Read Online Midnight Fugue by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online
Authors: Reginald Hill
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Police, Police Procedural, Police - England - Yorkshire, Dalziel; Andrew (Fictitious character), Pascoe; Peter (Fictitious character)
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principally for preservation.
Her policy of keeping Vince as ignorant of the fine detail of their jobs as possible seemed to work. As a notorious ex-con, he got pulled in from time to time when the police had nothing better to do. Silence underpinned by ignorance and bolstered by the rapid arrival of a top-class brief had kept him safe. She used these occasions to point out to The Man just how ignorant Vince was. She felt pretty certain that as long as she was around and functioning efficiently, there would be no problem.
But take her out of the picture, and she knew beyond doubt that Goldie Gidman would be running his cold eyes over her brother.
She ran her own eyes over him as finally he emerged from the cathedral and headed towards the VW.
The fat guy was already getting into his ancient Rover.
Vince slid into the passenger seat beside his sister.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the woman?’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ he said. ‘She’s still inside. They’re meeting up later for lunch at the hotel. Twelve o’clock. I heard them fixing it.’
The Rover was nosing its way out of the car park. She started the VW and followed it out into Holyclerk Street.
‘We not tailing Blondie any more then?’ asked Vince.
‘We’ll let the bug do that for us. If she stops anywhere, we can check it out. You keep an eye on the laptop. Now tell me exactly what you saw and heard in the cathedral.’
When he finished, she squeezed his arm and said, ‘You done well, Vince.’
He basked in the glow of pleasure that praise from Fleur always gave him.
They had left the cathedral area behind them and were approaching the main urban highway. The Rover signalled left towards the town centre. Fleur signalled right.
‘We not going to see where’s he’s heading?’ said Vince, puzzled.
‘I’m starting to have a good idea where he’s heading,’ said Fleur. ‘What I want to see is where he’s coming from.’
09.50–10.30
It was funny, thought the Fat Man. Turning up at the Station by mistake on his day off would have been disastrous, but striding in now and taking them all by surprise felt like old times.
‘Morning, Wieldy,’ he said breezily. ‘Got a couple of little jobs for you.’
Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield had the kind of face that didn’t do surprise, but there was a slight pause for adjustment before he said, ‘Morning, sir. Be right with you.’
Dalziel noted the pause and thought, Gotcha! as he flung open the door of his office.
The evidence of his uncertain return to work was visible in the room’s relative tidiness. Pascoe had been using it latterly and the bugger had got everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion. The Fat Man had found himself thinking it was a shame not to benefit from this orderliness and for ten days he’d been replacing files in the cabinet, closing drawers, removing clutter from his desk, and even striving to keep the decibel level of his farts under control.
That he could take care of instantly. As he sank into his chair he let rip a rattler.
‘Didn’t quite catch that, sir,’ said Wield from the doorway.
‘Would probably have broken your wrist if you had,’ said Dalziel. ‘Seven years back there were a DI in the Met, Alex Wolfe, under investigation for corruption or summat; resigned, I think, then disappeared. I’d like all you can find about him. Same with Mick Purdy; DCI back then, now he’s Commander. But softly softly, eh? Don’t want to set any alarm bells ringing.’
‘What sort of alarm is that likely to be, sir?’ said Wield.
‘No idea. Probably none. But you know me, discretion’s my middle name.’
No it’s not, it’s Hamish, thought Wield. But that was a piece of knowledge he didn’t care to flaunt.
‘This something likely to come up at tomorrow’s case review, sir?’ he asked.
The Fat Man glanced at him sharply. The bugger can’t have picked up on me mistaking the day, can he? No way! But
Her policy of keeping Vince as ignorant of the fine detail of their jobs as possible seemed to work. As a notorious ex-con, he got pulled in from time to time when the police had nothing better to do. Silence underpinned by ignorance and bolstered by the rapid arrival of a top-class brief had kept him safe. She used these occasions to point out to The Man just how ignorant Vince was. She felt pretty certain that as long as she was around and functioning efficiently, there would be no problem.
But take her out of the picture, and she knew beyond doubt that Goldie Gidman would be running his cold eyes over her brother.
She ran her own eyes over him as finally he emerged from the cathedral and headed towards the VW.
The fat guy was already getting into his ancient Rover.
Vince slid into the passenger seat beside his sister.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Where’s the woman?’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ he said. ‘She’s still inside. They’re meeting up later for lunch at the hotel. Twelve o’clock. I heard them fixing it.’
The Rover was nosing its way out of the car park. She started the VW and followed it out into Holyclerk Street.
‘We not tailing Blondie any more then?’ asked Vince.
‘We’ll let the bug do that for us. If she stops anywhere, we can check it out. You keep an eye on the laptop. Now tell me exactly what you saw and heard in the cathedral.’
When he finished, she squeezed his arm and said, ‘You done well, Vince.’
He basked in the glow of pleasure that praise from Fleur always gave him.
They had left the cathedral area behind them and were approaching the main urban highway. The Rover signalled left towards the town centre. Fleur signalled right.
‘We not going to see where’s he’s heading?’ said Vince, puzzled.
‘I’m starting to have a good idea where he’s heading,’ said Fleur. ‘What I want to see is where he’s coming from.’
09.50–10.30
It was funny, thought the Fat Man. Turning up at the Station by mistake on his day off would have been disastrous, but striding in now and taking them all by surprise felt like old times.
‘Morning, Wieldy,’ he said breezily. ‘Got a couple of little jobs for you.’
Detective Sergeant Edgar Wield had the kind of face that didn’t do surprise, but there was a slight pause for adjustment before he said, ‘Morning, sir. Be right with you.’
Dalziel noted the pause and thought, Gotcha! as he flung open the door of his office.
The evidence of his uncertain return to work was visible in the room’s relative tidiness. Pascoe had been using it latterly and the bugger had got everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion. The Fat Man had found himself thinking it was a shame not to benefit from this orderliness and for ten days he’d been replacing files in the cabinet, closing drawers, removing clutter from his desk, and even striving to keep the decibel level of his farts under control.
That he could take care of instantly. As he sank into his chair he let rip a rattler.
‘Didn’t quite catch that, sir,’ said Wield from the doorway.
‘Would probably have broken your wrist if you had,’ said Dalziel. ‘Seven years back there were a DI in the Met, Alex Wolfe, under investigation for corruption or summat; resigned, I think, then disappeared. I’d like all you can find about him. Same with Mick Purdy; DCI back then, now he’s Commander. But softly softly, eh? Don’t want to set any alarm bells ringing.’
‘What sort of alarm is that likely to be, sir?’ said Wield.
‘No idea. Probably none. But you know me, discretion’s my middle name.’
No it’s not, it’s Hamish, thought Wield. But that was a piece of knowledge he didn’t care to flaunt.
‘This something likely to come up at tomorrow’s case review, sir?’ he asked.
The Fat Man glanced at him sharply. The bugger can’t have picked up on me mistaking the day, can he? No way! But
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