be back.

14.45–15.35

As Maggie Pinchbeck drove away after dropping Gidman, she hadn’t been happy.

Normally she might have been as dismissive of Gwyn Jones’s unexpected appearance as her employer had appeared to be. Journalists spent much of their time chasing will-o’-the-wisps. The only sin was to miss a story, and if that meant spending tedious hours exploring dead-ends, that was the price they had to pay.

In newspaper circles it was generally agreed that Goldie Gidman was fireproof. Some cynics averred this meant he had to be dirty because nobody could be so clean, but majority opinion held that if there really had been any dirt to be found, the combined excavatory skills of the police and the press would surely have dug it up years ago. Of course it was potentially such a great story, conjuring up the prospect of bringing the Tory’s new Icarus crashing to earth, that it would never entirely die. Great truths may burn eternally, but great lies too retain a heat in their embers that stubbornly refuses to be quenched.

So Jones had probably caught a fragment of a whisper, half overheard and wholly misinterpreted. Being a dedicated Gidman-baiter, he’d tossed it into the water and stood back to see if anything surfaced.

Disregardable then, thought Maggie. If it hadn’t been for Tris Shandy’s party.

Tristram Shandy (real name Ernie Moonie) was a former Irish boy-band singer who had survived changing fashion, waning hair and waxing waist with a flexibility worthy of the Vicar of Bray. In turns record producer,
Celebrity-Up-the-Creek
winner, comic novelist, Live Aid activist, panel game player, soap star and confessional autobiographer, he was now, rising fifty, revelling in his latest metamorphosis as chairman of
Truce
! this season’s mega-successful TV show. Its ostensible aim was to bring together warring parties ranging from quarrelling neighbours, divorcing couples, kids at odds with parents, and families divided by wills, to individuals in dispute with corporate bodies such as supermarkets, estate agents, manufactures, hospitals, lawyers, politicians.

The resulting melange of glutinous sentimentality when disputants were reconciled, and blood on the carpet when they weren’t, was so much to the depraved taste of twenty-first-century Britain that Shandy had now joined the crowded ranks of those minutely talented, monstrously ego’d ‘media personalities’ whose contracts were worth millions.

Maggie knew that today he was spending some of his loose change on a luncheon party on the
Shah-Boat
, the former Shah of Persia’s luxury yacht, found rusting in a remote backwater of the Black Sea by a Russian oil millionaire, restored to its previous opulence, and towed to its present location on Victoria Embankment where it had rapidly become the location of choice for those who liked to combine the maximum of privacy for their parties with the maximum of publicity for their personal wealth.