‘And you got a place for Debbie,’ completed Sixsmith. ‘You must pay her very well if she can afford a pad like this.’
‘OK, so she doesn’t pay an economic rent. But she doesn’t know that. All I told her was that my brother-in-law’s flat was coming vacant and because of his unfortunate circumstances, I could put in a word with the managers who were looking for a new tenant for the rest of the lease. She’s no idea I’m subletting it to her. I know Debbie. Any hint of being a kept woman and she’d be out of here without a second thought!’
Sixsmith regarded him with the weary cynicism of one who had been pulled into bed by a passionate witch only the night before and said, ‘I dare say you’re right, Mr Andover. I doubt if she’d need more than one thought either.’
It was a good line but now he was stuck. Whatever he thought about Debbie Stipplewhite’s understanding of her situation, he couldn’t really see either love or money persuading her to share her flat with a randy Italian who’d just butchered his family.
On the other hand, Andover had just admitted to a pretty good motive for joining in a conspiracy to kill his wife. But why bother with the others? Maybe Rocca had his own motives for killing them and had offered to throw in Gina in return for Andover’s cooperation? Not that he had been all that cooperative. He’d gone out of his way to give himself an alibi, but as for covering his brother-in-law’s tracks, nothing.
It was all beginning to make his head ache. He needed a clear mind for this sort of heavy traffic, and the only clear mind he knew belonged to Butcher.
The girl with yellow hair came back into the room with a mug of coffee. How much had she heard? wondered Sixsmith. And how much of what she heard had she known already?
He stood up and said, ‘I’ll be going now. We’ll be in touch, Mr Andover.’
‘About what?’ said Andover with an attempt at aggression, but he couldn’t keep the relief out of his face.
Joe gave them his enigmatic smile and got out quick.
He didn’t fancy the stairway in case old Steelcap was still wandering around, so he walked to the lift. It stopped at the first floor in its descent and a young man in a sharp suit with a carnation buttonhole and a fifty quid hair-do ushered a middle-aged couple in, or would have done if they hadn’t snapped to a halt at sight of Joe.
‘Going down?’ he said, smiling.
The young man’s eyes had glazed for a second, then he said, ‘Foyer,’ in a commanding voice before resuming his half-moon smile and saying as he urged the couple forward, ‘Service with discretion is our watchword. Security without obtrusiveness. People who can afford this quality of accommodation deserve to feel they belong to a community that is safe in every sense and that’s what we at Cornelian Estates aim to provide.’
This is young Mr Stornaway, thought Sixsmith. And the sod’s trying to make out like I’m the lift man!
The lift hit the ground floor. The doors opened to reveal a bit of unobtrusive security in the shape of a uniformed man whose toe caps glinted.
Sixsmith put his arm across the middle-aged couple’s shoulders and urging them out of the lift before him said, ‘So maybe we’re going to be neighbours here at Samgarth? Now that will be truly great. You like music? I got a heap of friends thinking of moving in here too and when they hear from me what nice folks they’ll be sharing with, they’re going to be truly keen. Like Stornaway here says, we’ll make this a real community!’
The words carried him across the foyer and out of the door.
He said to the dumbfounded trio, ‘Good night now. Don’t want to be late for my shift at the canning factory. Good jobs is hard to find these days!’
He was still laughing at their expressions as he slid into the driving seat of his car. Whitey raised his head and gave him a pained look which said loud and clear, You’ve been drinking!
‘Not yet,’ said Joe Sixsmith. ‘But that’s not such a bad idea either. Let’s see what our friend Ms Butcher’s got in her drawer, shall we?’
CHAPTER 14
Butcher said, ‘Just the man I want to see.’
Sixsmith looked behind him to see if someone else had come in.
‘Ha ha,’ said Butcher.
She was at her desk, her small frame concealed by the piles of files before her, her head wreathed in cheroot smoke like a grumbling volcano. Theoretically the Law Centre shut at six, but it was rare that Butcher got away before eight and often it was even later.
‘You’ll kill yourself,’ said Sixsmith.
