Reginald Hill - Good Morning, Midnight

“Got my mobile, I can easily ring a taxi,” said Hat.

“You’ll stay for supper then we’ll see about that,” said Miss Mac firmly.

“Goodbye then,” said Pascoe. “I’ll see myself out.”

At the front door he’d paused and glanced back. Hat was sitting at the table again. He had picked up his wedge of bread and was laughing at something Miss Mac had said. There was a flutter of birds about his head.

Pascoe smiled at the memory then realized his two colleagues were watching him very seriously. It occurred to him that a propos the Maciver affair they were looking to him for words that would give them, to use the modern cant term, closure.

Why should it be down to me? he asked himself angrily. How come I get elected moral arbiter of this odd little trinity?

He’d once said something similar to Ellie, demanding rhetorically, Why do they treat me like I’m CID’s moral conscience? To which she’d replied, How else should they treat you? and would not stay for an answer.

Right, he thought. If that’s what they want…

He put on a parsonical voice and declaimed, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.”

He smiled at the baffled expressions before him and said, “That’s one way of looking at things. How does it grab you?”

Dalziel said, “Me, I’m a dedicated flesh and blood man.”

“Me too,” said Wield.

“Then we have a majority. Pal Maciver found he had an inoperable brain tumour and he took his own life. That will be the inquest verdict. Whether it will mark the end of the affair I don’t know, but it will certainly mark the end of our part in it. We have done all we can, I think. Whether we’ve done enough, we won’t find out till the evil day, whenever that is.”

He rose to his feet.

“End of sermon. Andy, the tape’s all yours. Try to be a bit more careful with this one. I’m going home and I shan’t be in till Monday. Not unless someone starts a war, that is.”

“I’d sleep light then,” said Andy Dalziel. “The world’s full of mad buggers. It may not come tomorrow, it may not come this year, but it’ll come, sure as eggs. I’d sleep bloody light.”

Three times the phone rang in Cothersley Hall that night and three times Kay Kafka snatched it up almost before it had started ringing.

The first voice was American.

“Mrs Kafka?”

“Yes.”

“Good evening, Mrs Kafka. I’m hoping you may be able to help me. I was expecting to meet your husband Mr Tony Kafka off a flight from London, UK, earlier today, and he hasn’t showed. I wonder if there’s been some change of plan he hasn’t told anyone about.”

“Not that I know,” said Kay. “You work for Joe Proffitt, do you, Mr… I didn’t get your name?”

“Hackenburg. In a way, yes, I’m working with Mr Proffitt at the moment. So Mr Kafka isn’t there with you at the current time? If he were, I’d really appreciate it if he could come to the phone.”

“No, he’s not. What do you mean you’re working with Joe at the moment? Just who are you, Mr Hackenburg?”

“To be honest with you, Mrs Kafka, I work for the Securities and Exchange Commission. We’re looking into one or two apparent anomalies in the Ashur-Proffitt accounts at this present moment, and Mr Kafka’s name has been mentioned as someone who might be able to help us with our enquiries. So when we learned that he was expected to land here in the States today…”

“Mr Hackenburg, I’ve no idea where my husband is. I wish I did know. I’m putting the phone down now as I’m hoping to get a call either from Tony himself or the authorities, giving me information as to his whereabouts. Good night.”

She replaced the receiver.

Next time it rang, it was Andy Dalziel.

“Andy, you’ve heard something?”

“Sorry, luv, nowt. I’m just checking how you are.”

“I’m fine. Worried sick, but fine.”

“I know the feeling. Listen, Kay, it doesn’t look like Tony had an accident or anything, so we need to ask… well, was there any other reason he might just have decided to take off? Trouble at work, summat like that?”

“You mean has he headed for the hills because of this investigation into A-P that’s just hit the headlines? The answer’s no. I’m sure he knows nothing about what’s been going on back there. He’s been away from the centre of things so long… he’s been here, with me, because of me… that’s been the trouble.”

Dalziel said, “You OK, lass? You sound a bit upset. Shall I come round?”

A moment of silence, then Kay spoke again, her voice at its normal controlled pitch.

“Andy, if your lads heard you being so gallant, I think you’d have to resign. Thank you, but it’s truly not necessary. I’m fine. And I’m sure Tony is too. The next time the phone rings, it will probably be him.”

“Well, let me know if it is,” growled Dalziel. “And I’ll give him a big wet kiss when I see him, but only after I’ve kicked the bugger up the arse first for causing you so much grief.”

“That I would like to see,” said Kay. “Good night, Andy.”

She put the phone down and looked at her watch.

Time for bed. Routine is the best way through darkness. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see if you know your foot is going to hit solid familiar ground with every automatic step.

She stood up. The phone rang again. She snatched it up and sank back into her seat.

“Yes?”

“Mrs Kafka?” said a dry-edged voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I’m a friend of your husband’s, Mrs Kafka.”

The voice was like dead leaves drifted across a pavement by a chilly wind.

“Where is he?”

“Don’t you know, Mrs Kafka? Let’s assume you don’t. He needs to be out of things for a little while. No doubt he’ll contact you when he can. But meanwhile he feels the best thing for you to do is nothing that might draw attention. Yes, that would be best.”

“Best for who? For Tony? For me? For you?”

“For all of those, Mrs Kafka. And for your stepdaughter and her family too, I daresay. They all depend so much on you, Mrs Kafka. Don’t let them down. Goodbye now.”

“Wait! I want to…”

But the phone was dead.

She dialled 1471. To her surprise she got a number. She pressed 3 to ring it back. After three rings a very English voice came on the line.

“Good evening. This is the Mastaba Club. I regret there is no one in attendance to take care of your call at this time. If you wish to leave a message for one of our members, speak after the tone and we will endeavour to pass it on at the earliest convenient opportunity. Thank you. Good evening.”

All kind of rudenesses came into her mind but she put the phone down before they found utterance. You do not make faces at wolves.

She stood up once more. There would be no more calls.

As she crossed the entrance hall towards the stairs, the American long-case clock began to strike midnight.

She went to it and opened the pendulum cupboard.

As the eleventh note sounded, she reached in and stopped the pendulum.

Then she went upstairs to bed.

The war had been over three weeks.

A young marine called Tod Lessing sat on a pile of rubble and lit a cigarette to mask the faint smell of decay which hung over all such ruins. He was attached to a unit searching for weapons of mass destruction in which he personally had little interest. This had been his first spell of active service and he’d rapidly learned to focus his attention on weapons of personal destruction, to wit those likely to be an immediate danger to himself and his comrades.