A Fairly Dangerous Thing

by Reginald Hill

  ‘What? For long?

  He looked at Lord Jim who gazed blankly back.

  ‘I don’t know. You’d better not wait. Help yourself to the pizza if you fancy it.’

  ‘I brought a pie,’ she said as if this signified something special, irrevocable, like a marriage vow. In fact, thought Joe, there was something religious in the way she held it out before her.

  Lord Jim reached out and broke off a piece which he wordlessly put into his mouth. Alice looked at him in and amazement.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Joe desperately. ‘Urgent business.’

  He moved towards the door, putting on his jacket.

  ‘Will I see you later?’ asked Alice.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m sorry. Do help yourself to the pizza.’

  He went through the door ahead of Lord Jim who, surprisingly, paused and looked back.

  ‘Nice pie,’ he said.

  This time the rendezvous was more in keeping with what Joe had envisaged on Saturday. Lord Jim led him into the back door of an old run-down pub in a section of town scheduled for demolition in the near future. Mine host was a thin, taut-skinned man of about thirty-five with a sickleshaped scar on his cheek. Beside him Lord Jim looked like the laughing cavalier.

  They crossed the bar-room, the kind of drinking quarters to which sawdust would have been a luxurious addition, and went through another door into what seemed to be a storeroom. Despite the broad daylight outside, it was gloomy in here. The single-paned window high in the wall had had an extractor fan let into it which cut its transluminary powers by half, and the layer of grime and cobwebs over the remaining glass almost completed the job. Barrels and crates were strewn around and the place reeked of stale beer.

  A bare bulb dangled from a frayed wire and even as Joe looked at it, it was switched on.

  ‘Hello, Joe, glad you could come.’

  Cess came into the room and sat down on the one chair.

  ‘Sit down, Joe.’

  Joe perched himself gingerly on a beer-crate.

  ‘Right,’ said Cess. He reached up behind him and pulled the cord of the fan. Surprisingly it whirled into action at once.

  ‘Fumes,’ said Cess. ‘They gather in a place like this.’

  ‘Why do we?’ asked Joe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gather in a place like this?’

  ‘Funny,’ said Cess. He didn’t sound sincere, thought Joe, watching with fascination as the vortex of the fan-blades sucked towards it a couple of thin lines of a cobweb which had been spun across the corner of the window.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe, not sure what he was apologizing for.

  ‘Right,’ said the ginger man. ‘Just think on. I’m doing you a favour. I’m giving you a chance to collect plenty. With no risk, not to you, any road.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Joe. Suddenly he saw a gleam of light. ‘You mean, you wouldn’t want me …’

  ‘To go on the job with us?’ asked Cess in disgust. ‘I’d rather take Lord Jim’s old Betty.’

  Joe looked with new interest at Lord Jim, in whose craggy features he seemed to detect for the first time something other than blank menace. His wife? Mother? It was unimaginable. It was certainly unaskable.

  ‘What we want from you, Joe, is your expertise. That’s it. Your advice. Your considered opinion. Nothing more. That’s all we would expect from your sort.’

  He nodded sagely at his own psychological insight.

  My sort! thought Joe indignantly. This low bloody criminal’s condescending to me!

  ‘Look, Cess,’ he said, trying not to sound too ingratiating. ‘Just exactly what do you want me to do?’

  Play for time. There was nothing criminal about talking. Was there? Or could they get you for conspiracy even if no physical attempt at the crime had been made? They’d have to prove it. Tape-recordings of conversations, that sort of thing.

  He looked uneasily round the room. Anything could be concealed among these ill-stacked beer crates. But it was hardly likely. His gaze drifted to the fan. The frail strands of cobweb were hanging on against the sucking and tugging of the airstream. Suddenly Joe felt a great deal of sympathy with the web. Like himself, it was struggling for survival. But play for time. The fan couldn’t suck for ever.

  Cess lit a cigarette.

  ‘What room’s next to the Banqueting Hall?’

  Joe did not need to be told where they were.

