by Reginal Hill
"No," said Joe. "No ambulance. Arrest him. He attacked me."
"Sorry, old chap, you're getting confused. Saw it all from level two. Fellow knocking hell out of you. Too far away to do anything but shout. Then our friend here comes roaring up on his bike, chap trying to smash your head with what looked like a mashie-niblick takes off, and our friend here would have gone after him if you hadn't tackled him round the knees. Brave but a bit counterproductive. Now I'll see about that ambulance."
"No," said Joe again. "Get me up to Beryl's ... she'll take a look."
"Miss Boddington. Of course. Trained nurse, just the ticket. But if she says ambulance, no argument."
Joe got to his feet, staggered and would have fallen if the strong right arm of Starbright Jones hadn't steadied him. He tried to push it away but even at full strength, he'd have had a problem. So, comforting himself with the pragmatic thought that having Jones hang on to him was as good as him hanging on to the Welshman, he let himself be guided into the lift and up to Beryl's floor.
Eighteen.
The Lost Traveller's Guide says:
"The citizens of Luton are natural Samaritans. Perhaps long exposure to trial and tribulation has made them more than averagely sensitive to the misfortunes of their fellows. If you find yourself in real trouble, knock on any door, and in nine cases out of ten help with be forthcoming. Of course, in the tenth case, you will probably be brought to a realization that your previous trouble was inconsequential in the extreme."
Anyone knocking at Beryl Boddington's door would have thought they had arrived at the court of the Queen of Samaria.
Confronted by the bruised and bleeding figure of Joe Sixsmith, all she said was, "Oh Joe, the things you'll do for a bit of sympathy." Then she made him lie down on her bed with a towel under his head while she examined and cleaned his scalp wound. His shoulder was throbbing painfully but movement had returned to his arm. After a couple of painful tests she announced she didn't think anything was broken.
"And with that thick skull of yours, I doubt if there's anything cracked there either. But better safe than sorry. Let's get you down to the infirmary for X-rays. Also you'll need a couple of stitches. And how's your tetanus status?"
"All right there. Got done when the Morris got wrecked."
He didn't want to go to hospital but the arrival of Aunt Mirabelle, alerted by one of her spies, persuaded him.
"What've you been up to now, Joseph? Dripping blood all over that nice new carpet of Beryl's. When are you going to put all this nonsense behind you and get yourself a real job again? Haven't you heard, this recess thing is just about over, heard a man on the telly say so the other night, soon going to be jobs for everyone that wants them, no excuse to be playing at chasing gangsters any more, what do you say, Beryl?"
"I say we ought to be off to Casualty. Mirabelle, could you stay here to look after Desmond?"
Joe shot her a glance full of admiration and gratitude. With her skills of management and diplomacy she ought to be Queen.
Starbright helped Joe down to the car and showed no sign of wanting to make good his escape. Joe was beginning to admit reluctantly that maybe he'd got it wrong. The other vigilantes all agreed with the major that the Welshman was his saviour, though they couldn't achieve a similar unanimity in their descriptions of his attacker, who ranged from a tall thin man in a brown overcoat to a medium-sized fat man in a gaberdine. But all agreed he wore a hat of some kind and was masked. "Sort of whitish," said the major. I'd say a ski mask." "More like a cream-coloured balaclava," said one of the others. "No," said a third. "It was a scarf wound round to hide his face."
One for the police to sort out. Joe's passage through the Casualty sausage machine was expedited by Beryl's presence and he was stitched up and confirmed bruised, bloody but unbroken, in record time. He gave a statement to a uniformed constable he didn't know and did nothing to correct the assumption that it was a routine mugging with robbery as the sole motive. The hospital waiting room, with Beryl, the major and Starbright in close attendance, was not the place to start talking about a series of attempts on his life.
The major, who was acting as chauffeur, drove them back to Rasselas. Here Beryl assumed that she'd have the job of seeing Joe safely into his flat and let her surprise show when he said, "No, that's OK, Starbright here will see me up."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. You'll want to get back to Desmond. Do me a favour.
Tell Aunt Mirabelle I'm tucked up safe and what I need is twenty-four hours undisturbed sleep."
The last bit's certainly true."
"And Beryl, thanks a million. I'm really sorry I mucked up your night. And your carpet."
He offered to kiss her but she stepped back.
The carpet's easy to put right," she said. "Good night, Joe. Good night, Mr. Jones."
"Fine-looking woman," said Starbright in the lift. "Not often I get preferred to something like that."
"Not even in prison?" said Joe.
