‘At sixty pounds an early day, I’m entitled to an hourly update if I so require,’ she retorted.
She had a point.
He took a deep breath and said, ‘All I’ve worked out is probably what you could have told me when I first arrived, Mrs Ellison. Which is that, the way things were that weekend, anyone in this house might have harmed Darkie. Or at least encouraged him to leave.’
‘Anyone?’ she said, giving nothing away.
‘Mr Ellison. The kids. Even the au pair. Maybe particularly the au pair.’
He threw this in out of charity. If there was no positive solution, and this seemed the probable outcome, then it would hurt least to have the most distant suspect in terms of space and relationship elected the most likely.
‘You know about that?’ she said, very chill, very formal.
‘I had to know. It was relevant,’ he said.
‘I suppose so. And you think that that woman might have been responsible?’
She made woman sound like it had four letters.
‘Could be. You probably tore a strip off her, right? She may have resented that so much that … well, it depends what sort of girl she was.’
‘Wanton,’ she said crisply. ‘I can find out her home address through the agency.’
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Lady, you don’t really want me to go to Germany, do you?’ he said.
She thought a moment, then said, ‘No, I suppose not. But if that creature did do something to Darkie, then he must be still around somewhere, mustn’t he?’
It was a fair deduction. Astrid was hardly going to pass through Customs with a dead cat in her holdall.
Sixsmith nodded.
‘Then at least earn your money by finding him so that we can give him a proper burial!’
She left the room swiftly and Sixsmith thought he heard a scuffle of footsteps on the stairs. He wondered if he should have offered his alternative theory, which was that Kaiser had disposed of Darkie. Kaiser, too, was outside the family. On the other hand, she had to live next door to the monster. Both monsters.
He went into the hallway and ran lightly up the stairs. Tittie’s room was closed, but the door to her brother’s was ajar.
He pushed it open and went in. The boy was lying on the bed.
‘Don’t you knock before coming through doors?’ he demanded.
‘Don’t you knock before listening at them?’ replied Sixsmith.
He sat on the edge of the bed and said, ‘When do the bins get picked up round here?’
‘What?’
‘The dustbins, man. Those big round containers you dump the rubbish in.’
‘I don’t know. Thursday, I think. Or Friday. That’s right, Friday. They come early and make such a fucking din, they wake me up.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Sixsmith.
So a dustbin disposal was unlikely. You might dump your dead cat there if the bins were going to be picked up very soon, but not when it was almost a week away.
‘Do you think Astrid could have killed the cat?’ he asked suddenly.
The boy sat up, alarmed.
‘I don’t know. Why ask me?’
‘Because you know the girl. I don’t. Listen, son, I know all about what went on that weekend. I’m sorry, believe me. But it happens. An attractive young chick can turn anyone on, so don’t blame your dad too much.’
‘I don’t,’ said the boy in a muffled voice, slumping back on the pillows.
‘No? Well, OK.’
A thought occurred to Sixsmith. Ellison senior had proved susceptible, true; but the real centre of unsatisfied male desire in this household lay on the bed before him.
‘You ever fancy her yourself, Auberon?’
The boy did not reply, but he didn’t need to. His face was flushed like a dawn sky.
Sixsmith said, ‘And did you ever try your hand?’
‘Shut up! Shut up! Just go away and leave me!’
‘OK, OK!’ said Sixsmith, standing up. ‘Sorry I spoke, man. Look, I’m going. Don’t let it worry you, though. We all get the cold finger some time, believe me.’
His words of consolation were clearly falling more like hailstones than the soothing rain.
He left.
Tittie’s door opened as he went by.
‘You still prowling around up here?’ she said.
‘I’ve been talking to your brother,’ he said. ‘About Astrid.’
‘What about her?’ she demanded.
‘Just about the play he made for her.’
‘Play? You call it play to wander naked into her room? Child’s play, maybe. That’s what he is, a child. Imagine thinking just because she let Daddy do it, she’d be happy to accommodate poor little Auberon too!’
She laughed stridently, humourlessly.
