Reginald Hill - Good Morning, Midnight

“All right, we’ll all go,” she said.

“Helen, love, don’t be silly,” protested Jason. “In your condition …”

“I’m pregnant,” she snapped, “not a bloody invalid. And Pal’s my brother.”

There we go, thought Kay. Blood.

She said brightly, “This can hardly have anything to do with Pal if the police are trying to get hold of him as the keyholder, can it?”

It rang as true as a British Euro.

“All right. Come on,” said Jason, who knew when argument was useless.

They got their coats and went out. It took some time to ease Helen into the car, even though it was a big Volvo estate. Jason’s beloved MR2 had gone in the fourth month of pregnancy when he’d had to admit its impracticality as a vehicle for his expanding wife and his imminently expanding family.

Finally they were on their way.

Kay looked back at the house as they passed through the gateway. Even at this short distance the mist made it look different, strange, unattainable.

For whatever reason, she found herself thinking that these cosy Wednesday evenings were over for ever.

What’s keeping the useless bastard? Ellie Pascoe asked herself.

Anything less serious than a terrorist attack necessitating the sealing off of the city centre would be paid for with bitter rue.

She glanced surreptitiously at her watch.

It was a mistake.

The thing about Cressida’s pounce was that, though you knew it was coming, it always took you by surprise.

One moment she was sitting opposite, attempting to squeeze a final drop out of the now empty bottle, the next she was on the arm of Ellie’s chair, pinning her down with the expertise of a pro wrestler and trying to thrust her tongue down Ellie’s throat.

Unable to move and unable to speak, Ellie did the only thing left to her. She bit.

“Christ Almighty!” exclaimed Cress, jerking her head back. “So you like it rough? Suits me.”

The door bell rang.

And kept on ringing.

One thing about a cop, he might come late, but when he arrived you knew he was there.

“Who the hell is that?” said Cressida angrily.

Her body-lock grip relaxed sufficiently for Ellie to counterattack. She rolled Cressida off the arm of the chair and rose to her feet.

“Don’t know,” she said, “but I don’t think he’s going to go away.”

She headed for the door and opened it. Her husband stood there, framed in thick mist, like a visitor from another world.

“Hello, darling,” she said, her voice bright, her eyes brighter as they flashed Where the hell have you been? “You’re a bit early. We haven’t even eaten yet.”

“Sorry, bit of an emergency. I rang home to check things, and the sitter’s not feeling too well. Unfortunately something’s come up at work and I’m going to be a bit tied up myself, so I thought I’d better get you there.”

He sounded like a second-rate actor in a third-rate soap.

“Oh dear. What a pity. Cress, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. Perils of domesticity, eh?”

Cressida was standing behind her, looking like she didn’t believe a word of it. Don’t blame her, thought Ellie. If Peter had sounded stilted, she sounded like a parody of provincial rep. All she lacked was a French window and a tennis racket.

But no time to hang about for the reviews.

She grabbed her coat, gave her friend a quick hug and followed Peter down the steps of the narrow Edwardian terrace house to his car.

The police radio crackled into life as he opened the door.

Ellie, used to the background when she travelled with her husband, didn’t pay any attention till he grabbed the mike, identified himself and asked for details.

Shit, thought Ellie. How often did it happen that your lying excuses turned true? He’d said he was tied up with something and now God was making sure he was, which was a shame as, whether in reaction from or reaction to her friend’s probing tongue she didn’t care to know, she wouldn’t have minded getting home full of wine for an early night…

She felt herself pushed aside as Cressida came bounding down the steps and thrust her head into the car.

“What was that about Moscow House?” she demanded.

Pascoe looked at her in amazement then tried to ease her backwards.

“Nothing to bother yourself with, just a routine call…”

“They’re talking about ambulances, aren’t they? That’s Moscow House in the Avenue, right? Jesus! Ask them what the hell’s going on. Ellie, that’s our house. Don’t you understand-that’s our house!”

And as she looked appealingly at her friend, her name, Maciver, was spoken quite distinctly on the radio.

Pascoe switched it off.

“Your house…?” he said.

“It’s the family house, where I grew up… It belongs to us now, the three of us, only… What’s going on there? Has this got anything to do with Pal going missing?”

Pascoe looked at Ellie, who said, “Pal’s Cress’s brother. He didn’t turn up for a squash match this evening and no one knows where he is…”

Pascoe said, “Probably some simple explanation. Ellie, I’ll have to call by there, check what’s going off. Maybe it’s best if you hang on here till I see how long I’m going to be. You can always get a taxi.”

He sounded very relaxed about things and it all came over much more convincing than before, but Ellie got the real message. He’d heard something that suggested to him it might be a good idea if she stuck with Cressida for a while longer.

But that wasn’t an option.

Cressida said, “I’m coming with you.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Pascoe firmly. “Against regulations, you see…”

“Sod regulations. OK, if you won’t take me, I’ll drive myself.”

“Pete,” said Ellie urgently. “I don’t think that would be wise… we’ve drunk quite a bit of wine, and with this mist…”

Pascoe shook his head and gave her his another-fine-mess-you’ve-got-me-into look, then said, “All right, Cress, get in. But when we get there, you stay inside the car till I check what’s happening, OK?”

“Yeah yeah, anything,” said Cressida, tumbling into the back seat.

Fat chance, thought Ellie.

She went back up the steps and closed the door, wondered too late if Cress had her keys with her, thought That’s her problem! and got into the other rear seat.

Cressida was looking at her suspiciously. She might be tipsy and she might be worried but her brain was still working.

She said, “So what’s happening about your baby-sitter emergency?”

Oh hell, thought Ellie. In her experience lies always got you into trouble.

She said, “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Cressida.

It was almost a dead heat at Moscow House with Pascoe’s ancient Golf just pipping Sue-Lynn’s Alfa Romeo Spider, closely followed by Jason Dunn’s Volvo estate.

PC Jennison had been stationed as custodian of the gate by Sergeant Bonnick with the uncalled-for comment that here at last was a task suited to his excessive girth.

“No one gets past, right?”

“Not even Mr Dalziel, say?” said Jennison uneasily. Or the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? his restless imagination added.

“No one unofficial, idiot! Do I have to spell it out? Our lot you wave through. Anyone else, you block their passage, which shouldn’t be difficult with your gut, then you contact me in the house. And keep a log of names and times in your notebook. You got that?”

“Yes, Sarge,” said Jennison.

So far all that had turned up had been Inspector Ireland, an ambulance and the duty Medical Examiner, plus one of the working girls whose curiosity had been strong enough to keep her from joining the general migration to other beats once the flashing blue lights had signalled the end of trade in the Avenue for the night. When first she appeared, Jennison had experienced a pang of bowel-loosening terror. With long black hair and a face as pale as death, she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Transylvanian tomb. But when she smiled at him without revealing fangs and spoke to him in a friendly and indeed rather flattering way, he quickly relaxed. Any remaining suspicion that she might be one of the Undead faded when his expert gaze took in the substantial and shapely body beneath the short leather dress, a judgment he was able to confirm tactilely when he put his hands on her buttocks and pushed her out of sight behind the gate column when a car approached.