Born Guilty

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Edgar Woodbine, you mean? Mr Sixsmith, for heaven’s sake, think of what you’re saying!’

  ‘I’m just playing possibilities, Mrs C.,’ he said. ‘Pam Vicary and Willie Woodbine were at SBU at the same time. Suppose they had a thing. Suppose Robbie’s been told by his mum that she reckons Woodbine is his real father. Suppose Robbie turns up at the Heights and starts shouting “Daddy!” And suppose while he’s there he shoots up and overdoes it, and dies. In those circs, I can see how Willie and Georgie might not be too keen to have him found on the premises.’

  ‘So you’re not saying they were actually responsible for his death?’ she probed.

  ‘I’d like to think not,’ said Joe. ‘Except in that case I can’t see Willie Woodbine pulling a crazy stroke like this. He’d simply tough it out.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Georgie’s idea. She’s a strong-willed lady.’

  ‘True. But why’d she be so desperate to get the body off the premises?’

  ‘Pride? Embarrassment? Or perhaps some other reason which I don’t know and you probably would not understand.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Joe.

  Mrs Calverley smiled and said, ‘A woman’s secrets and a man’s secrets are very different things. What one will bury beneath the sea, the other won’t give a toss about! So what do we do now? It will take a brave man to reveal these suspicions to the police.’

  ‘That’s why I think we should hang on to the passport and letters till we’ve had a chance to talk to this lawyer fellow, Greenhill, in Melbourne.’

  ‘And if he tells you that the boy’s real father was a young policeman called Woodbine …?’

  ‘I might ask him how I can emigrate to Australia myself,’ said Joe.

  Mrs Calverley laughed and said, ‘So let’s ring him. Now, I suspect it’s some ungodly hour down under …’

  ‘They’re about ten hours ahead of us,’ said Joe authoritatively.

  ‘Then we’d better leave it till midnight. Why don’t we do this together? Can you come back out here? No reason for you to catch the cost of the phone call.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe.

  ‘And don’t worry, Mr Sixsmith. Whatever happens, we’ll get it sorted out. But I should keep your suspicions to yourself till we know one way or another.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs C. If I’m wrong, fewer people who know the better! Bye now.’

  She patted him on the shoulder as he left. There were times, he thought, when a bit of colonial self-assurance must come in very useful.

  As he drove carefully towards the creaking cattle grid beneath the collapsing arch, he saw the Range Rover hurtling down the approach lane with the certainty of passage of a Governor’s carriage through kraal or kasbah. He just had time to pull into the side before it thundered through the gateway with no diminution of speed. Fred Calverley was driving. He didn’t even glance in Joe’s direction.

  And there were times, Joe resumed his thought, when colonial self-assurance got right up your nose!

  When he got home he found Dunk Docherty was standing on his doorstep.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said accusingly. ‘I called at the hospital, they said you’d discharged yourself last night. I tried your office. Nothing. So I came round here.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

  First things first. Whitey had probably been sleeping all day but he was clearly ready to complain to the RSPCA of neglect till Joe started defrosting a chicken tikka. That done, he took a can of Guinness from the fridge, offered one to Docherty who shook his head, then he held it to his mouth till the London muck was washed out of his throat.

  ‘So how’d your date go last night?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. Well, mostly fine. We ended up having a bit of a row.’

  Joe examined the youngster’s face for a sign of new damage. There was none.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Went to the Thunderdome. Bowled, roller skated. Sat on a bench with a couple of cokes and a burger …’

  ‘I see. Softening her up before you started the hard probing.’

  ‘No!’ he said indignantly. ‘Why do you want to make it sound so nasty?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to see me about, Dunk,’ said Joe.

  The young man had sat on the sofa where he was quickly joined by Whitey, hopeful as always that there were goodies to be charmed out of the newcomer’s pockets or purse. Joe noticed how Dunk’s hands stroked the cat’s fur as though in search of comfort.

  ‘Just wondered, well, you know, you got on to Gallie so quick, I wondered if you’d had a chance to, you know, sort of suss out anything about her granddad. I mean, have you met him? How does he seem to you …?’

