Hill, Reginald - Joe Sixsmith - Killing the Lawyers

by Reginal Hill

  "Yeah, Willie, that's Superintendent Woodbine, played it to me," said Joe with the negligent air of the private investigator who was brought in by the cops to dig them out of trouble. "You got fed up of being stuck by yourself all over Christmas and thought you'd give him a sharp reminder you still existed, right?"

  "Yeah, he's going to leave that bitch, but he's soft. He said he couldn't do it at Christmas, just let him get the holiday over and then he'd tell her, and I said OK, so long as this is the very last Christmas little Feelie spends without her dad. But it was hard, thinking of him with her. He says they don't do it any more but you can't be sure, can you? Not with a guy like Felix, he's always ready, know what I mean? But a deal's a deal and I sat it out Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, without hearing a word. I was sure I'd hear from him the day after Boxing Day, but nothing. So I thought enough's enough, and first thing the next morning I rang. When I got that sodding machine I nearly left a mouthful on it, but I thought, no, girl, play it cool, don't blow it now."

  "Didn't want to make him angry, right?"

  That's right. Two times men don't think straight, when they're randy and when they're angry," she said, with a throwaway expertise that made Joe feel sad.

  "Didn't stop you putting his number on Merv's flier, did it?" he said.

  She grinned wickedly and said, "He wasn't going to know that was down to me, was he? I didn't mean it, but when I realized I must have got it wrong, I was a bit pissed with Felix and I thought, so what? let it ride!"

  "And my name? That an accident too?"

  She looked at him blankly and said, "What?"

  So, no malice there. He said, "Nothing."

  They were getting close to Molly's flat.

  She said, "You haven't told me anything about how he is."

  "Nothing to worry about," he assured her. "He got knocked around a bit but just superficial, and he'll be fine. And I can't say any more, but I'm pretty sure he's not in any danger of being attacked again, OK?"

  She fell silent till they were drawing up by the kerb. Then she said, "And her, what's she like?"

  "Mrs. Naysmith? OK. A bit stressed, I'd say."

  "Like he may have told her?" she said hopefully.

  "Hey, I've only seen her since he got attacked," Joe said. That would stress anyone, wouldn't it?"

  "I suppose. You coming up?"

  He hadn't intended to, but there was an appeal in her voice which made him say, "Just for a moment."

  Molly met them full of enquiries, but her daughter just pushed by her and went straight to the little girl who was sleeping in the bedroom.

  "Kids," said Molly. "You keep boxing clever, Joe. Play the field, don't make commitments."

  It was flattering to have his lack of opportunity designated as playing the field.

  He said, "I think she'll be OK. The cops know what it's all about. I hope she gets sorted, Molly."

  "This fella Naysmith, you reckon he'll play straight with her?" she asked.

  Joe shrugged and said, "I really don't know the guy. I've only met him the once."

  "That's once more than me," said Molly grimly. "Maybe it's time I made myself known."

  "No!" yelled Dorrie from the doorway. "I've told you, Mam, you go anywhere near him, that's the last you'll see of me and Feelie."

  This sounded like an old, much used threat, but it was clearly still effective.

  Joe said, "You two want to talk. I'm out of here. See you around."

  He turned to leave. Dorrie caught up with him at the door.

  "Please, Mr. Sixsmith," she said. "Next time you see him, give him this."

  She thrust a sealed envelope into his hand. He looked at it doubtfully.

  "I've just said I'm sorry for causing a fuss and I know he'll get things right soon as he's fit," she said.

  She looked fragile and vulnerable, like a child trying to act grown up.

  "If I see him, I'll hand it over," said Joe. "But it won't be till ... I don't know."

  That's OK. Any time will do," she said resignedly. "Happy New Year." And gave him a quick kiss.

  Shoot! thought Joe as he walked down the stairs. Why did other folks' trouble bother him as much as his own?

  And why did what had been intended as a prevarication sit on his conscience like a promise?

  Twenty-Four.

  And now the year was in its death throes. And if they were anywhere more violent than at the Glit's Hogmanay Hoolie, Joe was glad he wasn't there.