Sixsmith said, ‘Where do I get the key to the garden gate?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d like to go into the woods at the bottom of the garden,’ said Sixsmith. ‘To see if I can spot any fairies.’
‘Oh. It’s hanging up in the kitchen. But you’ll have to ask Daddy.’
‘You ask Daddy,’ he said. ‘Daddy and I ain’t exactly speaking.’
She followed him into the kitchen and offered no help as he examined a selection of keys on a row of hooks.
‘You don’t sound like a West Indian,’ she said suddenly. ‘Only sometimes.’
‘I’ve been here a long time,’ he said. ‘More than twice as long as you, which is to say, all my life. This the one?’
She ignored the question and said, ‘You’re going bald. I didn’t know that kind of hair went bald.’
‘It don’t,’ he said. ‘We shave it off and sell it to bed manufacturers to stuff mattresses with. What about this one?’
But she wasn’t going to answer. She simply stood there with sudden tears in her eyes. She looked about twelve.
Don’t start feeling sorry for them, Sixsmith told himself. That’s the way you end in chains.
He took the three most likely keys and went into the garden.
The gate was even bigger and solider than Bullivant’s. It fitted snugly into an iron mesh fence whose ugly angularity was hidden from the house by a boundary of shrubs and further disguised by clematis, and ivy, and various other climbing species.
The first key fitted and Sixsmith passed through the gate. He saw at once that the woods were far too extensive for one man to have much hope of finding the small patch of disturbed ground under which a cat might be buried, but this didn’t bother him. All he really wanted was a quiet stroll and a bit of space for thinking in.
He had paused just through the gateway and he became aware that Ellison’s metal fence was not the outermost boundary of his garden. Before the fence, a mixed hedge of beech, hawthorn, blackthorn and bramble must have ringed the property. The fence had been built about three feet inside the hedge and since then the unchecked growth of the vegetation had formed a narrow tunnel between the metal and the vegetable barriers.
It was a noise somewhere along this tunnel that attracted Sixsmith’s attention, a snuffling, scraping noise. He thought of investigating, then heard another noise which at the same time solved the problem and made him glad he’d stayed put.
‘Kaiser! Kaiser! Where are you, damn you!’
It was Bullivant’s voice and a moment later, the man himself appeared.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said ungraciously. ‘You haven’t seen that blasted dog, have you?’
‘I think it’s up there,’ said Sixsmith, pointing.
Bullivant stooped down and began to make his way along the tunnel. Sixsmith hesitated, then the clockwork of his mind clicked with unwonted speed, and he turned and followed.
They found Kaiser about twenty yards in, scrabbling away with his front paws at a patch of ground thickly covered in dead leaves. But where the dog had shifted the leaves, it was clear the revealed earth had been recently disturbed.
‘Kaiser, what the h
ell are you playing at? Still, boy. Still!’
The dog growled in its throat, but obeyed.
‘Must be a bone. Or maybe a rabbit burrow,’ said Bullivant.
Sixsmith shook his head sadly.
‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I reckon it’s a cat.’
‘A cat?’
For a moment Bullivant was puzzled, then suddenly he laughed.
‘Oh, you mean that cat? What’s this, then? Dirty work at the crossroads? Someone in there dislike it as much as me, did they?’
‘Why don’t you shut up?’ said Sixsmith. ‘If you stop here, I’ll go and get a spade.’
‘Why bother?’ said the man. ‘Kaiser’ll have it up in no time.’
‘Look, man,’ said Sixsmith. ‘You get a grip on that fucking beast of yours, right? It couldn’t catch the cat alive, I see no reason why it should get to maul him dead. Also it’s going to be painful enough for Mrs Ellison as things are without finding Fido here chewing at the remains.’
Bullivant was clearly not happy at Sixsmith’s assumption of command, but he contented himself with saying, ‘Could be the poor moggy’s been mauled around already!’ and gripped Kaiser’s collar.
It was Sixsmith’s hope that he could get back to the house and find a spade without being spotted, but he was out of luck.
