Free Midnight Fugue by Reginald Hill

Dave the Turd.
    One thing was certain, thought the Fat Man. Guilty, innocent, in the modern political climate, Goldie Gidman’s finances would have been gone over by the Millbank sniffer dogs before they accepted first his gift of money and then his gift of a son. With their long experience of fraud, graft, and corruption, if they ticked your approval box, you could give the finger to the police and the press. No wonder the Met felt shy about Operation Macavity.
    Dalziel said, ‘That it, Wieldy?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wield.
    ‘Thanks, lad. Don’t bother to close the door. This place needs an airing.’
    Another man might have been offended, but Wield knew he wasn’t being got at. The through-draught riffling the scattered papers was bearing away the last traces of Pascoe’s ordered universe.
    Alone, Dalziel sat back in his chair, clasped his hands on his lap, closed his eyes and set his mind to meditate how this changed things re Gina Wolfe, if at all.
    Novello, entering a couple of minutes later, thought he looked like that huge statue of Buddha the Taliban had tried to shell to pieces, and felt some rare sympathy with the extremists.
    She coughed gently.
    Without opening his eyes, he said, ‘You’re not a bloody butler. Just tell me what you got.’
    She said, ‘Nissan 350Z GT, registered owner Gina Wolfe, 28 Lombard Way, Ilford, Essex. Three speeding points on her licence, no convictions.’
    ‘Grand,’ said Dalziel. ‘Owt else?’
    ‘Not on Ms Wolfe.’
    ‘Who then?’
    ‘While I was running this plate, I saw Sergeant Naseby. He said they’d had a call CID might be interested in. A Mrs Esmé Sheridan rang in to complain about a succession of kerb-crawlers in Holyclerk Street. She gave a description of the first one:
A gross creature with close-set eyes and a simian brow who made salacious suggestions
.’
    ‘Sounds like a nut to me. Why’d Naseby think it was owt to interest us?’
    ‘Mrs Sheridan took this
gross creature’s
number. Couldn’t be too sure of it because the number plate was as filthy as its owner — her words. The sergeant ran a check. Oddly enough, one of the possibles that came up was your number. Sir.’
    ‘Dementia,’ said Dalziel. ‘Tell him to check the care homes for runaways.’
    He opened his eyes and smiled as if seeing Novello for the first time.
    ‘Ivor, you’re looking well, lass. Take a seat. What time do you knock off?’
    ‘Just got a report to finish then I’m done, sir.’
    ‘Been on all night, eh?’ he said sympathetically. ‘So what are your plans?’
    ‘Get a bit of shut-eye then meet up with some mates this evening,’ she said, slightly surprised. This level of interest in her personal life was unusual in the Fat Man.
    ‘Aye, but you’ll need to eat,’ he said, running his eyes over her frame as if assessing her weight. ‘Growing girl needs her grub. Tell you what, how do you fancy the terrace at the Keldale?’
    This was a shock to Novello. Sexist the fat old sod could be if he felt like it, but one thing he’d never been was predatory. Could an unforeseen effect of his hospitalization be that he was going to turn into a dirty old man?
    ‘Don’t think I’m dressed for that, sir,’ she said, glancing down at the loose olive green T-shirt and the baggy combat trousers which she habitually wore to work. On the whole her CID colleagues were fairly civilized, but there were still a few Neanderthals in the Station whose onanistic fantasies she didn’t care to feed.
    ‘Nay, tha’s fine. You see some real sights around these days. Scruffy’s the new smart, right?’ said Dalziel. ‘Any road, I don’t mean right off. Thing is, I’m meeting this lass for lunch there. Twelve o’clock, high noon. What I’d like you to do is watch us.’
    ‘Watch you?’ she said. This could be worse than she’d imagined.
    ‘Aye. Well no. What I mean is, I’d like you to keep your eyes skinned and see if there’s any other sod watching us. Or watching her,