‘Working late, you mean? Well, if even my friends take advantage, why should I expect strangers to show more consideration?’
Abashed, Sixsmith said, ‘Look, I’ll give you a ring tomorrow …’
‘Don’t be coy, Sixsmith. Didn’t I say I wanted to see you? Listen, have you got that heroin back yet?’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Sixsmith. ‘You admit it does exist now?’
‘Not till I see it,’ she said. ‘Like a drink?’
‘Sole purpose of visit,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Whitey!’
The cat had dropped off his shoulder on to the desk and rubbed its bum against a stack of files which toppled slowly to the floor. Much taken by the phenomenon, Whitey moved on to the next pile. Joe snatched him up and said, ‘Sorry. Were they in order?’
‘Sort of,’ said Butcher. ‘But not necessarily in the best order. That cat may know something we don’t.’
She produced a bottle of slivovitz and poured it into plastic cups.
‘Present from a grateful client. Funny how rarely gratitude expresses itself in cash.’
‘I paid for your lunch at the Tea-Room.’
She looked at him over her cup and said, ‘My, we are defensive. Must be something really heavy you want to see me about.’
‘No, I just need someone to organize my thoughts. What do you want?’
‘Same thing, oddly enough. More gratitude?’
She held up the bottle.
‘I’m driving. But the cat …’
With a sigh, Butcher, who reckoned there was something psychologically deviant about Sixsmith’s relationship with his cat, poured some plum brandy in a clean ashtray and put it on the floor. After a cautious sniff, Whitey sucked it up like a Hoover.
‘It’s this Bannerjee thing,’ said Butcher. ‘I’ve talked to him again. I told him what had been happening with you and those thugs …’
‘Was that wise?’ interrupted Sixsmith.
‘Listen,’ she said acerbically. ‘My clients are often in the habit of lying to me, but one thing I make sure is, I never lie to them. He got very agitated indeed. He says it’s on account of his wife and kids.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ said Sixsmith.
‘Reasonable and true aren’t the same, not in Luton,’ said Butcher. ‘Thing is, he’s got so worried, he’s changed his story. He says he’s scared he might in fact have got mixed up with some drug traffickers. Inadvertently.’
‘Inadvertently.’ Sixsmith savoured the word. ‘Go on.’
‘He says now that one day when he was wandering around Marbella, he bumped into a Spaniard he knew vaguely through his job. Herringshaw’s are like most British firms at the moment, reaching out to Europe with one hand while the other’s trying to beat off the mugging they’re getting from the recession at home. This Spaniard gets very friendly, takes the Bannerjees out to lunch. They meet again a couple of times and on the day they’re flying back home, he turns up at the hotel and presents Bannerjee with a couple of litre bottles of Spanish brandy as a farewell gift.’
‘Must be a really likeable guy, your client,’ said Sixsmith. ‘People go out of their way to be nice to him.’
‘I wish you’d come right out with it and say you didn’t like the sound of Charley Herringshaw from the start,’ said Butcher irritably. ‘No one likes a smart-arse.’
Sixsmith, who had no awareness that he had ever indicated, or was now indicating, that he didn’t like the sound of Herringshaw, looked blank, which was
evidently the same as looking like a smart-arse, for Butcher rolled her eyes and said, ‘OK, so it’s much more likely this Spaniard said the bottles were a prezzie for Herringshaw, but that’s not the way Bannerjee’s telling it. Can you blame him? The man’s his boss and these are hard times for redundant middle-aged business executives, even if you’ve got all the best qualifications and your face is white.’
‘So what happened to the bottles?’ inquired Joe, trying to keep his eye on the main object.
‘Bannerjee’s no innocent abroad. He’s heard all the warnings about carrying stuff you haven’t packed yourself. So he opened one of the bottles and found it wasn’t liquid flowing out, but powder. Now Spanish brandy may not be the smoothest drink on earth, but at least it’s wet. It was too late to try to get hold of the Spaniard and Bannerjee didn’t want to leave the stuff lying around. So last thing he did before leaving the hotel was pour all the powder down the loo and flush it away.’
