by Reginal Hill
The police vehicles were still there but no longer pulsating light or sound. The SAS neighbour's guests had all gone back to their party. There was a bedroom light on in the Woodbine house, but it snapped off as Joe watched. Presumably Georgie Woodbine had unpacked, cleaned up, and was now going to catch up on her beauty sleep.
"Spare room for you tonight, Willie," said Joe. "You OK, Whitey?"
There was no reply as he got back into the Mini, and he recalled that he'd left the Glit in such a rush he'd completely forgotten about Whitey under his stool at the bar.
"Oh shoot! I'll kill that Dick Hull if he's let him get stoned again!"
He started the car and set off down the hill.
It really was ghost-town time out here in the posh suburbs, hardly any traffic even, just him and that motorcyclist a couple of hundred yards back.
As he retraced his route into town, he noted that the guy on the bike kept pace with him. So what? If he was going downtown too, this was the route to take. But even when he left the quiet suburbs behind and got into a bit of slow traffic on the urban freeway, the guy didn't take the chance to show off the advantages of a bike in these conditions and weave his way forward through the drift, he still hung back two or three cars behind.
Funny, thought Joe, and took a turn off the freeway half a mile before his purposed exit.
The bike headlight followed.
Joe crossed a light at amber, did a sharp left, came up close behind a VW Polo which had just pulled out of a driveway, hit the brake, reversed into the same driveway and killed his lights.
Thirty seconds later, the motorbike reared past. He just had time to glimpse its red-helmeted rider, bulky in leathers, before it vanished up the street in pursuit of the distant lights of the Polo.
At least he assumed that was what it was doing. Or maybe he was just getting paranoid.
Anyway, he was glad he had an excuse to go to the Glit.
Two excuses, in fact, but one of them, Merv the Taxi, was nowhere in sight.
The other, Whitey the Alcohol, was on public display, curled up around the cash till, snoring.
The manager, Dick Hull, anticipating Joe's indignation, said, It's OK, I got to him before he went too far. You can't blame folk, Joe. When it comes to bumming drinks, he could make a Rechabite relent."
"I know," sighed Joe, who was the world's leading expert on the cat's poor-old-me-no-food-nor-drink-has-passed-my-lips-in-twenty-four-hours act. "Merv not here?"
"Had to go and pick someone up. Said he'd be back."
"Fine. Hey, I left a Guinness on the bar when I had to rush off. What happened to it?"
For answer, Hull looked at the sleeping cat.
"Shoot. Draw me another, will you, Dick?"
He went to the phone and took out the crumpled handout. Merv's home number appeared as 59232332. He riffled through the phone book to check. Here Merv's number was given as 59323223. So God was just after all. Dyslexic Dorrie hadn't just got his name wrong, she'd misread Merv's number too.
He returned to the bar, drank his stout and pondered these things to the inspirational accompaniment of Gary singing "When I'm On I'm On'. Whitey stirred in his sleep, opened a half-hawed eye, looked at Joe, and closed it again.
Joe sighed deeply. Dick's claim that he'd got to Whitey in time was delusive. This was a very drunk cat whose delicate balance could only be disturbed at considerable risk.
"Joe, you're back. How'd it go? Did the fuzz get there in time?"
It was Merv, his expressive face combining delight at seeing Joe, concern about the emergency call, and lustful pride in the presence on his right arm of a luscious smiling woman. She was in her forties perhaps, with natural red hair tumbling over her shoulders, dark-green eyes, a broad handsome face and a solid but shapely figure. She warmed you up just looking at her.
"Yeah. In fact they were on the spot so didn't need the call, but thanks all the same. What are you drinking? And your friend ... ?"
"Joe Sixsmith, Molly McShane. Molly. Joe."
"Joe, I've heard such a lot about you," she said, taking his hand. Hers felt soft and warm, and so did his after a little while. Her voice was unaffectedly husky with an Irish lilt in it and her gaze caressed where it touched.
"All good, I hope," he managed.
