Jack of All Trades Box Set: books 1 to 3

by DH Smith

  The man put his hand out. Jack took it.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Henderson, and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Boyd.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Jack nodding at Boyd.

  ‘How do you do,’ she said.

  ‘Please sit down,’ said Henderson.

  All three sat.

  ‘This is a preliminary interview,’ said Henderson. ‘DS Boyd will take notes.’

  ‘Ask away,’ said Jack.

  ‘What’s your position here, Mr Bell?’

  ‘I’ve only been here two days…’

  The two officers looked at each other.

  ‘We thought you were staff…’ said Henderson.

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’m a self-employed builder working on their summerhouse. My mate Bob took sick and passed the job on to me.’ He took out his wallet and searched it. ‘Here’s my card.’

  The detective read, ‘Jack of All Trades.’

  Jack grimaced. ‘It was a joke at the time, and now with five thousand cards printed and my van painted up, I’m stuck with it.’

  ‘Might I ask about your black eye?’

  Jack gave an uncomfortable laugh. ‘I knew that was coming.’

  ‘It’s an impressive specimen.’

  ‘Regrettably. Mr Ward was giving this bloke a real kicking, out there in the garden. I was having lunch outside the summerhouse and saw it going on. I tried to pull Ward away and he socked me one.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Don’t know. He was stark naked and I’m told Mr Ward chased him out of their bedroom. He was already unconscious when I got to him. And barely recovering when the ambulance came. I just stopped him getting killed.’

  ‘For which you got that black eye.’

  ‘And sacked,’ went on Jack. ‘Then Ward changed his mind and thanked me. Then the next day, in the house there was this almighty quarrel between Mr and Mrs Ward – so I’m told, I was outside working. And I got sacked again. He said he was not paying for her summerhouse. I was just packing up my tools when she took me on again. Her money, she said, she’d pay for it.’ He shook his head. ‘To tell you the truth, I had no idea where I was. Job, no job. They were tossing me back and forth like a tennis ball.’

  ‘You were at the party last night?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I came. Rather out of my depth among all those millionaires. I left before ten.’

  ‘And came back this morning with Mrs Ward?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said reddening. ‘I knew that was coming.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She invited herself back to my place.’ He held up a hand, ‘Not that I said no.’

  Henderson stifled a grin.

  ‘She was supposed to come at midnight. Didn’t come, and then, total surprise, must have been 12.30 or maybe later, Carol turned up…’

  ‘Carol Cole? Mrs Ward’s secretary?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, Carol came along. And I hoped that was that. But half an hour later, Mrs Ward showed up.’

  ‘Rather embarrassing.’

  ‘Totally. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t have a threesome. In fact, I slept in the van. Carol slept in my bed and Mrs Ward on the sofa.’

  ‘An utterly chaste time?’

  ‘A little snogging, until Mrs Ward showed up, and that put paid to anything further. Or anything at all, really.’

  ‘What time did you go to your van?’

  ‘Must’ve been about one thirty-ish.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘No. I was in the back in a sleeping bag. Went for a walk about four-thirty. Didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘What time did you go back to your flat?’

  ‘About 7 am, having bought some bacon from the shop on the high road. Forest Gate.’

  ‘So from one-thirty until seven you were on your own. No witnesses.’

  ‘None.’

  ‘I think that’ll do for the time being, unless you’ve any questions, DS Boyd?’

  The policewoman looked up, she’d been busily scribbling throughout. ‘No, sir.’

  Henderson stood up. ‘Well, that gives us the feel of things, Mr Bell. I’d like you to come into the station tomorrow and give a full statement. Make it 2 pm; there’ll be additional questions as we get a fuller picture.’ He handed over a card. ‘And could you bring your bank statements for the last year.’

  ‘Bank statements?’

  ‘In my experience, Mr Bell, most murders are about sex or money. And sometimes both.’

  Jack considered this pearl for a second or two, and had a thought.

