Good Morning, Midnight

‘Miss Upshott,’ said Pascoe, cutting to the chase, ‘the reason I called was to see if you or anyone else working in the shop could throw any light on Mr Maciver’s state of mind yesterday.’

‘There’s only me,’ said the woman. ‘He seemed fine when last I saw him. I left early, middle of the afternoon. It was St Cuthbert’s feast day, you see, and David, my brother, has a special service for the kids from the village school, it’s not really a service, their teacher brings them over and David shows them our stained-glass windows and tells them some stories about St Cuthbert which are illustrated there. He’s very good, actually, the children love it. And I like to help … Sorry, you don’t want to hear this, do you? I’m rattling on. Sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Pascoe with a smile. She was very easy to smile at. Or with. ‘So you don’t know when Mr Maciver left the shop?’

‘Late on, I should think. Wednesday’s his squash night, you see, and he doesn’t care to go home and have a meal before he plays so usually he’ll stay behind here and get on with some paperwork then go straight to the club … but what happened yesterday I don’t know, of course, because …’

Her voice broke. She looked rather wildly around the shop. Perhaps, thought Pascoe, she was imagining how it might have been if he’d killed himself here and she’d come in this morning and found him.

Comfort, he guessed, would be counter-productive. The English middle classes paid good money to have their daughters trained to be sensible and practical. That was their default mode. Just press the right key.

‘So you help with the accounts?’ he said. ‘How was the business doing?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘We’ve been ticking over nicely through the winter and now with the tourist season coming on, we were looking to do very well indeed.’

‘Good. You might like to get your books in order in case we need to take a look. But I shouldn’t hang around too long. The press might come sniffing around and you don’t want to be bothered with that. Many thanks for your help.’

She said, ‘Please, Mr Pascoe. Before you go, can’t you tell me anything about … you know. Pal was well liked in the village … it would be such a help …’

Pascoe said carefully, ‘All I can say is that it appears Mr Maciver died from gunshot wounds. It’s early days, but at the moment we have no reason to believe there was anyone else involved. I’m sorry.’

She said, ‘Thank you.’

Unhappiness made her look like a forlorn teenager. Perhaps that’s what she was emotionally, a kid who’d had a crush on her charismatic boss.

He turned to the door, letting his eyes run over the stock on display. That was a nice art nouveau vase over there. Would Ellie’s discount be still in place now that Pal was dead …?

Come on! he chided himself. This was a step beyond professional objectivity into personal insensitivity.

But it was a nice vase.

4 (#ulink_82bfb373-1f8f-54d1-b136-3938b7a099ec)

like father, like son (#ulink_82bfb373-1f8f-54d1-b136-3938b7a099ec)

Tony Kafka sat on the train and watched England roll by, mile after dull mile.

He’d been here … how long? Fifteen, sixteen years?

Too long.

He knew plenty of Americans who loved it here. Given the chance, they’d drone on for ever about the easier pace of life, the greater sense of security, the depth of history, the cultural richness, the educational values, the beautiful landscape. If you pointed out that you had as much chance of being mugged in London as New York, that back home there was some sign they were getting through the drug culture that the Brits were just beginning to get into, that you could pick up the fucking Lake District and drop it in the Grand Canyon and not notice the difference, they’d start talking about the human scale of things, small is beautiful, that kind of crap. But if you let yourself be drawn into argument and started cataloguing the strikes against the UK – the lousy transport services, the godawful hotels, the deadly food, the shitty weather – after a while one of them would be sure to say, ‘If that’s the way you feel, why not get on a plane and head west?’

And that was a killer blow. Nothing to do then but smile weakly and abandon the field. He had no answer to give, or rather no answer he cared to give.

He’d come to do a job. After five years that job had been completed, everything in place and running smooth as silk. Nothing to stop him dropping the lot into the capacious lap of his supremely efficient deputy, Tom Hoblitt.

They’d wanted him back home then. There was a great future there for the taking. And he’d been ready. Then …

‘More coffee, sir?’

The steward was there, polite and attentive. This morning the service had been excellent and the train was on schedule. Wasn’t that always the way of it? Give yourself plenty of time to take account of the usual delays and you got a straight run through. Cut things fine and you could guarantee trouble. Like life.

He drank his coffee, which wasn’t bad either, and relapsed once more into his thoughts.

Kay. That’s why he’d stayed on. But put simply like that, he’d get nothing but incomprehension. If she’d been a Brit it might have been a reason, he could hear them say. But she was American, so why on earth …?