She gurgled as if he'd said something genuinely witty, then added, "And I see your kidneys are in the right place as well as your heart, I'll follow your good example."
Tint?" he said.
"Does it come in anything less?" she asked seriously. Then laughed and said, Tint'll be fine."
He got the drinks in and took them to the table where Merv had led the woman.
"You'll join us, Joe?" she said.
"Don't want to play gooseberry," said Joe. "But I would like a quick word, Merv. About that hand-out-'
"Hey, Joe, business in business hours," interrupted Merv quickly. "It's been a long hard day. I'm here to unwind."
"Well, OK, but it won't take a moment
"Joe, no. Bell me tomorrow, OK?"
Molly was rising.
"Don't be such a stitch, Merv. I'm off to the ladies. Man who won't talk business at night has no business talking dirty in the afternoon."
They watched her move away.
"Nice lady," said Joe.
"I think so. Joe, I'm sorry, but thing is, it was through her I got those hand-outs done, and I didn't want to upset her by sounding like I was pissed off about the cock-up with the number. I mean, folk don't like it when you seem to be throwing a favour back in their face, do they? Our relationship's pretty good at the moment and I'd hate to upset the balance, know what I mean?"
Joe knew exactly. Sensitive plants, women. Once they took it into their heads to be offended, no use pleading either truth or lack of malice.
Then something else about Merv's words of wisdom struck him, something so blindingly obvious it should have been drawing blood long before.
"You said the cock-up with the number not with my name! You know about it already! That was why you were so keen to run around collecting those hand-outs back in. Not because of any embarrassment to me, but because your friend's daughter had got your telephone number wrong!"
"Now, hang about, Joe. Of course I was worried about getting your name wrong, but at least any prospective client could still get a hold of you. But my phone number was all they had and it really pissed people off, trying to ring through and getting nowhere. Word soon gets round, that Merv Golightly, he's not reliable
"Word is right," said Joe. "And I'll be the main one spreading it from now on in. You took fifteen quid off me!"
"I offered you a refund."
"And like a mug, I said no. I've changed my mind."
"Hell, Joe, no way you get two bites at my cherry!"
"What on earth are you boys talking about?" asked Molly, who'd returned unobserved.
"Just a little bet we got going," said Joe. "How's that lovely daughter of yours, Molly?"
"You know Dorrie?"
"No, but Merv was just telling me about her. Well, thank you, Merv."
The taxi driver was counting three five-pound notes into his hand.
Joe pocketed them, stood up and said, "Nice to meet you, Molly. Have a nice night."
"You too, Joe."
He went back to the bar, downed his drink and called, "Whitey! Move your butt."
Slowly the cat unwound itself, rose, stretched, and was sick into the cash register.
"Oh shoot," said Joe. "Let's get out of here."
On the way home, he found he was acutely aware of motorbikes. He couldn't swear that any one of them was the same that had followed him (perhaps) from the Heights but he was feeling nervous. No reason, of course, but when had reason ever done anything for him? Bad way for a detective to think maybe, but it was consulting his feelings that kept him healthy. So instead of parking in his usual spot in the dark cul-de-sac of Lykers Lane, he left the Mini under the bright light shining outside Aunt Mirabelle's block an
d walked the quarter mile to his own. There had been a time when such a stroll across the Rasselas Estate might have been fraught with peril, but things had changed since the establishment of the Residents' Action Group under the dynamic leadership of Major Sholto Tweedie, not to mention the dynamic lieutenancy of Aunt Mirabelle.
The major's ambition was for an environment in which a naked virgin clutching a bag of gold could ramble round unmolested. Joe didn't qualify in any particular, but, despite a certain built-in prejudice against the rule of an ex-colonial militarist, he had to admit that the lighting worked, the graffiti was minimal, and the only disorderly conduct to disturb the peace came from Whitey who, refusing or unable to walk, sat on his shoulder, howling defiant challenge at everyone they met.
He quietened down as they entered Joe's block and got into the lift which, under the major's rule, was no longer used as either a waste chute or a urinal. And when they reached the sixth floor, he jumped down from Joe's shoulders and ran along the corridor towards their flat, purring.
