Politics was a lot like fucking. Same rule about relationships applied here that he’d tried to drum into young Dave after the business with his tell-tale PA. Always make sure the woman you’re boning has got more to lose than you have if you get found out.
It had taken a conversation with Fleur Delay to show that would-be blabbermouth, Nikki the Knockers, just how much she had to lose. In the world of politics and finance, you got heavy in a different way, but it came to the same thing in the end. Over the past few years he’d made sure that Westminster and the City were full of folk who would shit bricks if they thought that Goldie Gidman was running into trouble. Couple at the Yard too. And his lunch today with that poncy peer had reinforced his protection. So he was fire-proof.
Not young Dave, though. A political career was like a delicate flower. Leave the wrong door open and a cold draught could kill it off overnight.
He’d sent Fleur Delay up to the frozen north to close a door. No one he trusted more than Fleur. So there’d been a glitch. Despite her efforts to cover for him in her phone call, it was clear that the glitch had been down to that dickhead brother of hers. But you could rely on Fleur. She always came through in a crisis. And if she didn’t, well, all relationships that aren’t blood relationships come to an end.
How did Jones the Mess play here?
No way to know yet.
Jones. The name might mean something, might not. Like young Dave had said, every second fucker in Wales is called Jones.
Time would tell.
He picked up the remote and pressed the start button. On the screen Hendrix sprang once more to noisy life.
As always when he watched this video, his mind drifted back to the sixties. He’d started them as a skinny teenager, subject to all the conflicting impulses of the time and of the times. Change had been in the air, particularly for the young. He’d wanted to be part of it, but wanted even more to be able to afford all the new goodies on offer. He’d known one or two kids who’d actually made it to the States, been at Woodstock. By ’69 he could have afforded to fly over there first class. But of course he hadn’t. Too much business to look after, too much wheeling and dealing to be done, too many people to keep in line. What the hell, those kids probably ended up in dead-end jobs, were sitting even now in some shitty little house, seeing their grandchildren yawn as they started to reminisce about Woodstock.
But watching the video, listening to Jimi, it always felt like an opportunity missed.
One thing was certain, his boy was never going to look back on missed opportunities. The world was his inheritance and his father was going to make sure he got it.
And if that long-gone loser, Wolfe, really had come crawling out of the past to threaten young Dave’s future, he’d quickly find that Goldie Gidman could still wield a mean hammer!
He pushed these thought from his mind and settled back to enjoy the music.
15.20-15.30
Andy Dalziel opened his eyes.
His old sleeping patterns had taken some time to re-establish themselves after his long sojourn in the strange never-never-land of coma, of which he had no memories but which occasionally sent him brief visionary flashes.
He wondered if he was having one now, but it seemed more than a flash. Perhaps he had suffered a complete relapse?
He was lying beneath a silky smooth feather-light duvet with his head buried deep in a mountain of soft pillows. The air was sweetly perfumed, there was music sounding in his ears and through the dim religious light surrounding him moved a lovely blonde angel in a diaphanously revealing negligee.
He applied his mind to a cool consideration of the possibilities.
Did he wake or sleep?
Was he dreaming or dead?
The angel dropped something on to his face.
It bounced off his nose. He said, ‘Ouch.’
‘At last,’ she said. ‘This thing’s been ringing ever since I got back. I’d have chucked a bucket of water over you if it hadn’t been my bed.’
Her bed. Slowly it came back to him. By the end of the meal he’d felt definitely languorous. Coffee had had no restorative effect. Mebbe the fact that it was accompanied by a large malt hadn’t helped. As they left the terrace, he checked his watch. Their early start meant it was only just after half past one.
‘You got any plans for this afternoon?’ he’d asked.
‘Plans?’ she said, as if not recognizing the word. ‘Why?’
‘Just that I could do with getting me head down for half an hour afore I set off driving. Snoring in the lounge might be a bother. Some people are funny. So I wondered, any chance of crashing out on your bed?’
‘As long as I’m not in it,’ she said. ‘And as long as you’re out of it in half an hour.’
‘Cub’s honour,’ he said gravely.
Only he’d never been a cub.
But he really had thought that his internal clock would wake him after thirty minutes. It always had in the past. Instead, he realized as he stared blearily at his watch, he’d been sleeping for nigh on two hours.
‘I’m now going to have a shower,’ said Gina. ‘When I come out, I definitely don’t expect to find you still here.’
She drifted out of his line of vision.
He sat up and threw back the duvet, realizing as he did so that, apart from his shoes and his jacket, he was fully clothed. His phone had stopped ringing so he didn’t need to bother about that.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up.
The movement made him aware of two things. He had a bit of a headache and he needed a pee.
The headache was nothing that a breath of fresh air and a cup of strong tea wouldn’t take care of. The pee was rather more urgent.
It occurred to him that Gina Wolfe was unlikely to feel the enjoyment of her shower in any way enhanced by the arrival of a fat policemen in her bathroom, no matter how urgent his need.
He slipped his feet into his shoes and put on his jacket. There was a notepad by the room telephone. He scribbled a couple of lines on it and tucked it between the pillows on the double bed, then headed for the door.
By a great effort of will he made it to the ground-floor toilet without incident, then he headed out on to the terrace.
As he sat down, a young man he recognized as Pietro, the highly efficient restorer of order after his demolition of the water jug, appeared at his side.
‘Buon giorno, Signore Dalziel. Can I get you something?’
Remembered names too. That was good.
‘Pot of strong Yorkshire tea, thanks. And mebbe a parkin.’
‘Subito, signore.’
‘By the by, did I settle up for the lunch?’
‘No problem, sir. Signora Wolfe said to charge it to her room.’
Shit. Would a knight errant let a distressed damsel foot the bill?
Probably not. But it wouldn’t bother Rooster Cogburn.
‘Grand,’ he said. ‘Quick as you can with the tea.’
He remembered about his phone and took it and checked for messages.
There were several, the first couple from Wield asking him to ring back urgently.
Then the message repeated in Pascoe’s voice.
And finally, ‘Andy, where the hell are you? I’ve got search parties out. We’ve an emergency here. Get in touch the second you get this, understand? This is important. Don’t muck me about!’
