Singing the Sadness

by Reginald Hill

  ‘They did? Now why would they want to do that?’

  ‘Well, it is … was theirs,’ said Joe. ‘Naturally they’re interested in finding out how it came to get burnt down with an uninvited guest on the premises.’

  ‘Definitely uninvited, they say?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘Why do you need to ask me, Tom? Thought it would only be civilians the DI didn’t talk to.’

  ‘The DI?’

  ‘Ursell. He’s in charge of the case, or didn’t you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I knew that. You’ve met him?’

  ‘Of course I have. Twice. At the hospital, then at the festival this morning.’

  ‘So he talks to you. Thought you said he wouldn’t talk to civilians?’

  Joe was getting a bit irritated. If the guy wanted to ask him questions why couldn’t he come straight out? It was tiring for a guy who’d been through what Joe had been through having to perform this verbal square dance.

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t think I’m just a civilian,’ he said.

  ‘Not a civilian? Well, I suppose you’re a witness too.’

  It came out light, like he was some old lady who’d seen a car not stop at a crossing.

  ‘Yeah, and also I’m a licensed PI who’s worked the streets,’ Joe said, coming as close to blowing his own trumpet as he was ever likely to.

  ‘You’re a what?’ Prince was taken aback.

  ‘A private investigator,’ said Joe, pleased with the effect.

  ‘Is that right? Said in the paper you were a lathe operator, made redundant through no fault of your own and keen to get back into work.’

  Mirabelle! Joe had no difficulty identifying who’d done the talking to the local journalist.

  He said, ‘Well, don’t like to shout it around.’

  ‘When you’re working, you mean?’

  ‘When I’m not working, I mean. Like being a doctor on holiday. Everyone gets to know, they start telling you their symptoms.’

  ‘And when old Perry Ursell got to know, did he start telling you his symptoms?’ mocked Prince.

  Perry. Short for what? wondered Joe. And the mental diversion was enough to give his tongue room to go wandering off the straight and narrow.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. Leastways, he took it serious enough to …’

  He tailed off into silence. Maybe it wasn’t all that wise a move to advertise that he’d been blackmailed into feloniously entering the house of a distinguished member of the local community, especially to a sergeant who didn’t seem to find anything too demeaning in keeping illicit parking spaces available for councillors enjoying a freebie.

  ‘To do what, Joe?’ said Prince, with that softness which in a spring breeze often presages a gale.

  ‘Just asked me to help out a bit, you know, keep my eyes open,’ Joe waffled. ‘Not that I’m likely to see anything that helps, but maybe the DI, Perry, thinks people might be a bit more relaxed round me than him. I mean, he doesn’t seem all that hot on public relations. Mr Haggard seems to think his best bet of finding out what’s really happening is through Lewis having a quiet word with his mate, Pantyhose, sorry, Mr Penty-Hooser …’

  This could be a good time to faint, he thought. And a good place too.

  Their steady progress through the streets of Caerlindys had brought them to the hospital where Prince’s presence had got them through the reception area with no more than a friendly wave at the man behind the desk. They were heading down a long corridor which on his previous visit, when he’d insisted on walking out under his own steam, had seemed to go on forever. It didn’t feel quite as long today, but long enough. They were about halfway down it when a figure appeared at the far end, halted abruptly, did a smart about-turn, and vanished round the corner.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ said Prince. ‘You know that lad, Joe?’

  ‘What lad?’ said Joe, peering round myopically.

  ‘That one who’s just disappeared. Five-nine, long black hair, slight build, blue jeans, red rugger shirt. One of us he didn’t fancy meeting. Probably me. Often happens. It’s the uniform.’

  He sounded fairly complacent.

  And he was probably right, thought Joe.

  For he couldn’t think of any good reason why the sight of his own unthreatening face should have set Owain Lewis running.

  Nor could he think of any good reason why he didn’t identify the boy to Prince.

  ‘Your eyes always been bad, Joe?’ enquired the sergeant.

  ‘What? Nothing wrong with my eyes … except for long sight … bit of weakness there.’

  It was a lame recovery. He was easier to trip than a man with a wooden leg.

