by DH Smith
‘Read it on my commute. Made me wish my commute was longer.’
Dot Gumbi, author of The Pirates of Maryland Point
‘A spectrum of power struggles and deathly secrets. With cutting dialogue and screw-tight plotting, Derek Smith displays skills as sharp as anything pulled from his hero’s toolbox.’
Roger Mills, author of Everything Happens in Cable Street
JACK OF ALL TRADES
DH Smith
Earlham Books
Published 2015 by Earlham Books
Book design & cover art by Lia at Free Your Words
Text copyright © 2015 DH Smith
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-1-909804-12-8
Contents
Part One: The Cast & Setting
Part Two: The Murder
Part Three: The Arrest
Part Four: Confronting The Killer
Part One: The Cast & Setting
Chapter 1
Planing made him feel like a real carpenter. All the curls of shiny wood, the whoosh and certainty of it. Sharp steel, a long run down the edge, the resin smell intermingled with his sweat. An eighth of an inch to take off. Too little to saw, a lot to plane. There was probably a better way, but at least planing was safer. He could have used a power plane, but there was no muscle in it. It made him feel part of a machine, whereas this had the freedom of a gymnast.
It’s all in the marking up, his dad used to say. That and sharp tools. Nothing about a sharp workman, though he wasn’t bad at carpentry. The problem with calling yourself a builder was that clients expected you to be good at everything. Mostly he could pull it off, though there had been one or two close shaves he’d rather not think about. We’ve all been there, said Bob, talking about their near misses. Thank you, Bob, he thought. But it shouldn’t be a question of what you can get away with.
Better than he was, though. Some of those earlier jobs he’d had to come back and redo, and still left a grudging customer. But wasn’t that the way with every builder? No one had all the skills. You come in as a carpenter and they want more and more of you. Plastering, plumbing, roofing. So you say yes to get the work. Learn on the job.
And hope you can get away with it.
Plane a bit, try it, plane some more. Getting even along the length, that was tricky. But the window mustn’t be wobbly in the frame. He looked again at the pencil mark, too up and down along the length. He glanced up, her indoors was looking at him. Trying to ignore her, he did a couple of long runs to get the bumps out. Then concentrated on one of the ups. He’d never liked teak, at least he thought it was teak. He should look at the label. Sound more of a carpenter. Teak this, teak that, shake his head and suck in a long breath with a pencil behind his ear.
Six of the bastards to get in.
A bigger job than he was used to. In Chigwell of all places. Less than ten miles from Forest Gate where he lived, but a universe away in lifestyle. Poshland for East End gangsters going legit, footballers with their wives and girlfriends, division two entertainers. This summerhouse. It was bigger than his flat. And talk about demanding. Jack could change a lock, fit a new door, put a fence up, concrete a path fairly confidently. Handyman stuff. You can do this one, insisted Bob, his old mucker, who’d come back off holiday from Egypt with an attack of enteric fever. Nearly died. And passed this job on to him. Up your street, mate. Just a small repair job. Oh sure. How it grew! They kept adding bits. New windows, then new roof, new floor. They kept piling stuff on. The small repair job ballooned. All it needed was new walls to make it a 100% renewal.
And he’d said, yes I can do it. Sure, no trouble. Getting way beyond his comfort zone into plumbing and electrics. And he was nodding like a dog in a car window. Sure, no trouble.
The sort of garden shelter he was used to was more like a shed without windows, a gazebo. Somewhere to sit out in fine weather, a sort of Wendy house for grown ups; a single space with benches, you could just about get a table and a couple of chairs in. This one made him think of rich Russians, their dachas, the whole family migrating in summer time. A Russian builder he’d worked with once had told him about them. This had a kitchen, toilet and shower, with two large rooms and a small one – it was out of his world. A summerhouse! He’d move in tomorrow.
He’d heard of writers writing in a shed, but you’d scarcely call this a shed. And why would you want a shower? For a steamy sex scene. And then a second room? A kitchen? She’s a writer not a cook, so he’d heard.
There was a sofa bed in one room. What was that used for? Guests, was the innocent thought, but the way she moved when she was here an hour ago, talking about the job, a hand on her hip, tight skirt and cavernous cleavage, and that sly grin gave him other thoughts. You don’t dress like that unless… you’re ready for it. He shook his head. Plane, saw, hammer. Head down, do the job. Drive back to Forest Gate without a stain on his character.
But you just never know. You think she’s got to be up for it, but then again… That teacher who’d slapped his face and yelled at him for a drunken fumble. But how do you know if you don’t try? Not that drink gives you the sharpest eye.
Tell me, tell me.
He rested for a breather, looking across the manicured lawn to the house. He couldn’t get over working in Chigwell. The size of the rooms in the house itself, like halls, a semicircle of cream leather sofas that could seat ten. What would this house be worth? Two, three million… How would he know? But it made you realise the difference, the space, the way these people lived. And of course, how they see the rest of us. Those who didn’t live on Manor Road, Chigwell. Their army of workers, to be employed when needed, and complained about.
She was still looking out of the window. Maybe she was thinking about the sofa bed. Or maybe that he should get a move on, as she wanted her summerhouse back.
