Midnight Fugue. Reginald Hill
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Pascoe’s briefing notes for the case-review meeting. The window was wide open and the breeze so admitted was having a great time rustling through various loose sheets scattered across the floor.
Dalziel noted him noticing and said, ‘Been doing a bit of tidying up. Ivor, you can’t have much to do if you’ve time to fetch coffee. Run me this number will you?’
He scribbled Gina Wolfe’s car number on the back of an unopened envelope that bore the Chief Constable’s insignia and the words Urgent and Confidential.
Novello took it, turned, rolled her eyes when she had her back to the Fat Man and went out.
‘Right, sunshine, what’ve you got?’
Wield said, ‘Seven years back, DI Alex Wolfe was targeted by the Met’s Internal Investigations. He was a key man in a team investigating a financier, David known as Goldie Gidman.’
‘So Wolfe was a paper-chaser,’ said Dalziel with the muted scorn of the front-line cop for the Fraud Squad. In the Fat Man’s eyes, boardroom crime was to real crime what soft-porn movies were to child prostitution.
‘Foot in both camps; he’d done his share of hard-end stuff,’ said Wield. ‘Commendation for bravery during the Millennium siege. Also I get the impression this weren’t straight Fraud Squad stuff. The officer initiating it was a deputy assistant commissioner. Owen Mathias. You know him?’
‘Heard of him,’ said Dalziel. ‘Took early retirement and died. Dicky heart.’
‘That’s right. Seems to have had Gidman in his sights for a long long time, but never laid a finger on him. That’s likely why he called this op Macavity. Turned out a bit too accurate. All trails banged up against a dead end, or a smart lawyer with a writ. Conclusion, Mathias’s at least, someone was leaking. So he set Internal Investigations on it and they focused on Wolfe.’
‘What do you mean, Mathias’s at least?’
‘Get the impression there were a lot who reckoned that Macavity were a waste of time and money. They’d not been able to touch Gidman in his early days in the East End. Now he were out of the mucky back streets and into the City, he were so squeaky clean, the Tories were accepting donations from him.’
‘Proving what?’ grunted Dalziel. ‘So you’re saying this Macavity op were a grudge thing between Mathias and Gidman?’
‘I’m saying it feels like that’s what a lot of people thought.’
‘Did this mean Internal Investigations just went through the motions?’
‘Can’t say. Certainly nowt were ever proven against Wolfe. He happened to be on compassionate leave at the time, so they didn’t even need to suspend him. Then he resigned. Bit later he vanished. Estranged wife reported it, they looked at it, no evidence of foul play, he was a grown man, no charges had been brought so he wasn’t a fugitive. I got the impression they were glad to be shot of him without the fuss of a full-blown corruption enquiry.’
‘OK. What about Purdy?
‘Wolfe’s DI back when he was a sergeant. Paths parted when he went up to DCI and Wolfe to DI. Wolfe more into the paper-chase side of things, Purdy stayed hands on. Did well. Current job, Commander in some Major Crime Unit at the Yard.’
‘Right. Operation Macavity, things improve there after Wolfe vanished?’
‘Seems not. Shelved soon after. No evidence, no action.’
‘And nowt since?’
‘Not a word. Looks like the records have been hoovered clean. Like they’d feel embarrassed at it coming out how much time and money they’d wasted. Not surprising, considering how things have worked out for Gidman.’
‘Eh? Hang about, you’re not saying we’re talking about yon Dave the Turd MP? No, can’t be, he’s still in his twenties, isn’t he?’
‘Goldie Gidman’s his father.’
Shit, thought Dalziel. His brain really was creaking. Though in fact, he reassured himself, no reason why he should have made the leap as soon as he heard the name. In living memory he’d helped send down a Brown and a Cameron, the former for offing his boss’s wife, the latter for identity theft, and in neither case had he looked at a Westminster connection.
Come to think of it, maybe he should have done.
Now he recollected a TV documentary he’d watched during his recent convalescence. It had been called Golden Boy–The Face of the Future?
Two years ago, David Gidman the Third had overturned a Labour majority of ten thousand in the Lea Valley West bye-election. He was a Tory golden boy in every sense. His mixed parentage had given him the kind of skin glow that footballers’ wives pay match fees for. His grandfather, a Jamaican immigrant who worked on the railways, had been greatly respected as a community leader. His father was a self-made million-some said billion-aire whose predilection for investments involving gold had left him better placed than most to survive the plunging markets. Goldie Gidman was big in charity, giving generously of his wealth to educational, social and cultural projects in the East End of his upbringing. And also to the Conservative Party. No honours came his way. He did not want letters after his name, just after his son’s. And if his son’s nomination for Lea Valley West was his reward, then the Tories felt they’d made a good bargain, for, besides ticking all the right ethnic and cultural boxes, David Gidman was proving an attractive and energetic MR
In right-wing journals, he was already crayoned in as a possible future leader, while in Private Eye his insistence on calling himself David Gidman the Third to remind everyone of his humble origins inevitably won him the witty sobriquet of 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