  ‘To the east the Long Gallery. To the west the Fountain Room.’

  ‘How do you get into the Banqueting Hall?’

  ‘Through either of the rooms I’ve mentioned. Or via the service door which fits flush into the panelling beside the fireplace.’

  ‘Where does that lead?’

  ‘Into a long corridor, down a flight of stairs, and eventually to the kitchens.’

  Cess drew on his cigarette and glanced down. Suddenly Joe realized he was reading the questions from a piece of paper resting on his knee. It was a kind of viva voce examination.

  ‘What’s on your left as you go into the Music Room?’

  ‘You mean, through the Green Chamber door?’

  Cess momentarily looked uneasy.

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

  Joe was surprised to find he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  ‘On the left?’ he said musingly. ‘Well, now. On the wall is a large and, to my taste, rather ugly painting, artist unknown, early eighteenth-century Dutch school probably. It depicts Orpheus being torn to pieces by the Bacchantes. Evidently, like the good trouper he was, he kept on playing to the bitter end. Below the painting, about five feet from the wall, is a harpsichord, again eighteenth-century, manufactured by Jacob Kirkman in 1777. Moving to the centre of the room, we first encounter, rather discordantly I always feel in a place of melody, a rather tatty Turkish silk carpet, brought back by the sixth lord from his post-Byronic eastern tour in 1832. A couple of Victorian music stands and a chair which claims a pedigree but might well be a forties Woolworth’s, are grouped around a beautiful bass viol, made by Barak Norman in 1723. Shall I go further?’

  Cess didn’t answer but glanced down at his piece of paper once more.

  ‘How many windows has the library?’

  ‘Which library?’

  Cess examined him coldly to see if he was trying to be funny. Apparently satisfied, he looked at his paper again.

  ‘You mean there’s more than one library?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’s the main library, which is what all the visitors troop through. But there’s a smaller version in the private apartments. It’s called the Book Room, it’s a kind of study. Not that any of that lot seem to do any studying,’ he added gloomily. ‘But that’s where all the best stuff is kept.’

  ‘Books, you mean?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘This is in the private apartments? But you’ve been in it?’

  Too late, Joe began to suspect he had been foolish in appearing so knowledgeable. This had been a heaven-sent chance to appear ignorant, slow, unreliable. Instead of which, seduced by the appeal to his expertise, he had gone even further than the questions required. They had been based simply on a tourist’s eye-view of the house. He remembered now the unprecedented diligence with which Mickey Carter had taken notes. But he, Joe Askern, expert, had stepped off the beaten track purely to show off to Cess Carter, criminal.

  ‘Just once,’ he said. ‘I had a peep. Nothing more.’

  There might still be time to retrieve lost ground. The cobweb strands still held out defiantly against the onslaught of the air.

  ‘You mean you pushed open a door and looked in?’

  ‘That’s it. A long time ago.’

  ‘How do you know all the best stuff’s there, then?’

  Not an easy one. As a child, in order to avert the possible bullying attentions of older boys, Joe recalled sometimes letting his jaw sag in an attempt to look a bit simple. It had never worked, but it seemed not a bad idea now.

&
nbsp; ‘I was told.’

  ‘Who by? Your mate, the head steward, whatsizname, Laidlaw?’

  ‘It might have been.’

  Cess looked at him coldly.

  ‘I think it was. I think he probably took you on a private tour of the place sometime when the bloody Trevigores were frigging about on their Mediterranean yacht. He’s a good mate, then? That helps a lot.’

  No, thought Joe. Not Jock. I’m not getting Jock mixed up in this.

  ‘No,’ he said out loud. ‘I hardly know him at all.’

  Cess ignored him and looked down at his piece of paper again. He seemed to have lost the place. Again the thought touched Joe’s mind that Carter was not the leading man in this affair. But even if the big brain was not his, he was sharp enough for the business in hand.

  ‘What about alarms?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Alarms. You know, those things which go ring-ring when you touch what you shouldn’t.’

  ‘What the hell should I know about alarms?’