Joe considered, then said, ‘How’s this leave him in law?’
‘Out of reach,’ said Butcher. ‘There’s been no offence committed, and he’s not even certain it was drugs.’
‘Is that how DI Yarrop sees it?’
‘He says it’s a step in the right direction and he’d like to hang on to Bannerjee in case he takes any more steps.’
‘Naturally you objected.’
‘A little,’ grinned Butcher. ‘Only it wasn’t any use.’
‘Yarrop too smart for you?’
‘No. Bannerjee said he was happy to continue helping with inquiries. It seems to me like he reckons he’s safer in custody than he would be out in the big world with your friends Blue and Grey looking for him.’
‘But it’s OK them looking for me, is it?’ complained Joe. ‘I don’t think I’ll join his fan club. You ask him about the bull?’
‘Of course. He said it is just a bull, a kid’s toy, nothing in it.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I believe, either way, that’s all he could say,’ said Butcher. ‘Oh, take that look off your face, Sixsmith. Yes, I believe him, but I’m just a gullible woman, as witness my association with you. But it would be very much simpler if you could prove us both right by finding that damn bull and cutting it open. You are working on it, I hope?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ said Sixsmith with airy confidence.
He would have liked to ask her advice as to how he might do this as Merv’s recovery scheme seemed far too vague. But sometimes he got pissed off with the way Butcher switched from treating him like he was some kind of genius, which he knew he wasn’t, to treating him like some kind of moron, which he didn’t think he was either.
And besides he needed to consult her about the Casa Mia case, didn’t he, and one thing at a time is quite enough even for a bright lawyer.
He said, ‘Oh, there is something you might be able to help with …’
She listened intently, only rolling her eyes heavenward a couple of times.
When he finished she said, ‘You know, I think there’s a really good case here.’
‘You do?’ he said hopefully.
‘Yes. Trouble is, it’s for invasion of privacy and Andover could make it against you.’
‘You don’t think he’s got anything to do with the killings, then?’
She gave herself another snort of slivovitz. Sixsmith envied her doubly. First she didn’t drive, and second she seemed able to put alcohol away like she had a tube to her own private cellar.
‘I think from what you say he’s probably not too grief-stricken to be rid of his wife and his in-laws, but that’s a long way short of conspiring to knock them off.’
‘I’ve proved he had a motive.’
‘You’ve proved he had a bit on the side, all very nicely set up for his delectation both during working hours and after. All the sex, none of the household chores—most men’s idea of heaven. And what about Rocca? He did the killing, right? So what’s his motive? To help his brother-in-law out? I doubt it. No, you’d need something which would tie them in together.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like money. We know Rocca’s in Queer Street. Bankrupt, relying on hand-outs. What about Andover?’
‘How should I know? They don’t let black PI’s look at white men’s bank accounts.’
She whistled softly and said, ‘That’s the first racist remark I’ve ever heard from you, Sixsmith. I hope you’re not on the turn?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that one minute you’re talking invasion of privacy, next you’re implying I don’t dig deep enough, even where it’s illegal.’
‘No, I’m not! I’m just asking if you use your eyes. What kind of clothes does he wear? What kind of car does he drive?’
‘A Fiesta. We know that because it’s all over the papers, that’s what the cops are looking for,’ said Sixsmith with an air of triumph. ‘Clothes, just ordinary clothes, nothing flashy.’
‘Do you mean Savile Row nothing flashy, or chain store nothing flashy?’
He said, ‘Chain store off the peg. I recall thinking he’s sort of between stock sizes. I get the same trouble with trousers sometimes. You see, I’ve got these long calves for my height …’
‘Sixsmith, fascinating though the details of your anatomy are, let’s stick to the point. So this fellow drives a small car and buys his clothes off the peg. He doesn’t sound rolling in it, does he? Yet he lives on Coningsby Rise and he’s able to buy up the remaining term of Rocca’s lease.’