Ellison was in the garden, once more approaching the open gate. Behind him was Tittie.
‘What the hell are you up to, Sixsmith? You’ve no right to go pushing your way round this house as though you own it!’
‘Sorry,’ said Sixsmith. ‘But I think I’ve found the cat. I’ll need a spade.’
‘Oh Christ. Where?’
‘In that sort of tunnel between the fence and the hedge. Mr Bullivant’s there with his dog.’
Ellison looked towards Tittie, his face pale with an emotion which could have been anything from shock, through pity, to guilt. The girl didn’t look much better.
And now to make things worse, Mrs Ellison, seeing them from the kitchen window, came running down the garden, followed by Auberon.
‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’ she cried.
‘No,’ said Ellison savagely. ‘You stay here! Auberon, look after your mother.’
He turned and headed for the gate with Tittie close behind.
Auberon put a hand on his mother’s arm, but she shook it off.
‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Wait!’
And she too was gone.
‘Where will I find a spade?’ Sixsmith said to the boy, who looked as though he was feeling sea-sick.
‘In there,’ he choked, pointing towards a garden shed.
Then he too went running after the others.
The shed was locked. None of the keys Sixsmith had with him opened it, so he went back to the kitchen in search of the right one. He could hear the front doorbell ringing, but he had no time for that.
He tried his new selection, found one that fitted and opened the shed.
From the comprehensive supply of tools, he selected a spade and hurried back through the door, almost crashing into the bosom of a uniformed policeman.
‘Hello,’ said the officer.
Sixsmith paused and studied the man.
He was a young constable. In his hand he carried a plastic carrier bag.
‘You the owner?’ asked the constable doubtfully, adding, ‘Sir?’ just to be on the safe side.
‘No,’ said Sixsmith. ‘I just work here.’
‘Ah,’ said the youth, relieved. ‘Gardener, eh? Look, is there anyone around? I’ve been ringing the bell.’
‘What’s it about?’ asked Sixsmith.
The constable looked inclined to tell him it was none of his business, but then changed his mind. The reason why became quickly apparent. He wanted information.
‘The lady, Mrs Ellison, is she all right?’ he asked, with an intonation that made it clear it was mental health he was interested in.
‘A bit highly strung,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Why?’
‘It’s these,’ said the constable, opening the bag.
It was full of bits of female clothing.
‘They’ve been found all over. There was a laundry mark on some of them, that’s how we’ve got on to Mrs Ellison. Then someone remembered she’d been causing a stink lately about a lost cat, you know, going on like it had been kidnapped or murdered.’
Suddenly, Sixsmith saw a chance to be out of the way when this miserable business came to its sad and grisly climax.
‘Here,’ he said thrusting the spade into the young man’s hand. ‘They’re all out there. Through the gate, turn left straight away. There’s a sort of a tunnel. The whole family’s there.’
‘Eh? What’re they doing? And what’s this for?’ demanded the constable, examining the spade dubiously.
‘They’ve gone to dig up a body,’ said Sixsmith. ‘That’s called a spade. It’s for digging. You could do yourself a bit of good, maybe.’ He didn’t wait for a response but headed for the house. He reckoned his expenses covered at least one stiff drink and he went into the lounge, poured himself a large whisky and slumped into one of the deep armchairs to enjoy a moment of peace before the Ellisons returned and the recriminations began.
As he took a long pull at his drink, he heard a noise from the hallway. A sort of click. The letter-box perhaps, but it lacked the metallic sharpness of a letter-box. It was more like the …
There was another click, this one in his mind. He sat up and stared at the open door.
It caused him small surprise but the beginning of infinite horror when a small black cat, with a white patch over its left eye and ear, came round the corner, miaowed a greeting, then jumped on to his lap and began purring in clear anticipation of being made much of.
Now his mind was clicking and whirring like a clockmaker’s repair room.
‘Oh Jesus!’ he said aghast. ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!’
The cat purred on.
The telephone rang on Joe Sixsmith’s leather-topped desk.