  Suddenly the black-stone ring was pressed up tight against his nose and Cess’s awful Indian-brave face was only six inches away.

  ‘Don’t get cocky, Sir. Whatever else you do, never get cocky. Right?’

  For once Joe’s inner voice was answering in accents even less heroic than the hoarse vibrations from his vocal cords.

  ‘No, no, never, never, no I won’t. I promise, please, please, cross my heart and hope to die, Cess, sir, Mr Carter, touch my forelock, kiss your bum, anything.’

  ‘Right,’ he croaked out loud.

  ‘Good.’ Carter retreated to his chair. It seemed to Joe that the cobweb was weakening and must be ripped apart any moment now.

  ‘Now, lad, you know your way around the place, you probably know everything in it. We’ll come to that in a moment. But you’re not going to tell me you haven’t noticed other things. Wires, switches, junction boxes, alarm cases. And don’t tell me they wouldn’t be visible in the big rooms. Not at a glance perhaps, but they’ll be there. And in the corridors. And in the steward’s quarters where you sit and chat with your mates. You’ve probably even seen the control board and the master switches. Security’s part of Laidlaw’s job. Don’t say he hasn’t talked about it. We all like to talk about our jobs.’

  There was an ironic accent in his voice. He’s right, thought Joe. It was worked out. They knew I’d talk myself into trouble if they set me off.

  Worse still, he was right too about Jock Laidlaw and the alarm system. Joe had talked about it, or rather listened to Jock talking. He had seen the whole lay-out. But he had no intention of admitting this.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Cess, I don’t know a thing about it. All right, I’ve probably noticed a few alarms about the place, but that doesn’t make me an expert. No, I’m afraid you’ve backed the wrong horse.’

  He paused, half-expecting a repeat of Carter’s physical threats, but the ginger man seemed to have lost interest. He was studying his paper once more.

  ‘Not to worry, Joe,’ he said finally. ‘You’ll be able to brush up your memory when you go back to the place.’

  ‘No!’ said Joe in a sudden panic. ‘You said you didn’t want …’

  ‘Shut up! God, you make a bloody noise, don’t you!’ said Carter in disgust. ‘I don’t mean on the job. I mean, you’re going back there on another official visit. Only this time you’re going to look at more than the pretty pictures.’

  ‘I can’t!’ said Joe.

  ‘Look, lad. We want to get into the place without making a sound, go straight to the best stuff, pick it up without rousing the neighbourhood and get out likewise. You’re a key man at every stage. So don’t tell me you can’t!’

  ‘I meant, I can’t arrange another official visit. Not so soon, I mean. We were only there last week.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Carter, unconcerned. ‘No hurry. Not this Saturday. Saturday after will do. You fix it. It might look a bit odd if you turn up just by yourself. But surrounded by kids, everyone making notes, great, eh? We’ll let you have a list of what we want. Right?’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Have to leave you now, Joe. But don’t worry. Everything’ll be all right.’

  He reached forward and patted Joe’s knee reassuringly.

  ‘This is a big one, Joe. The biggest. We’re not rushing at it. There’s a bit more than school clocks in it for us all, eh? By the way, here’s a bit of yours in advance. Call it a consultant’s fee!’

  He produced a wad of notes, counted off ten fivers and tucked them into Joe’s breast-pocket.

  ‘Buy that lass of yours some scent. Miss Cohen, isn’t it? I once knew a Cohen who ran a chain of betting shops in the Smoke. No relative, I suppose? Anyway I hear she wasn’t pleased with you this morning.’

  Mickey, of course. Little bastard, thought Joe without heat. His main feeling was one of qualified relief. Things were not too bad. Yet. At the worst, his participation (if it came to that) was going to be in the background. And once again he had been given a breathing space. Time for something to come up.

  He glanced up. The cobweb strands had survived.

  Carter rose.

  ‘Right. Let’s be off.’

  He reached up and pulled the string which stopped the extractor fan.

