‘Butcher, you’re something else,’ said Joe shaking his head in wonderment. ‘You were born knowing things I’ll never find out!’
‘We’re all born knowing them,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s finding out you know them that takes some folk a long time.’
‘With luck maybe I’ll miss out then,’ he grinned. ‘But all this must’ve been twenty years back. Bit early to get a lifetime judgement, wasn’t it?’
‘We’ve met since. When I was in the Sixth Form, she was at South Beds Uni. By this time I was pretty active in the local Party …’
‘That’d be the Social Democrats?’ said Joe, poker-faced.
‘Wash your mouth out,’ she said. ‘Suddenly Georgie Barnfather was among us, claiming she’d seen the Socialist light on the road to Henley, and, like most new converts, she was extreme to her extremities. Everyone was delighted. Except me. I knew we had to recruit supporters through right reason, and whatever it was that was priming Georgie’s pump, it wasn’t reason. She kept it up for a good year, even got herself a nice working-class boyfriend. At least we all thought he was nice till someone discovered he was a trainee cop on day release to SBU for what was laughingly called civics.’
‘Willie Woodbine.’
‘That’s right. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if she picked a cop deliberately so she’d have an excuse to quarrel with us.’
‘That’s a bit devious,’ protested Joe.
‘Par for the course with Georgie, as you may find out. The other thing about her is she never admitted a mistake. Her parents didn’t reckon they’d put her through university to take up with a beat bobbie, so naturally she went the whole hog to disoblige them and married him. And when she realized just what a mistake that was, she didn’t run home to mummy but set about prodding Willie up the ladder to the point where people would say, “Didn’t she do well!” I speak from hearsay, of course, and may be doing her an injustice.’
She offered the disclaimer with little conviction.
Joe said, ‘No, that’s more or less what Mrs C. said …’
‘Your friend Mrs Calverley?’ Butcher laughed. ‘Yes, must be a relief to her it all worked out.’
Joe considered this then said, ‘Sorry?’
‘Hey, Sixsmith, don’t disappoint me. I’ve just got over being impressed how much you’d found out about Georgie and Mrs C. Don’t say you’ve missed the big connection?’
Bluff it out? thought Joe. No. He didn’t have the face for it.
He said, ‘Worth missing just for the pleasure it gives my friends.’
‘That’s not bad,’ she approved. ‘I almost feel a rat. So here’s the story. Hearsay again, of course, but good reliable ears. There was this guy worked in the Uni’s Geography Department. Second rater academically – got the job through family influence, they reckon – but a real charmer, one of the old unreconstructed school of lecturers who believed academic freedom started at their students’ pubes. Am I shocking you, Sixsmith?’
‘Making me wish I’d worked at my “O” levels,’ said Joe. ‘So this guy was putting it around. Go on.’
‘Lots of near scandals, and really his whole career was on the blink. What he needed was a good woman to make an honest man out of him, and he got Georgie Barnfather. She thought he was going to marry her. Maybe he was. But two things happened. First was he came into property, some kind of farm out in Zimbabwe. Second was, Georgie introduced him to her old House Fiend, Dora Strang. It didn’t take long. Dickie Calverley – you’d guessed, of course – and Dora took off for Africa, getting married en route. Probably seemed a better bet to work the farm than sell it. When you’re deep in crap, a wise man gets up and walks away!’
‘Shoot! Poor old Georgie,’ said Joe.
‘You are the weirdest fellow, Sixsmith,’ said Butcher in exasperation. ‘Look, all that happened to her was she got rid of a lousy piece of goods, and she found her soul mate, PC Willie Woodbine, now Mr Big Tusk of the Gaberdine Swine.’
‘She was hurt enough to join your Red Army on the rebound,’ retorted Joe.
‘True. Her big gesture of defiance against the upper classes!’ sneered Butcher. ‘Though naturally in her account of things, her conversion was a cause not an effect of her break up with Dickie Calverley. But why am I wasting my precious pre-work work hours educating you? Go, go, go!’