  He tried for diversion and asked, ‘Any line yet on who she is, Tom, the lady in the cottage?’

  ‘Not a thing, far as I know,’ said the sergeant. ‘Looks like either she’ll have to tell us herself if she recovers, or we’ll be matching dental records against reported missings and that can take forever. Ours is an easy society to drop out of, Joe, without anyone paying much heed. You’re the only one who’s been around her while she was still conscious. You sure she said nothing that could help?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe. ‘Hey, I did find this though. I was up at the cottage earlier – what’s left of it – and this was lying in the ashes. Think it might be one of them allergy warnings.’

  He produced the buckled bracelet.

  Prince took it and glanced at it without much interest.

  ‘Can’t see this helping much,’ he said dismissively. ‘Nothing to say who it belonged to anyway.’

  But Joe noticed that he wrapped it in a handkerchief and deposited it carefully in his tunic pocket. And at least it had diverted him from the topic of Joe’s failing eyesight.

  They reached the unit where the burnt woman lay. He recognized the nurse there as the one who’d been tending him when he woke up. Nurse Butler, the red-headed girl who didn’t look old enough to be out of school.

  She smiled in pleasure at seeing him and said, ‘Hello, Mr Sixsmith. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Joe.

  ‘You two know each other?’ said Prince.

  ‘Why not? No law against a girl having friends, even in Caerlindys, is there, Sergeant?’ she said, with a toss of her head and a saucy smile which bumped her into late teens/early twenties.

  ‘See what little respect the young round here have for authority, Joe,’ said Prince. ‘Butler, is it? Meaning you’re probably Tilly Butler, the minister’s daughter from the Primitive Chapel, right?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘Nothing if you are, plenty if you’re not,’ said Prince enigmatically. ‘So, Tilly, how’s the patient?’

  The nurse became serious.

  ‘No change. Holding her own. Mr Winstanley, the consultant, should be along shortly, though. Best speak to him.’

  ‘I will,’ said Prince. ‘Shouldn’t there be a round blob of indolence masquerading as a policeman sitting in that chair outside the door?’

  ‘Ollie, you mean?’

  ‘Constable Purslaw, yes.’

  ‘Oh, I told him he might as well go and get himself a sandwich while I was around,’ said the girl. ‘Better than having him sitting there staring at me like he got his eyes from radiography.’

  ‘How long’s he been gone?’ asked Prince.

  ‘Not long. You just missed him.’

  ‘So he’d have been around if anyone had come visiting our lady in the past five minutes?’

  ‘Visiting?’ said the nurse as if she didn’t recognize the word. Even Joe spotted her uneasiness, and Prince was suddenly like a cat who’s heard a rustle in the grass.

  ‘That’s right. Visiting. What visitors do. I’m thinking of a young man in a red shirt, slight build, black hair. You see anyone like that, Tilly?’

  Her expression said yes for her. Poor girl, thought Joe. Probably imagines she was covering up for the absent Ollie.

  She said, ‘Oh yes, there was someone. I saw
him peering through the glass and I said, “Can I help you?” and he said, “How’s she doing?” and I said, “Who’s asking?” and he said, “Nobody really. Just curious.” And I thought he must be a journalist or something so I said we couldn’t give out information and anyway there was nothing to give out. I was going to mention it to Ollie when he got back.’

  Her flow of words had become increasingly defensive in the face of the sergeant’s darkening brow and the years her pertness had put on were wiped away till once more she looked about thirteen.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Prince. ‘I’ll mention it for you. We’d have had him, Joe, if that Purslaw didn’t think more of his belly than his job!’

  In the interests of everyone concerned it seemed to Joe this might be a good time to come clean and give up Wain Lewis. But before he could speak there was a fanfare of trumpets and a celestial choir burst into the Hallelujah Chorus as Mr Winstanley and his train burst into the room. The music, of course, was in Joe’s mind, an alcoholic fantasy he and Beryl had composed one night after she’d suffered a particularly virulent bout of consultantivitis during her shift at Luton Infirmary. ‘He comes into the ward, it’s like a Nuremberg Rally,’ she’d declared, which had set them seeking the best musical accompaniment for the occasion.