The Welshman didn't reply and they completed the journey in silence. In the flat Whitey came out of the bedroom (bleary eyed) to inspect Starbright, decided he was harmless and food less and yelled angrily at Joe for his supper.
Joe winced as he pulled open the fridge door.
"Here, I'll do that," said Starbright. "What's he have?"
There's some pork pie. That'll do," said Joe. "And help yourself to a beer."
"No, thanks. Not when I'm riding. Cuppa tea would be nice."
"Be my guest," said Joe.
With Whitey provided for and tea and biscuits set with a domestic neatness on a tray, the Welshman took a seat opposite Joe, who was draped like a Roman emperor along his sofa, and said, "So what do you want to say to me?"
"Just wanted to thank you for saving me from that mugger."
"I didn't," said Starbright.
For an awful moment Joe thought he must have got it right all along and the Welshman was about to finish the job. But the man was sipping his cup of tea most delicately, his little finger crooked according to the best tenets of refinement, and generally looking as un menacing as a man of his size and aspect could.
"Sorry?" said Joe.
"I mean, that joker wasn't mugging you, he was trying to off you," said Starbright.
"Why do you say that?"
"All the difference in the world between putting the fright-eners on to get at your wallet, or even giving a good kicking to warn you off, and what he was doing. Lucky for you he wasn't a pro."
"He felt professional enough to me," said Joe, wincing in memory.
"What I mean, isn't it? He'd been a pro, you'd have felt exactly what he wanted you to feel, which if it was a contract would be nothing. Crack, you're dead."
He said it very mildly in that light high-pitched voice of his, but Joe still shivered.
"So that guy you got sent down for assaulting, he just got exactly what you wanted to give him, did he?" said Joe with an effort at boldness.
"You've taken some trouble to find out about me, haven't you? I'm flattered."
"No need. What I really want to know is why you've been following me around?"
"Have I?"
"Yes. Don't deny it. I spotted you."
"Not completely useless then," said the Welshman half to himself. "All right, I admit it. Wanted to find out what you're up to, didn't I?"
"But you know what I'm up to. I'm working for Zak."
"No. I know I'm working for Zak, I don't know who you might be working for."
"But you were there when she came round to see me," protested Joe.
"Sure I was, but what I don't know is who recommended you. I mean, she didn't just pick you out of a hat, did she? Maybe someone planted you."
Joe digested this, then said, "OK. By the same token, she didn't pick you out of a hat either. In fact, you were definitely picked by somebody else. Doug Endor, wasn't it?"
Jones eyed him coldly and said, "Doesn't matter who picked me. Zak's my bod."
"Your what?"
"Bod. Body. The one I look after. That's what I get paid for. While she's in this country I'll earn my wages. And no one's paying me anything more to do anything else. Can you say that, Sixsmith?"
If you mean, is anyone but Zak paying me, the answer's no. And if you mean am I doing anything in regard to Zak other than what Zak is paying me to do, the answer's still no. And if anything that's happened in this crazy tailing operation you've set up suggests different, that's because your mind's crooked, not because I am."
It was a spirited response coming from an overweight unathletic invalid to a professional bouncer built like a concrete pill-box, but it provoked nothing more violent than a snapped bourbon cream.
"So we're both honest men," said Starbright with a faint air of surprise.
"I haven't been to jail," retorted Joe.
"I didn't go for dishonesty," said Starbright.
"Just poor judgement," said Joe, trying for a sneer.
"No. Judgement was perfect. Like you said before, the guy got exactly what I intended to give him, which was what he deserved."
"Meaning?"
"He was drunk. He started a fight. I threw him out. He got abusive. I told him to go home. He told me he was going to get a few of his mates and come back and sort me out."
"So you got your retaliation in first?"
"No. Sticks and stones, water off a duck's back. I watched him stagger to his car. Souped-up sports job. Pissed and pissed off, he was going to kill somebody. I thought of ringing the pigs, but by the time they got their act together, there could be blood on the highway. So I followed him out, suggested he shouldn't be driving."
"Which he didn't like?" said Joe, interested now.
"You could say that. Told me to piss off. So I took his key off him and bent it in half. Then I set off back to the club. Only he came after me, jumped on my back, tried to strangle me. And all the time he was shouting that he wanted to get into his car, I had no right to stop him getting into his car. He could have been right. So I put him in it."
Through the sun roof. Which wasn't open."
"It was a canvas top with a plastic panel. Good fart would have blown it out," said Starbright. "But it turned out his daddy was a lawyer. Hate bloody lawyers. Should shoot two or three every week to encourage the others."
