Free Good Morning, Midnight by Reginald Hill

John Dickson Carr again? What more do you want?”
    “A note would be nice, for a start.”
    “A note, eh? Any sign of a note, Paddy?”
    Inspector Ireland let out a long-suffering sigh. The fact that he was a teetotal Baptist born in Heckmondwyke and able to trace his ancestry back a hundred and fifty years without any sign of Irish blood hadn’t saved him from being nicknamed Paddy, and the more he protested, the more he found himself treated as a fount of knowledge on all matters Eireann.
    “Name’s Cedric,” he said. “Couldn’t say. I followed procedure and kept out to minimize the risk of contamination.”
    “But you’ve been inside, Sergeant, and I’ve no doubt Tweedledum and Tweedledee went clumping all over the place.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Bonnick. “Didn’t see a note though.”
    “Pity,” said Dalziel. “There ought to be something…”
    “To confirm it’s suicide, you mean?” said Pascoe triumphantly.
    “No,” said the Fat Man irritably. “In fact, if you studied your statistics you’d know that seventy per cent of genuine suicides don’t leave a note, while ninety-seven per cent of fakes do… Hang about. Not a note. A book! Now I recall. There ought to be a book. Isn’t that a book on the desk, Sergeant?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Bonnick, surprised. “There is a book.”
    “Didn’t notice what it was, did you?”
    “No, sir. Got a bit splattered with blood and stuff. You’d need to scrape it off first.”
    “Not squeamish, are you? Doesn’t come well from a sergeant, squeaming.”
    “Just following procedure, sir, touching as little as possible till the scene’s been examined.”
    “Which will be when? You did give SOCO the right address, didn’t you, Paddy?”
    “Of course I did,” Ireland assured him, looking offended.
    Three things were troubling Pascoe. One was the suspicion that the Fat Man had just invented the suicide note statistics. The second was his apparent power of precognition. There ought to be a book. And lo! there was a book!
    The third was the still unanswered question of why the hell he was here at all. Off duty, what had there been in a shout to a possible suicide to bring him hurrying from the comfort of his fireside? Even the fact that his inamorata, Cap Marvell, was away at present didn’t explain that.
    His speculations were interrupted by noises below. Fearful that Cressida had led an assault, he peered over the balustrade and saw to his relief that the SOCO team had finally arrived. They paused to pull on their white coveralls and then came up the stairway.
    “About bloody time,” said Dalziel. “Don’t be all night at it, will you? And try not to leave a mess.”
    He set off down the stairs. Pascoe hurried to catch up with him.
    “Sir,” he said. “Do I take it you’re assuming control of this case?”
    “Me? Simple suicide? Nay, lad, you got here first, you’re the man in charge.”
    “In that case, there’s a couple of questions I’d like to ask you
    …”
    “Not now, lad, not when there’s a poor woman out there waiting to be told she’s a widow,” reproved the Fat Man.
    So saying, he pulled open the front door, bounced Maycock aside with his belly and stepped out into the night.

11 SD+SS=PS
    Out here, the mist was in total control. It gave bulk while it removed substance. Somewhere in the wooded garden, an owl uttered a long wavering screech that made Pascoe’s nape hair prickle.
    Helen and Jason had got back into the Volvo, Ellie was talking to Cressida alongside the Spider, and Kay Kafka was standing to one side with a mobile to her ear.
    “Where’s the wife gone?” said Dalziel.
    “I don’t know,” said Pascoe. “But as I’m in charge, I think I ought to be the one who breaks the news.”
    Meaning, until he knew different, this was a suspicious death and everyone connected with the dead man was a suspect.
    “You reckon? Sometimes these things are better coming from a more sensitive and mature figure,” said