Good Morning, Midnight. Reginald Hill

energy dealing with the Neanderthal dickheads who clutter up every police force. Early in his own career he had let his admiration for the physical attributes of a female colleague show too clearly and he still winced with embarrassment when he recalled how before a raid she had taken him aside and said seriously, ‘Peter, your wet dreams are your own affair, but tonight I’d like to be sure you’ll be watching my back and not my backside.’

      So, though regrettable, there was no escaping the fact that the initial strategies of a young man and a young woman in a hurry must diverge. Perhaps equally regrettable was the fact that there comes a point when they must rejoin. This was the age of the image, of sharp suits as well as sharp minds. For a man just as much as for a woman it was hard to win the hearts and minds of a promotion board if you went around looking like a loosely tied sack of potatoes.

      Pascoe hoped that Novello would suss this out. He baulked at the idea of dropping a hint himself, partly because such a comment, however kindly meant, was very much against the spirit of the age, but mainly because he sensed that, despite all his efforts to be approachable, Novello didn’t much care for him.

      In this he was right, but for the wrong reasons.

      What she didn’t care for was slim clean-cut men full of boyish charm. What turned her on was a chunky build, good muscular definition and an abundance of body hair. Whenever Pascoe flashed the smile and said something nice to her, he lost all individuality and became a type. But in detective mode, with his mind focused firmly on the task in hand and herself being treated as no more than one of the tools of his job, she admired him greatly. A good-when-she-remembered Catholic girl, she found it easy to think in religious imagery.

      There abideth these three, Dalziel, Wield and Pascoe; but the greatest of these (promotion prospects and the present state of the Service being tossed into the pot) had to be Pascoe.

      Now the Greatest was asking if the Scariest was in.

      ‘No sign yet, sir,’ she said. ‘And Sergeant Wield’s got the morning off too.’

      ‘So it’s only thee and me,’ said Pascoe. ‘Here’s what I’d like you to do.’

      Quickly he brought her up to speed on the events of the previous night.

      ‘And, just to be thorough, and in order to see exactly how much of a copycat it is, I’d like you to dive into the evidence store and see what you can find relating to the suicide of Palinurus Maciver Senior. Discreetly. You know how leaky this place is, and I shouldn’t like the press making a thing about the copycat element.’

      In fact he didn’t give a toss about the press, it was Andy Dalziel whose antennae he didn’t want to alert.

      With only a sigh too light to shake a rose leaf down to indicate she thought this was a more than usually sad waste of her valuable time, Novello strode off.

      Pascoe watched her go. Nice buttocks, shame about the combat trousers. Then mentally slapped his wrist.

      Seated at his desk, he rang Forensic, to be told with some acidity that they too required sleep like normal human beings. So far there was nothing to suggest that Pal Maciver’s death had been anything but what it seemed, a suicide bizarrely configured to reproduce an exact imitation of his father’s ten years earlier.

      Next, witnesses. The circumstances of the previous night hadn’t been conducive to getting formal statements from those attending the scene of the death, and the birth. The coroner would certainly want to hear from some of them.

      Definitely a job for Uniformed, he could hear Dalziel say. But when Fat Men are away, Thin Men can play, and approaching a newly bereaved wife was surely a task more suited to the diplomatic skills of CID than the Blitzkrieg of the plods.

      He dialled the Casa Alba number.

      A man’s voice said, ‘Yes?’

      He said, ‘Could I speak to Mrs Maciver, please?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said the voice cautiously. ‘Who’s calling?’

      He identified himself.

      ‘Sorry, thought you might be press,’ said the voice. ‘I’m David Upshott, the Vicar of Cothersley. I’ve just been in to see Mrs Maciver, trying to offer what comfort I could at this terrible time, but I’m afraid she’s not in a very receptive mood. The doctor’s with her now. I’ll just let them know who’s calling.’

      There was a pause of a couple of minutes then a new male voice spoke.

      ‘Tom Lockridge here. That you, Pascoe?’

      ‘Indeed. Any chance of a word with Mrs Maciver, do you think? Either on the phone or, preferably, I could call out there to talk with her …’

      ‘Not a good idea,’ said Lockridge brusquely. ‘I’ve got her under sedation. I doubt very much she’ll be fit to talk to you today.’

      ‘Oh dear. That’s a pity.’

      ‘Yes, isn’t it? But in the circumstances, Pascoe, I can’t imagine what on earth you might want to ask that can’t wait. Goodbye.’

      Next he rang the hospital where he learned that Mrs Dunn and her twins were doing as well as could be expected and Mr Dunn, after hanging around most of the night, had finally been persuaded to go home and get some rest.

      Pascoe started to dial the Dunns’ home number, recalled the state he’d been in the day Rosie was born, and replaced the receiver. Give the poor devil a couple of hours’ sleep at least.

      Finally he tried Cressida’s number and got the answer machine. This was frustrating. If Thin Men were to play, they had to find someone to play with.

      On the other hand, perhaps this was the act of some tutelary spirit to save him from his own impetuosity. Disobeying Dalziel was not a path to peace.