Good Morning, Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page A

elegantly curved Greenhill lampposts, the Avenue might look deserted. But set your car crawling sedately along the kerbside and, like dryads materializing from their trees at the summons of the great god Pan, the ladies of the night would appear.
    Except if the car had POLICE written all over it, when the effect was quite other.
    Jennison hadn’t been able to last out and was already unfolding his parcel, releasing the pungent smell of hot battered fish and vinegary chips.
    “Can’t you bloody wait till I get parked?”
    “No, me belly thinks me throat’s cut. This’ll do. Pull over here.”
    “Don’t be daft. We’d have the girls throwing bricks at us for frightening off the punters. I know just the spot. Bonkers’ll never find us here.”
    He swung the wheel over and ran the car under the plane trees into a gravelled driveway between two stone pillars. Stumps of concrete at their tops suggested that they had once been crowned with some ornamental or heraldic device but this had long since vanished, probably at the same time as the ornate metal gate. Its massy hinges were still visible on the right-hand pillar, however, while on the left, graven deep enough in the stonework to be still readable though heavily lichened, was the name MOSCOW HOUSE.
    Leaning over the high ivied garden wall was an estate agent’s board reading FOR SALE WITH VACANT POSSESSION.
    Maycock drove up the length of the drive till he could see the house. Its complete darkness and shuttered windows confirmed the promise of the sign that there was no one here to disturb or be disturbed by.
    “That’s funny,” he said as he brought the car to a halt.
    “What?”
    “Isn’t that door open?”
    “Which door?”
    “The house door, what do you fucking think?”
    The two men strained their eyes through the swirling mist.
    “It is, tha knows,” said Maycock. “It’s definitely open.”
    Jennison leaned across, dropped the warm newspaper packet on to his colleague’s lap and switched off the headlights.
    “Can’t see it myself,” he said. “Now shut up and eat your haddock afore it gets cold.”
    They munched in silence for a while. Then the radio crackled out their call sign and a voice they recognized as Bonnick’s said, “Report your position.”
    “Shit,” said Maycock.
    “No sweat,” said Jennison.
    He switched on his transmitter and said, “We’re in the Avenue, Sarge. Checking out an unsecured property.”
    “The Avenue? Which Avenue?” demanded Bonnick, sounding irritated. “Use proper procedure, full details when reporting location.”
    Jennison grinned at his partner and replied mildly, “Just the Avenue, Sarge. In Greenhill. Thought everyone knew that. The property’s called Moscow House. It’s on the left-hand side as you’re heading east, about one hundred and five metres from the junction with Balmoral Terrace. There’s a name on the gate pillar. Moscow House. That’s M, O, S, C, O, W. Moscow. H, O, U, S, E. House. Bit misty out here but if you get lost, there’s one or two helpful young ladies around who’ll be glad to show you the way. Over.”
    There was silence, though in his mind Maycock could hear police constables pissing themselves laughing all over Mid-Yorkshire.
    “Report back to me as soon as your check’s finished. Out,” said the sergeant in a quiet controlled voice.
    “Think you’ve made a friend there,” said Maycock.
    “He can please his bloody self.”
    “Aye, but we’d best do what you’ve told him we’re doing,” said Maycock, getting out of the car. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
    “I’ve not finished me cod yet!” protested Jennison.
    But to tell the truth his appetite was fading. For Joker Jennison had a secret. He was scared of the dark, and particularly scared of old dark houses. His fear was metaphysical rather than physical. Muscular muggers and crazy crack-heads he took in his stride. But in his infancy he couldn’t sleep without a night-light and as a