  ‘What you mean,’ said Joe, ‘is do I think he’s the kind of guy who could have been mixed up with this kind of stuff?’

  He took the book he’d bought in London out of its bag, opened it at the photograph pages and placed it in the young man’s hands.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Dunk Docherty after a few moments’ turning pages.

  ‘That’s what we’re talking about, Dunk,’ said Joe. ‘Not some civil servant who may have been taking backhanders, or some bankrupt director who’s got half a mill stashed away in the Caymans. That’s what you’ll be telling Galina Hacker you think her grandfather is mixed up with.’

  Dunk snapped the book shut with a bang which sent Whitey leaping from his lap.

  ‘Now hold on, Joe. Don’t go loading that on me! We don’t invent the news, you know …’

  ‘… you just distort it,’ completed Joe.

  ‘Ha ha. Look, it’s not me whose nose you should be rubbing in these pics, it’s Taras Kovalko’s, see what they do to his stomach.’

  ‘Yes, maybe,’ said Joe.

  Dunk was eyeing him keenly.

  ‘You have met him, haven’t you? And you’re not sure, right?’

  Maybe the boy would make a good reporter after all.

  ‘No, I’m not sure,’ said Joe. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it would do for now.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Dunk. ‘Can I be frank with you, Joe?’

  Joe almost laughed aloud at the idea that the youngster could be anything else. He had a face built for frankness. That open eager expression would probably take him through doors slammed shut in Tony Sloppe’s foxy face. The moment of truth would come when Docherty started realizing its potential.

  ‘Who else?’ said Joe.

  ‘Like I said, Gallie and me had a great time after a bit of a sticky start. It was just meant to be the afternoon, but spilled over so far into the evening, it seemed daft not to have a meal together. Maybe that was a mistake, too much first time out, I don’t know … We had a couple of wee drinks, not too much, you know, but enough to really loosen us up. And I got to talking about what I wanted to do, public interest stuff, Watergate, Woodward and Bernstein, that sort of thing. And she said, yeah, but how was it in the public interest for papers to be sticking their nebs into people’s private lives just for a juicy headline? And before I knew where we were, there was a full-scale row going on. End of a lovely night.’

  ‘I should tell you, you’ve come to the wrong shop for lonely hearts advice,’ said Joe, feeling himself being drawn ever deeper into something he’d rather keep out of.

  Dunk ignored him.

  ‘And I’ve been thinking about it all night. I mean, what is the public interest here, Joe?’

  Joe picked up the discarded book and let it fall open at the photos.

  ‘How about this?’ he said, wondering why the shoot he wasn’t taking advantage of this young-love wavering to get the boy to back right off his investigation. Of course, he knew full well why. The selfish reason was, it was the young reporter who was ultimately responsible for getting him mixed up in this mess, so why should he walk away from it now? The unselfish was, no way the boy could walk and keep his interest in Gallie going. He might think there was now, but there wasn’t.

  ‘I’ve thought about th
at, of course I have,’ said Dunk angrily. ‘The way I’m looking at it is, the old man will die pretty soon and that’ll be that. If he was mixed up in this stuff, he’s obviously got his head around it after all these years. Not much chance of making him feel guilty, and not much point in locking him up for what’s left of his life. All we’d be doing is laying the guilt on the family and sentencing them to suffer for it all the rest of their lives.’

  Emotion made him quite eloquent.

  Joe said, ‘Not knowing can be as bad as knowing sometimes.’

  Dunk said, ‘But Gallie wouldn’t know she didn’t know, if you see what I mean.’

  For a moment Joe was tempted to come clean, but he couldn’t do it. This side of legality, the client had to call the shots.

  He said, ‘You never know what’s going on in people’s heads, Dunk. And deciding not to know is no decision.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Not really sure,’ admitted Joe. ‘I think it means, you’ve got to get the truth of a thing before you decide what to do with it.’

  ‘And just how do you plan to get the truth about what Taras Kovalko really did in the war?’ demanded Dunk Docherty. ‘Just come right out and ask him?’

