Jack of All Trades

by DH Smith

  ‘I’ll take the bed,’ said Joanna.

  She strode across the room and opened the door of the bedroom. And instantly recoiled.

  ‘It stinks like a whorehouse!’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Carol. ‘It stinks less than some other places.’

  She picked up her clothes and went in.

  ‘Sofa for me then,’ said Joanna.

  ‘It’ll have to be coats,’ he said with half an apology.

  She shrugged. ‘Pile ‘em on.’

  He chucked her a couple from the hooks on the door.

  ‘What about you?’ she said.

  He gave her the wryest smile.

  ‘I’ll sleep in the van.’

  Chapter 27

  Jack made space in the back of his van and crawled into his greasy sleeping bag, fully clothed apart from shoes. The van floor was hard and corrugated, and after five minutes rolling around on aching hips, he attempted to soften the surface. By torchlight, he found a furniture sheet. Not much dirtier than those on his bed, he reflected. He doubled and tripled the sheet, and put it under the sleeping bag. A little better. A small canvas toolbag did for a pillow. He got back in the sleeping bag, zipped it up high, closed his eyes. But his head was too active for sleep.

  He reflected on the sex he hadn’t had. On the relationship with Carol, strangled at birth. Did he still have a job? The contract was on Joanna’s desk unsigned. Any normal person wouldn’t sign it if rejected sexually. Though he hadn’t actually rejected Joanna. Hadn’t rejected either of them, he could swear in court. It could be said they had rejected him. Or the situation.

  He imagined all three awake. Potty really. All thwarted. If only Joanna hadn’t come.

  If only Carol hadn’t come.

  In the morning, he would phone around his mates, see if any of them needed a hand. Pick up any crumbs he could. Or it was back to the Job Centre. Signing on, and touting for work. The summerhouse job would have seen him safely in the black.

  And Carol. Not Joanna, never. He couldn’t see her having another go. But any fantasy he tried fractured in its own disbelief. He had imaginary conversations with Carol. She didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. He simply followed his cock, she said.

  And perhaps he did. If so, stupid him. Here he was sleeping, or rather sleepless, in his van with two attractive women, doubtless sleepless too, upstairs in his flat. Not a tale he’d tell round the pub, if and when he went to the pub.

  After an hour or so of rolling uncomfortably, he got up, put his jacket on and went for a walk. It was chilly in the early hours. Most lights were out in the houses. No traffic. No one else on the street. The plane trees stood sentinel, in semi-leaf like ballerinas in tutus, shimmering in the breeze. A rose glimmer in the east, birds already singing.

  What was there to sing about at 4.30 in the morning?

  That yesterday was horrible and tomorrow would be worse. Sing Hallelujah!

  That was Orion up there over the rooftops. He had moved as far as he could from the street lights to bring out the stars. Yes. Fancy seeing Orion this time of year. Not that he’d ever looked this early in the morning. That would be Aldebaran in Taurus. And that bundle was the Pleiades, such a beautiful bundle of stars through his binoculars. He should leave them in the van for nights like this. And there was Cassiopeia again, though it had moved across the sky from where he’d last seen it and was almost upside down.

  He turned to the south. Nearing the westerly horizon – that had to be Jupiter. It had to be, because he could see Venus rising in the east, just above Sirius. Wow – what a sight! The brightest planet and the brightest star that close together… He wouldn’t have seen it if he weren’t up so early.

  He must make a date with his telescope. A more likely success than with women.

  He wondered what time he could go back to his flat. Seven maybe. He returned to his van and to his unwashed sleeping bag. And somehow, sheer weariness doped him. When he awoke it was quarter past seven, and light.

  He got into the driving seat, and half dozy, drove down to Ahmed’s for some bacon. Then he went back home.

  He crept into the flat, closing the front door carefully. Joanna was asleep on the sofa. He tiptoed across her to the bedroom which he opened. Talc hit him. But the bed was empty, stripped back. Carol had gone.

  Jack went into the kitchen, closed the door, put on the kettle and fried bacon in his pan. He wondered what time Carol had left. Not that it mattered. When you are not talking, you are not talking, whether present or not.

  Should he wake Joanna?

  He went back out into the sitting room. Bedraggled on the couch, she opened one eye.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Is it better than your coffee?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said breezily. ‘Bacon sandwich?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just tea.’

  In a minute or two he brought out two cups of tea and two bacon sandwiches for himself.

  Joanna threw off the coats and sat on the sofa cuddling the tea.

  ‘Quite a night of passion,’ she said, and sipped the tea. ‘It is better. Just about drinkable. Hot though.’

  Her make-up was streaked, eyes waxy, her face slumped below a Medusa straggle.

  ‘When did Carol leave?’ he said.

  ‘About six.’

  Neither had anything to add to that. It was a fact, like a cloud passing.

  ‘Have I still got a job?’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought it might be dependent on sex.’

  She laughed. ‘Bad sex might have lost you it. Count yourself lucky you didn’t have the opportunity. Although I should sack you for seeing me like this. Who was it? Diana?’

