Reginald Hill - Midnight Fugue

Midnight.

Splintered woodwork, bedroom door flung open, feet pounding across the floor, duvet ripped off, grim faces looking down at him, his wife screaming as shes dragged naked from his side

He sits upright and cries, NO!

The duvet is in place, the room empty, the door closed. And through the thin curtains seeps the grey light of dawn.

As for Gina, she hasnt been by his side fordays?weeks?could be months.

The digital bedside clock reads 5.55. Hes not surprised.

Always some form of Nelson whenever he wakes these days: 1.112.22 3.33

Meaning something bad.

Things go on like this, one morning soon hes going to wake and the clock will read 6.66

He is still shaking, his body soaked with sweat, his heart pounding.

He gets out of bed and goes on to the landing.

Even the sight of the front door securely in place cant slow his pulse, even the shower jets cooling and cleaning his flesh cant wash away his fear.

He tries to analyse his dream, to get it under control by working out its meaning.

He conjures up the men. Some in uniform, some masked; some familiar, some strangers; some wielding police batons, some swinging hammers

He gives it up, not because the meaning is too elusive but because its too clear.

There is no one to turn to, nowhere to hide.

He looks out of the window into the quiet street, familiar from childhood, whenever that was. Now it seems strange, the houses skewed, the perspectives warped, all colour washed out, like a sepia still from some old horror movie.

He realizes he no longer knows where it leads.

Maybe thats where salvation lies.

If he doesnt know, how can they know?

All he has to do is walk away down that street. Once round the corner hell be somewhere nobody knows about. He will be free.

Part of his mind is asking, Does this make sense? Are you thinking straight? Is this the only way?

He makes one last effort at coherent thought, trying to find an answer by looking at the past, the trail that has brought him here, but the view is blocked by a small white box. For some reason its got a silver ribbon around it, making it look like a wedding present.

Maybe it was.

He tries to look beyond it, but its like staring into fog rolling off the ocean at dusk. The harder you look, the darker it gets.

Time to turn his back on that box, that fog, that darkness.

Time to walk away.

Shit, said Andy Dalziel as the phone rang.

In twenty minutes the CIDs monthly case review meeting was due to start, the first since his return. In the old days this wasnt a problem. Hed have rolled in late and watched them bolt their bacon butties and sit up straight. But if he was late now theyd probably think hed forgotten the way to the Station. So time was short and Monday-morning traffic was always a pain. Nowt that using his siren and jumping a few red lights couldnt compensate for, but if he wasnt on his way in the next couple of minutes, he might have to run over a few pedestrians too.

He grabbed his car keys and headed for the front door.

Behind him the answer machine clicked in and a voice he didnt recognize faded behind him down the narrow hallway.

Andy, hi. Mick Purdy, remember me? We met at Bramshill a few years back. Happy days, eh? So howre you doing, mate? Still shagging the sheep up there in the frozen north? Listen, if you could give me a bell, Id really appreciate it. My numbers

As the Fat Man slid into his car he dug into his memory bank. These days, especially with recent stuff, it sometimes seemed that the harder he looked, the darker it got. Curiously, deeper often meant clearer, and his Mick Purdy memories were pretty deep.

It wasnt a few years since hed been on that Bramshill course; more like eight or nine. Even then, hed been the oldest officer there by a long way, the reason being that for a decade or more hed managed to find a way of wriggling out of attendance whenever his name came up. But finally his concentration had lapsed.

It hadnt been so bad. The official side had been slightly less tedious than anticipated, and thered been a bunch of convivial colleagues, grateful to find someone they could rely on to get them to bed when their own legs proved less hollow than theyd imagined. DI Mick Purdy had usually been one of the last men standing, and he and Dalziel had struck up a holiday friendship based on shared professional scepticism and divided regional loyalties. They exchanged harmonious anecdotes offering particular instances of the universal truth that most of those in charge of HM Constabulary couldnt organize a fuck-up in a brothel. Then, when concord got boring, they divided geographically with Purdy claiming to believe that up in Yorkshire in times of dearth they ate their young, and Dalziel countering that down in London theyd produced a younger generation that not even a starving vulture could stomach.

Theyd parted with the usual expressions of good will and hope that their paths would cross again. But they never had. And now here was Mick Purdy ringing him at home first thing on a Monday morning, wanting to renew acquaintance.

Meaning, unless he were finally giving way to a long repressed passion, the bugger wanted a favour.

Interesting. But not so interesting it couldnt wait. Important thing this morning was to be there when his motley crew drifted into the meeting, seated in his chair of state, clearly the monarch of all he surveyed, ready to call them to account for what theyd done with their meagre talents during his absence.

He turned the key in the ignition and heard the familiar ursine growl. The old Rover had much in common with its driver, he thought complacently. Bodywork crap, interior packed with more rubbish than a builders skip, but-courtesy of the lads in the police garage-the engine would have graced a vehicle ten times younger and five times more expensive.

He put it into gear and blasted away from the kerb.

The speed of Dalziels departure took Gina Wolfe by surprise.

Shed been watching the house for signs of life, spotting none till suddenly the front door burst open and a rotund figure emerged. Dont be put off by his size, shed been warned, King Henry was fat too, and like the merry monarch Andy Dalziel used his weight to roll over everybody who got in his way. But she wouldnt have expected anything so fat to move so fast.

He slid into his car like a tarantula going down a drain-hole, the old banger started first time and took off at a speed as surprising as its owners. Not that she doubted the ability of her Nissan 350Z to match it, but on unfamiliar streets she needed to keep him in sight.

By the time she belted up, eased out of her parking spot and set off in pursuit, the Rover had reached a T-junction three hundred yards ahead and turned left.

Happily it was still visible when she too turned. A short burst of acceleration closed the distance between them and she settled down three car lengths behind. Her wanderings that morning had given her some sense of the citys geography and she knew they were heading towards its centre, probably making for the police station.

After seven or eight minutes, he signalled left. She followed him off the main road and found herself in a residential area, old and up-market from the look of it, with occasional glimpses of a massive church tower somewhere at its centre.

Ahead the Rover slowed almost to a stop. Its driver seemed to be talking to a woman walking along the pavement. Gina brought the Nissan to a crawl too. If he noticed, it would just look like a silly female driver terrified to overtake in this rather narrow street. A few seconds later, the Rover drew away once more. She didnt have far to follow this time. A couple of hundred yards on, he turned into a car park marked Cathedral Use Only.