He’d hoped Bob was recovered enough for the electrics. He didn’t want to use Joe again. More of a cowboy than he was himself. At least he knew his weaknesses, admitted them, whereas Joe was all bullshit. In my country we do it like this. Sure, sure. But in my country, Joe, it has to work.
For at least as long as it takes the cheque to clear.
Chapter 2
Not bad. Manly in his yellow vest. Powerful biceps glistening in the sun. His torn jeans were almost fashionable. A trim bum, when he turned away from her to pick up a tool. She almost whistled, and laughed at herself. Wasn’t it builders who whistled down from their scaffolding to women scurrying along the street? Come on up, darling! But then she had a touch of that vulgarity. She knew what she liked. And dared from time to time.
Wait and you could be dead.
She wished she could paint on the move. She’d be out and about, with her palette and easel, painting manual workers. Catch in oils the flow of that body, the plane in his hands, the ooze and sear as it whooshed along the side of the new window. She should get one of those things, what did they call them? That glass whatjacallit in Edinburgh. She snapped her fingers. Camera obscura. Then she could watch in secret, a circular view from above. Except she quite liked him knowing she was watching. Not like a schoolboy up in his bedroom furtively viewing porn. But blatantly at the window. It made him wonder what she was thinking. She wasn’t quite sure herself. Yes, she’d like to see more of him. But there were complications. She’d have to plan it. Make sure Leon was out for the day.
Out there in the sunshine, lying in the wood shavings… She was tired of paper pushers.
She might try a drawing; she
wasn’t bad at that. Except he was too far off for detail. And she could hardly sit out on the lawn drawing him. Or could she?
The bell rang.
Joanna sighed. And sat down heavily in an armchair. Fucking work. She picked up the phone.
‘Do answer the door, Donna. And bring in the coffee and cakes.’
Chapter 3
‘Yes, Mrs Ward.’
She put down the phone and wiped her hands on a tea towel. Why couldn’t the lazy cow do it herself? Having sacked her secretary, she, the cook, was answering the door, bringing her coffee, like a jumped up maid. She’d known this would happen. It’d be weeks before she got round to getting another. What’s the hurry when you have a dogsbody in the kitchen? But if she talked back, dared suggest even… And she, the lady of the house, just a jumped up stripper, acting as if she were born in a palace. Poplar High Street. Donna knew where Lady Nose-In-The-Air came from.
She took off her apron, and threw it on the table. She’d been told off only the other day for going to the door wearing it. On, off, on, off. Cook, housemaid, doorstop.
She strolled out of the kitchen, into the passage that opened into the main vestibule before the front door. It was well lit through stained glass windows, one wall depicting George killing the Dragon. On the other wall were two large and colourful abstract paintings on either side of the door to the lounge. Above the marbled floor was the grand chandelier, hell to dust, twinkling in the sunlight. When the door opened, you got a jingle of glass.
The front door had matching stained glass, the rescued virgin gazing in adoration at the knight saint in the side window. The vestibule ended in the sweeping staircase, with its mock Georgian banisters. A modern house with a cacophony of borrowed ideas.
Donna opened the front door.
Three young women were standing there in bright summer dresses, each carrying a shoulder laptop bag. Behind them, the taxi driver gave her a nod. He’d picked them up from Grange Hill Underground station. Though why they couldn’t walk… Ten minutes, if you dawdle. And it wasn’t as if Manor Road was a motorway.
‘One moment, ladies. Let me pay for the cab.’
She gave him £20. He had the receipt ready, knowing the drill. This was a regular run. The three young women had to be picked up together at the station. Two had come together, he’d had to wait for the next train for the arrival of the third, all flustered and apologising. Better for him if they’d all come on the same train. Then he’d make twenty for a five minute run. Today, he’d had to wait another five or six minutes. It had to be done that way, Mrs Ward insisted. No wasting time waiting for the last one to get here, all to arrive in unison. She would not wait for anyone, he reckoned.
‘Do come in, ladies,’ said Donna. ‘Mrs Ward is expecting you.’
She led them into the lounge and left them there to be greeted by Mrs Ward, while she went back to her kitchen. She put on her apron again and went back to the second salmon she was wrapping in foil. She must get these ready today, and prepare the chicken legs. Put them in the fridge overnight. Tomorrow she’d do the baking, the salads. Strawberries and cream was simple enough. Then Janie was coming over with the canapés and a few young girls to waitress. Mr Ward had taken charge of the drinks, thank heavens. He’d make the punch and bring up assorted wines and spirits from the cellar. A barrel of beer and various bottles were due in the morning. Not her worry.
Just thirty-five people, he’d said. Don’t make a big fuss. She snorted as she recalled. And then get it in the neck from both of them if she didn’t make ‘a big fuss’ of it? She did wonder sometimes. Thirty-five had, of course, become fifty ‘or so’. How can you cater for fifty plus swells without making a fuss? You can’t give them peanuts and crisps with a couple of dips from Marks and Sparks.
