Reginald Hill - Good Morning, Midnight

In fact, driving slowly down the Avenue was still a popular pursuit among a certain section of Mid-Yorkshire society, but they weren’t thinking of Empire, except perhaps metaphorically. The shade against the elements provided by the trees, the privacy afforded by many of the dark and winding driveways, plus the thinness on the ground of complaining residents, made this a favourite parade ground for prostitutes and kerb crawlers. In the misty aureoles of the elegantly curved Greenhill lampposts, the Avenue might look deserted. But set your car crawling sedately along the kerbside and, like dryads materializing from their trees at the summons of the great god Pan, the ladies of the night would appear.

Except if the car had POLICE written all over it, when the effect was quite other.

Jennison hadn’t been able to last out and was already unfolding his parcel, releasing the pungent smell of hot battered fish and vinegary chips.

“Can’t you bloody wait till I get parked?”

“No, me belly thinks me throat’s cut. This’ll do. Pull over here.”

“Don’t be daft. We’d have the girls throwing bricks at us for frightening off the punters. I know just the spot. Bonkers’ll never find us here.”

He swung the wheel over and ran the car under the plane trees into a gravelled driveway between two stone pillars. Stumps of concrete at their tops suggested that they had once been crowned with some ornamental or heraldic device but this had long since vanished, probably at the same time as the ornate metal gate. Its massy hinges were still visible on the right-hand pillar, however, while on the left, graven deep enough in the stonework to be still readable though heavily lichened, was the name MOSCOW HOUSE.

Leaning over the high ivied garden wall was an estate agent’s board reading FOR SALE WITH VACANT POSSESSION.

Maycock drove up the length of the drive till he could see the house. Its complete darkness and shuttered windows confirmed the promise of the sign that there was no one here to disturb or be disturbed by.

“That’s funny,” he said as he brought the car to a halt.

“What?”

“Isn’t that door open?”

“Which door?”

“The house door, what do you fucking think?”

The two men strained their eyes through the swirling mist.

“It is, tha knows,” said Maycock. “It’s definitely open.”

Jennison leaned across, dropped the warm newspaper packet on to his colleague’s lap and switched off the headlights.

“Can’t see it myself,” he said. “Now shut up and eat your haddock afore it gets cold.”

They munched in silence for a while. Then the radio crackled out their call sign and a voice they recognized as Bonnick’s said, “Report your position.”

“Shit,” said Maycock.

“No sweat,” said Jennison.

He switched on his transmitter and said, “We’re in the Avenue, Sarge. Checking out an unsecured property.”

“The Avenue? Which Avenue?” demanded Bonnick, sounding irritated. “Use proper procedure, full details when reporting location.”

Jennison grinned at his partner and replied mildly, “Just the Avenue, Sarge. In Greenhill. Thought everyone knew that. The property’s called Moscow House. It’s on the left-hand side as you’re heading east, about one hundred and five metres from the junction with Balmoral Terrace. There’s a name on the gate pillar. Moscow House. That’s M, O, S, C, O, W. Moscow. H, O, U, S, E. House. Bit misty out here but if you get lost, there’s one or two helpful young ladies around who’ll be glad to show you the way. Over.”

There was silence, though in his mind Maycock could hear police constables pissing themselves laughing all over Mid-Yorkshire.

“Report back to me as soon as your check’s finished. Out,” said the sergeant in a quiet controlled voice.

“Think you’ve made a friend there,” said Maycock.

“He can please his bloody self.”

“Aye, but we’d best do what you’ve told him we’re doing,” said Maycock, getting out of the car. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”

“I’ve not finished me cod yet!” protested Jennison.

But to tell the truth his appetite was fading. For Joker Jennison had a secret. He was scared of the dark, and particularly scared of old dark houses. His fear was metaphysical rather than physical. Muscular muggers and crazy crack-heads he took in his stride. But in his infancy he couldn’t sleep without a night-light and as a teenager he’d fainted while watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show. On reviving and realizing the damage this was likely to do to his street cred, he had faked every symptom of every illness he could think of, causing a meningitis scare in his school and getting him confined to an isolation ward in the infirmary while they did tests. It had worked as far as his mates were concerned, but on joining the police force (which itself had been an act of denial), he had soon realized that if he fainted every time he had to enter a deserted property with only his torch for light, pretence of illness would get him thrown out as quickly as admission of terror. So he had learned to grit his teeth and keep his true feelings hidden behind the screen of pleasantries that got him his nickname.

Now he remained stubbornly in his seat as his partner mounted the steps to the open door. Moscow House seemed to grow in bulk as he watched, towering high into the swirling mist where it wasn’t hard for his straining eyes to detect ruined battlements around which flitted squeaking bats.

Then the mist came rolling down the dark facade as if bent on putting a curtain between himself and Alan Maycock.

“Oh shit,” said Jennison again. What was worse, out here alone or in there with his partner?

That part of his mind still in touch with reason told him that if anything happened to Maycock he’d have to go into the house anyway.

With a sigh of desperation, he rolled his bulk out of the car, crushed the remnants of his fish supper into a ball and hurled it into the darkness, then jogged towards the house shouting, “Hang about, you daft bugger. I’m coming!”

“What do they put these things in with? Sledgehammers?” snarled Cressida Maciver, gripping the bottle between her knees and hauling at the corkscrew with both hands.

Ellie Pascoe smiled uneasily and glanced at her watch. Half-eight, two empty bottles lying on the floor, and they hadn’t even eaten yet. Nor could her sensitive nose detect any evidence of food in preparation wafting from the kitchen, and Cress was one of those cooks who couldn’t scramble an egg without sprinkling it with spices.

But it wasn’t the thought of going hungry that caused her unease. It was the fact that on a couple of previous occasions, even with food, the opening of a third bottle had been closely followed by an attempt at seduction which came close to sexual assault. After the second time, Ellie had been ready with various stratagems to pre-empt the well-signalled pounce, and though their farewell hug sometimes came close to frottage, she had managed to escape without damage. Sober, next time they met, Cress seemed to have forgotten everything in the same way that, drunk, she clearly had no recollection of Ellie’s having confided in her that once, at university, curiosity and a determination not to appear repressed or naive had got her into a female lecturer’s bed, but the experience had done nothing for her and wasn’t one she had any desire to repeat.

Usually she got a taxi home, but when her husband, Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe had announced they’d need a baby-sitter as piles of neglected paperwork were going to keep him at his desk deep into the evening, she’d declared that what they lost on the sitter they could gain on the taxi and arranged for him to pick her up about ten-thirty, which was the usual danger time. Now the schedule was blown to hell, and as well as uneasy, Ellie felt cheated. She was very fond of Cress, and in matters of taste generally, politics sufficiently, and humour absolutely, they shared so much that their evenings together before the hormones took over were a delight which tonight looked like being cut well short.