by Mike Ripley
Inverness Doogie was actually in mid-air when I realised it was him. Instantly. I also realised I was going to be okay. In fact, I was going to win a fight without landing a punch. (My kinda fight.)
Doogie went straight for Shifty-Eyes’ face with his forehead, launching himself like an American footballer going over the opposition for a touchdown. Shifty-Eyes couldn’t do much about it, as I was hanging on to his foot. The impact was sickeningly loud, even to me. God knows what it felt like from the inside. I let go of his foot and he just kept going.
By this time, Pointy-Beard was out from under me and on his knees. Doogie allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as Shifty-Eyes hit the road, then he turned and grabbed Pointy-Beard’s tie. That was all he did. He didn’t physically touch him, just grabbed his tie.
Then he ran down Stuart Street.
Pointy-Beard never did make it to his feet. He just followed Doogie as best he could on his knees. Well, he had to really; the alternative was strangulation.
Doogie left him about 20 yards away, then walked back to me, dusting his hands off as he came.
‘You okay, son?’ he asked, helping me up.
‘Think so,’ I said, checking the pockets of my parka, which gave off the odour of Hoy Sin sauce mixed with Mocha-Mysore coffee (filter-ground).
There seemed to be Chinese food everywhere. I kicked a pile of rice off the pavement in the general direction of Shifty-Eyes, who was beginning to moan, his hands clasped to his face.
‘Is he?’ I nodded, and Doogie took a pace forward and looked down. ‘He’s fine. I saw his eye move.’
Well, that was all right then.
Pointy-Beard was trying to stand and loosen the knot (by now probably no bigger than a square centimetre) in his tie. He was doing fine too.
‘Ah nivver could stand someone with a beard but no moustache,’ said Doogie.
‘I know what you mean,’ I said admiringly. ‘They’re usually religious nutters.’
‘Or sociologists,’ mused Doogie.
I suddenly felt we had a lot in common and maybe I’d misjudged him.
Miranda appeared in the doorway of No 9 and said, ‘Are you coming in now, darling?’ like other wives would say, ‘Had a nice day at the office, dear?’
‘Aye. We’re finished here, my numptious one,’ said Doogie.
Numptious? I realised we were still worlds apart.
‘You coming in for a nightcap?’ he asked.
Maybe not that far after all.
‘Sure. Got a microwave?’
He looked affronted.
‘Ahm a chef,’ he said proudly. ‘Ah don’t need …’
I held up the intact bottle of rice wine I’d finally recovered from the depths of my parka.
‘Thirty seconds on defrost?’ he said professionally.
‘Let’s do it.’
Chapter Seven
Rule of Life No 77: if you should ever have to attend an inquest or similar official/judicial function: make sure you don’t have a hangover.
Rule of Life No 76: sometimes there are exceptions.
To be honest, it was relatively painless. But then, so would be nuclear fusion in the state I was in.
I turned up at Queen’s Road mortuary, parked Armstrong on a single yellow line, and followed the signs to the Coroner’s Court.
Like a dutiful citizen, I checked in with the usher, and he looked at his clipboard and said there would be about a 15-minute wait, so why didn’t I take a seat? I did, and soon learned to distrust ushers as a species. He was telling everybody who turned up that there would be a 15-minute wait: even two guys I knew who were self-employed window-cleaners looking for a contract.
Then Prentice took the seat next to me in the corridor and I just knew the day wouldn’t get any better whatever the weather forecast.
‘Hello, there, Roy,’ he shouted loudly. Well, maybe he didn’t actually shout; it just felt that way as my brain recoiled on its springs. But he was loud. ‘How ya doing?’
I tried to inch away from him, but there wasn’t another seat to move to.
‘Surviving. Just.’
‘Any news for me?’
Why was he talking so loudly? I realised that the previous night’s rice wine, followed by Doogie’s steak cooked in Glenfiddich and then more Glenfiddich, had left my cranial suspension system shot to pieces, but he was definitely going over the top.
