Singing the Sadness

by Reginald Hill

  ‘And there are some fine sights to see,’ said Ursell. ‘The hall’s very historical, of course. And the Lady House is worth a close look too, I would say. Built by local craftsmen. I would guess there’s many a little gem of design and ornament lying around in there, true diamonds, indeed, if only you know where to look. And can be sure they’re where you expected to find them.’

  This was nudge-nudge know-what-I-mean like a wedding speech joke, thought Joe. And he didn’t like the direction it was pushing him in one little bit. That stuff about diamonds and knowing where to look, what could it mean other than that Ursell knew about those tablets in the cistern?

  He dismissed the thought as rapidly as it came.

  How could he know? No, it had to be something else. Mustn’t let himself be double-talked into unnecessary trouble.

  He said, ‘Sounds like treasure trove. Get a reward for that, do you?’

  ‘Adding to the sum of human knowledge is its own reward,’ said Ursell reprovingly. ‘But such unselfish acts often do have a spin-off on the personal plane, Mr Sixsmith. Like ensuring the continued welfare of an old friend, for instance. Ah, here come the ice-cream boys. I’d better make sure they don’t drive over too many clues. You’ll be wanting to go for a drive in that new car of yours, I daresay. Good time, this is. Won’t be much to get in your way with everyone here. As a bit of a collector myself I’d be interested to take a look at anything you come across. Not all of it, you understand. Just enough to give me or anyone else interested a taste of what we might expect to find. I hope we get the chance for a real heart-to-heart later, Mr Sixsmith.’

  Hope sounded like it meant something a bit more definite in Wales than it did in Luton, thought Joe as he watched the DI go to meet the two police cars which were nosing their way towards the competition field, lights flashing, sirens wailing.

  The inside of Joe’s head felt like it was in much the same state. He was beginning to feel that maybe he’d been right after all, and it wasn’t a good feeling. All that stuff about taste, it had to be the tablets in the cistern Ursell was talking about. And for whatever reason, he’d like to use them as an excuse to get into the Lady House with a search warrant. So why didn’t he do what Sergeant Chivers would have done in like circumstances, i.e. put Joe up against a cell wall and invite him to make a statement which could then be used to persuade a justice to issue a warrant?

  It was all headachingly complex so Joe did what he usually did with things that were too hard and tucked it into the back of his mind to let it soften up in its own time.

  Next question. What was all that stuff about the welfare of a friend? Which of his friends was likely to have put his welfare at risk from the police?

  Like an answer from above, Merv’s voice spoke in his ear.

  ‘You and old Arsehole looked very cosy,’ he said. ‘Gotta watch that, Joe. Man gets known by the company he keeps.’

  ‘So why do I hang out with you?’ said Joe.

  ‘Ooh, aren’t we sharp?’

  ‘Sharp enough to know that stage didn’t collapse by accident,’ said Joe. ‘It had been fixed.’

  ‘You reckon? How?’

  ‘Looked to me like most of the nuts were loosened so’s all that was holding it together were a couple at the back with their bolts well greased. Quick twist of the spanner from someone lurking in them trees would leave it ready to start swaying soon as anyone started moving around up there.’

  Merv had too much respect for Joe’s mechanical expertise to argue with his conclusions. He said, ‘That what you were telling the cop?’

  ‘No, he’s worked it out for himself, I think. Merv, apart from your illegal bet with Nye, you got anything going with any of the locals? Them funny cigarettes, anything like that?’

  ‘No way. Not when I’m driving a bus for Rev. Pot.’ He laughed out loud. ‘No pot for Rev. Pot. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Ha ha. So you’ve not been up to anything?’

  ‘What is this, Joe? That Arsehole been saying something? Maybe I’d better have a polite word with him.’

  ‘No, no, he hasn’t said anything,’ said Joe, who’d mopped up the blood too often after Merv’s polite words. ‘Wonder what’s happening now?’

  Again his question was answered by words from on high. This time it was the speaker system which told them in English, Welsh and French, but not German, that proceedings had been temporarily interrupted because of a minor accident in which no one had been seriously hurt and it was hoped to resume the competition within the hour.