  In fact, Winstanley, a man of Joe’s size whose prominent front teeth looked like they’d been designed for a much larger face, arrived accompanied by no more than five acolytes, among whom Joe recognized the still weary figure of Dr Godsip.

  The procession was led by a large ward sister who looked as if she’d done her training on the set of a Carry On movie. She scowled at Prince, glowered threateningly at the red-headed nurse, hissed something like Bovril at Joe, then presented the patient’s chart to Winstanley like Cupid offering Venus a mirror in one of those big paintings Joe had seen in some country house the choir had once sung in.

  The consultant looked at the chart, looked at the patient, looked at the bits and pieces of equipment she was hooked up to, and let out a long whistling sigh through his teeth. It was not the sort of sound Joe ever hoped to hear a doctor treating him make. It had too much of keep-your-fingers-crossed-but-don’t-hold-your-breath about it.

  Prince took it as his cue and interposed his body between the consultant and the sister who looked ready to jump on his back but instead turned her irritation on young Tilly.

  Godsip came up to Joe, yawned and said, ‘How’re you doing, Mr Sixsmith? Good to see you out and about.’

  ‘Few aches and pains,’ said Joe. ‘Voice still a bit rough, like you can hear.’

  ‘Yes, no singing for a while, eh? Here for a check-up, is it? Didn’t see your name on my list, but I’m sure I can fit you in …’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Joe. ‘I’m here with Sergeant Prince. We came to see the lady from the cottage. She going to be OK?’

  ‘It’ll be a long haul, but she’s holding her own. I’m glad the sergeant’s here. I’ve got a lab report that might interest him.’

  The ward sister had decided she needed a bit more Lebensraum to blitz poor Tilly and was urging her out into the corridor. As she pushed past Joe, she hissed, ‘Bovril!’ at him again.

  ‘Why’s she keep saying Bovril to me?’ asked Joe, bemused.

  Godsip grinned.

  ‘Not Bovril. Overall. She thinks you’re an improperly dressed porter. Sorry. She’s new. Thinks she’s going to sweep us cleaner. Oh damn.’

  A pager was beeping in his pocket. He checked it and switched it off.

  ‘Gotta go. Look, give this to the sergeant when he’s done, will you? And don’t forget to see your GP when you get home. Bye now.’

  He put a folded sheet of paper into Joe’s hand and left. Prince was still deep in conversation with Winstanley. Not a man who relaxed his grip till he got what he wanted, the sergeant. And Joe guessed he didn’t much mind whether he charmed the birds out of the trees or blew them out with a scattergun.

  He unfolded the sheet of paper and glanced down at it.

  It was all a bit technical but not so much he couldn’t make out there’d been traces of alcohol in the woman’s bloodstream, though well below non-driving level.

  Some other stuff that was gobbledygook.

  Then something leapt from the page and hit him in the eye.

  Traces found of some stuff as long and unpronounceable as a Welsh place name followed by a handwritten note in brackets.

  (Could be Decorax?)

  Oh Wain, Wain, thought Joe. You and me gotta have a heart-to-heart talk real soon.

  Chapter 17

  Joe did not spend a lot of time bemoaning the fact that God, who could easily have created him six foot six, rippling with muscles and coruscating with charisma, had opted instead for five foot five, a sagging waist, and social invisibility except maybe in a convention of white supremacists. What did gripe him a bit was there was no consistency. Man who could spend twenty minutes trying to catch the waiter’s eye in a half-empty restaurant ought to be able to slip out of a crowded hospital ward without attracting attention, but the long eye of the law was not to be denied.

  ‘Joe, where are you rushing off to?’ said Prince, taking his elbow as he stepped into the corridor.

  ‘Not rushing anywhere,’ said Joe, which was true. More sidling. ‘Just thought there were too many people in there, all standing over that poor woman, talking about her. Just because she ain’t speaking don’t mean she’s not listening.’

  ‘You’re right, Joe. Wouldn’t be so bad if all them white coats meant they could tell me any more than young Tilly, but they can’t. Saw you were talking to Doc Godsip. Gave you a clean bill, I hope?’

  These Welsh cops must have wing mirrors, thought Joe. He’d been thinking about ‘forgetting’ about the lab report which Godsip had asked him to pass on, but now it didn’t seem such a good idea.