  ‘Hey, you’ve guessed,’ said Joe. ‘But to do that I’ll need to get him by himself. Look, why don’t you give Gallie a ring, ask her out again. Lay it on thick, tell her you’re sorry, you really enjoyed the evening and would like to try again. Think you could do that, Dunk?’

  ‘Well, aye, I think I could,’ said the boy hopefully. ‘But I’m not sure if she …’

  ‘No harm in trying, and it’s in a good cause.’

  ‘Right, I’ll do it. Can I use your phone?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m expecting an important call,’ said Joe. ‘But you’ve got plenty of time. Off you go now.’

  As soon as the youth was out of the door, Joe picked up the phone and dialled the L and B Building Society.

  ‘Hello, Gallie,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the Thunderdome last night? Pity about the row.’

  ‘How’d you know about that?’ demanded the girl. ‘You’ve been talking to him! What did he say?’

  ‘I think he’s in love,’ said Joe.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ cried the girl, then in a less strident tone, ‘Why’d you say a soft thing like that?’

  ‘Because he’s stopped being the great boy reporter and started worrying about setting you up. Makes you laugh, doesn’t it? Still, it solves the main problem. Just you keep stringing him along, and he’ll soon keep out of your granddad’s hair.’

  ‘What do you mean, stringing him along?’

  ‘You know, fooling him like he thought he was fooling you. Listen, he’s going to ring in a minute to ask you out again tonight. Say yes. It’s a good ploy. Just keep jerking him around till when you finally dump him, he’d rather write about the Council flower fête than your family. Your mum and dad at home tonight?’

  ‘No, it’s their indoor bowling. What do you want to see them for?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Joe. ‘But I thought I might drop by and have a word with your grandda.’

  ‘What about?’ she demanded suspiciously. ‘Something to do with this …’

  ‘Just a social call,’ said Joe. ‘You just keep the boy wonder out of my hair. Don’t stint yourself. Like my Aunt Mirabelle says, true love’s got a deep pocket. Bye.’

  He put the phone down. True love’s got a deep pocket! Well, it was the kind of thing Mirabelle liked to say! He realized he was grinning broadly. Maybe that old aunt of his wasn’t so foolish after all, trying to play Cupid all the time. It certainly made you feel good!

  Whitey let out a noise which said it only made him feel sick.

  ‘Tough tittie,’ said Joe, dialling again.

  ‘Customs and Excise Service. Can I help you?’

  ‘Hope so,’ said Joe. ‘If you decide to take a look inside an envelope, what’s it look like when you’ve finished?’

  After a little demur, they told him. He replaced the receiver and dialled the Bullpat Square Law Centre. Butcher herself answered.

  ‘Oh God, if I’d known it was you again, I’d have let it ring,’ she said.

  ‘Something I need to know,’ said Joe. ‘Someone dies, there’s no will. Who inherits?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Butcher. ‘Is there a spouse? That’s husband or wife.’

  ‘I know what a spouse is,’ said Joe. ‘First thing they taught us at Oxford. And there isn’t one.’

  ‘OK. Kids?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Then it’s Boxing Day for the rest of the family. Parents first. Then brothers and sisters, then half brothers and …’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Joe. ‘Far enough. You know anything about establishing parentage, Butcher?’

  ‘I chase the State. I let the State chase fathers,’ said Butcher. ‘I gather it’s pretty easy these days with DNA testing and stuff like that. But if you want scientific detail, I’m still at the blue eyes, brown eyes level.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I thought it came in Chapter One of the Janet and John All-About-Detection series. How’s it go? Brown is dominant, blue is recessive. That means if one parent has brown eyes, all the kids will. Ergo, only two blue-eyed parents can have blue-eyed kids. Very useful if you’re recruiting for the National Socialists. In your case, Joe, your eyes could be red, white and blue and I still don’t think you’d get in.’

  ‘My eyes are red, white and blue,’ said Joe. ‘One thing more. That school of yours you’re so ashamed of, you still got contacts?’

  ‘I may have. Why?’

  ‘It’s something Georgie Woodbine told me about Mrs C. I’d like to check it out.’

