Free Midnight Fugue by Reginald Hill Page A

more likely. Mebbe wanting to sit close enough to listen in on us. Moving when we move. Can you manage that?’
    Not hitting on her then, but asking for her assistance.
    Which was a considerable relief, but still odd. In matters constabulary, the old Andy didn’t ask, he simply commanded.
    ‘I suppose so,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Sir, is this… I mean, it’s not a domestic, is it?’
    ‘Like, am I having it off with a married woman and want to check if her husband’s put a tail on her?’ said Dalziel grinning. ‘Wash your mind out, lass! Nowt like that. But it’s not official, not yet. So let’s keep it private. It’s you doing me a favour in your lunch break. No official chitties either, so you’d best take this to cover expenses.’
    He took out a roll of notes and peeled off a couple of twenties.
    She looked at them in amazement — the Fat Man was not famous for his liberality — and said, ‘Like I say, I normally just have a sandwich, sir.’
    ‘On the Keldale terrace this’ll just about cover that, specially if you have a glass of something nice to wash it down with,’ he said.
    She took the money and said, ‘If I did spot someone and they moved off…’
    ‘Follow ’em,’ he said. ‘Get a name and address; tha’ll be top name on my Christmas card list. Right, twelve noon. Don’t be late. Wouldn’t surprise if my date gets there early; the keen ones usually do. Good-looking blonde, shoulder-length hair, thirty summat, looks younger from a distance, she’ll be at a table at the edge of the terrace overlooking the gardens, so try to get sat where you can cover us and most of the other tables. Off you go now. And remember, mum’s the word.’
    He watched her leave. Nice bum, for all her efforts to hide it. Suddenly he realized how much better he was feeling. Mebbe it was the prospect of lunch with an attractive blonde. He wasn’t yet sure what he was doing, but it definitely felt good to be doing it.
    Some words popped into his mind, he couldn’t remember their source, Churchill maybe, or Joe Stalin:
    When the old order changeth, make sure you’re the bugger who changeth it.
    He got up, went out and found Wield working at his desk.
    ‘Wieldy, I’m off,’ he said. ‘Man should enjoy his day of rest, eh?’
    ‘That’s right, sir. Though it’s always good to see you.’
    ‘Is it? Mebbe I really have been away too long.’
    Wield watched his progress across the CID room. He looked very positive. Like some stately ship heading confidently towards the western horizon. The
Mayflower
perhaps. Or the
Titanic
.
    Time would tell.
     
    10.45–11.02
     
    Ellie Pascoe studied the baby carefully.
    It was, so far as she could see, unexceptionable. Two eyes, brown, not quite focused; a squashed-up rather pug-like nose; a broad head crossed by a few strands of fairish hair; rosy cheeks and a dampish mouth from which emerged gurgles of what was presumably contentment; the usual number of limbs which waved spasmodically in the air like those of a bouleversed beetle.
    Ellie had friends who, confronted by such a phenomenon, would have dissolved into raptures of hyperbolical praise punctuated by enough cooing to deafen a dovecote.
    It was an art she lacked. Yet, recalling how much she had adored her own baby, and seeing the pride and joy shining on the faces of the infant’s parents, she did her best.
    ‘Isn’t she adorable!’ she cried. ‘What a darling. Goo goo goo goo goo.’
    The parents, Alicia Wintershine and Ed Muir, seemed to find her performance acceptable, but she could feel the critical gaze of her husband and daughter at her back and did not doubt she was being marked out of ten for style and content.
    She got a small revenge by turning and saying, ‘Rosie, isn’t she lovely! So pretty. Not like you, dear. You were the weirdest-looking little thing.’
    ‘Thanks a bunch, Mum,’ said her daughter, advancing and greeting the baby like an old friend. ‘Have you got her doing scales yet,