  He said, ‘Yeah. Asked me to give you this too.’

  He handed over the sheet.

  Prince glanced at it. Joe waited for his face to register the Decorax but there was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t a case he was involved in. Or maybe he didn’t just look like Richard Burton but could act like him too.

  ‘So what are you up to now?’ enquired Prince genially.

  ‘Head back to the festival, see how we’re doing,’ said Joe.

  ‘Lunchtime now, Joe,’ said Prince. ‘Stick with me, I’ll show you where to get the best mutton pie in the Principality.’

  The grip on his elbow felt more like arrest than invitation. Then a uniformed figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and stopped like it had hit a glass door at the sight of Prince.

  ‘Constable Purslaw, I’ve been looking forward to a word with you,’ said Prince, with the sort of anticipatory purr Whitey gave whenever Joe opened the fridge.

  The elbow lock relaxed.

  Joe said, ‘Thanks all the same, but I gotta watch what I eat. Diet. Catch you later, maybe.’

  He did a smart about-turn, shouldered his way between Nurse Butler and the Carry On Sister, who was still giving her a bad time, and headed down the corridor.

  Getting out of the hospital this way involved passing through the Maternity Ward, which was very busy. What else was there to do out in the sticks, thought Joe with the false superiority of one who’d have swapped a lot of dull nights watching the telly for a couple of hours doing what else. He tried to look like an anxious father and must have got it half right as he finally made it to the outside world without being challenged.

  He retraced his steps to the square to shift the Morris. If Prince was really keen to keep him close, this was the first place he’d look once he’d finished demolishing the unfortunate Purslaw. Every parking space was now occupied, with a second row of cars parallel to the first. Through the windows of the Old Dragon came the sound of merry voices and clinking glasses. Presumably the council meeting was now well under way.

  Rita Meter was still on duty. She greeted him with what passed for a smile which Joe returned, t
hinking it was an attempt at reconciliation till he looked beyond it and saw the real cause.

  A sparkling new Jaguar was parked alongside the Morris, firmly blocking him in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Joe to Rita. ‘Any chance of me getting out?’

  ‘Not till the meeting’s over,’ she said. ‘Stuck here till then, you are.’

  She clearly found much consolation in this.

  ‘But this guy’s double-parked,’ protested Joe, pointing at the Jaguar.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. They all come out the same time, see, that’s why we keep these places clear for councillors.’

  ‘To save the public from inconvenience, you mean? Hey, that’s real thoughtful of these guys, no wonder they got elected.’

  She regarded him suspiciously as she digested his words and, because he’d found that giving petty bureaucrats unnecessary hassle rarely got you more than the merest flash of satisfaction, he went on hastily, ‘So I’ll come back later then. Couldn’t tell me if there’s a hairdresser’s close by, could you?’

  ‘Get a trim, is it?’ she said, regarding Joe’s close-cropped skull with interest. ‘More like a polish you need, I’d say. Bill Barber’s the man for you. Used to work at the prison before they started all this telly in their rooms and weekly perms stuff. Now the way you go is –’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Joe, though he would like to have found out if Barber was a real name or a work description, like Nye Garage. ‘What I want is a ladies’ hairdresser.’

  She took a hasty step back. If she’d been wearing long skirts, she’d have whipped them away.

  ‘A ladies’ hairdresser?’ she echoed.

  ‘Not for me,’ Joe reassured her. ‘I’m meeting a friend. Forgot the name of the salon. Is there more than one?’

  ‘Only two that matter. This friend, she’ll be your age, will she?’

  ‘Younger,’ said Joe. ‘A lot younger.’

  She gave him a you-dirty-old-sod look, then said, ‘Snips, it will be then. Other side of the square, first left down Tenter Street.’

  Joe said thanks and moved off. Chances of Bronwen still being at the hairdresser’s weren’t high, and even if she was, chances of her having made an arrangement to meet Wain later probably weren’t all that good either, but he still felt quite proud of himself for having thought of it. This was the way Endo Venera’s mind worked, making connections, always looking for an angle. Maybe he was growing into the job.