Hill, Reginald - Joe Sixsmith - Killing the Lawyers

by Reginal Hill

  Several bleeps indicating calls but no messages left. More misled revellers. The drunk's voice again Still waiting at the Queen's, you gonna be long? Then another couple of seasonal greetings, this time English and presumably at civilized times. Then, still slurred, but with sleep now as much as drink -Where's that sodding taxi? How long you gonna keep us waiting?

  More bleeps. Another seasonal message, this time referring to Boxing Day. Joe hoped the drunk and Trace had made it home. Still more mess ageless bleeps. A woman leaving a message for Lucy which included the sentiment Thank God Christmas is over!" so presumably the twenty-seventh or -eighth.

  And then a man's voice. He didn't recognize it straight off, which wasn't surprising as last time he'd heard it, it had been raised in anger. Now it was quiet, but with restrained emotion. Perhaps worry?

  "Felix, tried you at the cottage but no reply. I'll try again but this is a fail-safe in case you're on your way back to town. That business, you know what I mean. Well, it's looking urgent. If possible I'd like to meet in the office tomorrow to check it out. If you hear this before I reach you, ring me straight back. I'm at the office now, it's four thirty. I'll hang on till six, then I'll head for home. Do ring. It really is urgent."

  Food for thought there, but no time to digest it. The tape was still running. Couple more no-messages, then a woman's voice, young, irritated, "Mr. Naysmith, this is Freeman's, your stationery order is ready. Please ring us to make arrangements for collection at your convenience." Nice to know not all the business world ground to a halt between Christmas and the New Year. A man's voice, East End accent and again very irritated Naysmith seemed to have the art not uncommon in lawyers of getting up noses Where you been? The wheels are coming off of this thing. I pay for service, I get nothing, you get nothing. Ring me! Another satisfied customer. Joe had had a few like that who felt that buying a bit of your time meant they had freehold on your soul. Another couple of bleeps then nothing more. The tape reached its end and rewound itself. Time to renew his efforts to get hold of the phone and summon Butcher.

  He stretched, strained, got two fingers on the phone, tried to pull it towards him then it rang. His hand jerked in shock, the receiver fell off its rest.

  "Hello! Hello!" Joe shouted.

  He strained his ears to catch the reply. The voice sounded familiar.

  "Can you send a cab to the Queen's? And listen, mate, last time you kept me waiting forever."

  Oh shoot! thought Joe. Not much chance of getting assistance from what must be the most optimistic idiot in Luton. Still, it was all he had. But before he could try to open negotiations, the door burst open and into the room burst a wild-eyed, haggard-faced, unshaven creature in a baseball cap and a flowered T-shirt which made the Magic Mini look like a model of Puritan restraint.

  "Chivers!" it bellowed.

  "In the garden," said Joe, who believed in being helpful to madmen, particularly when chained to a desk.

  "Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?"

  The man sounded amazed but nowhere near as amazed as Joe as he squinted up at the newcomer and said incredulously, "Mr. Woodbine? Is that you?"

  Any doubts he had vanished next moment when Sergeant Chivers appeared, snapped to attention and said, "Hello, sir. Welcome home."

  "Welcome?" snarled Detective Superintendent Woodbine. "I spend three hours sitting in a motionless plane in a temperature in excess of one hundred degrees because my travel company omitted to pay airport fees before it went bust. I get diverted for reasons not yet clear from Luton to Manchester, I finally arrive home wanting nothing but my own bed and about three days uninterrupted sleep, and what do I find on my doorstep, which I am unable to reach because of the crush, but more flashing lights and wailing sirens than I'd expect at a major incident. Sergeant, explain. And it had better be good."

  Chivers began to explain. When he got to the attack on Naysmith, it said much for Woodbine's humanity that concern for his neighbour temporarily overcame his own fury and fatigue.

  "Felix attacked? My God. Is he going to be all right?"

  "Can't say, sir. I've got Doberley at his bedside."

  "And what about Lucy? How's she?"

  "Sir?" said Chivers, meaning never mind how's she, who's she?

  "Still up at their cottage in Lincolnshire," said Joe, squinting up at the superintendent.

  Thank God she wasn't here," said Woodbine. "She'll have been told, I presume?"

