Good Morning, Midnight by Reginald Hill

evening and no one knows where he is…”
    Pascoe said, “Probably some simple explanation. Ellie, I’ll have to call by there, check what’s going off. Maybe it’s best if you hang on here till I see how long I’m going to be. You can always get a taxi.”
    He sounded very relaxed about things and it all came over much more convincing than before, but Ellie got the real message. He’d heard something that suggested to him it might be a good idea if she stuck with Cressida for a while longer.
    But that wasn’t an option.
    Cressida said, “I’m coming with you.”
    “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Pascoe firmly. “Against regulations, you see…”
    “Sod regulations. OK, if you won’t take me, I’ll drive myself.”
    “Pete,” said Ellie urgently. “I don’t think that would be wise… we’ve drunk quite a bit of wine, and with this mist…”
    Pascoe shook his head and gave her his another-fine-mess-you’ve-got-me-into look, then said, “All right, Cress, get in. But when we get there, you stay inside the car till I check what’s happening, OK?”
    “Yeah yeah, anything,” said Cressida, tumbling into the back seat.
    Fat chance, thought Ellie.
    She went back up the steps and closed the door, wondered too late if Cress had her keys with her, thought That’s her problem! and got into the other rear seat.
    Cressida was looking at her suspiciously. She might be tipsy and she might be worried but her brain was still working.
    She said, “So what’s happening about your baby-sitter emergency?”
    Oh hell, thought Ellie. In her experience lies always got you into trouble.
    She said, “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
    “I’m sure you will,” said Cressida.

9 THE BATTLE OF MOSCOW
    It was almost a dead heat at Moscow House with Pascoe’s ancient Golf just pipping Sue-Lynn’s Alfa Romeo Spider, closely followed by Jason Dunn’s Volvo estate.
    PC Jennison had been stationed as custodian of the gate by Sergeant Bonnick with the uncalled-for comment that here at last was a task suited to his excessive girth.
    “No one gets past, right?”
    “Not even Mr Dalziel, say?” said Jennison uneasily. Or the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse? his restless imagination added.
    “No one unofficial, idiot! Do I have to spell it out? Our lot you wave through. Anyone else, you block their passage, which shouldn’t be difficult with your gut, then you contact me in the house. And keep a log of names and times in your notebook. You got that?”
    “Yes, Sarge,” said Jennison.
    So far all that had turned up had been Inspector Ireland, an ambulance and the duty Medical Examiner, plus one of the working girls whose curiosity had been strong enough to keep her from joining the general migration to other beats once the flashing blue lights had signalled the end of trade in the Avenue for the night. When first she appeared, Jennison had experienced a pang of bowel-loosening terror. With long black hair and a face as pale as death, she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Transylvanian tomb. But when she smiled at him without revealing fangs and spoke to him in a friendly and indeed rather flattering way, he quickly relaxed. Any remaining suspicion that she might be one of the Undead faded when his expert gaze took in the substantial and shapely body beneath the short leather dress, a judgment he was able to confirm tactilely when he put his hands on her buttocks and pushed her out of sight behind the gate column when a car approached.
    This turned out to be Pascoe. On recognizing the DCI, Jennison stood aside and waved him through, only realizing as the car went by that there were two women in the back.
    So what? he thought. Bonkers could hardly blame him if the DCI brought his friends and family along. But even as the disclaimer formed in his mind, the Volvo and the Spider loomed out of the mist and went sweeping by before he could re-interpose his large frame.
    He took out his radio,