Born Guilty

by Reginald Hill

  ‘No chance without I get you to believe it,’ said Joe. ‘Look, Willie, just imagine it. This poor kid suddenly has his life stood on its head. He hates the guy he’s grown up thinking is his dad. That’s enough to turn anyone’s skull inside out. Then suddenly he’s told this guy isn’t his dad after all, so he needn’t have felt all that hate and guilt anyway. Then he comes here, looking for his real father. All he wants at Hoot Hall is to find out anything he can about Dickie Calverley. But what does Mrs C. see?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Woodbine.

  ‘She sees danger. She sees some cheeky chancer who’s come to take away from her own boy the only bit of inheritance he’d picked up from his useless father. Robbie was the elder son. If Robbie could prove his parentage, this place and the estate would go to him.’

  ‘You sure of that?’ said Woodbine.

  ‘Pretty sure. And that’s all that Mrs C. would need to be to make her decide the simplest thing was to get rid of him. Perhaps he was in a bad way. He’d clearly picked up a habit on his travels. Perhaps it was easy to give him a nudge in the right direction …’

  ‘Perhaps he just keeled over and died,’ suggested Woodbine. ‘They might have just shifted him to save the embarrassment.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Joe. ‘Except you don’t try to kill someone to avoid embarrassment, do you? And I reckon they tried to kill me. I hope you’re taking a long careful look at that cattle grid.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve got men going over every inch of this heap,’ said Woodbine. ‘All on your say so. And if they don’t come up with something, and she starts complaining to the chief, you may find out just how far a reasonable man will go because he’s been embarrassed! You know what she’s going to say, don’t you? If I was so worried by the possibility that this boy might be my husband’s child that I killed him to conceal the fact, why then did I hire a private detective to establish his identity?’

  Joe began to laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s so much to explain, I’d forgotten I’d not got on to that.’

  ‘Oh God. There’s more. Fact, or just another flight of fancy?’

  ‘You decide,’ said Joe. ‘The kid dies, no matter how. They dump him at St Monkey’s, problem solved. Then something comes up which changes everything. Here’s the way I see it. Fred, who’s got an expensive little habit himself, spots that Pam Vicary has promised to try to send her boy some more cash for his birthday. So along he goes to the Down Under Club with Robbie’s passport and instead of money from Oz, he gets the lawyer’s letter. This he shows to his mum who I bet does a bit of discreet checking. You know what she finds? What I found out from Greenhill on the phone tonight.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Woodbine, with an unconvincing air of resignation.

  ‘That Malcolm Vicary was worth a couple of million quid. That it all went to his widow, and when she died, it all went to Robbie, her son. And when he died, without making a will of course, you know who’s first in line to cop the lot? His half brother, Fred Calverley! But only if it can be proved they are half brothers. So suddenly Mrs C.’s problem is not to hide the connection but find a way to bring it out with minimum suspicion.’

  ‘So she hires a PI she reckons wouldn’t notice a clue unless it jumped up and hit him, then she fixes for a few to be thrown in his face?’ mused Woodbine. ‘You know, Joe, for the first time you’re beginning to convince me.’

  Joe felt this was a bit gratuitous, but he had to admit it made unflattering sense. Dunk Docherty had come along as a bonus to the woman, meaning that Fred could hand over the passport and letter without risk of recognition.

  ‘But the lawyer’s letter?’ objected Woodbine suddenly. ‘You say that Fred picked it up from the D.U. Club. But it was still there when you went.’

  ‘Simple. His mum made him go back to town one morning, hang around till the postman delivered the club’s mail, then pushed the letter through the flap to land with the others. I wondered why it was sealed with Sellotape. I checked with Customs and they said, yes, they sometimes opened letters and packets, but they always resealed them with their own special tape and it was marked on the envelope that Customs had opened it.’

  ‘Proof, proof, proof!’ demanded Woodbine.

  ‘Someone picked up some of Robbie’s mail after he was dead, it’s in the club’s record book,’ said Joe. ‘And it could be worth fingerprinting the lawyer’s letter and envelope in case Fred left his dabs.’

