Reginald Hill - Midnight Fugue

Its ring-tone, downloaded for him by Gina, was based on the aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He’d protested, ‘Jesus, girl, they’ll all think I’ve gone weird when they hear that.’ And she’d replied, ‘Yes, but you’ll always think of me.’

He thought of her now.

The notes were repeated.

Goldie said, ‘Better answer that, Mick. But be careful what you say.’

Moving carefully to keep the pressure of steel on his throat constant, he took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

‘Purdy,’ he said.

He listened. Gidman, watching him carefully, saw with interest that whoever he was listening to had caught his attention so absolutely that Slingsby and his knife had gone completely out of his mind.

After the best part of a minute, Purdy burst out, ‘And she’s OK? Is she there? Can I speak to her?’

He listened again, then said, ‘OK, I understand. And that’s both of them dead. You’re sure of that?’

Another short period of listening then he said, ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself? Yes, he’s here. Hang on.’

He took the phone from his ear and said, ‘Goldie, I think you might want to hear this.’

Gidman stared at him for a moment then made a gesture. The blade went from his throat, he rose and moved forward and handed the financier the phone.

He said, ‘Goldie Gidman.’

Now it was his turn to listen.

After a while he repeated Purdy’s question.

‘Both of them? You’re sure?’

Another listen, then he said, ‘If you can make that play, then I’m OK with that. Believe me, I only ever wanted to talk.’

He switched off and handed the phone back. Then he smiled, gold fillings gleaming like Tutankhamen’s tomb, and Purdy knew he was safe. He touched his neck then examined his finger. Blood and sweat.

Gidman said, ‘You were right, Mick. Things got a bit out of control. We all have off days, right? But they’ve fixed themselves now. Thing I’ve found out as I’ve got older, nothing you can’t fix by talking.’

Purdy put his handkerchief to his neck.

‘Hard to talk with your throat cut, Goldie.’

Gidman laughed.

‘Would never have come to that, Mick, Sure you won’t have that cigar now? Drop of rum for the old days? OK, I understand. Don’t mind me saying, but you look a bit peaky. I’d say the best place for you is back in your bed, get some sleep in before your woman comes home. Sling will see you out. And, Sling, when you’ve said goodbye to the commander, have a word with young Maggie who’s volunteered to take care of me. Flo said she’d left one of her meat-and-potato pies for my supper. Show Maggie where she’ll find it. And tell her I’ll be honoured if she’ll join me at the table. Bye, Mick. Don’t be a stranger.’

Outside Mick Purdy watched as Slingsby, with the gentle smile that one uses to speed a parting friend, closed the door of Windrush House.

Then he took a deep breath of the evening air and looked up at the darkling sky.

Life felt good, even though there were difficult times ahead.

Alex had sounded confident he didn’t need to break whatever cover he’d created for himself. Purdy could accept that, but harder to accept was Wolfe’s assurance that Gina was going to go along with this. And if she did, what was going to be her attitude when she returned? Would she be willing to marry him, knowing that her husband was still alive? Would she let her lawyer go ahead with the petition for assumption of death?

And just how much would she by now have guessed about his role in recruiting Alex on behalf of Gidman?

These concerns he was confident of finding ways to deal with. They were mere midges in the ointment. But the one big blue-bottle potentially buzzing its way alongside them was Andy Dalziel.

How would he be reacting to all that had happened?

No doubt he’ll let me know, thought Purdy. In fact, he’ll probably be ringing shortly to tell me Gina’s OK. Got to be careful I don’t let him see I know already.

He was too tired for all this. Maybe he was too old for all this.

It was funny, but the one element he wasn’t worried about was Goldie Gidman.

As on so many occasions in the past, including some he had personal knowledge of during the man’s early career, some he guessed at in his latter corporate manifestations, Gidman had steered very close to the wind. But he carried with him an aura of invincibility.

Bit like Andy Dalziel, thought Purdy.

Two great survivors, two untouchables.

Pointless worrying about them any more than there’s any point worrying about God.

Time to go home and sleep. The rest would keep till he awoke.

Shirley Novello opened her eyes for the second time since being brought to hospital.

The first time she been surrounded by masked strangers who had bustled around her, poked and prodded, adjusted wires and tubes, until finally an unmasked man had introduced himself as her surgeon, asked a couple of simple questions, appeared delighted with her monosyllabic answers, then taken his leave, which she had read as permission to go back to sleep.

The second time she opened her eyes, there was no sound or bustle, just a single monumental figure sitting by the bed. She might have thought it was God if it hadn’t been reading a Sunday tabloid.

‘How do, luv,’ the figure said. ‘It says here that the Tory Party’s put together a think-tank to take a close look at the recession and come up with ideas to fix it, and one of its five wise men is Goldie Gidman. Can you credit it?’

‘Who…he…?’ she managed faintly.

‘He’s the bastard who’s ultimately responsible for putting you in here,’ said the apparition who might not be God but was a dead ringer for Andy Dalziel. ‘And the bad news is, looks like it’s going to be bloody hard making him pay for it. The good news is the bastard who actually cracked your skull is downstairs in the morgue with his sister.’

This was all so surreal she decided it must be part of a post-anaesthetic delusion so she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again he was still there.

‘The big question’, said the Dalziel eidolon, ‘is how much to believe of yon mate of Pete Pascoe’s story. He says he were at the Lost Traveller talking to the landlord about a catering job, and when he were driving away, he looked down the hill and saw Gina being bundled into a car and he got worried so he followed. So, a real have-a-go hero, and modest with it, doesn’t want any fuss. Gina says she’d gone for a drive, got lost, got out of the car to get some air and her bearings, then the Delays showed up and kidnapped her. Does owt of that sound plausible to you, lass?’

Novello tried closing her eyes again, but far from shutting up the speaker, this seemed to be taken as a comment.

‘You’re right, luv. Sounds bloody thin to me too. But the thing is, if I give ’em a dose of good old Andy Dalziel deep questioning, where’s it going to lead but endless dole, eh? He’s just had a babby by young Rosie’s clarinet teacher, and Gina wants to get on home to claim a widow’s pension and marry Mick Purdy. Now there’s another problem, as you’ll not be slow to point out.’

‘Wa…er,’ gasped Novello, opening her eyes.

‘Eh? What…her? Is that like who…he?’

Wa…er,’ she repeated in exasperation.

‘Oh, water! Right.’

He poured a glass of water from a bottle on her bedside locker, put his arm round her shoulder and set the glass to her lips. When she indicated she’d had enough, he gently set her head back down on the pillow.

She said, ‘Is it really you?’

‘Good question, luv. Kind of day I’ve had, I’m not sure how to answer it. We were talking about Mick. I’ve got me doubts there. Nobody hates a bent cop more than me, but we all cut a few corners when we’re young, look the other way for a pint of beer here, a quick jump there. Could be straight as a die now. One thing I’m sure of is, it weren’t himself he were worried about, it were Gina. He really loves that lass. Do I want to muck that up? She’s not daft, but. I reckon she’s going to be giving him a hard time when she gets back, and I don’t mean that kind of hard either. So what should I do, lass? You’re going to have to make these decisions afore too long. You’re going far, I can always spot a good ’un, and you’ve got the makings. So what do you think I should do?’