  ‘Show goes on,’ said Merv. ‘What are you going to do, Joe?’

  ‘Thought I might take the Morris for a trial run,’ said Joe.

  ‘Oh yeah? Expect you’d like me along to give you a push?’

  Joe hesitated. If he was right, DI Ursell had been nudging him to return to the Lady House, check whether the Decorax tablets were still in the cistern, remove a couple and bring them out with him. He still couldn’t see any good reason why he should go along with this. Maybe the DI’s threat was just the kind of bluff cops everywhere liked to throw around to get their own way. But if he did do it, then someone to act as lookout would be very useful. On the other hand, if the cop did have something on Merv, he was the last guy he ought to take along.

  He was saved from decision by the passage of a group of pretty young women wearing the Irish green feather, one of whom smiled Merv’s way in a manner which could only be called inviting. They vanished into the refreshment tent.

  ‘Suddenly I feel very thirsty,’ said Merv. ‘Joe, you keep driving downhill, you won’t need a push. And you’ve always got your mobile if you need to call up help. See you!’

  One thing about Merv, he made no secret of his priorities, thought Joe. Then reproached himself, knowing that if he ever really needed the big man, he’d drop everything including his trousers and come running.

  He went to the car park and climbed into the Morris. It had got a bit warm standing in the sun so he opened all the doors to get a bit of ventilation. Merv’s mention of his mobile reminded him he hadn’t checked the battery status for a while. He drew it out of his trouser pocket with some difficulty, and switched it on. Still OK. Might as well check for messages, he thought. Not that he ever had any messages. He dialled the code, and to his pleasurable surprise, the breathless female voice of the operator said, ‘You have five messages.’

  But his pleasure at suddenly being so important was shortlived.

  ‘Joe, where the hell are you? What’s the use of having that sodding thing if you’re never going to answer it? Listen, soon as you get this message, if you ever do, you ring me. This is urgent, life and death. I do not joke. I’m at the flat. Ring me!’

  While he was still paralysed by shock and speculation, the next message began. It was Dildo Doberley again. And the remaining three. Each more hysterically urgent than the one before.

  It had to be Whitey, thought Joe as his trembling fingers punched his Luton number. An accident. From the sound of Dildo’s voice, a bad accident. Oh, God, don’t let him be dead. Please God. Was it OK to pray for an animal? Would Rev. Pot and Mirabelle approve? To hell with them both! Any god that wasn’t in the market for prayers about Whitey wasn’t a god that he wanted anything to do with!

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dildo, it’s Joe …’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for hours.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Listen, what’s happened? Is it Whitey? He’s not dead, is he? Please don’t tell me he’s dead.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? Your precious mog’s in pissing good health, which is more than you can say for me. God, how did I ever let myself get mixed up with a trouble-stirrer like you? Rev. Pot is right. You touch pitch, you’ll get yourself defiled, he said …’

  ‘Hold on!’ commanded Joe. ‘You weren’t ringing me about Whitey?’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t. I’m ringing about those sodding pills you asked me about, that’s what I’m r
inging about.’

  ‘Thank you, God,’ said Joe joyfully. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘What are you thanking God for, Sixsmith?’ yelled Dildo. ‘I’m in trouble, and that means you’re in trouble too, you’d better believe me.’

  Joe believed him. The cloud which had lifted from him cleared his vision in all directions and all at once he saw what should have been obvious when he was talking to Ursell. The only possible source of the DI’s info about Joe’s discovery of the tablets had to be the only other person Joe had mentioned them to. Dildo.

  He said, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Like an idiot, and because I was bored out of my skull sitting around the station knowing everyone else was out on an op., I thought I’d just run that stuff you asked me about through the computer. Normally this is just routine. Accessing a drug-details file for info, no one pays any heed. But soon as I entered Decorax, I saw this could be trouble. It was flagged …’

  ‘Sorry, what’s that mean?’

  ‘Means that it’s part of an ongoing investigation and any queries about it would be registered, that’s what it means.’