Then suddenly he stopped, crouched low with back arched and tail fanned, and started his I'm-going-to-tear-your-heart-out snarl again.
"OK, I'm coming, I'm coming," said Joe, at first putting it down to mere impatience. But when he caught up with Whitey at the door, he realized there was something really bothering him.
Could be a dog has passed this way, or another cat, pausing in the doorway to leave its mark.
Could be there was a bulky biker in a red helmet lurking inside to do him wrong.
Carefully he inserted the key, turned it slowly and pushed open the door.
"Anyone there?" he called.
Not the cleverest words he'd ever uttered, he acknowledged, but at least it would give any intruder notice that this was no unprepared victim he was dealing with, but a fully primed Fighting Machine.
But no way was this same Fighting Machine going to step into an unlit flat. He stretched forward his arm, and curled his hand round the jamb in search of the light switch.
Behind him, Whitey, who like all the best commanders had decided his role was to offer encouragement and advice from the rear, let out a piercing scream.
Not much encouragement there, thought Joe. And if there was anything of advice, it was something like, Don't do that you dickhead!
Or perhaps, Instead of straining your eyes and ears to pick up shape or sound in that darkness, why don't you stop holding your breath and take a deep sniff
He took a deep sniff and started coughing.
Gas! The place was full of gas just waiting for a spark to turn it into an incendiary bomb!
He jerked his finger back from the light switch like it was red hot.
Then, taking a step back, he took his pen clip torch out of his jacket pocket, switched it on, drew in the kind of breath he used for Figaro's "Largo al factotum' and plunged into the room.
The breath held till he got the gas fire turned off, opened the big window in the living room and stepped out on to the tiny balcony where he drew in another huge draught of cold night air.
Admission of human frailty had never been a problem for Joe and he was willing to accept full responsibility for culpable carelessness until he went into the kitchen to check the cooker and found all the taps turned fully on.
"Know what I think, Whitey?" said Joe. "I think someone's trying to off me."
The cat, persuaded that his life was now no longer in danger, began a bitter complaint about the freezing temperature produced by having all the windows wide open.
"Shoot," said Joe. "Go to bed if you want to get warm. I'm going to have a gas bill so big the directors of Brit Gas will be able to give themselves another million-pound bonus!"
Eleven.
Despite everything Joe had a good night's sleep.
He usually did. Rev. Pot (which is to say, the Reverend Percy Potemkin, Pastor and Choirmaster of the Boyling Corner Chapel) had once told him he was blessed with something called negative capability, which seemed to mean he didn't get hassled by stuff he couldn't understand. A cracked skull or a dodgy curry might give him bad dreams, but mere attempts on his life by person or persons unknown were rarely allowed to trouble the quality time between his goodnight cocoa and the Full British Breakfast.
At seven forty-five the next morning, bacon, eggs, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried bread safely disposed of, he relaxed with coffee and a slice of toast doubled in thickness by Aunt Mirabelle's home-made marmalade.
There are few finer stimulants of digestion, both in the belly and in the brain, than chunky marmalade and under its beneficial influence Joe reviewed his current problems, starting with Merv's phone number on the hand-out. It was of course an amazing coincidence that it had got misprinted as Naysmith's number, but after a lifetime stumbling over amazing coincidences and finding most of them could in fact be easily explained, Joe wasn't about to waste too much marmalade on that.
Next was the question of who was killing the lawyers, which was none of his business in the business sense, but when you tread in dog dirt, before you start cussing, better ask yourself if the Lord might not have nudged you for a reason.
Would he ever grow out of thinking Mirabelle-type thoughts? he wondered. No matter. The old lady sometimes spoke sense. So it was his bounden duty to direct the mighty machine of his marmalade-lubricated mind at the Poll-Pott puzzle.