‘Hey, you volunteered all this stuff,’ protested Joe. ‘What you haven’t done is answer my question, what do I do about Mavis Dalgety?’
‘What you do best, Joe. Forget the great detective stuff and follow your heart down the yellow brick road. You’ll find it starts right outside my office.’
He turned at the door to shoot a parting arrow, but she was already reimmersed in a fog of cheroot smoke and a sea of other people’s troubles.
One thing’s for sure, he thought. We’re neither of us in Kansas.
And he closed the door very softly.
17
Down at the office, nothing stirred.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have plenty of work on hand, just that he couldn’t see how to proceed in any particular instance. Still, what was it Mirabelle said? No use fussing over what you can’t fix.
Which, it occurred to him, was just another way of putting this negative ‘ity’ thing Rev. Pot said he had.
Pleased to feel his indolence confirmed by two such divine authorities, he made himself a cup of tea, gave Whitey a couple of his favourite anchovy olives and turned to his newspapers.
It was good to learn that peace and goodwill must have broken out all over the world. Why else would his tabloid’s lead story be ENGLAND STAR SAYS SACKED MANAGER PUT PEPPER IN MY JOCK-STRAP. Pausing only to view with an astronomer’s silent awe the mighty orbs floating across Page Three, he checked the sports pages for mention of Luton, then turned with a sigh of anticipatory pleasure to The Times crossword puzzle.
His technique here, Butcher had once suggested, had much in common with his detective method in that he wrote in his own solutions then made up clues to fit them.
He did well this morning, filling in two thirds of the grid before he joined Whitey in a purring sleep which would probably have borne them happily to lunchtime if the phone hadn’t rung.
It was Dunk Docherty.
‘Joe, hi. I think I may be on to something. I put the word out on the street I was interested in the boy in the box and I’ve just had a call here at the office. No name, they’re very cagey these kids, like wild animals, move too suddenly and they’re off into the bushes.’
Could wild animals be cagey? wondered Joe.
‘Just shows how lucky I am to know someone who knows how to treat them,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ said Dunk complacently. ‘This guy reckons he might know the guy who found the laddie in the box, I mean before you found him. He says if the price is right he could be willing to poke around and see if there was anything lifted from the kid’s body.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘You don’t get far in the news business disbelieving people,’ said Dunk. ‘Could even be this is the guy who robbed the body just being ultra careful, and of course upping the price.’
‘More likely to be some chancer after an easy buck,’ said Joe cynically. ‘Talking of which, this price you keep mentioning …’
‘Nothing’s for nothing, Joe. These kids don’t do social work, they’ve got social workers to do that. I mentioned a pony, he wants fifty, I said, hasn’t he heard the Government’s got inflation under control, he said those wankers at the Treasury should tell it to the dealers.’
‘He sounds bright. Also a hop-head. He could be dangerous.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ said Docherty with more confidence than a man with a busted nose ought to have. ‘But the money, Joe. Will your client cough up?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. What did you tell him?’
‘I told him to ring me back later and I’d see what I could do. If he’s serious he’ll come back, if not, no harm
done. It never pays to be too eager with these guys.’
This was slightly more reassuring. Perhaps Docherty wasn’t completely dumb.
Joe said, ‘I’ll check about the money. If he rings back tell him it’s OK and set up a meet. Preferably somewhere full of light and people.’
‘This isn’t Chicago, or even Glasgow,’ laughed Docherty. ‘Assuming your client says go ahead, when can I meet you to pick up the cash?’
‘Can’t you manage fifty quid yourself?’ said Joe.
‘I’m not handing over my own hard-earned dosh then claiming a refund,’ said Docherty firmly. ‘Hell, this isn’t even a story, just a private deal. Which reminds me, how’s your side of things coming?’
Joe had to think hard to remind himself what he’d promised to do.
‘It’s coming along,’ he said. ‘I’ve made contact with the Hacker family, but getting their confidence will take time. Listen, tonight I’m tied up early part of the evening, but you can catch me in the Glit after say nine.’
‘The Glit? That’s where the weirdos go, isn’t it? Never been there myself. First time for everything, eh? See you, Joe.’