  ‘Dildo, I’m sorry. But can’t you just say you’d heard someone mention the drug and were checking it out of curiosity …’

  ‘Now what a clever idea that is! I can see why you’re so highly thought of in the detection business,’ said Doberley. ‘Only I don’t have that option, do I? Oh no. Let me tell you what happened. First off, the drug. Decorax, the file told me, is manufactured by the Charon Corporation in Detroit and it’s just been licensed for use in the States. Far as I can make out it helps cut down inflammation, whatever that means, but there’s been a bit of concern over there about misuse, ‘cos one of the side effects can be euphoria, you know, a high, and the kids are always on the lookout for some new quick fix. It’s been licensed on a trial basis over here for the past six months at various hospitals, and round New Year a whole bunch of these pills went walkabout at this hospital in Wales …’

  ‘What’s it called?’ asked Joe with sinking heart.

  ‘Something unpronounceable. Hang on. Caerlindys General. That mean something to you, Joe?’

  ‘No. How should it?’ lied Joe, crossing his fingers.

  ‘I don’t know, but you’re in Wales, aren’t you? And that’s where this sodding DI was ringing from just before I came off shift this morning. Wanted to know what my interest was in Decorax. I flannelled, of course. I said I was just bringing myself up to speed on what was going off, that sort of thing. But he wouldn’t let it alone. And pretty soon I got the feeling it wasn’t just Decorax that had caught his interest, it was someone in Luton being interested in Decorax. He started coming on really heavy, asked who my guv’nor was, did he know what his subordinates were up to? Then out of the blue, he said, “You don’t have a snout called Sixsmith, do you?”’

  ‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe. It was all clear now. Ursell, made aware that someone in Luton was interested in Decorax, and provoked to suspicion by Doberley’s unconvincing evasions, had flown a kite. Which Dildo, he guessed, had grabbed at with both hands.

  ‘So what did you say, Dildo?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it was obvious he knew about you, wasn’t it? So I said, yeah, that’s right. Joe Sixsmith. Licensed PI. Not really a snout, but he likes to keep us sweet by feeding us a bit of intelligence from time to time, and yes, it was him brought Decorax to my attention.’

  ‘Oh great,’ said Joe. ‘Thanks a bunch, Dildo.’

  ‘Now don’t come over all injured party with me, Joe,’ yelled the young constable. ‘It’s my career that’s on the line here. Your mate Chivers isn’t going to believe any of this snout crap, is he? And if ever he gets to hear I’ve been using the computer to dig up information for you, my balls are really on the block. This could finish me in CID.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe sincerely. Then, picking up on the significant word in Doberley’s complaint, ‘You said if. How did Ursell leave it?’

  ‘Ursell? I never mentioned his name. How do you know that, Joe?’

  My big mouth, thought Joe.

  ‘Lucky guess,’ he said. ‘Just tell me how he left it.’

  ‘He told me to keep my mouth shut, not to say a thing to anyone. I said I’d be silent as the grave, he could rely on that, but what if my snout – that’s you – rang? And he laughed and said, “Oh you can tell him everything. In fact, it’s probably a good idea if you give him a ring yourself and make sure he knows.” And then he rang off. Joe, what are you into down there?’

  ‘Dildo, you don’t want to know,’ said Joe. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Something that needs doing. But don’t worry. I’m sorry I got you into this, but the good news is, I think I can keep you out of it from now on in. You shouldn’t be hearing from DI Ursell again.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Doberley doubtfully.

  ‘Pretty sure. And Dildo, thanks.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being a friend. Love to Whitey. Cheers.’

  He rang off.

  So now he knew it all. If he didn’t play along with Ursell, Dildo was going to be dropped right in it. The welfare of an old friend. Sharp man, Ursell. Hadn’t taken him long to work out which buttons made Joe Sixsmith jump.

  He closed the car doors and turned the key in the ignition.

  Chapter 14

  The Morris was a joy to drive. Whatever else Nye Garage got up to, he knew how to keep an engine sweet.