  "Thought it best to hold back till we got definite word from the hospital, sir," said Chivers. It was a pretty good lie. Joe would have nodded appreciatively if nodding had been possible with his head resting on the blotter.

  Woodbine was regarding him with a frown.

  "Joe," he said. "Just what the hell are you doing here?"

  "Came to try to help Mr. Naysmith," said Joe. "It was me who raised the alarm."

  Woodbine glanced at the sergeant for confirmation and got a vigorous shake of the head.

  "Yes, it was," said Joe indignantly. "If I hadn't got Merv to ring you

  "Alarm was raised by Constable Forton who I'd put on watch outside Mr. Naysmith's house, sir," said Chivers. "He saw a light flashing on and off in the hallway and went to investigate. Getting no reply at the front door he went round the back and found the kitchen door wide open and Mr. Naysmith lying injured on the floor."

  "And the flashing light?"

  They've got like a swing door from the hallway to the kitchen, one of them that open either way like they have in restaurants, and the struggle must have banged up against it several times so the kitchen light showed intermittently in the hall."

  "Good job Forton was awake," said Woodbine. "So, Joe, I still don't understand why you're here. And for God's sake, you may be knackered, but you can't be as knackered as I am. If I can stand up to talk, so can you!"

  "Can't," said Joe. "I'm chained to the desk."

  "What?" Woodbine peered down then straightened up, his face taut with anger.

  "Sir," said Chivers, desperately pre-emptive. "Sixsmith was observed outside acting suspiciously and when one of your neighbours tried to effect a citizen's arrest, Sixsmith started an altercation and threw him to the ground."

  "One of my neighbours? Which one?"

  Tallish gent, in his thirties, thick fair hair

  "Lovely teeth," said Joe. "He was giving a party."

  "Sounds like Julian Jowett. And you say Joe threw him? But he used to be in the SAS."

  "Did he?" said Chivers. This confirms my suspicion that Sixsmith here's a lot more expert at the martial arts than he lets on ..."

  "Please, Willie," said Joe, deciding it was time to get familiar, 'if I promise I won't hurt the sergeant, can I be unlocked now?"

  Woodbine said, "Sergeant," and Chivers reluctantly unlocked the cuff.

  "That's better," said Joe, massaging his wrist. "Though I don't think I'll ever play the spoons again."

  "Joe, no jokes, not even if you know any good ones," said Woodbine. "Just tell me what you are doing here."

  Joe told him, keeping it simple. Woodbine glanced interrogatively at Chivers who reluctantly confirmed that yes, there was a phone in the kitchen where Naysmith had evidently been having a snack meal; yes, it had been hanging off its hook; and yes, he would check to see if there'd been a 999 call from the Glit, and also whether Joe had been there at the time he said.

  The sergeant left the room. In the silence that followed, a voice from the phone on the desk could be heard. Woodbine picked it up, said, "Soon as possible, sir," and replaced it.

  "Some idiot wanting a taxi," he said. "Now, Joe, one thing you didn't say was why you were phoning Felix Naysmith."

  That had been part of keeping it simple. Even with Doubting Chivers out of the room, Joe felt uneasy about producing the remarkable coincidence of Merv's mis dialled number. But Willie had shown he trusted him and in Joe's book, trust given deserved honesty returned.

  "How'd you get the number, by the way?" said Woodbine casually. "From the book, was
it?"

  It was tempting to say, "That's right," and let it go. But he put temptation aside and began, "Well, actually..." when something in the superintendent's casual tone tugged at his inner ear. If the answer, "That's right," was satisfactory, then it wasn't a question worth asking, was it? Which, if it was, meant, "That's right," would be some sort of giveaway. Like for instance if Naysmith's number wasn 't in the book. "How did you get this number?" the lawyer had asked angrily when he realized who he was talking to. Implying, not out of the book. And he knew from Butcher that being a smartass lawyer he kept his holiday cottage number ex-directory, so he probably did the same with his home number to keep anxious clients out of his domestic space. Which good neighbour Willie would know ... which meant the suspicious so-and-so was laying little traps in case Joe had something to hide.

  So much for trust! OK, he didn't have anything to hide in the sense of anything worth hiding but what he did have, he'd keep hidden just for the hell of it!