‘Being a bit ... obvious … aren’t we, Sergeant?’ I whispered.
He leaned towards me and whispered: ‘Just in case there are any of Billy’s animal friends here.’ He stroked the side of his nose with a forefinger, then winked.
‘You bastard! You’re setting me up.’
Instinctively I looked around the corridor to try and spot the lurking animal activist. Not a likely-looking suspect in sight, but then they don’t all wear T-shirts like Lucy had.
Prentice came over all innocent.
‘But I thought you were more than happy to help clear up the unfortunate Billy’s death. Incidentally –’ he patted me on the knee ‘– we’re calling it the Infenestration of Leytonstone back at the shop. Get it?’
‘Oh, highly droll,’ I said sarkily. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t had the window-frame shipped off to the Black Museum.’
‘Ah-ha,’ he started confidently, ‘that would happen only if it had been a defenestration. A murder. If he’d been thrown out of a window.’
‘I know what it means,’ I snapped. Then, a bit more politely: ‘Or is that a subtle hint that you really believe it was an accident?’
He plunged his hands into his leather jacket pockets and crossed his feet, dead casual.
‘Gotta be honest, Roy, there’s not a sniff of anybody else being on that roof or near that window.’
Like they say in the movies: it was quiet. Too quiet.
‘Except you, of course.’
‘So you’re on my case now, eh?’
‘Now and for the foreseeable future, old son.’
He was pleasant about it, I’ll give him that. But should I let myself be intimidated this way? He had nothing on me. I did the noble thing.
‘How about a deal?’ I suggested.
‘I’m all ears,’ he said, totally unfazed.
‘I have a name,’ I offered.
‘I know, Fitzroy, and it’s a corker!’
‘My, but we must have got up on the right side of the interrogation cell this morning.’
He held out his hands in surrender.
‘Okay, okay. It’s serious now. What’s the name?’
‘What’s the deal?’ It was my turn to lay back.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you want?’
‘Out of this. No tricky questions, no suspicion, no “helping with enquiries”, no more court appearances, no officialdom of any kind.’
‘Difficult...’ he drawled.
‘Bullshit,’ I said.
‘Okay, can be done; will be done. I’ll see the Coroner’s Clerk before we start. Now who’ve you dug up?’
I smiled. Beamed, actually.
‘Let’s wait until the hearing’s over, shall we?’
His eyes had gone to positive slits by now. He straightened himself up.
‘I’ve been checking on you, Angel,’ he started, quietly but firmly. ‘No regular job, but doesn’t draw social security or benefits from the unemployment office –’ I knew that
was a con for a start, as the cops rarely liaised with the Social Security people, let alone with the income tax ferrets, thank God ‘– and yet no known criminal source of income. Background sketchy, certainly no criminal record. Educated – oh, yes. University, well we know that – you were there with Billy. Haven’t gone much further back, but I’d lay odds
on a comfortable, middle-class upbringing; don’t know fo
r sure, though. Definitely a perennial student who never grew up. Never accepted responsibility. No wife, no kids, no
mortgage repayments. Probably no income tax, no nine-to-five routine.’
He paused, but it wasn’t just for effect.
‘Lucky little bleeder, aren’t you?’
‘Jealous?’ I asked innocently.
‘Damn right.’
I spotted Billy’s mum as soon as I entered the court. Apart from extra weight, the years had not been unkind, although she wouldn’t get away with lying about her dress size for too much longer. She sat quietly through the proceedings, which the Coroner conducted in a dull monotone, occasionally sniffing into a balled-up frilly handkerchief firmly gripped in her right hand. In her left hand she held the arm of – I presumed – Mr Tuckett, a short, wide, ruddy-faced man with white sideburns. He could have modelled John Bull for a Victorian Toby jug painter.
Unfortunately, Mrs Tuckett spotted me, and I saw recognition click into place in her mind before I had to stand up and do my bit.
