Hill, Reginald - Joe Sixsmith - Killing the Lawyers

by Reginal Hill

  Satisfied they were unobserved, Joe took a mouthful of sandwich and read the front-page account of the attack on Felix Naysmith. There was no mention of Sixsmith Investigations. He didn't know whether to be pleased or put out.

  "OK if we sit here? It's a bit crowded today," said a female voice.

  "Sure," said Joe, looking up.

  Recognition was simultaneous.

  "It's Merv's mate, Joe, isn't it?" said Molly McShane.

  "It is, it is," said Joe stimulated to a hearty mock Irishness by this life-enhancing presence. "Sit down, please. A great pleasure."

  He meant it. Even against the glitzy background of the Glit she had shone. Here in the sage and serious surroundings of Daph's, she burnt like a beacon, dazzling his eyes so much he hardly noticed her companion at first. When he did, he guessed this had to be Dorrie, the dyslexic daughter. She was a younger version of Molly, though yet to burst into full flame, with a willowy figure where the elder woman's was voluptuously full, and her hair cropped short where the other's cascaded in a rich red Niagara. And if she had her mother's joyous smile, she wasn't about to show it.

  There was a third member of the group, a child in a push chair To Joe, who was no judge, it looked about three and rather bonny, but maybe this was only because it was asleep.

  "Joe, this is Dorrie, my daughter Doreen, that is. And my lovely little granddaughter, Feelie."

  "Pleased to meet you," said Joe.

  Feelie kept on sleeping and the mother grunted something which politeness required him to understand as, "Me too," but the message coming from her expressive face was, I may have to sit next to this plonker, but I don't have to enjoy it. She positioned the push chair between herself and her mother, sat down by Joe, picked up the Bugle and started reading.

  Molly's mouth tightened for a moment then she said pleasantly, "Now isn't it grand to get the weight off your feet? Dorrie, my love, what is it you fancy?"

  "I don't want nothing to eat," said the girl in a voice which had something of her mother's lilt with a strong admixture of local Luton. There's a sodding cat making a mess down here. Christ knows what you could catch."

  "He's with me," said Joe. "We're leaving shortly. Molly, can I fetch you something from the counter before I go?"

  "Joe, you're a real gent. I'll have a hot chocolate and a Danish. Dorrie, what'll you have?"

  Without looking up the girl said, "Cappuccino," making it sound like a Latin oath aimed at Joe.

  This attitude was hard to take from someone who'd caused him considerable embarrassment by getting his name wrong on the hand-out. OK, so the poor kid was dyslexic and in any case Merv's writing was like a ball of wool after Whitey had finished with it. And OK again, she didn't know she'd got it wrong, seeing as the besotted Merv hadn't felt able to tell Molly what had happened. But none of this excused rudeness. Good manners cost nothing, said Aunt Mirabelle, but bad manners can be real expensive.

  So what am I going to do? thought Joe. Pepper her cappuccino?

  Maybe Molly would give her a good maternal dressing down.

  When he returned to the table this is exactly what seemed to be taking place, but as he picked up on the exchange he realized it was nothing to do with him.

  "She's your granddaughter, for God's sake!" snapped the girl.

  "Yes, and I love her. And I look after her every hour that God permits when you're at work. But this week you're off and I've got other things to do. You can't just spring this on me, Dorrie. Why didn't you say something earlier?"

  "Because I didn't realize earlier. Please, Ma. Just for an hour or so."

  Her voice was low and pleading. She did it well and Joe could see Molly was on a hiding to nothing.

  "OK, but just an hour. After that I've got to ..."

  Thanks, Ma," said Doreen with the supreme indifference of the young to the independent existence of their elders. "I'll pick her up in an hour. Two at the most."

  "Dorrie!"

  But she was gone. A lovely mover, observed Joe. And animation had turned up the flame a therm or two. Man could do worse than warm his hands on her in a cold spring, happy in the knowledge that, come winter, with luck she'd have achieved her mother's furnace glow.

  "Dorrie had to go then?"