Joe put down the phone, grinning. There was something about Docherty’s brash self-confidence he couldn’t help liking. Perhaps the fact that he hadn’t yet got it quite right and the uncertain young lad, eager to make his way, kept on showing through. What was it he’d said? You don’t get far disbelieving people! Well, he was going to find out the hard way, thought Joe rather guiltily.
He picked up the phone again and dialled Hoot Hall.
‘Yes,’ said a languid male voice.
‘Hello,’ said Joe. ‘Is that Fred?’
‘It could be. And is that Sheerluck Bones, the ethnic snoop?’
How come he recognizes me so easy? thought Joe. And do I have to take this sneery crap from a racist kid?
‘Is your mother in?’ he started to ask, but before he got the words completely out, there was a sound on the line, then Mrs Calverley’s voice saying, ‘Mr Sixsmith? Sorry about that. How can I help you?’
He told her about Docherty’s lead.
‘Yes, of course, pay the man. As long as he produces something for the money. Can you take it out of the advance I gave you and I’ll settle up when we meet?’
I’d rather have the extra fifty in my hand, thought Joe. But he didn’t know how to say it.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know how we go on.’
‘Soon as you can, Mr Sixsmith,’ she said imperiously.
The only other thing to disturb this nice quiet day was a call from Aunt Mirabelle to remind Joe of that night’s choir practice and to say she wouldn’t need the lift which Joe hadn’t offered to give, because she was going straight to St Monkey’s from visiting a friend in town.
‘And Joseph, don’t you come rushing in late with your mouth still greasy from all them chips you eat. Can’t expect to sing properly unless you’re rested and digested. Lots of folk saying, what’s Boyling Corner doing with St Monkey’s Chorale when the Anglicans got so many other choirs of their own? We got to show them we’re there because we’re the best. Only one more rehearsal after this, and that’s the dress rehearsal. Which reminds me, what you going to wear?’
‘My suit of course, Auntie,’ said Joe.
‘Suit? Not that suit? I need to talk to you about this. I’ll see you tonight!’
The phone went dead.
‘Shoot, Whitey,’ said Joe. ‘I’m not going to shell out for new clothes when I got a lot of work to do on the Morris!’
‘Easy to be brave by yourself,’ yawned the cat. ‘I’ll wait till tonight!’
Whitey was right, of course. At least he’d start on the right foot by following Mirabelle’s other advice, thought Joe. He played his tape of The Creation and sang a few of the trickier choral sections. He skipped lunch altogether, much to Whitey’s disgust, and he went home early, had a slice of ham and some salad, got his head down for an hour, rose and showered, and set off to St Monkey’s feeling ready to deal with anything Haydn or Mr Perfect could throw at him.
Naturally, because God loves a joke, the rehearsal came close to disaster.
At first it was the instrumentalists who were in trouble. They couldn’t get the orchestral intro to anywhere near Godfrey Parfitt’s satisfaction. He was not nicknamed Mr Perfect for nothing, and as he had quite a nice line in abuse, to start with the singers were happy enough to relax and enjoy the not unpleasant spectacle of someone else getting a bollocking.
‘This music is meant to depict chaos,’ Mr Perfect cried. ‘But that is not the same as sounding chaotic. While I am not so sanguine as to expect you to adhere slavishly to the precise notes that Herr Haydn inscribed on the staves, I would be grateful if you could at least keep your variations within the same key!’
This was good stuff, but eventually the choristers grew bored, with the inevitable result that when their turn to perform arrived, their turn to be abused was not far behind.
‘Haydn wrote this music for angels,’ declared the conductor. ‘He left the howling of cats to Mr Lloyd Webber. For heaven’s sake, even if you find it hard to rise above your human condition, at least try to avoid sinking beneath it!’
After an hour he declared a break. Musicians and singers mingled, united by a common resentment. Joe spotted Sally Eaglesfield and made his way to her side.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How’re you feeling?’
She looked at him, puzzled for a second, then recognition dawned.