  ‘Talking about money, Mr Ward sent me on an outside job yesterday. And to cut it short, he’s a slum landlord, into some very nasty practices. I only saw one tip of a house. And I don’t know how many others he’s got, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s typical.’

  The two police officers looked at each other knowingly.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ said Henderson. ‘We’ll certainly examine that area.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  Henderson’s tongue lolled in his cheek. ‘Coming back with Mrs Ward this morning puts you well in the frame.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘So you say. And the black eye?’

  ‘I’m not going to kill anyone for that,’ exclaimed Jack. ‘Be reasonable.’

  Boyd tapped her superior on the arm, ‘Might I have a brief word, sir?’

  They went into the hall. Jack could hear them mumbling, but could make out no words. He wondered when Ward was killed. Could it have been when he was sleeping in his van? And so what if it was? What would be his motive? But you never knew with cops, what they might stick on you.

  The two officers returned. Henderson was holding a plastic bag with a length of silvery metal inside.

  ‘Do you recognise this implement?’ he said. He put the bag on the table. ‘Please don’t touch.’

  Jack looked closely.

  ‘It looks like one of my cold chisels. Yes, it is. I recognise that dent at the edge. That’s blood on it.’ He turned to Henderson. ‘It’s the weapon, isn’t it?’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘It was in the summerhouse with the rest of my tools.’

  ‘Was it locked?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No. I figured my tools were safe from millionaires.’

  ‘Not from someone,’ said Henderson.

  Chapter 30

  Jack returned to the granny flat.

  ‘They want you, Donna.’

  Donna rose from the sofa, straightening her hair.

  ‘What was it like?’ her voice aquiver.

  ‘Heavy,’ he said, wriggling his neck. ‘I’m wondering whether I need a lawyer.’

  She grimaced. He patted her on the shoulder.

  ‘Just tell the truth.’

  ‘What’s the truth?’ she said shaking her head.

  And left them.

  ‘Did you confess, Jack?’ said Joanna blithely, seated at the table.

  ‘I felt like I should have. Cops always make me feel guilty.’

  ‘And did you tell them about our non-event?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll ask you your side of it.’

  ‘I’m just glad I never slept in your bed. What was it like, Carol?’

  Carol screwed up her nose. ‘Talcy.’

  Jack cringed. And changed the subject.

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to ask you, Joanna. Your husband sent me on a job yesterday which I only half finished. In one of his houses.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The door is unsafe,’ Jack went on. ‘And as you’re the owner now… should I finish it?’

  Joanna flapped a hand helplessly. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  Carol said, ‘As it’s already a half done job, go finish it and bill the estate.’

  ‘See why I took her on?’ said Joanna proudly.

  ‘I need money for a new door and timber,’ said Jack.

  ‘How much?’ said Joanna.

  ‘150, no, make it 20
0 to be on the safe side. No point buying a crap door.’

  ‘I bet he’s got petty cash in his room,’ said Joanna. ‘If the cops didn’t pocket it.’

  ‘How does that help?’ said Jack.

  ‘It doesn’t while it’s a crime scene,’ said Joanna sharply. ‘I was thinking aloud.’

  ‘So can I get a door?’

  ‘Not unless you spend your own money.’

  Jack turned away from her in irritation, did a half step then turned back on her.

  ‘What do you know about your husband’s property?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘I know he bought and sold, but what – I wasn’t interested. And he wasn’t talkative. He had as much interest in my fairy books as I had in his property dealings.’

  ‘Then you’ve got some catching up to do,’ said Jack. ‘You’re a slum landlord.’

  Joanna slapped her forehead. ‘What a mess the bastard’s left me!’ She turned to Carol, ‘What do we do, smarty?’

  Carol chewed her lip for a few seconds. ‘We need to look at this house. And then find out how many others there are in the same condition.’

  ‘And what about the poor guy’s door?’ interjected Jack.