That went quickly enough, with no tricky questions. I presumed that Prentice had had a word in somebody’s shell-like, or maybe nobody was very interested. Certainly the various court officials who came and went didn’t seem interested. And once Hatchard, the CID man who’d come round to Dwyer Street on the night in question, had done his bit and told the Coroner twice that he didn’t suspect foul play, then most people seemed satisfied, and I could get back to enjoying my hangover.
I didn’t exactly try to sneak out of the Court; funnily enough, most Courts aren’t designed with that in mind. Let’s just say I tried to leave with the minimum of fuss.
My big mistake was pausing for that half-minute too long to hold the door open for the redheaded girl. I had only just noticed her – so I must have been taking things seriously – but she was worth waiting to be polite to. Her black, suede-look high-heels put her a good three inches taller than me, and a grey checked suit and crisp white shirt offset with a thin red bow tie, and the fake leather document wallet she clutched, gave her a professional air.
She also wore large, red-frame glasses, although she wore them on top of her head, as if to keep in place the shock of ginger-red red hair that she’d rubber-banded into a pony tail down most of the length of her back. As she passed me, I caught a whiff of a clean, peachy perfume – the sort of scent women buy for themselves. She didn’t even notice me. You can’t win ‘em all; but one or two now and then would be nice. It might almost be worth coming to Court again.
Then it was too late to escape, and Mrs Tuckett was between me and the daylight at the end of the corridor. But that did mean she was also between me and Prentice, who was hovering trying to cut off my retreat as well, so maybe it’s true what they say about every silver lining having a cloud.
‘It’s Roy, isn’t it, luv? That’s what they said, wasn’t it?’ she gushed as she closed on me. I took a lungful of her perfume: the sort men buy for women because they like the ads or they can pronounce the name. ‘I’d like to thank you for coming.’
I hadn’t realised it was a party, but I didn’t say it. After all, I can be sensitive to other people’s feelings. And anyway, I was giving away at least 50 pounds. (Rule of Life No 131: if you ever really have to fight, pick on someone two weight divisions lower. At least two.)
‘It was the least I could do,’ I said weakly as she brushed her lips against my cheek.
‘You do remember me, don’t you, luv?’ she pleaded, searching for eye contact I was trying to avoid.
Behind her, Mr Tuckett sighed loudly. He’d realised a long time ago that he’d married a woman who cuddled complete strangers in the street and probably had a season ticket for West Ham in her handbag.
Behind him, Prentice looked at the ceiling and squirmed with pleasure as Mrs T put an armlock on me and began to walk us both down the corridor.
‘It’s Bernice, Billy’s mum,’ she sniffed. ‘You looked after Billy at university for me – and now this happens.’
She shook her head sadly. I shook mine in wonderment. Where did she get all this from?
‘I ... er ... didn’t exactly keep in touch, you know, Mrs Tuckett,’ I said lamely.
Her grip tightened. ‘I know how it is, luv. You have your own life to lead. Are you married? Children?’
I shook my head.
‘Neither was Billy,’ she ploughed on. ‘He was an only child, you know.’
She said that over her shoulder. Mr Tuckett exhaled noisily and said: ‘I’ll go get the car,’ and left us in the entrance hall. Over Mrs T’s head, Prentice hopped from one foot to the other, making ‘get rid of her’ movements with his eyebrows.
‘He never had many friends, you know. I hoped that university would bring him out of his shell, but he kept himself to himself.’
I remembered something Bunny had said.
‘Did Billy have a car, Bernice?’
‘No, that was his father’s one big disappointment in him.’ Just the one big disappointment? I’d have thought that was a good track record.
‘We bought him one, of course, for his twenty-first birthday, but he would never learn to drive. He used to say it polluted the environment. Even with this unleaded petrol we have nowadays, he said it was too late for the ozone layer, or whatever it is.’ She paused. ‘Though he had been a bit more interested in driving recently. Kept bringing the subject up, when he was home.’
She dabbed at a watery eye.
‘Why do you ask, Roy?’