Then he’d need to explain it wasn’t so simple. His relationship with Kay had never been simple.

Look after people, that was the message drummed into him by his father. Look after people, especially if they’re kids. How many times had he heard his father tell the tale of how he’d been found wandering lost, not even speaking the language, and this great country had taken him in, and found him a home, and given him a flag and an education? As a kid he’d never tired of hearing the story. Later, growing up and feeling rebellious, he’d dared to question it, not directly but by implication, saying, ‘Yeah, you owe them, I see that, but you’ve paid back, you gave them a couple of years of your life in the war. In fact you almost gave them all of your goddam life.’

And his father had said, ‘You know why I didn’t? I was lying there, bleeding to death, and this sergeant, he was an Arkansas redneck, never said a good word to me before this, but he never said a good word to anyone so that was no special treatment, he picked me up and slung me over his shoulder and carried me out of there. I was dangling over his shoulder so I saw the bullet that hit him, smelt the burnt cloth where it went through his tunic, saw the blood spurt out and stream down his back. He walked another fifty yards after that, laid me down as gentle as if I’d been a hatful of eggs. Then he sat down and died. A redneck from Arkansas did that. Because I was a soldier. Because I was an American. Because I needed help. So don’t talk to me about paying back. I’ll never pay back, not if I live for ever.’

Kay had needed help. Once, twice, three, four times. And he’d learned what his father knew, that each time you gave just put you deeper in debt.

But debts personal and debts patriotic were not always the same thing. Last September the world had changed. He’d found himself looking at where he was. In every sense. And wondering if he should be there. In every sense.

An announcement came over the PA. Jesus, they were actually running ahead of time! No wonder the guy sounded smug.

He looked down at his laptop screen, which had gone to sleep. There was stuff he’d planned to bone up on before his meeting, but there was no rush. He was going to have plenty of time to kill. In any case what he wanted to say didn’t need facts and figures to back it up.

He stared at the blank screen and with his mind’s eye conjured up the Junius article he’d read that morning.

He was pretty certain he knew who Junius was. He’d never hinted his suspicion, to Kay or anyone else. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kay had got there before him a long time ago. As to saying anything to anyone else, the likely consequence wasn’t something he wanted to have on his already overloaded conscience.

He suddenly found himself thinking of that poor bastard Maciver. Of both poor bastards Maciver. Both ending up sitting at a desk with a shotgun under their chin.

Like father, like son.

Him too. Like his father. If serving your country meant getting wounded, then that was the price you had to pay.

And it still left you in debt.

5 (#ulink_564705be-1daf-58df-854e-ee0fdb991d8e)

load of bollocks (#ulink_564705be-1daf-58df-854e-ee0fdb991d8e)

The first person Pascoe ran into when he entered the station was DC Shirley Novello. He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. She rarely did, and never automatically.

He had long since decided that here was a young officer worth taking notice of. She was sharp, direct, a quick study; could take orders, think for herself, kept in good trim and when put to the test had proved she was physically brave.

All this was on her record. Not on her record, because the modern politically correct police force eschewed such inconsequential trivia, was any comment on her appearance. This erred on the plain side of unremarkable. A strong face untouched by make-up, short mousy brown hair showing no sign of recent acquaintance with coiffeur or coiffeuse, clothes which were usually some variety of loose-fitting combats in colour ranging from drab grey to drab olive.

Pascoe, however, had seen her dressed for action and knew that the way she looked at work was a deliberate choice. His guess was that here was an officer in a hurry who didn’t want to waste time or energy dealing with the Neanderthal dickheads who clutter up every police force. Early in his own career he had let his admiration for the physical attributes of a female colleague show too clearly and he still winced with embarrassment when he recalled how before a raid she had taken him aside and said seriously, ‘Peter, your wet dreams are your own affair, but tonight I’d like to be sure you’ll be watching my back and not my backside.’

So, though regrettable, there was no escaping the fact that the initial strategies of a young man and a young woman in a hurry must diverge. Perhaps equally regrettable was the fact that there comes a point when they must rejoin. This was the age of the image, of sharp suits as well as sharp minds. For a man just as much as for a woman it was hard to win the hearts and minds of a promotion board if you went around looking like a loosely tied sack of potatoes.

Pascoe hoped that Novello would suss this out. He baulked at the idea of dropping a hint himself, partly because such a comment, however kindly meant, was very much against the spirit of the age, but mainly because he sensed that, despite all his efforts to be approachable, Novello didn’t much care for him.