  "Yeah. Says she's sorry, something she just remembered

  "No sweat," said Joe. "I just fancy a cappuccino. I brought the little girl a choc bar, that OK?"

  "Why not?" smiled Molly. "Dorrie would play hell, but you don't stay, you can't play, right?"

  "Right," said Joe handing over the bar.

  With a Whitey-like sensitivity to the presence of a treat, the child had woken up. She looked around as if making up her mind to take an instant dislike to Daph's, then saw the choc bar in her grandmother's hand, grabbed it, and began to pull off the wrapping.

  "Clever," said Joe.

  "Bright as a button," said Molly proudly. "She goes to the council creche and they say they've never seen one like her."

  "I can believe it," said Joe. "You must be a great help to your daughter, Molly."

  It was a casual, not a probing, remark but it got him a probing look till Molly was satisfied he wasn't trying to nose in on her family.

  "Yes, I do what I can," she said. "It's no easy thing bringing a child up by yourself, I should know if anyone does. I work mornings, which means most afternoons I can pick the darling up from the creche at lunchtime and take care of her till Dorrie gets home from work. Some evenings too I go round. Girl needs a social life. But so do I, so I can't be on tap all the time. Which is why I got the hump just now when Dorrie suddenly decided to take off. I mean, the place I work is closed this week, and her place too, so we're both off and I thought we could have a nice morning round the sales together, then suddenly it's the baby-sitting again without warning. You need to lay down guidelines in a relationship, Joe. You'll mebbe find that out if you ever get married."

  "Merv told you I'm single then?"

  "I asked him. Always check out the good-looking men, says I. So there's the two of you, both footloose and fancy free. Well, to be sure, there's bound to be as many single fathers around as single mothers, only not a lot of them get landed with their babbies!"

  "No need to worry about Merv, Molly," said Joe. "If he had any responsibilities you'd know about them 'cos he's not a man to duck out of them."

  "I wasn't worried, Joe," she said, turning her gaze full beam upon him. "But I like the way you defend your friend first before you defend yourself."

  "Didn't know I was being attacked," said Joe.

  "I believe you. Merv says you're the hones test man he's ever known. Bit of a drawback in your line of business, I'd have thought."

  "Why so?" said Joe. "My line is finding out the truth of things and I don't see how honesty gets in the way of that."

  "No, I don't suppose it does," she said. "How much do you charge, Joe?"

  "Well, that depends," said Joe, surprised at the direct question.

  "On who's paying, you mean?" She smiled. "So how much would you charge a poor widow woman?"

  "Don't know any poor widow women," said Joe. "But there's a special rate for gorgeous grans. What's on your mind?"

  "Well, it's probably nothing at all, just too many tabloids and the telly, but it's little Feelie here."

  "Not getting into bad company, is she?" said Joe, smiling at the little girl who was looking with wide-eyed fascination at Whitey. The cat, who had finished his sandwich and could detect the consumption of food at a range of a furlong, was standing with his forepaws on the child's chair, studying her chocolatey lips with green-eyed greed.

  "Not unless that beast of yours is a man-eater," said Molly.

  "No, it's OK," said Joe as the girl reached out a brown-stained hand which Whitey licked with relish. "He loves chocolate, but hates undercooked meat. So what's the problem?"

  "Well, like I say, I look after her regularly while Dome's at work, and if the weather's dry, I often take her for a walk in Bessey Par
k which is right opposite my flat. And a couple of times recently, more than a couple in fact, I've noticed this woman watching us."

  "Watching? How do you mean?"

  "How do I mean?" said Molly with some irritation. "I mean, she was watching. How many ways can you do that?"

  "Well, through binoculars, maybe. Or hiding in a bush. Or following you close behind. With a smile on her face. Or muttering to herself like she's crazy. Or ..."

  "OK, I'm with you. She'd be sitting in the park when we arrived. There's a little pond there, you know it? I'd take a bit of bread to feed the ducks and she'd be sitting there'

  "Feeding the ducks?" interrupted Joe.

  "No. Just sitting."

  "And you're sure she was watching you? I mean, not just taking a casual interest 'cos maybe there wasn't anything more interesting to look at?"