  That was the best he could do. He felt very, very tired. Time to get out of here.

  The door opened and Dora Calverley came in. She didn’t look like a woman under suspicion of murder.

  ‘Edgar,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what it is your men are looking for, but I must admire the energy they’re expending looking for it. The poor dears will be quite exhausted when they’ve finished so I’ve made a pile of sandwiches in the kitchen. Do feel free to help yourself. And Mr Sixsmith, how are you feeling? The ambulance is just coming across the field. It should be here any moment, then you can get those cuts and bruises seen to properly, can’t you?’

  Before Joe could think of a reply, a pair of paramedics came into the room with a stretcher.

  ‘Right, sir,’ one of them said to Joe. ‘You look like the one. Let’s have a look at you.’

  Joe said, ‘I’m OK. But I’ll come to Casualty with you. Anything to get out of here.’

  As he made for the door, aided by the paramedics, he heard the woman say to Woodbine, ‘Poor chap. This is the second car accident in a couple of days. Perhaps he got up too soon after the first. I should have guessed he was still in a bad way, the things he was saying about you and that poor child in the box.’

  Joe halted in the doorway and turned round.

  ‘Give it a rest, Mrs C.,’ he said wearily. ‘You know, and I know, and soon the whole world will know, that that poor child in the box was your husband’s kid, and you and his precious half brother conspired to get rid of him.’

  He didn’t anticipate she was going to collapse in a paroxysm of guilt. He half expected she would throw an indignant rage and suggest his destination should be the psycho unit, not Casualty.

  Instead she regarded him dumbstruck for a moment, then said, ‘Is that what this is all about? Dickie’s son? But that’s imposs … Dickie’s son? Oh God, Mr Sixsmith, that would explain it, this obsession of mine! Didn’t I say that to you, Mr Sixsmith? I had this sense of empathy amounting almost to recognition … as if somehow I knew … Oh God. Isn’t that what I said to you, Mr Sixsmith?’

  I’m being rehearsed as a defence witness! thought Joe.

  And recognizing that there are traps deeper even than a cattle grid that a clever woman can set for a foolish fellow, Joe said, ‘Take me out of here!’

  26

  At Casualty they patched him up and talked about keeping him in but he said he had a nervous friend who needed him at home.

  The nervous friend clearly couldn’t believe his eyes that Joe was coming home in this state again. But next morning when Joe, feeling he’d been beaten by experts, set about dispensing an extra large dose of his favourite medicine, the English breakfast, the nervous friend nobly gave his forgiveness and took his own medicine like a cat.

  Feeling a little better, Joe decided he would be safer at the office. He didn’t spell out to himself what he’d be safer from. Trouble was, he recalled with a pang, he had no transport and he certainly didn’t feel fit enough to fight his way on to a bus.

  He rang the firm who had Merv on their books.

  ‘Hi, Joe, sorry, Merv’s not available, hasn’t been since last evening, thought he was doing some job for you.’

  ‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said Joe. ‘He’s probably grabbing a bit of sleep. Just send someone who can stay at twenty and likes to keep at least three wheels on the deck, OK?’

  At the office he ignored protests from Whitey who didn’t like the lift but did like company up the stairs, and got in the narrow tin box. As usual it
took for ever, but that’s what he felt like he had this morning.

  The office smelt damp and cold. He switched the electric fire on with a kick of his foot and collapsed into his chair. Professionally, there was no reason to be here. He’d had three clients. Gallie Hacker was happy, if knowing your granddad was a killer and a bigamist was happiness. Dora Calverley was (he hoped) under arrest. And Mavis Dalgety. He could foresee little comfort there, but there was nothing he could do about it just now. Time, in fact, for a bit of the negative whatsit. Let the rest of the world do the worrying.

  The only other thing of immediate concern was The Creation. Just two more rehearsals then the big night. He drew in a deep breath of anticipation and felt pain flicker across his bruised ribs.

  ‘Oh shoot, Whitey,’ he said in alarm. ‘Suppose I can’t sing?’