‘Oh hello, it was you at Georgie’s – Mrs Woodbine’s – wasn’t it? I never got to thank you.’
‘That’s OK. I’m just glad you weren’t damaged.’
‘I was a bit shook up,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve not been back to school yet, but I didn’t want to miss the rehearsal.’
‘Maybe you wish you had now,’ grinned Joe.
The girl smiled back and said, ‘Mr Parfitt isn’t in a very good mood, is he? But he’s got cause. We were playing awful. At least I know I was.’
‘And we haven’t been singing so hot either,’ said Joe, impressed by her honesty.
‘Can anyone join this mutual denigration society?’ said Georgina Woodbine. ‘Sally, my dear, how are you? You look very pale. I really think you might have been wise to miss the rehearsal as well as school.’
To Joe it sounded like genuine if rather schoolma’amish concern, but Sally took it very differently.
‘Why? You going to report me then?’ she said sharply, almost insolently.
The woman looked disconcerted and glanced at Joe as if to ask him what he had been saying. Joe gave a little shrug.
‘Don’t be silly, my dear,’ said Georgina, trying for a lightness. ‘That explosion was a shock to all of us. I took a morning off myself …’
‘A whole morning?’ mocked the girl. ‘I bet things fell apart.’
Before the woman could respond, Mr Perfect rattled his baton on his music stand and called, ‘Places, please!’
Musing on this interesting exchange, Joe was heading back to the baritones when Beryl’s voice said, ‘Cutting me dead, Joe?’
He realized he’d walked right by her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about something. The music.’
‘Oh yes. The music,’ she said, smiling her disbelief. ‘And here’s me thinking you must be solving the Bermuda Triangle mystery at the very least.’
‘Working on it,’ he said. ‘You on duty tonight?’
She wasn’t wearing her uniform.
‘Time off for good behaviour,’ she said.
‘Fancy a drink down the Glit?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know if that would count as good behaviour,’ she said. ‘Better get back to our places before Mr Perfect sends out the dogs.’
She headed back to the sopranos, leaving Joe unsure whether he’d got a yes or a no.
Things went slightly better for a while and they got through the creation of fish, fowl and the animal kin
gdom with no more than a few volcanic rumblings. But when they reached the third and final part of the oratorio, where Adam and Eve and the chorus express their joy and gratitude for the gift of life, Mr Perfect’s discontent finally exploded.
‘No, no, no, no!’ he cried. ‘This is Eden before the Fall, not the North Stand after a Luton goal! This is a world in which everything is fresh and new, where hope is unnecessary because you have certainty, where even the beasts of the jungle are vegetarian and Adam and Eve don’t have belly buttons because they were created, not born. I want you to take your voices and your instruments and scrub out of them everything you know, and everything you are, and everything you’ve ever done; then sing and play with what remains. Go back to childhood first, but even that’s not far enough for the kind of innocence we are dealing with here. Our parents have stamped their sins upon us and the very first breath we breathe is of polluted air. Go further till you glimpse that immortal sea which brought us here, then cross it till you hear its mighty waters rolling on the further shore. Can you do that for me? Will you do that for me? I believe you can. I beg you to try!’
He raised his baton. They started to sing. Something happened, Joe wasn’t sure what. But there were moments during the next half hour when he felt he was as close to getting back into the lost Garden as he was ever likely to be.
Mr Perfect thought so too. He put his baton down, smiled gently and said, ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much.’
It was a subdued breaking up with little of the usual post-rehearsal hustle and bustle. Even Mirabelle’s grip upon Joe’s arm was more salad tongs than nutcracker.
‘Going to give your old aunt a lift home?’ she said.
‘Car’s parked at the Glit, Auntie,’ said Joe. ‘Thought I might call in for a little refreshment.’
‘You visiting that hellhole after making music like we made tonight?’ she demanded indignantly.
‘Ready to buy me that drink now, Joe?’ said Beryl with the perfect timing of the eavesdropper.
Mirabelle looked from one to the other, clearly torn between moral objections and matchmaking objectives. It was no contest.
Born Guilty Page 13