  So intense was the crush that he'd had to be lifted over the heads of the crowd to sing his much admired version of "Roamin' in the Gloamin' as the night wore to its Caledonian climax. It was impossible to exist in such conditions without coming into more than usually intimate contact with your neighbour. As Joe's neighbour happened to be Beryl Bod-ding ton he had no particular complaint and she didn't seem to find it too distressing either.

  Indeed, as the super amplified voice of Big Ben roared out the twelve notes of midnight it was Beryl who took the initiative in seizing Joe in a wraparound hug and pressing on his lips a kiss whose present fire was almost beyond bearing, but whose incendiary promise might have produced total collapse if there'd been room to fall down.

  "You going to eat all that girl or leave some for Old Tom's breakfast?" enquired a familiar voice.

  Reluctantly Joe eased back an inch and said, "Happy New Year, Merv."

  "You too, my man. And Beryl, a very Happy New Year to you."

  Merv Golightly pulled Beryl out of Joe's arms and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her lips. Molly McShane did the same to Joe, and though there was no competition with the hidden agenda of Beryl's embrace, it was, Joe had to admit, a very acceptable also-ran.

  "Everything OK?" he asked when he finally surfaced for air.

  "Fine. I said I'd sit in with Dorrie but she said no, it was silly the two of us spending the New Year on the shelf, so here I am. But I'll just go and give her a ring now, see she's OK."

  "Yeah. Give her my best, will you?"

  Think you've given that already, Joe," laughed Molly, glancing at Beryl. "Back in a mo."

  She ploughed her way through the seething mob like a stately ship through a choppy sea. Someone struck up "Auld Lang Sync', and hands were joined in a series of concentric circles. The thought of the pressure exerted on those in the innermost ring during the ritornello accelerando made Joe wince, but the screams seemed to have more of pleasure than pain in them. Then out of the juke box erupted the Glit's traditional salute to the incoming year, "Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again!" and the circles were broken and everyone was jumping up and down, which were the only directions permitting the necessary violence of movement.

  Back face to face with Beryl, Joe shouted, "How're you doing?"

  "I'm doing fine. You got your breath back?"

  "From what?"

  "From your draught of Irish Cream, of course. Thought you were going all the way in."

  For a happy moment Joe thought she was displaying real jealousy, then he saw the smiling mischief in her eyes.

  "Not as young as I was," he said, giving a hippo yawn. "Way past my bedtime."

  "You don't want to leave already, do you, Joe?" she protested. "And here's me got my sister to look after Desmond all night on the expectation I'd be dancing till dawn."

  The mischief still there.

  "Only takes two to dance," he said. Two and a bit more room than we've got here."

  "In that case, what're we waiting for. Give me your keys!"

  "Keys?"

  "You don't think I've been drinking apple juice most of the evening so's I can be driven home by a drunken incapable."

  "May be a bit drunk," said Joe, 'but there's no way I'm incapable."

  "We'll see," said Beryl. "Let's go."

  They fought their way to the door, moving out into the comparative calm of the lobby with some relief. Then Molly McShane emerged from under the phone hood and relief faded from Joe's mind as he saw her face.

  "
Joe," she said, 'she's not there, she's gone. I let the phone ring and ring and then I got worried so I rang the next-door flat' know the couple to say hello to, they've got a youngster and they sometimes trade baby-sits with Dorrie. Well, he went round to knock at the door and he came back and he says the door was open and the telly was on and there was a bottle of vodka, almost empty, and a glass, but no sign of Dorrie or little Feelie ..."

  She was close to hysterics. Joe said, "It's OK, Molly, she probably just got tired of being by herself and went round to a friend's, you know, first-foot sort of thing. Or maybe she's even round your place waiting till you get home."

  "You think so? She could be. Oh Merv!"

  The lanky figure of Golightly had appeared from the bar. She ran into his arms. Merv held her close and said, "Joe?"

  "Dorrie and the kid have gone walkabout," said Joe. "I think they've probably gone first-footing. Or maybe to Molly's. Why don't you take her home and if Dorrie isn't there, ring round a few of her friends, see if you can track her down? I've got to see Beryl home, she's not feeling too clever, then I'll get in touch, see what's happening,

  OK?"