  He looked at her blankly, not knowing what she was talking about.

  ‘Some Greek hunter saw her bathing, so she turned him into a stag and he was torn to bits by his own hounds.’

  ‘Is that in one of your fairy books?’

  She chuckled. ‘Not quite suitable for eight year olds. And I will have a bacon sandwich.’

  Jack had two on his plate. He handed her one.

  ‘I’ll risk the salmonella,’ she said, looking inside.

  In the next fifteen minutes, they washed, Joanna complained about his towels and they left the house. The two of them went in Jack’s van. Driving out of his side road, they joined the rush hour as they crossed Wanstead Flats and entered Wanstead. And Joanna applied her make up.

  Traffic was building up on the Chigwell Road. All those cars with one person in. He could be smug for once, with two in his. And the school run, don’t talk to him about the school run. All those kids who can’t walk to school because their parents are afraid of the traffic. Ha! There was a woman and a kid of about five in a big people carrier that could take eight or more. The sins of other drivers. He’d done the school run himself when Mia stayed over.

  Joanna put her make up away. He glanced at her in the mirror. Quite presentable. But he knew once back she’d shower and wash it all off. Oh, the chore of keeping ourselves presentable! Washing, shaving, clothes. Sheets.

  Yes, sheet. Clean sheets.

  He turned on his music. The woman from No Doubt, what was her name? was singing Simple Kind of Life. Next to him he could hear Joanna laughing, he was smirking himself at the complications of last night as the guitars twanged, and the belting drums hammered out the number. He remembered her on video. Gwen someone or other, sexy, bleached blonde, her lips vampire red and her cowboy boots. Simple Kind of Life.

  ‘Is that what you want, Joanna?’ he said.

  ‘Nope,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘If it means three kids in a semi, utterly faithful and waiting for daddy to come home… Dear God save me.’

  ‘I can’t quite see you hanging out the washing.’

  ‘I’m too horny,’ she said.

  Jack was somewhat surprised by her honesty. So early. Like Gwen… Stefani. No Doubt. That was it, Stefani.

&n
bsp; ‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she went on. ‘I would have liked to have slept with you, but not in that awful, talcum powdered bed.’

  ‘Just as well it wasn’t used then.’

  ‘I would think Carol’d be pretty smelly, but she’s probably showered by now.’

  ‘Have you sacked her?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You threatened to.’ He reflected. ‘No, you actually sacked her. I think.’

  ‘Well I undid it.’ Adding a little later, ‘I like her. She’s very competent.’

  ‘She told you to fuck off.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘Quite right too. I don’t want a mouse for a secretary.’

  ‘All in all, things are not as bad as they could have been,’ he said ruefully. ‘Just lost a bit of sleep.’

  ‘And a dollop of male pride?’

  ‘You can live without a fuck,’ he said.

  ‘That’s very wise of you, Jack.’

  ‘That’s the thing about being a grown up,’ he said, ‘you can hide your disappointments.’

  ‘Oh, poor Jack.’ She patted him on the knee.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  They were on the wide street where Joanna lived, Manor Road. There was a troop of police cars parked along the side, a couple with lights still flashing.

  ‘They’re outside the house,’ exclaimed Joanna peering through the windscreen and side window. ‘What on earth is happening?’

  ‘Something major for this lot.’

  He parked the van as close as he could get. And the two of them walked to the house. At the gate a policeman stopped them.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t go in,’ he said. ‘This is a crime scene.’

  ‘I live here,’ insisted Joanna. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘And you are?’ said the policeman.

  ‘Mrs Joanna Ward,’ she said. ‘And this is my house.’

  ‘And who is this with you?’

  ‘My builder, Jack.’

  The policeman gave them a thoughtful look, suppressing a grin. Then said, ‘Stay here. I’m sure you’ll be wanted.’

  And he went down to the drive to the house. The double metal gates had been swung back on the brick pillars. The door to the house was wide open. The policeman went in and they waited on the pavement, just outside.

  ‘Burglars, you think?’ queried Joanna.

  ‘A lot of cops for a burglary. But could be, I suppose.’

  On the street nearby a uniformed policeman was putting on white plastic overclothing from his car boot, finishing with plastic overshoes. He closed the boot and came past them, going through the gates along the drive and into the house. Two others down the road were doing the same.

  The policeman came out with a man togged in plastic overclothes.

  ‘Mrs Ward?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joanna.

  ‘I regret to inform you that your husband has been murdered.’

  Chapter 28

  Carol, Donna and Jack were in Donna’s small living room. Jack and Carol seated at the table, Carol playing with crumbs on the cloth. Donna was on the two-seater sofa. It was the first time Jack had seen her without an apron.

  ‘Who found him?’ he asked.

  ‘Maria, the cleaner,’ said Donna. ‘Must have been about two hours ago. I was still in bed when the police came. I tried to go in the house; they wouldn’t let me in. Crime scene. Maria was taken away in a police car.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘There’s been lots of coming and going. Everyone geared up in that plastic stuff.’

  ‘Where did they find him?’ said Carol.