Here he was spoilt for theories. Well, he had two anyway. One was that someone in the firm was on the fiddle, Potter had got a line on him or her and summoned Naysmith to a conference to work out how best to proceed. Of course, anything that Potter had said on the phone would already have been passed on to the police except maybe if Naysmith didn't want to finger a colleague till he was certain. Well, he'd found out the hard way how dangerous it was keeping things to yourself! Obvious candidates for the fiddle must be the surviving partners, except that Montaigne was sliding down an Alp and Pollinger would hardly rob his own firm. Would he? Anyway, you didn't cover your tracks by killing off all your partners, you laid a trail that led right to your own feet! So someone else in the firm maybe, not a partner, but a clerk, say, or better still an accountant. Useless speculation without a list of personnel and their responsibilities. So turn to theory two, which on the whole he favoured, recognizing the homicidal thoughts his own treatment by Penthouse Assurance had roused in his peaceful breast.
Someone who'd been messed about by Poll-Pott couldn't wait for the Law Society's complaints procedure and decided the simplest thing was to off the lot of them! In which case, the thing to do was keep a close watch on the survivors at the same time as going through the records with a fine-tooth comb till some disgruntled nutter popped out.
With neither theory being beyond Woodbine's grasp, or even Chivers's, sensible thing to do was forget both of them till the Lord gave another nudge, and turn to the last question on his list.
Which was, who the shoot was trying to kill him?
The reason this came last wasn't any exaggerated humility. Though free enough from ego still to enjoy a mild shock of surprise whenever he happened to get something right, Joe's deep-rooted belief in the sanctity of life definitely included his own. The trouble was, he felt so little urge to harm anyone else that he found it hard to imagine why anyone should want to harm him. And when he found his list of people he might have offended headed by Aunt Mirabelle for not having managed a third helping of her Christmas pudding (which was so richly dense, if it had gone into orbit it would have been a Black Dwarf), he abandoned rationality and switched the problem to his subconscious.
All that happened was that Mirabelle was joined by Sergeant Chivers, with Rev. Pot, whose last choir practice he had skipped, lurking in the background.
Marmalade had failed. He got up to make himself another cup of coffee. As he waited for the kettle to boil, his mind turned to the accident with the office kettle the previous morning.
Accident? Suppose that had been deliberate too? One shot at your life could be a haphazar
d spur-of-the-moment thing. Two suggested serious and dedicated purpose. "You and me have got to take good care of ourselves, Whitey," he said.
The cat, who was an equal-opportunity eater, paused in the task of cleaning marmalade off his whiskers and bared his teeth. Could be that he'd just got a piece of rind stuck, but it looked like the sneer of someone saying, "Nobody's after me, buster."
"Maybe not," said Joe. "But where would you find another mug willing to work his fingers to the bone so you could enjoy the Full British Breakfast?"
Which reminded him, the one problem he hadn't bent his mighty mind to that morning was the one he was actually getting paid to solve.
There were only two days till Zak's big race, and bigger decision.
Supposing (which was not unlikely) he hadn't come up with anything by then, which way would she jump?
Her business. His was to try and get a line on who was behind the threats. The obvious explanation which, like in the dead lawyers' case, he saw no reason to ignore, was a gambling coup. The odds against Zak losing an exhibition race at the official opening of a new pleasure centre in her home town must be astronomical, so well worth a fix. And these days the whole world was your betting shop. A sudden surge of Malayan money on Oxford sinking in the Boat Race would have the Dark Blues checking their hull for limpet mines. So Zak's fixer didn't need to be some guy going into William Hill's with a suitcase to collect his money, it could be some laid-back business man in Bangkok whose winnings were transferred electronically to his Swiss account.
That would be way out of his league, of course. And Zak, who wasn't stupid, must know that. But still she'd hired him, despite the fact that the best he could hope to do was ferret out any local or personal domestic links.
Only possible explanation was Hardiman's. She was scared the cops would point the finger at someone in her own family. If that was the case, time for some straight talk. Endo Venera might enjoy creeping around dark alleys but Joe liked to work out in the open.
He said, "Come on, Whitey. Time to go."
It was eight twenty when he reached the Oto residence, still early but not so early that the bulky figure of Starbright Jones wasn't there before him.