  He kept his voice light and casual but his eyes signalled, "Get her out of here and keep her calm!"

  "Yeah, sure, that's all it'll be," said Merv. "Come on, doll, let's be getting you home."

  He urged Molly through the door.

  "So what's going on, Joe?" asked Beryl. "And why am I not feeling too clever all of a sudden?"

  "Didn't want to worry Molly more than she is," said Joe. "I think her girl's got trouble."

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope Dorrie had given him and ripped it open.

  The note was short and to the point.

  You made a promise we'd be together in the New Year. Keep it.

  "Any time will do," she'd said. And probably meant it. But sitting alone on New Year's Eve, watching the frenetic gaiety of the TV party rise and the level of her vodka bottle sink, she'd got to thinking, any time won't do. He said New Year we'd be together, and that's what's going to happen!

  "I know where she's gone," said Joe. "I'll drop you at home first."

  "No way," said Beryl, holding up her key. "I haven't stayed sober to see you driving off drunk, like some boozy Sir Lancelot. Where you go, I go, or nobody moves at all, right?"

  "Hey, no argument," said Joe, surprising her. This ain't no war zone I'm heading for, this is just another unpleasant little domestic. Let's go."

  En route he gave Beryl a quick picture of what was going on. She laughed when she read the Sexwith flier he pulled out of his pocket, but when he finished she said seriously, "Joe, this is unpleasant, OK, but I can't see how come you're so involved. I mean, the case you were working on's pretty well closed by the sound of it. Like you said, this is just a domestic involving people you hardly know, and none of them's paying you anyway. So why aren't we in my kitchen, sipping cocoa?"

  "Was that what you had in mind?" said Joe. "Glad I didn't stay. Hey, keep your eyes on the road when you're hitting me! No, listen, you're right, none of my business. But it's the kiddie I'm worried about. I got this nasty feeling this woman in the park who's been stalking Molly and the kid may turn out to be Lucy Naysmith."

  "You mean, she's known about her man and Dorrie all along and could be thinking that if she can't have a kid of her own, next best thing is one her husband's fathered on someone else?"

  "It happens. And fighting over a kid's always nasty, but if the fighting's physical and the kid's actually there, it could be dangerous. Also I feel a bit responsible."

  "Jeez, Joe, you and that conscience of yours! One of these days you've got to tell me what exactly you did to start the Second World War. How the hell are you responsible for any of this?"

  "When Dorrie asked me how he was, I told her fine, nothing but a couple of superficial scratches. Also I told her there was no risk of him being attacked again."

  "So?"

  "So if I'd let her think he was in no fit state to make any decisions about their future, and also there was a permanent police guard on the house, maybe she wouldn't be on her way there now!"

  "Joe," said Beryl gently. "We don't know for sure that's where she's heading. And even if it is, there's nothing in the rule book says you've got to go around telling lies to people to keep them out of trouble, specially when the trouble's not going to go away whatever you do or say."

  Joe digested this. He knew she was right. But it didn't help.

  It didn't help at all.

  Twenty-Five.

  It was party night on Beacon Heights. Every second house was ablaze with light, and music filled the air. The Woodbine residence was jumping. Either Willie had decided that the body in the gravel pit could wait another day for his personal inspection, or Georgina Woodbine was having a great time in his absence. Marble-Tooth of the SAS's house was in darkness. He'd had his bash the other night and was presumably flashing the molars at someone else's ceilidh.

  There were lights on in the Naysmith house, but no sounds of music or merriment. And as Joe had anticipated, there was no sign of a police car on watch. In these cost-cutting times, police overtime was too expensive to waste an unnecessary second of, even on the Heights.

  "Wait here," he told Beryl. "I shouldn't be long."

  "Joe, maybe I should come with you."

  "If it's not my quarrel, it's surely not yours," he said. "I need a nurse, I'll holla."

  He gave her a kiss, which reminded him what his crazy conscience was making him miss. Then he set off up the drive.