  The cat, somnolent after his share of the full English, yawned his opinion that this would be no great loss to the world of music, sacred or profane.

  ‘Thank you, Pavarotti,’ said Joe.

  Only one way to find out. He went to his tape recorder. The Creation was still in. He pressed the start key. It came on at Part Three, Scene Three, during the recitative introducing Adam and Eve’s final duet. He listened for a while, then as the duet itself commenced took a deep breath and joined in, easy at first then increasing the volume.

  Graceful consort! At thy side

  softly fly the golden hours.

  Every moment brings new rapture:

  every care is put to rest.

  Not bad, not bad, he thought as he listened to Eve’s response.

  Spouse adored! At thy side

  purest joy o’erflow the heart.

  Life and all I am is thine:

  my reward thy love shall be.

  It wasn’t till the third line that he realized another voice had joined the soloist’s. He turned to see Beryl Boddington standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Heard you’d been in Casualty so thought I’d check. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Fair,’ he said. ‘How’m I sounding?’

  ‘Fair,’ she said with a smile. ‘Shall we?’

  The solo exchange had finished. Now Adam and Eve’s voices were joined in sweet unison.

  ‘Why not?’ said Joe. ‘Only chance we’ll get to star.’

  Together, eye beams twisted, they began to sing.

  But without thee, what is to me

  the morning dew,

  the breath of ev’n,

  the savoury fruit,

  the fragrant bloom?

  With thee is every joy enhanced,

  with thee delight is ever new,

  with thee is life incessant bliss;

  thine, thine it whole shall be.

  Joe pressed the stop key.

  ‘That was good,’ he said. He didn’t just mean the singing.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Beryl. ‘Incessant bliss aside, Joe, what have you been up to?’

  He listened carefully for the exasperated hectoring note Mirabelle would have injected into the question. Not finding it, he said, ‘Had a bit of a do with the Morris. Cattle grid collapsed. Reckon I’ve totalled it.’

  ‘Oh Joe, I’m so sorry.’

  Her sincerity of feeling touched Joe more than any concern for himself would have done. She knew how he loved that car. Letting what matters to someone else matter to you is a large step … to what?

  With thee is every joy enhanced

  Whoops. Careful, boy, he admonished himself. And then got angry with himself for being so mean spirited.

  He said, ‘Fancy some tea?’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ she said.

  She went into the tiny washroom to fill the kettle. With perfect timing, Willie Woodbine came through the door.

  ‘No half measures with you, Joe,’ he said almost admiringly. ‘Guessed if you weren’t in hospital, you’d be here.’

  ‘Good news or bad?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Mixed. Bad is we can’t find anything to show Robbie Vicary was ever at Hoot Hall. No evidence either that anyone tampered with the cattle grid. Could have been natural decay.’

  ‘And John Lennon could’ve died of heartburn,’ said Joe. ‘You said the news was mixed. Anything better?’

  ‘Well, I’ve spoken to my wife.’

  Chance for a real PI wise-crack here.

  ‘She’s home then,’ said Joe neutrally.

  It still got him the suspicious glare.

  ‘Yes, she’s home. And she says there was a call, someone asking about Dickie Calverley. Could have been an Australian accent. And she did put him on to Hoot Hall.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said Joe.

  ‘From a prosecution point of view it’s nothing. Pointless even trying to work it in. Just imagine what a defence brief would do with it!’

  Joe imagined. Senior policeman’s wife backs hubby and tries to fit up old friend.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry gets you no baked beans,’ said Woodbine. Joe didn’t know the phrase but recognized it meant Woodbine had his own Aunt Mirabelle. Perhaps everyone did.

  He said, ‘We’ve had the bad and the not-so-bad. You promised mixed. So what’s the good?’

  ‘You were right about Fred Calverley being a user. We found a nice little stash at the Hall. I wanted to bring him in for questioning but Dora insisted on ringing the family lawyer first. And in the meantime, young Fred did a bunk.’

  ‘You don’t sound too worried.’

  Woodbine smiled.

  ‘You don’t get far questioning a junkie with a smart brief and a doting mother on the spot,’ he said.