  Joe was not an acquisitive man. If his flat was on fire, he’d rush in, grab Whitey, then probably get himself burned to death standing around working out what else he wanted to save. But he knew he had to have this motor.

  With the insurance money from his wrecked machine, plus what he could earn from his current clients …

  Earn! That was the key word. What the shoot was he doing to earn a fee from even one of them? Maybe if he returned to Ursell like a good dog bearing a gift in his mouth, the DI might toss him some scraps of information about the Copa Cottage investigation which he could feed to the Haggards …

  And Wain? No, he didn’t feel he could hang on to Wain’s money. Whatever its source.

  He turned through the college gates and kept turning up the track that led to the Lady House. He parked right at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door. Get caught burgling with your car parked where a genuine visitor would park it and you might talk yourself out of trouble. Hide your car in the shrubbery and you had more explaining to do than a bishop in a bordello.

  He got out, slammed the door loudly (oh, that satisfying clunk!) and went up the pretentious portico steps. Of course, there shouldn’t be anyone here to hear the clunk. Leon and Morna Lewis were at the festival and Wain had had his arm twisted to take Bronwen to her hair appointment in Caerlindys. Ursell was right. This ought to be the perfect window of opportunity for a nervous burglar to climb through. No one home.

  All the same, belts and braces, he reached up to the bell pull above the headless cupid.

  But he didn’t pull it. Instead he stood with his arm raised like another piece of statuary and stared at the flaking door.

  It was slightly ajar.

  Windows of opportunity were one thing. Doors of opportunity were another pail of prawns.

  Finally he rang the bell. If there were someone inside with a right to be there, fine. If on the other hand the Mad Axeman of Llanffugiol was lurking in the lobby, this gave him fair warning to exit out the back.

  Not that there were any signs of forced entry. Which was reassuring. Nor were there any signs of response to the bell, which wasn’t.

  Time for the shout.

  He pushed the door wide open and shouted.

  ‘Hi! Anyone home?’

  Anyone clearly wasn’t.

  The bell again and the shout again, just for the record.

  What record was that? he asked himself as he stepped inside. He didn’t think anyone able to support his account was going to make a reliable witness.

&nbs
p; Despite the pleasant sunshine, the house felt really cold. It had felt chilly enough last night when presumably some heed had been paid to the comfort of the guests, but this struck real deep.

  What was it Mirabelle used to say when he came downstairs complaining of feeling frightened in his bedroom?

  ‘You just curl up tight and warm under your blankets, Joseph. Long as you’re tight and warm under your blankets, them ha’nts can’t touch you. They like it cold, them ha’nts, can’t abide the heat. Always tell a house where the ha’nts hang out. Like winter in summer.’

  That was how it felt now. Winter in summer.

  Still, on the whole a ha’nt was preferable to a mad axeman.

  His instinct was to head straight upstairs, check out the lavatory cistern, then get out of here. But that would be a bad move if there really was anyone hanging around down here, legitimate or not. So he forced himself to go through the ground floor, checking each room in turn.

  Nothing. Nobody. It didn’t just feel empty, it felt like a house no one had inhabited for a long time, with a faint odour of old decaying woodwork tainting the chilly air. He moved fast, resisting all temptation to poke around in drawers, despite Endo Venera’s recommendation that it was a snoop’s bounden duty never to pass on a chance to snoop.

  The kitchen, which he’d grown up to regard as the warm heart of a house, was little improvement. He couldn’t imagine that many people sat round this cheap Formica-topped table comfortably gossiping over a pot of tea with the kettle singing merrily on top of the ancient stove. Indeed, as the stove used cylinder gas and there were a couple of spare cylinders lying alongside, it felt unsafe as well as uncomfortable.

  There were three doors here. The one he’d come through; one which led to the outside, locked, barred and bolted; and one more, standing slightly ajar.

  He approached it stealthily and peered through. He didn’t much care for what he saw. Steps leading down into the darkness of a cellar.

  A cellar, he quickly decided, was not a place a man of nervous disposition wanted to be. Ground floor, he could run out of the door. First floor, he could jump out of a window. But in a cellar …