  The front door was ajar and his heart sank. Somehow he didn't think it had been left open deliberately in anticipation of first-footers.

  He stepped inside. Natural instinct was to call out, "Hello, anyone there?" or some such implied apology for trespass, but he suppressed it. Anything he could hear to give him a pointer on how things were going before he got involved would be useful.

  Except he could hear nothing.

  A partially open door into the hallway spilled a line of light across the floor. He pushed it open. It was the room he was most familiar with, the study. The light came from a lamp on the desk, as if someone had been sitting there, working on the papers scattered across its leather surface. But the room was empty.

  He went forward to the desk. According to Endo Venera, a sharp eye never missed a chance to read private papers on the grounds, you never knew when knowing something other folk didn't know you knew might come in useful.

  A brief glance told him they were concerned with Poll-Pott, something about a partnership agreement.

  What a more than brief glance might have told wasn't an option because at that moment he had a stroke. No other explanation for the way his head suddenly seemed to explode and he fell forward across the desk.

  He seemed to be destined to come into close contact with this desk, he thought as he tried to force himself upward.

  There were voices in the room now, or were they just inside his skull? He managed to get a few inches of space between his face and the woodwork, and twisted his neck in search of the source of the voices.

  His blurring gaze found it, or the possible source of one of them, or maybe not. Lucy Naysmith's lips didn't seem to be moving. In fact, her whole face was unnaturally still. You'd think a woman swinging a golf club at your head would show some emotion. What kind of club was it? he found himself wondering as survival instinct and buckling knees combined to have him falling away from the next stroke. (Stroke. Perhaps that's where the word came from, ho ho.) Maybe it was a mashie-niblick, where'd he heard that phrase recently? The club head caught him on the chest this time and clipped his chin in passing. Lady needed to practise if she was going to improve her handicap. But she had the time, he acknowledged as he hit the ground and lay there, still as a ball on a nice lush fairway.

  The voices were still talking ... something familiar about them ... Shoot! He must've hit the answer-machine button as he fell against the desk and t
hese were the same un scrubbed messages he'd heard last time the Christmas greetings, the guy after a taxi, the pissed off client, Potter urging him to ring back, Dome's hidden threat... voices on the air, empty of meaning ... except that Endo Venera said that ninety per cent of what people said told you ten per cent more than they intended, so the sharp Eye was also a sharp Ear.

  And he was right, realized Joe. The blow which had unscrambled most of his senses had sharpened that always pretty sensitive area of hearing that dealt with intonation and accent and sequence and all the other things which made listening so vital to a good gumshoe.

  That's great, interposed another more cynical area of his brain. But shouldn't we be concentrating on why this nice ordinary lady is so keen to kill us and trying to find some way of dissuading her?

  He said, "Feelie

  The club upraised for the possibly final blow, paused.

  He said, '... not yours ... hers ... Dome's ..."

  "She promised," said the woman. "She promised ... in the New Year ... I thought that was why ..."

  No, he thought, he promised in the New Year, not she. But it didn't seem a good time to correct a lady. In fact, the sensible thing to do was to agree with everything she said. The customer was always right even when she wasn't a customer and was also clearly teetering on the edge of her trolley.

  "She will keep her promise," he said. "That's why I'm here. I'm Joe Sixsmith, remember! We met earlier. It's all under control. That's why Felix asked me to come."

  A man could get addicted to this lying business, he thought. Specially when it kept your head from having a divot taken out of it.

  "Felix asked you?" she said, lowering the club gently so that it rested on his chest. "He didn't tell me."

  "Just in case of emergencies," said Joe. "And you've got an emergency, right?"

  It seemed reasonable to assume that whatever was going on in this poor woman's mangled mind could be labelled an emergency.

  "Yes," said Lucy Naysmith. "You see, I thought when I saw her she'd brought my little girl round like she'd promised. But when I tried to take her she started screaming at me. Felix told me he had to talk to her alone, and he took her upstairs, and I was in the kitchen getting a drink when I heard you and I thought it might be ... I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Mr. Sixsmith. If only Felix had told me you were coming. Let me help you up."