  "No, definitely watching us. Or not us. Watching little Fee-lie. First time I noticed this woman was when I was sitting on a bench throwing crumbs into the water. Feelie was playing on the grass behind me and she must've taken a tumble, 'cos suddenly I heard her cry and when I turned, she was sitting on the ground with this woman stooping over her like she was going to pick her up and comfort her. Well, I know it's something that anyone might do, but I was taking no chances, you hear such things these days, and I got there quick, and grabbed her Feelie, I mean. The woman turned and walked away pretty smart and I thought, oh hell, I've probably offended her. But I would have spoken to her nice and polite if only she'd hung around."

  "But she did hang around. You say you've noticed her again."

  "Oh yes, many times. And at first I might have spoken. But she always took good care never to let me get close. If she was on a bench she'd get up as we approached and move away. But always within sight, her sight of us, I mean. And even if I couldn't see her, I got to feeling she was still watching."

  "You tell anyone else about this?" asked Joe. "Like the police? Or your daughter?"

  "No," admitted Molly. "I mean, what are the cops going to do but make me feel like a neurotic woman on the change? As for Dorrie, I don't want to start her worrying over what's probably nothing. But I think maybe I ought to say something to put her on her guard when she takes Feelie home."

  "She doesn't live with you then?" said Joe.

  "No," said the woman rather shortly. "Likes her independence." Then, relenting of her critical tone slightly, she added, "Me too, if I'm honest. Though, God help us, neither of us is a very good advert for independence, me married three times, her up the stick at seventeen!"

  "It would still get my vote," said Joe, looking at her appreciatively and wondering what her husbands had died of. "So what do you want from me?"

  "I thought mebbe you could come down to the park one day, see what you think of this woman, follow her home mebbe and check her out. Turns out she's got a family of five and she comes to the park to get away from them, then it's me who's the loonie, right?"

  "Right," smiled Joe. "Listen, don't sound to me like there's anything to worry about. If she had any notion of snatching little Feelie, she'd have come on nice to you, got your confidence. You gave her the chance, right?"

  That I did. You're probably right, Joe. But I'd still appreciate it if you could take a look."

  "OK," said Joe. "Here's my number. Give me a ring next time you're taking her to the park and I'll see if I can get down there."

  "OK. Probably won't be till next week when we all get back to work. Thanks, Joe. You're a prince."

  No, thought Joe. I just know how it feels to be under the eye of a dangerous woman. He'd noticed Daph emerge from behind her counter to collect plates and now she was looking his way with an ill-boding frown.

  "Gotta leave you now, Molly," he said as the caff owner started heading towards him. "Heavy schedule. See you!"

  He scooped up Whitey and headed for the door.

  Behind him Molly called, "Hey, Joe, I didn't pay you for my choc and Danish."

  Joe paused and turned, not because of the money but because there was something else he wanted to ask her, or would want to if he could just hang around a little. When the Great Technician in the sky had doled out components, some folk got Pentium chips, some got transistors, and some had to make do with old-fashioned valves. They got you there in the end, but you had to wait a bit longer till the picture came up on the screen.

  Joe was an unconvertible valve man, and today there was no time to wait for warm-up. Daph was almost on him and definitely not in one of her animal rights moods.

  I'll put it on your bill," he called to Molly. "See you soon."

  He hit the pavement running, with Whitey on his shoulder hurling defiant abuse behind him.

  "How many times do I have to tell you?" gasped Joe as he fell into the Magic Mini. "You want a fight, you pick on someone your own size. Or slightly smaller!"

  Fifteen.

  Sycamore Lane was a bit down market from Beacon Heights but none the worse for that. Here there was space enough for private living but also proximity enough for community. Give a man too much ground and his boundaries become frontiers to be fought over instead of fences to talk over.

  So, a good place to live, if this was the kind of life you wanted. Wouldn't do for me, thought Joe. He liked the sense of wraparound humanity the high-rise gave him. But chuck in a wife and family, and maybe he'd start thinking different... Fat chance! Way things looked, Whitey was the closest he was going to get in that direction. Sometimes he felt guilty about keeping the cat in a flat. Maybe that was a reason he should think in terms of a house and garden, a bit of space for Whitey to roam free in.