  Donna shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Was he shot, strangled, bashed on the head?’ said Jack, even while voicing it out loud, thinking himself somewhat bloodthirsty.

  Donna shook her head. ‘They’re not saying.’

  ‘They won’t let me in the summerhouse,’ said Jack. ‘The garden, and everything in it, is part of the crime scene. Till when, I asked the man.’ Jack smiled wryly. ‘Till we say so, he seemed very pleased to tell me.’

  Donna rose. ‘I’ll pour the tea.’

  She went into the kitchen. Jack looked at Carol. She was refusing to look at him. Besuited again this morning. All set for work.

  He said carefully, ‘You left early.’

  ‘I needed a shower,’ she said. ‘And to get my head straight.’

  He didn’t know how to untangle that.

  ‘We need a chat,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Is nothing salvageable?’

  ‘Like what?’

  She at last looked at him, dark rings of sleeplessness round her eyes. He wanted to take her hand and plead for a chance, but the tightness in her lips deterred him. And with the detritus of a murder all around – not the best place to make his case.

  Donna brought the tea in to their silence. She put out some biscuits which they munched for something to do.

  ‘They’re taking a lot of stuff out in plastic bags,’ said Donna, peering out of the window. ‘See there, his laptop and files as well.’

  Jack said, ‘I wonder where it happened. What time?’

  Donna shrugged. Carol dipped a biscuit in her tea.

  ‘And how long have we got to stay here?’ he said with a sigh. ‘I could at least finish fixing that door.’ Carol looked at him puzzled. ‘Not here, in one of his properties.’

  ‘Hers now,’ said Donna.

  Jack whistled, suddenly realising how everything had changed.

  ‘I shall have to OK it with Joanna then.’

  ‘You’ll have no trouble there,’ said Carol.

  Jack winced at the low blow, as the doorbell rang. Donna went to the door and opened it. Joanna breezed in. Still in her party clothes, her glamour out of place, high heels ridiculous at this time of day, in this little flat.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me see the body,’ she exclaimed, waving her arms at their idiocy. ‘Wouldn’t let me put any clean clothes on. I was shuffled into the cloakroom off the hall, and not allowed any further into my own house. And then this Detective Inspector showed me pictures. I ask you, pictures! On his tablet. A preliminary identification, he said. It was Leon alright. His head smashed in. Skull cracked near in half. Someone had had a real go.’ She mimicked. ‘You can’t see him, Mrs Ward. Not till he has been taken from the scene.’

  ‘Do you know where it was done?’ said Jack.

  ‘His room,’ she said. ‘They didn’t say, but I recognised the bedding.’ She waved a school‑teacherly finger at the three of them. ‘And none of us are to go anywhere until we’ve been questioned. The DI says so. So there.’

  ‘Any idea when it happened?’ said Jack.

  Joanna chuckled. ‘Maybe when all three of us were round your place, Jack lad. Oh, what will they make of that!’

  Jack shifted uncomfortably thinking what he’d say when questioned. Or Joanna and Carol’s angle on their ménage a trois. Who would ever believe nothing had happened?

  Joanna was giggling almost secretly. What on earth would the cops make of her behaviour? Not quite the grieving widow. In fact, little grief all round. Not a handkerchief in sight.

  She said, ‘I asked the man – am I a suspect?’ She took on a serious, deep voice. ‘You are all suspects, Mrs Ward.’

  ‘Bugger me,’ said Jack. ‘I just came to repair the summerhouse.’

  ‘And now you’re a suspect,’ said Carol.

  ‘And so are you,’ said Jack, catching her eye.

  The doorbell rang.

  Donna went to it. A man dolled up in white plastic was standing there.

  ‘DI Henderson would like to talk to Jack Bell.’

  Chapter 29

  He was led into the house, taken a few steps into the hallway. There he saw blue and white crime scene tape across the stairs, across the door of the sitting room and the kitchen. All the police, apart from those outside, were plastic suited and had what looked like shower caps
over their shoes.

  A small table had been set up in the hallway with a policewoman sitting at it. Just beyond her, the hallway and the stairs were cordoned off with tape.

  ‘If you don’t mind, we’d like to take your fingerprints, sir.’

  The policewoman explained that it was routine for everyone working or living in the house. His fingers were inked one at a time in the pad on her table and pressed onto a paper. When completed Jack was given a tissue to wipe his hands.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the policewoman.

  The officer who’d brought him over indicated to Jack the cloakroom at the side of the hallway, just this side of the cordon. The room was small with a table and three chairs where two officers were seated. At the back was a rack of outdoor coats on hangers. On pegs were various hats, mostly hers but a number of his too. There were two umbrella stands, both quite full.

  As Jack entered the two officers stood up, both attired for a crime scene, reminding Jack of cleaners. One was a trim man in his 50s, balding, very clean shaven, which made Jack rub his chin. The man had discarded his plastic cap, possibly on the grounds that he’d less hair to leave around, or, more likely, vanity. The other was a woman, of young middle age, hair tucked well into the plastic cap.

  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.’