I could feel Prentice hovering. He wanted to know why as well. ‘It’s just something one of the lads said the other night. Somebody who was with us at university. We were –’ I thought up a good lie quickly; they’re the best ones ‘– remembering all the times we had when we were students. Somebody mentioned that Billy used to ride a bike.’
Bernice forced a smile. ‘A ten-speed mountain bike,’ she said proudly. ‘He asked for one last Christmas and I insisted, even though Barry – Mr Tuckett – thought it a bit childish.’
My God: Barry, Bernice and Billy. Happy Families.
‘You don’t think so, do you?’
‘Heck, no,’ I said generously. ‘They’re very fashionable in the City now. People go utter mega on them.’
Well, they did during the Underground strikes, and I honestly did know a young brat-race type who went to work in the West End on a unicycle. But then, he was in advertising, so you had to make allowances.
‘Billy went everywhere on it, even had a name for it.’
‘Really?’ How ridiculous.
‘Larry, he called it. I don’t know why.’
‘Did he live at home, Bernice?’
‘Well, we always kept his room for him, and he could come and go as he pleased. He went away a lot, with his work, but he’s been back with us for the last year or so, off and on.’
Prentice was frowning at me, wondering where this was all going. I did too. Pretty soon I’d be putting in a claim for ten percent of his salary.
‘What sort of work did Billy do, Bernice? I don’t remember him saying anything about a job.’
‘Oh, it was always charity work or his campaigning. He was involved in all the things like Greenpeace, cruel sports, protection of birds, that sort of thing. Animal mad he was. Mr Tuckett thought it was all to get at him, but Billy was very sincere about it. Barry knew there was never much chance of Billy going into the family business, and he was disappointed, but he’s not a vindictive man. He let Billy get on with his life.’
At that point, a new, bright red Mercedes estate car eased up to the Court steps. Mr Tuckett was at the wheel, and obviously the family business was doing okay.
‘Will you be coming to the funeral? It’ll be a quiet do,’ Bernice said softly. ‘We’ve had to wait for today before we could fix anything.’
‘If you’ve something to writ
e on, I’ll give you a phone number and you can let me know the arrangements.’ I could always get Fenella or somebody to answer the phone, and I wasn’t in the phone book, so I figured that if I chickened out, I could block her.
She rummaged around in a handbag as big as my trumpet case and eventually found a length of till receipt from a grocery store. From the length of it, she must have had a truck waiting outside the check-out.
As I scribbled the Stuart Street number, Mr Tuckett honked the horn of the Mercedes. Bernice flapped a hand at him in dismissal, so casually that her jewellery hardly rattled.
‘I’ve just had a thought, Roy, though I know it’s an imposition,’ she said, cheering visibly. Under other circumstances, I’d have had a snappy answer for her.
I just said ‘Yes?’ and as I dropped the pen she’d handed me back into her bag, I noticed that she carried at least two fat rolls of ten-pound notes secured with circular gold clips shaped like salamanders, or maybe alligators. I didn’t get that good a look.
‘If you’re not doing anything, would you come back to the house with us now? You can stay for lunch.’ I must have looked worried. Behind her, Prentice certainly did.
‘It’s just … Look, I know it’s asking a lot, but I can’t bring myself to go through Billy’s things. In his room. Barry wants it done, but I won’t let him. He won’t know what to keep and would probably just throw out everything. And I want to keep a few things to remind me of Billy. Would you do it? Now? Strike while the iron’s hot, sort of thing, now we’ve had the idea? You know what I mean.’
She managed to open her eyes even wider; wide enough to give a suicidal Spaniel decent competition. How could I resist?
Prentice was nodding encouragement.
‘Well … if you think I can be any use …’
‘Oh, thank you, Roy, you’re an angel.’
She hugged me, not realising what she’d said.
‘As long as you can give me a lift back here this afternoon,’ I said, establishing some ground rules. I wasn’t in the adopt-an-orphan business.
‘Of course, of course.’
Mr Tuckett hooted again.