She’d be here tomorrow until midnight, or even later. They did at least half a dozen of these soirées a year, all the hassle. He was OK, praising her afterwards for the delicious ham or whatever. But she’d pick up on something. Could the rolls be warm, Donna dear, and less pepper in the aubergine dip. And all she’d get for it was a paltry 50 quid on top. That was the rich for you. Button your lip and take home the leftovers. At least they didn’t mind that. Mrs Ward wouldn’t touch them anyway, though he was OK for next day’s lunch – but no more than that. Once she’d suggested sending it all to the Salvation Army but Mrs Ward dismissed the suggestion. It would only encourage them, she said. So dump what you can’t take home.
Bugger the starving millions.
Donna lived in the granny flat next door. Convenient and inconvenient. Especially with tomorrow night’s party.
But moaning gets nothing done. She’d better sort out that little lot in with Mrs Ward, then back to the salmon.
Chapter 4
She’d allowed them to call her Joanna. She wasn’t sure it was proper, but it couldn’t be called back. Make a note.
The three young women were seated on the long sofa with laptops on their knees. There was plenty of space between them; the seat could have accommodated six or more. They sat forward, its sinking leather plushness really too luxurious for work. The glass table before them had their coffee and biscuits. If this meeting was typical there would be little time to drink and nibble. Joanna liked to rush them forward and they were kept busy tapping out her ‘suggestions’.
Joanna was seated in an armchair to one side without a laptop. One of them would take minutes and send her a copy. She had a paper notebook and a silver fountain pen in her lap. She had written: Penny, Julie. What the hell was the name of the plump one? Never mind. It’d come. Or maybe it wouldn’t.
‘Where’s Helen?’ said Julie carefully.
She was in the centre of the three, tall and slim, her very black hair cut in a cropped 20s style. All three had a nervousness as if they were there to be interviewed.
‘Helen is no longer with us,’ said Joanna sharply.
There was an uncomfortable pause before Julie said quietly, ‘Why’s that, Joanna?’
Joanna held her gaze until Julie self consciously turned away. She wondered about the uppity miss. Creative writing degree at some college in the sticks. Was she more trouble than she was worth?
She said, ‘Helen was two weeks behind in her deadline. And wanted more money.’
She sensed the tension as the three glanced at each other. There was something going on between them, she was sure. But she didn’t give a damn. She held all the cards. The full pack including the jokers. These girls were two a penny. But something was up. Those furtive looks. It was pathetic really. What on earth could they do?
‘Is there something that any of you want to add?’ she said looking at all three in turn.
Julie glanced to either side and both her companions nodded. She bit her lower lip.
‘We’ve been talking it over amongst ourselves,’ she began, barely audibly, ‘and we think…’ she halted as she steeled herself to the Olive Twist moment, ‘we should get fifty per cent royalty.’
‘Yes, fifty percent,’ agreed Penny.
‘Yes,’ managed the plump one in the tiniest mumble.
Joanna smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘That’s what Helen wanted too. And as I said, she’s no longer here.’
‘But we do all the work,’ exclaimed Julie. Her face was reddening. She was obviously a volcano inside.
Joanna gazed from one to the other, judging their firmness in their trembling pallor. Three little girls coming to the Head with a petition about school lunch. She had been here before. Every six months or so, it happened. Would these schoolgirls never understand it was a hard world out there? That she was doing them a favour. Giving them a leg up. And they too stupid to realise it. Who would stay in this group, who would leave?
She sighed, a most put upon sigh. ‘I am Bluebell Woods. As you know, I have authored 102 books of the Forest Fairies series. For the last fifty books I have used various ghost writers, like yourselves, to continue the brand. Without my brand, there would be no work for yo
u.’
‘That’s true,’ said Julie, ‘and we are grateful but…’ another effort to say the unsayable. ‘But you don’t do that much.’
‘I edit your dreadful stuff.’
That was a bombshell and she shouldn’t have said it. Alright, it was dreadful stuff. But so was her own contribution. That’s why she’d stopped writing at 102. She couldn’t stand it anymore. But unaccountably the little books made money. Seven year old girls loved them.
No, she shouldn’t have said it. That was the game you played. The thing you kept to yourself. You had to pretend they were good, lovable tales. Or it was simply hack work. Which it was. But you had to pretend it was art. For your readers. And for yourself.
‘I take that back,’ she said. ‘You are three promising writers. But you have an apprenticeship to complete. Of course, that’s just my opinion. Anytime you wish, you may go your own way. There are plenty of others eager to take your place.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I have an hour. And we do have to finalise these plots… So if you want to, go. Go now. 35% is my last word on the matter.’
Go, stay. She didn’t care that much. It was a little tedious contacting agents, putting an ad out to creative writing degree courses and so forth. But she liked new faces. At the beginning, they were compliant, overjoyed to be here. As unrealistic in their excitement as in any love affair. How could it last?
Julie stood up, her seat sank and expired. ‘It isn’t right, Joanna.’
Joanna shrugged. ‘That’s your opinion, Julie.’ She looked to the others. ‘What do you two think?’
Both were looking down at their laptops as if there were a secret message on the screen.
‘Who’s going? Who’s staying? Let’s get this settled.’
Julie had gone too far. Stood up too quickly. There was no backing out now. She walked to the door and then turned back into the room.