Midnight Fugue. Reginald Hill
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nice. This news was confirmed later the same Saturday morning when Ali rang up to apologize. It turned out that Rosie’s encounter with the new fellow had taken place on the landing of Miss Wintershine’s house on St Margaret Street when Ed Muir, the fellow in question, had emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but one of Ali’s Funky Beethoven T-shirts.
It wouldn’t happen again, Ali assured Ellie. You mean he’s just passing through? enquired Ellie. Oh no, said Ali, he’s here to stay, I hope. I’d love you to meet him.
And he had stayed. And Ellie had met him. And reported that he was a nice guy, quiet but bright with it, catering manager at the Arts Centre where the Mid-Yorkshire Sinfonietta, of which Ali was a leading member, gave frequent concerts.
‘That was how they met,’ said Ellie. ‘I really like what I’ve seen of him.’
‘Which is not as much as Rosie, I hope,’ said Pascoe.
If ever Rosie glimpsed him déshabillé again, she kept as quiet about it as she had the first time.
Now here they were, a year later, guests at the christening. Pascoe had had to park a good quarter mile from St Margaret’s and as they hurried past the Wintershine house, which was just fifty yards from the church, the door opened and the christening party emerged. Like the Magi, the Pascoe trio had turned aside for a brief moment of adoration.
This done, they went ahead and took their seats well to the rear of the fairly crowded church.
‘Jesus,’ said Pascoe. ‘The whole of the orchestra must have been invited.’
‘Not everyone will be a guest,’ said Ellie. ‘There’ll be the usual parishioners along for the morning service.’
‘Yes? That should account for six at least,’ said Pascoe. ‘And we’re going on to the Keldale afterwards? Must be costing a fortune. You’d have thought a catering manager could have knocked up a nice little buffet in their back garden.’
‘It’s their first child!’ said Ellie. ‘You could see how excited they were. There are some things you don’t even expect a copper to look for a discount on!’
‘Sshh!’ commanded Rosie, sitting between them. ’Can’t you two behave yourselves? You’re in church, remember!
The moment the dusty, slightly battered Vauxhall Corsa pulled into the one remaining parking space in front of St Osith’s, an officious policeman advanced to repel the intruder.
As he stooped to the passenger door, it opened, and the weighty reprimand about to be launched jammed in his throat.
With a commendably swift change of language, both body and actual, he said, ‘Welcome, Mr Gidman,’ and threw a smart salute as he pulled the door wide to let the elegant figure of David Gidman the Third step out on to the pavement.
There was a smatter of applause from the small crowd waiting by the church gate, and even a couple of wolf whistles. Gidman smiled and waved. He didn’t mind the whistles. Like Byron said, When you’ve got it, baby, flaunt it.
‘But not your wealth,’ Maggie had decreed. ‘You only flaunt your wealth in front of Russians and Arabs to let them know they’ll have to offer you more than money to get you onside. You should never turn up at an English church in a limo unless you’re getting married there.’
He’d let himself be persuaded, but he still had doubts as he walked up the path to the church door where the vicar was waiting for him.
‘Stephen,’ murmured Maggie in his ear as they approached.
He felt a pang of irritation. Didn’t she think he was capable of remembering the guy’s name? Perhaps he should address him as Stanley just to get a rise out of her.
But of course he didn’t.
‘Stephen, how good to see you. And what a lovely day you’ve arranged for us.’
‘I can hardly take credit for that,’ said the vicar, smiling.
They talked for a moment, long enough for Gidman to reassure the man that of course he’d have time after the service to meet a few of the more important parishioners in the vicarage garden before going on to the opening.
Now the churchwarden took him in tow and they moved out of the sunshine into the shady interior of the church.
This was the moment of truth. Two possible bad scenarios; one, there would be only a dozen or so in the congregation; two, there would be a decent crowd, but they’d all be black.
Maggie had reassured him on both counts, and it took only a second to appreciate that she’d been right again.
The church was packed. And the faces that turned to look at him as the churchwarden led him to his place in the foremost pew were as varied in colour as a box of liquorice allsorts. Maybe Maggie had called in a lot of favours, all them immigrant kids she’d helped. Maybe that pair of so called Polish craftsmen who’d fucked up his shower were here. Had to admit they were quick and they were cheap, though. And they’d certainly cooled Sophie’s ardour!
The thought made him smile as he took his seat alongside the mayor and mayoress, giving them a friendly nod, before leaning forward in the attitude of prayer.
Maggie would be in the seat reserved for her directly behind him. He did not doubt that if he hesitated for a moment when the time came for him to read the lesson, he would hear her dry cough or even feel a gentle prod between the shoulder blades.
He thought nostalgically of Maggie’s predecessor, Nikki. She’d been a perfect example of what he thought of as the two-metre model of PA: one metre of leg and another of bust, with shampoo-ad hair, pouting lips and a vibrator tongue. Unhappily, her tongue had been put to uses other than assisting him to the acme of pleasure. He’d been taken aback when she’d suddenly quit her job the previous year, and devastated when he started hearing rumours that she was negotiating a deal with the Daily Messenger for her steamy reminiscences of life under, and on top of, the Tory Golden Boy.
Dave didn’t turn to his father for help immediately. A strange mixture of love and resentment kept him away. He loved and admired Goldie and had every confidence he could fix things, but at the same time he wanted to affirm his own independence.
Put another way, he was a big boy now and big boys fought their own fights.
Except, he was eventually forced to admit, when they were up against the Daily Messenger, which specialized in chopping big boys down to size.
Goldie listened in silence. But he wasn’t silent two days later when he summoned his son to tell him the crisis was over.
Dave the Third, the Great Off-white Hope of the Tory Party and the next prime minister but one, had to stand before his father like an errant schoolboy and listen to a long analysis of all his shortcomings without right of reply.
‘Best thing for you, boy,’ Goldie had concluded, ‘is to get yourself a wife, someone like your mammy: loyal, home-loving, hardworking. But till you do that, if you can’t keep your dick in your pants, don’t stick it into anyone who doesn’t have at least as much to lose as you do if word gets out. And one last thing. When you advertise for a new PA, I’ll draw up the shortlist.’
That had been a year ago. The shortlist had consisted of three young men whom he’d dismissed out of hand and three singularly unattractive women, of whom Maggie Pinchbeck was undoubtedly the worst.
He recalled his first sight of her at interview, a small, mousey-haired creature who for all the clues her face, figure or even her drab trouser suit provided, could have been male or female; and undesirable in either gender. Her present job was as a senior PR officer at ChildSave, one of the big international child-protection charities. She looked the type who should be out in the desert digging latrines