  Joe was with him. Cut off from his stash, Fred would have to surface again soon. Get him before he scored and he’d be a soft target for some hard questions before his lawyer and mother could put in an appearance. Might not be admissible, of course, but knowing what it is you want to know is half the policeman’s game.

  Joe didn’t approve, but so what? Tell the Pope you didn’t like poverty and he’d say it was better than damnation.

  He said, ‘Take it easy. He’s only a kid, and from what I hear, he’s had a hard time.’

  ‘With a mummy who thinks the sun shines out of his arse? You’re joking,’ said Woodbine incredulously.

  ‘There’s all kinds of hard times,’ said Joe.

  ‘I never had you down for a bleeding heart,’ said Woodbine.

  ‘You neither,’ said Joe. ‘So what brings you here apart from giving me an update?’

  Woodbine said, ‘I need some names. Who was it told you about Vicary asking questions up at the University? Who was it who picked up the wallet and passport?’

  Joe hesitated and Woodbine snarled, ‘Come on! If this thing’s going to go anywhere, I need to talk to all these people myself.’

  Joe felt some sympathy for him. The guy was in a fix, he could see that. Mrs Calverley couldn’t be a comfortable person to investigate. Too many old boy strings for her to pull, so Willie would need to be a lot surer of himself than he was before pushing forward. Equally, he had to be sure that there was nothing going to jump up and kick him in the butt if he decided to drop the whole thing.

  But feeding him that poor kid from the Scratchings and Dunk Docherty needed some thought. Could be argued the girl could only benefit from being put under the spotlight. Find out who her folks were, get her some medical help. But Dunk was another matter. Pressurize him and all the Taras Kovalko stuff could come spilling out, either to Woodbine, which was bad, or to his editor, which was worse.

  He said, ‘I’d need to think about that.’

  Woodbine shook his head in mock amazement.

  ‘What’s this I’m hearing? Request from the police for assistance and you need to think about it? Oh Joe, Joe. This isn’t grouchy old Sergeant Chivers you’re jerking around. This is me, your friend in need. And be assured you’ll need a friend if you start pulling my plonker!’

  His voice had ha
rshened to a threat and he took a couple of steps towards Joe as if he were minded to grab him.

  There was a gentle cough from the washroom door. Beryl stood there holding the kettle.

  ‘Hello. Mr Woodbine, I’m just making a pot of tea. Would you fancy some?’

  Woodbine turned and stared at her for a long moment.

  His mind’s ticking up everything he’s said, thought Joe.

  It didn’t come to enough to cause concern, but enough to call a truce.

  ‘No thanks, Miss Boddington,’ he said. ‘Things to do. Joe, keep in touch, eh?’

  He left.

  Beryl said, ‘He remembered my name.’

  ‘That’s the first thing they teach them at police college,’ said Joe. ‘Never hit anyone whose name you don’t know. I could murder that tea.’

  When it was brewed and they were sitting drinking it, Beryl said, ‘You like to tell me what precisely you’ve been up to? Or shall I just make up my own story round what I overheard?’

  Did client confidentiality still apply when you were trying to put your client in jail? Joe decided not. It was the thin end of a wedge, however, and when Dunk Docherty’s role came up, he found himself telling Beryl about the Kovalko affair too. Of course, there was a hidden agenda here, he recognized. It meant he could clear up any residual misunderstanding about his relationship with Galina. Though why he should want to do that, he wasn’t ready to be clear about.

  The only thing he didn’t mention, because there was no need to, was his other interest in Georgie Woodbine.

  When he had finished, Beryl sat in silence for a while then said, ‘So you’re not going to tell me about Mrs Woodbine?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There’s something else there. I saw you talking to her at the rehearsal the other night. There was definitely something.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve explained all that, about Robbie Vicary having her number and me getting this idea that maybe Willie was up to something …’

  ‘No,’ she said with an emphatic shake of the head. ‘It was later that night that you went down to the Scratchings … You dumped me, remember? And you didn’t get the wallet from Docherty till the next morning. So give!’