  He said, "I got it from Butcher, she's a big friend of Mrs. Naysmith's," and had the pleasure of seeing Woodbine wince as he always did whenever the belligerent little brief was mentioned. He went on, "We were talking about the Nay-smiths and she said Naysmith was probably going to drive back to Lincolnshire tonight and I got to thinking later, what if he didn't? He'd be really vulnerable down here by himself and with you away, I wasn't sure it would be covered, so I rang just to make sure ..."

  Lie to the cops by all means, but no harm in buttering them up at the same time.

  That was real thoughtful of you, Joe," said Woodbine. "So tell me what happened when Felix answered."

  Joe told him

  "You're sure he said, What the hell are you doing here?" like he knew whoever it was at the door?"

  "Certain," said Joe. "Look, there's something queer going on at Poll-Pott. There's this message on his answer machine ..."

  He scrolled through till he got to Potter's message. As it was playing, Chivers came in, nodding surlily at the super which meant Joe's alibi panned out.

  "Have you heard this, Sergeant?" asked Woodbine aggressively.

  "Yes, sir. One of the first things I did when I got here," said Chivers rather to Joe's disappointment. "Just confirms what Mr. Naysmith told us when he turned up at Oldmaid Row this dinnertime. He got the message when he accessed his answer machine, like he does from time to time when he's away, and he rang the office to see if he could catch Mr. Potter. That was the call Sixsmith eavesdropped on..."

  "Hang about," protested Joe. "Weren't no eavesdropping. Couldn't help hearing ..."

  "OK, Joe," said Woodbine placatingly. "And the call wasn't finished when you finally left the office, right? So what did Mr. Naysmith say he and Potter discussed in the rest of the call, Sergeant?"

  "Maybe we should talk outside, sir," said Chivers, looking significantly at Joe.

  "OK," said Woodbine. "Joe, you wait here."

  Typical, thought Joe. Cops want to know what you know before you know you know it. But their own secrets they nurse to their bosoms like Zak with Whitey.

  "Where else would I go without me shoe?" he said, waggling his red-socked toes.

  "So what's happened to your shoe?" asked Woodbine wearily.

  Chivers said, "Took it to check out a print, sir. The garden backs on to Beacon Holt and we reckon the assailant left his car over on Swallowdale Lane and came through the wood, which was how he managed to get into the back door without Forton spotting him."

  "Pity he didn't walk up the front path like most killers do," observed Joe.

  "OK, Joe," reproved Woodbine. "Sergeant, did the shoe match the print?"

  We all know it didn't, thought Joe, else Chivers would have had me stretched on the rack by now.

  "No, sir."

  Then see Mr. Sixsmith gets his shoe back. Joe, I won't be long."

  "Better not be," said Joe. "I got a date."

  It was a lie. Christmas had been a date-free zone for Joe. Beryl Boddington, the nearest he had to a 'steady' had taken her little boy Desmond to visit her parents in Portsmouth for the holidays. He had an open offer from Merv to 'fix him up' any time he felt like it, but an earlier experience of a Merv fix, involving a fun-loving blonde with an undisclosed and pathologically jealous sailor husband who docked a day early, had left Joe unnerved. His Aunt Mirabelle was given to declaring that if only Joe would find himself a nice girl and settle down, she would die happy. Merv had suggested, cruelly, that Joe should ask for this in writing. But Joe loved his aunt and secretly (especially when he was with Beryl) did not altogether disapprove of her ambition. And yet... and yet... he felt that there were things he wanted to do with his life that domestic bliss would put out of the question.

  What they were precisely, he wasn't sure. And the fact that Beryl had never shown the slightest inclination to let their pleasantly fluid relationship solidify into something more permanent meant that he couldn't really think of himself as nobly self-denying.

  He turned to more profitable lines of speculation, such as, how the shoot had he contrived to deck Marble-Tooth Jowett of the SAS? It was no use. He couldn't remember a thing about the technique he'd used. If he tried to boast about it down the Glit, all he'd get was a boom of belly laughs. Still, it was nice to think that deep inside there was a Fighting Machine waiting to get out. Nicer still would be to find a detective down there.