  ‘Bloody filthy this place,’ he said fastidiously. And with a swift grab of his left hand pulled the filaments of the web down from the window.

  They went through into the bar together. It was now past opening time and a couple of men were sitting at a corner table. Joe thought he recognized them as Carter’s companions in the Bell the night of the PTA meeting.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Carter and he and Lord Jim moved over to join the others.

  Outside Joe was surprised to find it was still broad daylight. Somehow it seemed out of keeping. He breathed in deep. It was good to be out in the open again, even if the open consisted of a dingy back-street. But as he walked away from the pub, his sense of freedom began to seem more and more illusory. And he saw once more with his mind’s eye Cess’s hand casually clawing at the thin strands of the web.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Joe felt little incentive to go home. Neither Alice nor a frozen pizza any longer appealed. He would have to do something about Alice. The pizza wouldn’t keep for ever either. And the blue Cortina still bothered him. But at the moment all he wanted to do was walk and think, or preferably just walk. He set off towards the town-centre.

  He found himself making absurd bargains with fate.

  If I reach that blue door in seventy paces, everything will be all right. If the next car I see has two vowels on its number plate … if I meet a girl wearing yellow stockings …

  He needed a drink. The blue door (which he had reached in ninety-five paces despite lengthening his stride absurdly over the last fifty yards) was the saloon bar entrance of the George and Dragon, a pub he had used regularly till one night with Vernon he had put a drunken dart through the cash register. He went in.

  ‘Small scotch,’ he said to the barman who looked at him suspiciously. Joe nonchalantly turned his back and leaned against the bar. The room was almost empty—it was still early. An elderly couple sat in silent disunion by the empty fireplace and in the window-seat outlined against the glow of the low-sinking sun was a solitary woman.

  She turned her head, saw him, stood up uncertainly.

  It was Cynthia.

  Joe made for the door.

  ‘Hey!’ said the barman, banging the whisky glass on the bar.

  ‘Joe,’ said Cynthia, coming forward.

  ‘That’ll be sixteen pence,’ said the barman loudly.

  Joe turned, sorted out his money, set it on the bar and threw the whisky down his throat.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ asked Cynthia.

  Joe replaced the glass on the counter.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said and made for the door. Cynthia followed him out and struggled to keep up with him a
s he lengthened his stride down the street.

  ‘I want to explain,’ she puffed, her block heels cracking loudly against the pavement.

  Joe stopped.

  ‘Listen, love,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to explain. I understand. There’s nothing for you to explain. Only get this. It won’t work again, not again. I’m sober this time, so take your overblown charms elsewhere.’

  For a moment he thought she was going to swing her handbag at his head, but finally she relaxed and shrugged.

  ‘I just wanted to say I was sorry,’ she said.

  Immediately he felt guilty. Here I go again, he thought. Cess and Lord Jim may scare the pants off me, but show me a classroom full of kids or a woman by herself and I’ll let you see what courage is.

  Cynthia had turned away and was about to move off. Suddenly she swung round to him and bent her head forward so that her solidly lacquered blonde hair fell forward like a helmet round her face.

  ‘Give us a light,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t got a cigarette,’ said Joe surprised. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Just someone I don’t want to meet.’

  Joe looked round. Walking in their direction on the other side of the street was a familiar figure.

  It was Mrs Carter, Cess’s wife.

  ‘Does she know you?’ he whispered.

  ‘I know her.’

  Strangely touched by this display of sensitivity, Joe leaned forward in his turn and put a cigarette into Cynthia’s mouth. Mrs Carter passed them by without a glance.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cynthia. She turned to go once more.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Joe. ‘Look, what did you want to say to me?’

  ‘I don’t know really. Just that, the other night, all that, well I didn’t want to do it, that’s all.’

  ‘Why did you do it then?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I had to. I was asked to do an escort job on you. I didn’t know how it was going to turn out though. I just had to get you back to your flat drunk. I was a bit drunk myself by then, so it didn’t seem too bad an idea to carry on from there like we did.’

  She looked at him sideways to see his reaction.