Born Guilty

by Reginald Hill

  It was a fairly conventional looking house, not a mansion, but not a prefab either, with a good class of car parked in the horseshoe driveway.

  ‘You want I should pick you up, Joe?’

  ‘Only if I fall down,’ said Joe. ‘No, look, if I need you, I’ll give you a ring and set off down the hill, OK? It’s a lovely day for a nice walk.’

  ‘Then you won’t need a taxi,’ laughed Merv. ‘Guy like you walking round a neighbourhood like this, you’ll be down town before you can say civil liberties. Take care of yourself, baby!’

  He did a noisy U-turn and swept away down the hill, leaving a trail of rubber and bubbly laughter. Joe watched till the taxi was out of sight, then began to feel very lonely. Also very hot. Like he’d said, it was a lovely day with the autumn sun deep into nostalgia, and the sturdy suit was clinging to his form like oven foil to a rib of beef.

  No point hanging around here like a nervous kid at his first dance, thought Joe. Let’s go and party!

  He set off up the drive past the line of cars. Good pickings here for a bold car thief, he thought. But no one was going to be that bold, not within spitting distance of a houseful of cops.

  Except that the nearer he got to the house, the less full of anything it seemed, though he could actually hear a distant buzz of voices and clinking of glasses and a ring-a-ding of music.

  Of course, they had to be round the back, tempted into the open air by the Indian summer. Well, entering a crowded garden was marginally less daunting than entering a crowded room.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed open a wrought iron gate and set off down the path which led to the rear of the house.

  Here, on a paved terrace running down to a beautifully kept lawn where a marble nymph poured water from an unemptying pitcher into an unfilling pool, and a trio of young women played a selection from the Shows, he found the party.

  He saw instantly that he’d got it wrong. While the Gary Glitter T-shirt might’ve been a bit garish, it would at least have been a step in the right direction. Expensive informality was the order of the day. Nearest thing he could see to male dressing up was a couple of old geezers in striped blazers and cravats.

  He took half a step back, contemplating a full retreat before he was noticed. Then a rather striking woman in early middle age, perhaps, but still with jet black hair and a body which fitted not too absurdly into a contour hugging catsuit, came towards him smiling.

  She said, ‘For me? Thank you,’ as she took the flowers from him. Then turning to her friends she went on, ‘I wonder who they can be from?’

  She thinks I’m delivering them! thought Joe.

  He’d heard footsteps come up behind him and stop. He knew he was blocking the way but, despite the fact that his whole instinct was for flight, his feet weren’t taking orders.

  The black-haired woman turned back to him and said, ‘I can’t find a card. Wasn’t there a card?’ And then from cool inquisition of a possibly errant inferior, her tone and expression glowed to warm welcome of a much desired guest.

  ‘Dora! You made it. How lovely to see you. Do come through. Would you mind? You’re blocking the way.’

  Joe re-established contact with his legs and moved aside. But instead of going by him, the new arrival took his arm and said, ‘Mr Sixsmith? I thought it was you. Dora Calverley, remember? I’m so glad we’ve met again. But of course. I might have guessed you’d be here where all the best detectives are. Georgina, how are you? Lovely … er … suit.’

  The change was just as marked, from genuine enthusiasm to formal courtesy.

  Georgina Woodbine registered the parody and for a split second let it show in a narrowing of the eyes and a flaring of the nostrils. Then she was all smiles again as she advanced, saying, ‘Mr Sixsmith, of course! How silly of me. Edgar told me you were coming. I don’t know what I was thinking of.’

  Oh yes, you do, lady, thought Joe bitterly. You were thinking let’s have a bit of fun with this lowlife PI that Edgar’s (Edgar!) wished on me.

  His hostess’s attention was now returned to Mrs Calverley.

  ‘Dora, did some fellow with a plebby accent get on to you? I felt guilty afterwards in case he was some sort of salesman. Let me get you something to drink and we can really get down to the trivia.’

  ‘No, I’ve had no contact with anyone, plebeian or patrician, who admitted contact with you,’ said Mrs Calverley smiling. ‘Please, don’t abandon your friends. I’m sure Mr Sixsmith and I between us can sniff out the bar. À bientôt!