  "What do you think?" he said aloud as he turned into the road where the Otos lived.

  "Chase birds and all that crap instead of being driven around by my personal chauffeur? You must be mad!"

  At least that's what Joe hoped the lash of the cat's tail meant.

  He was glad to see Mary's Metro had vanished. He'd probably need another close encounter with the sister before he was through, but not yet. Also his ruse of leaving his donkey jacket behind was likely to get it thrown in his face if she'd answered the door. As it was, when Mrs. Oto heard his apologetic explanation, her expected reply was, "Come on in, Mr. Sixsmith. You must be chittered without your topcoat. Will you warm up with a cup of tea?"

  So far so good, he thought as he followed her into the kitchen. Now all he'd got to do was get her telling him the things he wanted to know without her knowing he wanted to know them.

  Alternatively he could try the direct approach which consisted of looking straight into the other person's face and saying, "OK, cards on the table. Why don't you tell me exactly what's going on?"

  Except that Mrs. Oto was there before him, uttering those precise words as she filled his cup with tea.

  "Sorry?" said Joe.

  "You aren't really a baggage handler, Mr. Sixsmith. Or if you are, Zak ought to ask for a refund. I asked a few questions round the shops this morning. Only Sixsmith anyone had heard of that came close to you was some private detective. You he?"

  "Yes, I am," admitted Joe. "Though I don't have a system of snouts like you, Mrs. Oto. Maybe we can come to an arrangement?"

  She smiled. She had a quality of stillness, like a queen on public display, so when she smiled, it was like being invited behind the scenes.

  Well, that was where he wanted to be.

  He smiled back and said, "Your daughter's hired me, so I can't tell you anything she doesn't want me to tell you. But you've brought her up to be a lovely girl, so I'm sure she'll come clean if you ask her when she gets home."

  Mrs. Oto said, "No need to try and flatter me about my children, Mr. Sixsmith. I know exactly what each of them is, and I don't need any help from outside to make me love them. What kind of trouble is Zak in?"

  Joe felt himself wriggling inside and tried not to let it show.

  He said, "No trouble, just some people trying to use her."

  "Use her? How?"

  J
oe drew in a deep breath, still uncertain what words were going to come out of it.

  The door opened and Eddie came in. Joe saw at once he'd been listening because his face wore exactly the kind of I-haven't-been-listening face he himself assumed when he had.

  In his hand were some computer print-outs.

  "That stuff you wanted," he said, handing them to Joe.

  "Thought you were working for my family. I didn't realize you'd got my family working for you," said Mrs. Oto.

  "Just some figures Eddie said he'd run through his computer," lied Joe. "I don't understand these things."

  He glanced down at the print-out and realized the reason he'd been able to lie so glibly was that he wasn't altogether lying. The figures he'd got here meant nothing to him. He'd need the boy's help to interpret them.

  "Let me see!" commanded Mrs. Oto.

  Joe hesitated.

  The woman said, "Mr. Sixsmith, this is my house and there's nothing comes out of my son's machine that I'm not entitled to look at."

  He handed over the sheet. She glanced down it.

  To Joe's amazement she said straight off, "So what's the race?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I work at Stan Storey's, Mr. Sixsmith. I know a numbers sheet when I see one. Only this has got the runners coded. So what's the race?"

  Stan Storey was Luton's best-known bookie, who by sharp odds and appeals to local loyalties had managed to survive the attempts by the big national firms to squeeze him out. So this was Mrs. Oto's little job which she'd kept on to preserve her independence. He tried to see her in the context of a betting shop, but couldn't.

  "It's Zak's race at the Plezz," said Joe.

  "Zak's race? But that's crazy." Her face tightened. "Eddie, you tell me exactly what these figures mean, you hear me?"

  At least she had the sense not to ask me, thought Joe.

  The boy said, There's a lot of money going on the race. On Zak losing."