  He stared at the desk blotter. Endo Venera had done great things with blotters. What you needed was a mirror. He stood up and held it to a glass-fronted photo on the wall. The blots remained steadfastly blot-like. Perhaps things were arranged differently in America. He let his gaze pass through the glass on to the picture itself. No comfort there for a man whose heart was dangerously near his sleeve.

  He was looking at a wedding group. It was Peter Potter's wedding with best man Naysmith smiling at his side. All the other increasingly familiar faces from Poll-Pott's were there too. It had been a windy day and hands were grasping at toppers and grey tails were flapping, giving an attractively unposed air to the photograph. Victor Montaigne, black whiskers spread wide by the breeze, looked as if he'd just stepped off his quarter deck, though beside him Darby Pollinger looked as calm and unruffled as if he'd been sculpted out of painted marble. Peter Potter, a smile on his face, was saying something to his bride whose long blonde tresses were being blown around her face like a second veil. But you could tell she was laughing back and her wide clear eyes alone were enough to make her look beautiful.

  How did she look now, he wondered, the widow of a day? And most painful of all to contemplate was Sandra lies. He'd only seen her twice in the flesh, once when she'd attacked him and once when she'd been dead. But paradoxically it was this still image of her, gorgeous in a pink dress and smiling broadly as she clung on to her hat in a gusting breeze, that made him most aware of her as a young vibrant woman cut off in her prime.

  He turned away and tried to focus on the rest of the room. There were other photographs, several of sporting teams with the two big men, Potter and Naysmith, always side by side. In fact, it was a pretty sporting kind of study, with an oar high up across one wall and a stuffed fish on another, with rods, reels and lines everywhere, plus a practice putting cup on the carpet and a bag of golf clubs standing in a corner.

  Endo Venera would probably have taken the opportunity of going through the desk drawers, but Joe's thoughts were elsewhere. Why the image of a dead woman should so affect him he didn't know. None of this had anything to do with him. No one was paying him, he'd only become involved by accident and the clever thing was to follow Butcher's advice and put as much space between himself and the investigation as possible.

  But he felt involved. Personally and seriously. Ain't no such thing as an accident, his Aunt Mirabelle and Sigmund Freud were agreed on this at least, though they parted company on their explication of the thesis. But whether he was here because of some Higher Purpose or whether it was just another fine mess the working of his own subconscious had go
t him into, he knew he was definitely involved and he'd like some answers.

  The door opened and Woodbine came back in. He looked a wreck.

  Joe said, "I'm really sorry your holiday got messed up."

  Being a hard-nosed cop, he peered at Joe in search of irony, but finding nothing there other than genuine sympathy, he sighed and said, "I'd rather have been on point duty at Market Cross during rush hour in a thunderstorm."

  "And Mrs. Woodbine, is she well?"

  It was as diplomatically phrased as he could manage. Joe had met Georgina Woodbine and knew from personal experience what it felt like to be within the penumbra of her wrath.

  There was a moment of shared awareness, then Woodbine said, "As well as can be expected. OK, Joe. Sorry you got caught up in this lot. You can push off now. Unless you've got any ideas you'd like to run past me?"

  One thing about Willie Woodbine, he didn't let pride or prejudice get in the way of pragmatism. Joe, he'd come to realize, got to places that normal CID methods couldn't reach, and the superintendent had no objection to hitching a free ride.

  Time he learned to pay for his ticket, thought Joe.

  "None I can think of," said Joe. "Maybe if you told me what Naysmith said they talked about on the phone, it would get me started."

  "They just arranged to meet," said Woodbine unconvincingly.

  "Was that all? Not much help then. All I can think of is, maybe you ought to get some protection arranged for Darby Pollinger and Victor Montaigne."

  "I think Sergeant Chivers has got that one worked out," said Woodbine, implying by his intonation even Sergeant Chivers. "No problem. Mr. Montaigne's away skiing in the French Alps. And Mr. Pollinger's got the kind of house that our Crime Prevention Unit visits to pick up tips."

  "But you will be wanting to talk to them?" "Very likely, Joe. Very likely. Anything else you want to say before you go?"

  "Only, welcome home, Willie," said Joe Sixsmith.

  Ten.

  Beacon Heights had returned to its customary peace and quiet when Joe emerged.