  The hand on his arm pushed Joe forward irresistibly. At least, he didn’t resist till they were out of Georgina’s range and not yet within anyone else’s. Here he halted and said, ‘Thanks, Mrs Calverley.’

  ‘For what?’ she asked, those shrewd blue eyes watching him from that sun-sallow face.

  ‘For getting me past the guard dog,’ he said.

  The woman laughed and said, ‘No sweat. I was brought up not to be rude to my hostess till the party was over and I’d left the house. You helped me not to disgrace my upbringing.’

  ‘Have you known Mrs Woodbine a long time?’

  ‘Long enough. We were once … close. But it’s years since I came to this house. I see Georgie’s taste has not deserted her.’

  The words came out flat enough for irony as her gaze moved over the pink and white flagged patio, the marble nymph, the syncopating trio, and the Victorian-style conservatory with its heavily curtained door.

  ‘It’s her house then?’ said Joe, digesting what she’d just said.

  ‘Indeed. Her father was a builder. Barnfather’s – you must have seen their sign. Used to be big but they overstretched themselves in the eighties boom, I believe, and are now feeling the pinch. Happily for Georgie, Tom had rather traditional notions of a woman’s role and when he died, his son got the business and Georgie got the house and a tidy lump sum.’

  ‘But she stayed on teaching? Must be dedicated,’ said Joe, happy to tap this unexpected source of info.

  ‘To education? Perhaps. To the sense of power being deputy head gives her, certainly. It must have become increasingly important as Edgar soared upwards.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘To marry a police constable which is what he was when they met, must have given a strong-willed woman like Georgie a sense of control. I do not doubt she pushed him onward and upward. Sergeant, inspector. But the trouble with helping to launch people is that eventually they take off and fly of their own accord. Chief inspector must have put him almost out of her reach, and I fear she can take no credit whatsoever now he’s reached the dizzy heights of superintendent.’

  No, thought Joe, that one’s down to me!

  A young woman passed by with a tray laden with glasses of champagne and also of that fizzy orange mixture which Merv, who liked a good Spoonerism, called Fuck’s Biz. Mrs Calverley took two glasses of the latter and handed one to Joe.

  Correctly reading the disappointed look on his face, she said, ‘You’ll thank me later. Long experience of drinking in the midday sun has led me to this wisdom. Maximum liquid, minimum alcohol.’

  ‘Spend a lot of time in the tropics then?’ enquired Joe.

  ‘Or have I just overdosed on the sunbed, you mean?’ she laughed. ‘Getting on for twenty years in Zimbabwe. Still Rhodesia when I went there, just. But you don’t want to hear about my life and hard times, do you? Heard anything more about that boy we found in the box?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘There’ll be an inquest, I suppose, when they identify him.’

  ‘If they identify him,’ she said heavily. ‘I rang up a couple of times. No one knows much, and what’s worse, no one seems to care.’

  ‘But you do?’ said Joe. He tried not to sound surprised but didn’t make it.

  ‘Didn’t take me for a bleeding heart then?’ she said, regarding him quizzically. ‘Well, I’m not, believe me. But something about that poor kid’s face, I don’t know … perhaps it reminded me of Fred – that’s my own boy, about
the same age. Anyway, I haven’t been able to get that face out of my mind, and I keep on thinking, there has to be someone somewhere who knows and cares, or if they don’t, maybe they can explain how a young life came to end like that!’

  She stopped abruptly, as if embarrassed, then said, ‘Anyway, idle curiosity apart, I thought today’s party might give me a chance to buttonhole Edgar Woodbine and see if I can get some sense out of him. Remarkable what a man will come up with if you grab him in front of his boss. And there he is. And that must be Richard Draycott, the new chief constable. Perfect.’

  Joe followed her gaze to where Willie Woodbine was talking with a slightly built man in slacks and a polo shirt, who looked young enough to be his son.

  Mrs Calverley said, ‘Wish me luck. Oh, and if I may be personal, Mr Sixsmith, wouldn’t you be a little more comfortable if you took that rather original jacket off and loosened your tie?’