He picked it up.
‘Sixsmith,’ he said crisply.
‘Hello. Is that the Mr Sixsmith who solved the Astrid Netzer case?’
‘The very same.’
‘Good, that’s fine. Look, Mr Sixsmith, I’d like to hire you to do a job …’
‘Hold it,’ said Sixsmith, riffling through his desk diary. ‘I can’t talk now, I’m on my way out. Anyway, I like to see my clients before I take a job. Wednesday morning, eight-thirty, I can fit you in. That suit?’
‘Not till Wednesday? I hoped …’
‘Sorry. When you get the best, you get the busiest. Shall I put you in?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
The details noted, Sixsmith replaced the receiver, connected his answering machine and stretched luxuriously.
The past three months had been good to him. The case had yet to come to trial and the police were still uncertain who was to be charged with what, but that didn’t matter to the media. There’d been a crime of passion. A dead au pair always made for good headlines, but this time they’d been handed a new folk-hero on a plate, a man for all political seasons.
What better symbol of the times could there be than a balding, redundant, West Indian lathe-operator who’d made good?
Joe Sixsmith glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He was lunching with a client and had a reputation for punctuality to keep up.
As he stood up, there was a protesting noise from the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled it open and a small black cat with a white patch over its left eye and ear yawned up at him.
Mrs Ellison was resting her shattered nerves in a Swiss sanatorium and Sixsmith had agreed to look after the cat. He charged no fee but had made one condition, a simple matter of nomenclature.
‘Sorry, Whitey,’ he said. ‘They don’t allow no live animals where I’m going, but I’ll bring you back a slice of rare beef, shall I?’
The cat purred its agreement. It had a loud rasping purr when it was happ
y. It sometimes reminded Joe Sixsmith of his old lathe.
He smiled at the memory, checked to see that his well-filled wallet was bulging in his inside pocket like a shoulder-holster, and went out to walk down the mean streets that led to the Four Seasons Restaurant.
the bull ring
‘You horrible man!’ shrieked the canary. ‘You useless fucking lump of dogshit! You’re not down among the turnips now trying to stick your pathetic little prick up a sheep’s bum! That’s a Boche there, that’s a nasty fucking Hun, and that’s your bayonet! You’re trying to kill him, not tickle him to death! In! Rip! Twist! Out! I want to see his guts trailing round his ankles! I want to see Hun shit squirting in all directions! Out! Out! Stand on him! Use those great plates of meat! Jesus Christ! I’ve seen some useless fucking specimens in my time, but you’re the worst yet, you’re the scrapings off the bottom of the barrel!’
By looking over the canary’s head, which was not difficult as he was a good twelve inches taller, Harry could see across the heat-trembling sand dunes and across the sparkling estuary, to where the little sea-side resort of Le Touquet Paris-Plage nestled in the sun. Whitewashed walls, red roofs, women at their baking, children at their play – it was less than a couple of miles and more than a couple of centuries away.
‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped suddenly and doubled up in agony. It took several seconds for the pain to ease enough for him to realize the canary had struck him between the legs with the short wooden baton he carried.
‘You listening to me, soldier? You paying attention now, are you?’ yelled the man. ‘You won’t get away from me by daydreaming, I promise you. I’ll follow you in your fucking dreams till you beg to wake up, and I’ll still be there! Stand up straight when an NCO addresses you, you long bloody clothes-pole, you!’
Painfully Harry straightened up. The canary came close and stood on tiptoe to bring his face as nearly level with Harry’s as possible.
‘Wouldn’t you like to kill me now, sheepshagger? Wouldn’t you like to stick your bayonet in my belly and rip and twist? But you don’t have the nerve, do you, you long streak of owl-shit? You’re as yellow as my brassard, Bowden, and that’s the way you’d like to stay, isn’t it? But never you fret, lad, I’ll make you or I’ll fucking break you! On guard! Advance! Run! Run! Run! Pretend it’s me, Bowden, pretend it’s me! In! Rip! Twist! Out!’
There are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union Page 11