  ‘You’re really concerned about him and his flaming door,’ exclaimed Joanna.

  ‘I did a botched repair yesterday. Strictly temporary.’

  Joanna rubbed her chin. ‘Do the damned door. It’s a half job, finish it,’ she said. ‘Give me your laptop, Carol. I’ll do a bank transfer. Let’s have your account details, Jack.’

  Jack wrote down the account numbers and shut up while Joanna worked on the laptop. Carol gave him a sly thumbs up. Was it for him or the man with the botched door? Either way, it was an improvement.

  ‘There,’ said Joanna after a minute or so. ‘It’s in your account. 200 quid.’

  ‘Thank you, Joanna,’ he said meekly. Then flicked his fingers. ‘Tell you what, I could go buy the door and timber, drop it off at the house. Then you two could meet me there. You need to know what you’re lumbered with, Joanna.’

  ‘I can’t go,’ said Joanna flatly. ‘I’ve got an interview coming up with that detective what’s his name,’ she flicked her fingers, ‘Henderson, and I have to formally identify the body.’ She turned to Carol. ‘You go with him.’

  ‘I haven’t been interviewed yet.’

  ‘Look,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll go buy the gear, that’ll take a bit of time. Then I’ll phone you to meet me at the house. And if you’re a bit late, I’ll get started.’

  Carol looked to Joanna. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You two, make me a report on the house,’ she said. ‘I do need to know what I’ve got.’

  Chapter 31

  ‘You’ve been living here five years, Mrs Jones? Is that correct?’

  Donna was in the cloakroom with DI Henderson and DS Boyd, all three round the small table. She’d been fingerprinted as she came into the house, making her more nervous; her answers short, Henderson having to prompt her to give fuller replies.

  ‘Five, yes,’ she said, nodding too eagerly, at the easy question.

  ‘Living in the granny flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’ve known Mr Ward five years?’

  Donna didn’t reply. Her eyes welled – and she burst into tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ she managed to say between bleats.

  ‘There, there,’ said Henderson awkwardly. ‘I know this is distressing. Can I get you a glass of water?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’ She wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll be alright in a moment, thank you.’

  DS Boyd took out a pack of tissues and handed her one. Donna mumbled ‘thank you, dear’ and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not normally this way. I didn’t sleep well. And yesterday was quite a strain. And now all this.’

  She sat back in the chair wiping her cheeks. DS Boyd patted her hand.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ said Donna.

  ‘In your own time, Mrs Jones,’ said Henderson solicitously. ‘I know this is a shock to you.’

  Donna blew her nose. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Were you close to Mr Ward?’ he said carefully.

  For a second or two she didn’t reply as if holding her breath. This was either to be her big lie, and that followed by another and another… But why, she thought. So obviously, why should she continue the fiction? When the bugger was dead.

  ‘I hated him,’ she said, eyes closed.

  Henderson looked to Boyd who nodded before returning to her notebook. Hatred was always important.

  ‘Why did you hate him?’

  She took a few seconds to file her thoughts. It had to be told.

  ‘No one liked Mr Ward,’ she said. ‘He used people, trod on them on his way up.’

  ‘How did he tread on you, Mrs Jones?’

  She closed her eyes again, thinking back to a younger self, to days of possibility. Tell them. It would all come out anyway.

  ‘I first met him, oh, must be 28 years ago. He had a market stall on the Whitechapel Road, opposite the London Hospital. Wasn’t rich then.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I worked in a café nearby, just up from the Underground, a greasy spoon, all day fry ups, you know the sort of stuff. He used to drop in and tease me. He had all the patter. To chat up women and sell junk. He used to buy china seconds and claim they were prime ware. His knives looked pukka, but the handles turned green in a few days. A real wide boy. After a few months he had to do a runner, too many customers after him.’

