Reginald Hill - Midnight Fugue

‘HOY!’

The sound hit the back of the quarry, ricocheted off and rattled around, making direction hard to pinpoint.

For a second they all looked up, thinking such an ominous noise must have come from the skies.

Then Alex Wolfe saw that two men had appeared at the edge of the quarry. Straight away he recognized one of them: Peter Pascoe, who’d been at his daughter’s christening.

The other looked vaguely familiar. That bulk…that ursine gait…that simian head…wasn’t this the man Gina had been sitting with at the Keldale…? Wasn’t this the famous Andy Dalziel?

He was the one who’d shouted. No way such a sound could have emerged from the slender larynx of Peter Pascoe, who anyway seemed less bewildered by the presence of a bald-headed woman with a shotgun than the apparition of his christening party host.

‘Ed, what the hell are you doing here?’ he called.

Wolfe made no effort to reply. That was a question he’d need to think about. Unless things went really badly. In which case I won’t need to bother, he thought, as he watched Dalziel advancing with the majestic instancy of a disgruntled rhinoceros.

‘That the gun that shot yon poor lad at Loudwater? Best put it down, luv. It’s evidence.’

This was almost an aside as the Fat Man walked past Fleur towards her brother, who had pushed himself up into a simple kneeling position.

Hard to say which of this trio was the most grotesque, thought Wolfe with that calmness which can sometimes follow terror: the pale bald woman, the bleeding man, or the megalithic cop.

’Vincent Delay, I presume?’ said Dalziel. ‘You the one who did the shooting and put my DC in hospital? How do you manage when you’ve not got a gun and you’re not fighting a girl? Like to give it a try?’

‘Andy!’ said Pascoe. ‘Leave it. He’s hurt.’

‘Call that hurt? That’s a flea-bite. But I can wait. Or mebbe not. Murder, and him with his record, I shouldn’t think he’ll see the light of day in my lifetime.’

‘Step away from him!’

It was Fleur, the gun trained on the Fat Man’s belly.

Dalziel turned, a reassuring smile on his face.

‘Nay, luv,’ he said. ‘Tek care. I warned you not to mess with that thing. Put it down afore you do yourself an injury.’

‘Vince, on your feet. We’re getting out of here.’

Now the Fat Man’s smile broadened into a grin.

‘Where to? Listen.’

He cupped an ear with his great hand. Distantly but rapidly getting nearer they could hear the sound of approaching sirens.

‘Three of our lot, one ambulance,’ Dalziel analysed. ‘That’ll be for Sunny Jim here, so’s they can clean him up and get him looking pretty for the judge. You don’t look so clever yourself, luv. Mebbe they’ll take you along too, give you a bit of time to make your last farewells. Pity they don’t have mixed jails, else you could do your time together.’

‘Fleur!’

Vince was on his feet now. He wiped the blood away from his eyes.

‘Shoot the bastard!’ he croaked. ‘We need to get away from here.’

Pascoe took a step forward and said, ‘It’s over, Fleur. Put the gun down. My men will be here any minute. They’ll be armed. If they see you with that thing in your hand, they won’t hesitate to take you out.’

The barrel moved uncertainly from the Fat Man to the slim DCI.

At least it’s taken her mind off me, thought Alex Wolfe.

As if by thought transference the gun arced back in his direction.

‘Make up your mind, luv,’ said Dalziel. ‘One shot’s all you get.’

‘Fleur, please! Let’s go,’ pleaded Vince, his voice almost child-like in its pitch and intonation. ‘I can’t go back inside. They’ll never let me out. We’ve got to get away, we’ll go to Spain, I’ll settle there, I’ll like it there, I promise. Please, Fleur, please.’

He began to move unsteadily towards the blue VW. Dalziel stood aside to let him pass. The sirens were very close now.

The woman started to follow him.

Dalziel said musingly, ‘How old is he? Not yet fifty? He could have a good thirty years inside if he keeps in shape. Never mind. He can catch up on all them GCSE’s he missed out on.’

She kept on walking, though every step looked an agonizing effort.

The sirens had stopped. They heard the sound of car doors opening, voices shouting, feet running.

‘Last chance, luv,’ said Dalziel.

‘Bastard!’ she spat at him, and pulled the trigger.

The first of the new arrivals burst on the scene, heard the shotgun blast, saw the man slump heavily to the ground.

‘Armed police!’ he called.

The woman turned towards him, swinging the gun round with her.

‘Drop it!’ he called.

She brought it up to point at his chest.

He shot her through the heart.

‘Oh shit,’ he said, aghast at what he’d done. ‘Oh shit.’

‘Nay, lad, don’t beat up on thaself,’ said Andy Dalziel. ‘She were on her way out anyway, you don’t need to be a quack to see that.’

He looked towards Gina Wolfe. He wanted to speak to her, but she was folded in the shaven-headed man’s arms and he was talking urgently into her ear. Somehow the Fat Man got the impression it was instruction rather than comfort that was being given.

‘You know that guy?’ he said to Pascoe, who had come to join him, looking rather shell-shocked.

‘Yes…it’s Ed Muir…it was his daughter’s christening I was at…’

‘What’s he doing here then?’

‘I don’t know…in fact, I don’t know anything…what’s just gone off here, Andy?’

I’ve got to pull myself together, he thought. I’m sounding as pathetic as that poor bastard who just got shot by his sister!

‘Nay, lad, don’t get yourself in a tangle,’ said the Fat Man, giving Pascoe an avuncular pat on the shoulder that made him stagger. ‘Knowing stuff’s the responsibility of the man in charge, and that’s me, remember? What’s your mate doing now?’

Pascoe looked to see that Muir had now moved away from the blonde and was talking urgently into his telephone.

‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘Probably ringing Ali, his partner…’

‘Saying, “Sorry, luv, I’ll likely be late for supper, I’ve been held up by a pair of murderous sickos.” Hope she’s an understanding lass.’

He walked forward to where Vince Delay’s body sat slumped against the VW, a look of faint surprise still printed on his face.

‘Talking of understanding lasses, yon Fleur did you a favour, son,’ said the Fat Man, looking down at the corpse. ‘Everyone should have a sister like her.’

‘Loving, you mean?’ said Pascoe, control of his voice restored.

‘Dead, I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.

Goldie Gidman sat staring at the blank TV screen as if still watching his old favourite Hendrix strutting his stuff at Woodstock. The silence stretched into a minute. Things to say bubbled up in Purdy’s head but they all sounded like pleas or provocation. He tried to think of ways of dealing with Slingsby. The guy was an old man with incipient dementia, but he was in the good physical shape that often goes with the condition, and in any case it didn’t take much strength to slice through flesh and vein with what felt like a razor-sharp blade.

Cave in, he told himself. Make Goldie think you’re backing off. But don’t be obvious. He’s no fool, he hasn’t got where he is today by being a fool.

To which was added the uncomfortable thought, Nor has he got where he is today by being unwilling to remove obstacles in his path with extreme prejudice.

If that divine intervention were written into the score, it was time for it to play now.

His phone rang.