  Butcher listened and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Joe! Have you been reading those Sherlock Holmes stories again? How on earth can I check a thing like that? And why on earth do you want to know?’

  ‘Idle curiosity. Can you find out or not?’

  ‘I suppose I can try, but why I should … How are you getting on with this Georgie Porgie thing anyway?’

  ‘Should have something for you soon,’ said Joe ambiguously.

  ‘Should I hold my breath?’ said Butcher. ‘OK, don’t answer that. Right, Joe, you’ve sweet talked me into it. I’ll see what I can do, on one condition. Triumph or cock-up you give me the full story. No hiding your crap under a bushel. Right?’

  ‘Deal,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll be here till I hear from you.’

  ‘What? You didn’t say it was that urgent.’

  ‘Matter of life and death,’ said Joe.

  He put the phone down and looked at his watch. Early hours of the morning in Oz. Maybe all the answers were there. Or maybe none. How did Sherlock Holmes manage without the phone? Or had it been invented then? He’d have to read the stories sometime. Might pick up a few tips.

  At seven-thirty the phone rang.

  Butcher said, ‘Chalk one up for Georgie Woodbine. She was telling the truth.’

  ‘First time for everything,’ said Joe. ‘Thanks, Butcher.’

  He didn’t put the phone down but merely depressed the rest then dialled a number. If he gave himself time to think he wouldn’t do it. Being a PI was one thing. Sticking your nose into your friends’ business was quite another.

  ‘Trades and Labour Club.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Joe. ‘Stan Bewley there?’

  It would be a wonder if he wasn’t. Stan had been Joe’s union shop steward at Robco Engineering for twenty years and was renowned for not having missed more than a dozen nights down at the Labour Club in all that time.

  ‘Bewley,’ said the familiar gruff voice.

  ‘Stan, it’s Joe Sixsmith.’

  ‘Hell’s bells! How’re you doing, Joe? Spent all your redundancy yet?’

  ‘Long gone,’ said Joe honestly. ‘Stan, something I’d like to know, from way back. Twenty years, about. How’s your memory?’

  ‘Selective,’ said Bewley. ‘What do you w
ant to know?’

  ‘It’s about when a student called Georgina Barnfather joined the local Party. Remember her?’

  ‘The one who married the cop? I remember.’

  ‘Well, before she married the cop, did she get mixed up with anyone in the group? I mean seriously mixed up?’

  There was a long silence. Then Bewley said in a voice noticeably less friendly than before, ‘You’re a private tec now, I hear. Can be a dirty business, that. Can make you forget your friends.’

  ‘Not me, Stan. If you’re talking about the same person I’m thinking about, this is in her own interest, believe me.’

  ‘I’ll believe you, Joe. You weren’t very big on carrying the banner, but the lads all had you down for dead straight. This is the way I remember it.’

  Joe listened, made a note.

  ‘Thanks, Stan. I owe you a pint.’

  ‘Not for that, you don’t,’ said Bewley sternly. ‘I’m not your snout! But you can buy me a couple any time you like for beating my brains out to keep you lot in work long as I did!’

  Joe put the phone down. It rang almost immediately.

  It was Merv Golightly.

  ‘Joe, I’m at Long Liz’s. He’s just turned up.’

  ‘Great. You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘Yeah. I got a lovely view right into the apartment. Doesn’t seem bothered about drawing the curtains either. No sign of the cop’s wife yet though.’

  ‘She’ll come,’ said Joe confidently. ‘Can you hang around?’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  Merv lowered his voice.

  ‘Might be a bit difficult. Room with the best view is Liz’s bedroom.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll work something out,’ said Joe.

  Joe put the phone down. It was getting on for eight. Time to move. He picked up the book he’d bought in London and put it in a Tesco carrier. Whitey, who associated plastic carriers with food, sat up and took notice.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Joe, full of guilt. ‘I know you’ve been stuck in here for ages, but it’s better than waiting in the car on a cold night, isn’t it?’

  He went to the door. The cat, realizing he was being abandoned again, let out his I-may-not-be-here-when-you-get-back howl.