  She smiled weakly, noting DS Boyd was having trouble keeping up in the spiral notebook on her knees. Henderson sat back, waiting, knowing he needn’t push. The flow had begun. She had said so much, it was impossible for her not to say more. In his younger days, he’d shouted and fumed, threatened even. But over the years, mellowing, and with recording more prevalent, he’d become better at listening, at picking up signs. Knowing what was important in the dross of an interview.

  ‘He disappeared off the map,’ she went on, ‘leaving me with a bun in the oven. The old, old story. Changed his name, I don’t know how many times, as he made his way up. He was Toby Green then. And I wasn’t to see him for another twenty years or more.’ She chuckled as she reminisced. ‘He had such a good line in patter. You just knew he was going to get very rich.’

  ‘When did you meet him again?’ said Henderson.

  ‘It was when I came here for an interview, five years ago. Mrs Ward was in New York, something to do with her writing for kids. They’d just lost a housekeeper. I found out later she’d walked out on them. Mr Ward’s got…’ she halted and corrected herself, ‘he had quite a temper and he insulted her for her cooking. She just threw down her apron and walked out.’

  ‘You recognised each other at the interview, Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Straight away. He tried to deny it at first but then realised I wasn’t out for blackmail or anything, and came clean. I showed him a picture of Eric, his son, twenty then. And he liked the idea of a son. He said he didn’t have any other kids. And maybe that’s true – or he might have scattered them all over the shop with all his different names. Anyway, I became housekeeper with the granny flat. The condition was I wasn’t to say anything about our past. Not about Eric. Especially about Eric when he found out he was schizophrenic.’

  She stopped and sank back in her chair like a deflated cushion.

  ‘This is very hard for me,’ she said, dabbing her eyes. ‘I’ve kept it bottled in for years.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty with us, Mrs Jones.’ He reflected. ‘By the way, you are not married, are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Mrs sounds more respectable for a housekeeper.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He rose. ‘Let’s take a break.’ And went to the door. He called to someone. ‘Joe – you wouldn’t like to get us three cups of tea, would you? Thanks, pal.’ He returned to his seat.

  ‘
I think we all need a breather.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘I feel so sticky,’ complained Joanna, twisting her neck. ‘Like it’s two in the morning, we’ve run out of booze and you can taste the scum on your teeth.’

  She was at the table, having barely moved, the surface covered with mugs and a plate with a few sad looking biscuits.

  ‘I’m glad I got home and changed,’ said Carol smugly. ‘Though I’m tired. It wouldn’t be so bad if I was working, but it’s this sitting about wearies you.’

  ‘I wonder who did it?’

  Both knew what the ‘it’ referred to.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t think I said ten words to him.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Nothing you say about him will offend me.’

  ‘Bit of a letch.’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Bully.’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Full of himself.’

  ‘Tick.’

  ‘Rather stuffy clotheswise. I never saw him in anything but a suit… And a tie.’

  ‘You’re wearing a suit yourself.’

  ‘But I’m not at home.’

  Joanna rubbed at her scalp as if it itched. ‘He was all front. Didn’t have the confidence to dress casual. So he went to Savile Row and had the best, most expensive suits made. The ready made uniform for a gent.’

  ‘If you can afford it.’

  ‘I could have a shower here,’ said Joanna thoughtfully, ‘except I’ve nothing to change into. I could buy some clothes, except I can’t leave, nor can you. Donna’ll be back soon, but heaven knows what she’d get me. I feel so shabby. And dressed too sexy for eleven in the morning. Being eyed up by coppers.’

  Carol laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘For an employee you’re quite impertinent.’

  Carol shrugged. ‘If you want a doormat, hire one.’

  Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually, I don’t mind a bit of impertinence. Probably quite good for me. I can be inclined to bully.’

  ‘I saw you with the fairy writers.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do it, but I’m so bored with those stories. I shall pass them lock, stock and barrel on to you, and you can be as nice as you like. So long as you deliver.’