  Joe watched her head towards Woodbine and cut expertly into the male conversation.

  One of the tray girls approached. Joe said, ‘Hold on a second,’ put his glass on the tray, took off his jacket and removed his tie. Much better. But just because Mrs C. had been right on this didn’t mean she was right on everything. He picked up a glass of bubbly, downed it in one, took another and said, ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Just wave when you want some more,’ grinned the girl.

  Joe emptied the second glass and said, ‘I’m waving.’

  To give the impression he wasn’t simply boozing, he wandered over to the trio and put on his listening-to-the-music face. The trio comprised violin, viola and clarinet. The clarinettist looked familiar. It was the dark-haired girl he’d identified as Sally Eaglesfield in the Sinfonia. Her appearance here confirmed the guess.

  They finished playing a selection from Carousel and Joe led the applause, then said, ‘You play in the Sinfonia, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, regarding him rather warily.

  ‘I’m in the choir. You know, The Creation.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  This was real probing stuff.

  He said heartily, ‘Earning a bit of pocket money?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said shocked. ‘I wouldn’t expect Mrs Woodbine to pay, I owe her so much. Oh, hello, Mr Dalgety.’

  A tall slim man with elegantly waved, becomingly greying hair had arrived at Joe’s shoulder.

  ‘Sally, I thought it was you. How’re you doing? We haven’t seen you for ages. You and Mavis haven’t fallen out, have you?’

  His eyes twinkled as he spoke. Must have a little battery up his nose, thought Joe at the same time as he flashed a thank you beam to the god who looked after balding black gumshoes for sending along Mavis Dalgety’s dad to ask the questions Joe could see no way of getting round to.

  ‘No!’ said the girl a tad over vehemently. ‘Just that it’s a busy time, school work, and the orchestra, and everything. Excuse me. I said I’d help in the kitchen.’

  She moved swiftly away towards the house and disappeared through the conservatory door.

  Dalgety glanced at Joe and made a wry face.

  ‘Nice girl,’ he said. ‘Awkward age. You have any children Mr … er …?’

  ‘Sixsmith. Joe Sixsmith,’ said Joe taking the proffered hand.

  ‘Andrew Dalgety.’ The man’s grip was firm and dry. He was very like a US senator in the movies, the lean rangy northern type, not the plush you-alling southern variety.

  ‘No, afraid not,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’re probably lucky. I’ve got two. Boy’s reaching an age of discretion, thank God. But my girl … well, same age as Sally. With the ladies, you don’t know what they’re thinking at any age, but between twelve and nineteen I swear they don’t know what they’re thinking either. You work with Edgar, do you?’

  Trying to place me, thought Joe. Sussed out I’m not likely to be on Georgie’s list so reckons I must be a cop. But even that’s a problem ’cos this is a chief inspector and over do, not a pint and pie CID booze up!

  He let the champers do the talking for him and heard himself saying, ‘Ed and I occasionally work together, but no publicity, know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh yes. Indeed,’ said the man, clearly baffled. ‘Haven’t noticed a loo in your travels, have you? Must be one in there somewhere. Excuse me.’

  Joe grinned as he watched him head into the house, then helped himself to another passing drink. What a swell party this is! he hummed. A finger tapped on his shoulder. He turned smiling. But the smile flickered as he found himself looking into the eyes of his host who returned his gaze in most unhostly fashion.

  ‘There you are, Willie,’ said Joe. ‘Swell party.’

  ‘What have you been saying to Dora Calverley, Sixsmith?’ demanded Woodbine.

  ‘Nothing. Well hardly anything. I was listening to her mainly …’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap,’ snarled Woodbine. ‘I saw you beating her ear earlier and now the blasted woman’s making my life a misery about that dead yob in the churchyard. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  With the quiet dignity of a man who’s downed about a litre of champagne, Joe said, ‘Sorry, didn’t realize when you invited me I wasn’t meant to talk to the other guests. Maybe I should just leave.’