‘According to Mrs Rathbone, their neighbour, it’s old Tomassetti who had the moneybags. He paid for the house, it seems and that must be worth a packet.’
‘So whoever inherits will do OK. What about insurance? You say he’s an insurance broker? With those guys, salesmanship begins at home. There could be big money there too. But only with the lot of them dead.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sixsmith, getting quite excited. ‘And as for buying up the lease on the Samgarth flat, Andover must have a lot of client money going through his hands and he could have dipped in there, which would make him desperate to get his hands on any inheritance coming his way.’
Butcher clapped.
‘You see, Sixsmith, like the poet says, it’s not what you know that matters, it’s being able to imagine what you know.’
This sounded a bit Times crosswordish to Sixsmith, but he got the drift that she was saying something nice, albeit in her oblique satirical style.
He said, ‘So where does this leave us?’
‘Us? Hold on, Sixsmith. There’s no us here, just you.’
Sixsmith’s face dropped and Whitey, who had curled himself over his empty ashtray as if he had hopes it was a widow’s cruse, let out a yell which was probably an appeal for more but came over like a sympathetic protest.
‘Oh all right,’ said Butcher. ‘I’ll do the legal bit and see what I can find out about the will. But tit-for-tat, Sixsmith, you get your black ass moving and bring me that bull, you hear me now?’
Her attempt at a Deep South accent was quite passable and she’d even managed to get her voice into a bass baritone register.
‘That’s good,’ said Sixsmith. ‘You ever thought of doing a drag show?’
‘Sod off, Sixsmith,’ said Butcher. ‘No, hang about. I was almost forgetting. The other reason I wanted to see you, Gwen Baker rang a couple of hours ago. Seems that when she got home this evening she found a message on her answering machine asking her husband to pop in to the police station to identify a locket which matched the description of one stolen from their house. Naturally, being Gwen, she got down there tooty-sweety and claimed the thing. But when she got home she opened it and found it was empty. Next she tried to ring you, only you weren’t to be rung. So in the end she contacted me. I told her I am not your social secretary, but I was able to reassure her that the contents of the locket were safe in my hands, which seemed to delight her very much. She told me to burn them, but I’m a bit chary about destroying other people’s pr
operty. So here it is. You can give it to Gwen when you go to collect your wages.’
She took a matchbox out of a drawer and handed it over.
Sixsmith opened the box and looked at the contents.
‘Funny,’ he said. ‘I read a bit about love charms and such down at the library, and they all seemed to work by being either fed to the person you were after, or buried outside his window or hidden under his pillow, something like that.’
‘You’re not starting to believe this crap?’ said Butcher. ‘If so, you can really sod off.’
‘I’m sodding, I’m sodding,’ said Sixsmith.
He always felt good after an encounter with Butcher and the feeling of mental alertness lasted till he was driving down the High Street and realized he had no real idea where he was going.
There was the quest for the Spanish bull, of course. He looked for a reason to postpone that and found it in Butcher’s suggestion that he should collect from Baker while her gratitude was still lukewarm.
He dug her card out of his pocket, and turned the car towards Beacon Heights, which was where you lived if you were rich enough to look down on the inmates of Coningsby Rise. Not that physically speaking it was all that high. Around Luton ‘heights’ means anything above a hundred feet. But there was no doubt that the Baker house was the highest of the lot.
It took a long time for anyone to answer the doorbell and it was hardly worth waiting for.
‘What the hell do you want?’ snapped Gwen Baker.
Perhaps he’d disturbed her in the shower. She was certainly wearing what looked like a very exotic bathrobe in shot silk with a shimmering design of five-pointed stars and interlocking circles, but she didn’t look damp. In fact she looked rather flushed and overheated.
‘I want paid,’ said Sixsmith who, though he sometimes fell short of matching finesse with finesse, never had any problem meeting bluntness with bluntness.
‘What?’ She scowled. ‘You usually dun your clients at this time of night?’
‘I could send you an invoice to your office,’ said Sixsmith defiantly. If she wanted to turn him into an ant or something, let her go ahead. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about the bull any more!
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