‘Nay, lad, don’t get yourself in a tangle,’ said the Fat Man, giving Pascoe an avuncular pat on the shoulder that made him stagger. ‘Knowing stuff’s the responsibility of the man in charge, and that’s me, remember? What’s your mate doing now?’
Pascoe looked to see that Muir had now moved away from the blonde and was talking urgently into his telephone.
‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘Probably ringing Ali, his partner…’
‘Saying, “Sorry, luv, I’ll likely be late for supper, I’ve been held up by a pair of murderous sickos.” Hope she’s an understanding lass.’
He walked forward to where Vince Delay’s body sat slumped against the VW, a look of faint surprise still printed on his face.
‘Talking of understanding lasses, yon Fleur did you a favour, son,’ said the Fat Man, looking down at the corpse. ‘Everyone should have a sister like her.’
‘Loving, you mean?’ said Pascoe, control of his voice restored.
‘Dead, I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.
19.22-19.30
Goldie Gidman sat staring at the blank TV screen as if still watching his old favourite Hendrix strutting his stuff at Woodstock. The silence stretched into a minute. Things to say bubbled up in Purdy’s head but they all sounded like pleas or provocation. He tried to think of ways of dealing with Slingsby. The guy was an old man with incipient dementia, but he was in the good physical shape that often goes with the condition, and in any case it didn’t take much strength to slice through flesh and vein with what felt like a razor-sharp blade.
Cave in, he told himself. Make Goldie think you’re backing off. But don’t be obvious. He’s no fool, he hasn’t got where he is today by being a fool.
To which was added the uncomfortable thought, Nor has he got where he is today by being unwilling to remove obstacles in his path with extreme prejudice.
If that divine intervention were written into the score, it was time for it to play now.
His phone rang.
Its ring-tone, downloaded for him by Gina, was based on the aria from Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He’d protested, ‘Jesus, girl, they’ll all think I’ve gone weird when they hear that.’ And she’d replied, ‘Yes, but you’ll always think of me.’
He thought of her now.
The notes were repeated.
Goldie said, ‘Better answer that, Mick. But be careful what you say.’
Moving carefully to keep the pressure of steel on his throat constant, he took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear.
‘Purdy,’ he said.
He listened. Gidman, watching him carefully, saw with interest that whoever he was listening to had caught his attention so absolutely that Slingsby and his knife had gone completely out of his mind.
After the best part of a minute, Purdy burst out, ‘And she’s OK? Is she there? Can I speak to her?’
He listened again, then said, ‘OK, I understand. And that’s both of them dead. You’re sure of that?’
Another short period of listening then he said, ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself? Yes, he’s here. Hang on.’
He took the phone from his ear and said, ‘Goldie, I think you might want to hear this.’
Gidman stared at him for a moment then made a gesture. The blade went from his throat, he rose and moved forward and handed the financier the phone.
He said, ‘Goldie Gidman.’
Now it was his turn to listen.
After a while he repeated Purdy’s question.
‘Both of them? You’re sure?’
Another listen, then he said, ‘If you can make that play, then I’m OK with that. Believe me, I only ever wanted to talk.’
He switched off and handed the phone back. Then he smiled, gold fillings gleaming like Tutankhamen’s tomb, and Purdy knew he was safe. He touched his neck then examined his finger. Blood and sweat.
Gidman said, ‘You were right, Mick. Things got a bit out of control. We all have off days, right? But they’ve fixed themselves now. Thing I’ve found out as I’ve got older, nothing you can’t fix by talking.’
Purdy put his handkerchief to his neck.
‘Hard to talk with your throat cut, Goldie.’
Gidman laughed.
‘Would never have come to that, Mick, Sure you won’t have that cigar now? Drop of rum for the old days? OK, I understand. Don’t mind me saying, but you look a bit peaky. I’d say the best place for you is back in your bed, get some sleep in before your woman comes home. Sling will see you out. And, Sling, when you’ve said goodbye to the commander, have a word with young Maggie who’s volunteered to take care of me. Flo said she’d left one of her meat-and-potato pies for my supper. Show Maggie where she’ll find it. And tell her I’ll be honoured if she’ll join me at the table. Bye, Mick. Don’t be a stranger.’
Outside Mick Purdy watched as Slingsby, with the gentle smile that one uses to speed a parting friend, closed the door of Windrush House.
Then he took a deep breath of the evening air and looked up at the darkling sky.
Life felt good, even though there were difficult times ahead.
Alex had sounded confident he didn’t need to break whatever cover he’d created for himself. Purdy could accept that, but harder to accept was Wolfe’s assurance that Gina was going to go along with this. And if she did, what was going to be her attitude when she returned? Would she be willing to marry him, knowing that her husband was still alive? Would she let her lawyer go ahead with the petition for assumption of death?
And just how much would she by now have guessed about his role in recruiting Alex on behalf of Gidman?
These concerns he was confident of finding ways to deal with. They were mere midges in the ointment. But the one big blue-bottle potentially buzzing its way alongside them was Andy Dalziel.
How would he be reacting to all that had happened?
No doubt he’ll let me know, thought Purdy. In fact, he’ll probably be ringing shortly to tell me Gina’s OK. Got to be careful I don’t let him see I know already.
He was too tired for all this. Maybe he was too old for all this.
It was funny, but the one element he wasn’t worried about was Goldie Gidman.
As on so many occasions in the past, including some he had personal knowledge of during the man’s early career, some he guessed at in his latter corporate manifestations, Gidman had steered very close to the wind. But he carried with him an aura of invincibility.
Bit like Andy Dalziel, thought Purdy.
Two great survivors, two untouchables.
Pointless worrying about them any more than there’s any point worrying about God.
Time to go home and sleep. The rest would keep till he awoke.
23.15-23.59
Shirley Novello opened her eyes for the second time since being brought to hospital.
The first time she been surrounded by masked strangers who had bustled around her, poked and prodded, adjusted wires and tubes, until finally an unmasked man had introduced himself as her surgeon, asked a couple of