  It was a speech to melt a heart of stone, but Joe didn’t really anticipate it doing much to a detective superintendent. It was with some surprise, therefore, that he realized the hand Woodbine was placing on his shoulder was in friendly embrace, and his teeth were being bared in a rueful smile, and the voice wasn’t reciting his rights but saying, ‘Sorry, Joe. Pay no heed to what I say. Pressure of work. We’re here to relax and enjoy ourselves, aren’t we? Mr Draycott, sir, there you are. This is Joe Sixsmith you were asking about. Joe, have you met Dick Draycott, our new chief constable?’

  All was explained as Joe turned to find himself facing the new chief constable, accompanied by Georgina Woodbine who was wearing a smile so frozen, it looked like it might fall off if she moved her head too quickly.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mr Sixsmith,’ said Draycott. ‘Edgar speaks well of you. I’ve always believed there’s a role for the private sector so long as its members acknowledge its secondary status.’

  Georgina was finding the smile hard to maintain. She said, ‘I must pop inside and check that all’s well there. Excuse me.’

  Woodbine gave a sigh of relief as she vanished into the house and had to turn it into a cough. Poor sod was terrified she might blow his inter-communal credentials by headbutting me, thought Joe.

  For the next five minutes or so, Joe and the chief constable made polite conversation about football and other important things. The trio reduced to a duo by the continued absence of Sally Eaglesfield had started up again. Mrs Calverley, still nursing her Buck’s Fizz, strolled by, giving Joe a slightly ironical smile as she took in his company. Then Andrew Dalgety came up to Woodbine and murmured in his ear, ‘Edgar, Georgie says it’s chow time so could you get the show on the road?’

  ‘Fine. Excuse me, sir,’ said Woodbine, touching Draycott’s arm.

  They made their way to the steps in front of the conservatory where Georgina Woodbine was standing.

  She clapped her hands together and in a voice accustomed to carry across the inattentive vastnesses of school assembly halls, she said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Edgar and I are truly delighted to see so many friends and colleagues gathered here on this lovely day, though it does give one cause to wonder, who’s directing the traffic?’

  Genteel laughter. She went on in this vein a little longer, then introduced the chief constable as guest of honour. Draycott made a fluent and well-practised speech, saying how delighted he was to get the chance to meet so many important people, but of course the most important of them all today was the man whose well-merited promotion they were celebrating. And finally Willie Woodbine strutted his stuff, striking a nice balance between grovelling gratitude to the new chief for turning up and crowing kiss-my-assery
at his old colleagues for being left behind.

  Long applause, then the stage, or rather steps, were left to Georgina who said, ‘Well, that was very nice. But the really important news is that the buffet is now ready for investigation by the serious food squad.’

  She drew the curtains obscuring the doorway aside to reveal a trio of tables laden with enough grub to fill a relief lorry.

  Someone cried, ‘Bravo!’ and started applauding. Others joined in.

  What the shoot are we clapping about, wondered Joe, who felt strongly that only the starving should applaud food.

  But feeling Willie Woodbine’s eyes upon him, and being a good guest, he decided there was no harm in a token ironic clap.

  He raised his hands and brought them together, like a major-domo signalling to the servants.

  The result was devastating.

  From somewhere in the middle of the house came a dull booming noise accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and a mighty rushing wind which tore through the conservatory to pick up great handfuls of the carefully arranged buffet and hurl them across the patio at the astonished guests.

  And Joe, falling backwards with the remnants of a salmon mousse wrapped around his face, thought appreciatively, ‘Now that’s what I call service!’

  10

  In an emergency some people keep their heads like draught Guinness while others are losing theirs faster than lukewarm lager.

  On the Guinness side were Dick Draycott and Dora Calverley who rapidly began to move around among the guests checking for damage. Woodbine was rather more lagerish, running around like a man trying to impress a promotions board, crying, ‘Don’t panic! Don’t panic!’

  Joe’s first inclination after checking he’d lost neither his head nor anything else, was to head away from the house in case there was any plan to offer seconds. But that stupid little git who squatted in his mind right next to that dear old instinct for self-preservation was crying, ‘You saw Sally Eaglesfield go in there and you ain’t seen her come out!’

  ‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe and headed for the conservatory.

  Someone was by his side. It was Andrew Dalgety.