"There's a guy loose who would agree with you," said Joe. "OK, so you were a victim of a miscarriage of justice ..."
"Didn't say that," said Starbright. "I was in the right till I dumped him through his car roof. Then I was in the wrong. Not six months in the wrong though. Fifty-quid fine and bound over in the wrong. But the magistrate was probably in the same lodge as the lawyer. Hate bloody masons. Should shoot'
"Yeah, yeah," said Joe.
He was finding it hard to adjust to the shift of Starbright Jones from Personal Enemy Number One to ... what? Ally? He couldn't really believe that. But then his life was fuller than Paul of Tarsus's of instances of having to swing through one hundred and eighty degrees of belief.
He said, "Do you always take this much interest in your clients?"
"What the hell does that mean?" said Starbright, suddenly very aggressive.
"Hey, cool it. All I mean is, you're being paid to keep Zak free of hassle from press, photographers, or any nut that might come along, right? Nothing in a minder's job description which says he's expected to check out everyone who comes in contact with her. That's detective work."
"Too clever for me, you mean? I got seven "O' levels. How many you got?"
"Makes no difference if you got a degree from Oxford University. All I know is, if a carpet fitter starts painting the ceiling, I get to wondering why. Must've been something which made you think Zak needed protecting from more than just the tabloid boys."
Starbright sipped his tea, his small sharp eyes studying Joe over the rim. It occurred to Joe that he was probably having the same difficulty shifting his old viewpoint.
He made a decision and said, "Zak's been told she's got to lose the race at the Plezz or else nasty things are going to happen to her family. She doesn't want to go to the cops cos she's worried it might turn out someone in the family is implicated. So she's asked me to sniff around, see if I can come up with anything before Monday."
Starbright nodded. Thought it might be something like that."
"Yeah? Well, anyone ever asks you, say you worked it out yourself. This is client-confidential info. I could get shot for telling you."
"So why are you telling me?"
"Because I've only got till the day after tomorrow to come up with a result. Any help anyone can give me, I'm in the market for."
Starbright nodded again, this time as if he too had made a decision.
"It's that sister of hers," he said. "I've seen her watching Zak training. She looks ... hungry."
"Hungry?"
"That's right. Like a half-starved kid watching a banquet through a window and knowing it can't have any."
The Welshman was getting poetic, but not precise.
"And that's it?" said Joe. "Nothing more?"
"Of course there's more," snarled Starbright. "She's not in it alone. Down the Plezz, day before yesterday, Zak had gone to have a shower after training. I saw Mary go into the gents' locker room, looking like she didn't want to be seen. I went to the door and listened. I heard her saying stuff like, "It's all fixed, no problem, you'd have been proud of me, I'm playing it really cool." And a man's voice saying, "That's great, let's go for it," something like that, it was all pretty faint."
"Is that all you heard? Nothing more?" persisted Joe.
"No. Then I heard ..."
Starbright hesitated. His face changed colour slightly and for a second Joe thought he must have got a bourbon stuck in his throat.
Then the incredible thought occurred to him that this slab of Cambrian rock was actually blushing! It was like dawn on a slag heap.
"Yes?" he prompted.
"Noises like they were ... doing it ... you know
"Humping, you mean?"
"Yes. That. In the gents' changing room!"
It was clearly the location as well as the activity which offended him. Joe could guess why. He'd spent most of his schooldays bunking off from games, not because he didn't like sport (he had a season ticket for Luton Town and he'd been the craftiest leg spinner the Robco Engineering works cricket team had ever seen), but because the macho atmosphere of the locker room provided both opportunity and encouragement for the likes of Hooter to pursue their sadistic pleasures. It was a place to boast about sexual exploits in, but a real live woman would be as out of place there as Ian Paisley at High Mass.
"So who was the guy?" demanded Joe. "Hardiman or Endor?"
"Neither," said Starbright. "It was that American. Schoen-feld. Zak's coach."
"Abe Schoenfeld?" said Joe incredulously. "But that's ... I mean, Mary doesn't ... didn't know him."
"She knows him now," said Starbright. "But you're right, she's still going around acting like she's only just met him and doesn't much like him either."
"So you thought, there's something going on here, and when Zak called me in, you got to wondering if I was part of the problem rather than the solution? So who else have you got in the frame, Starbright?"
"Don't know. Wouldn't surprise me if they were all in it," said the Welshman darkly.
"You mean, like a conspiracy? To do what?"
"To rip Zak off, I'd've thought that was obvious!"
"Yes, but they're not ripping her off, are they? I mean, they, whoever they are, aren't after Zak's money direct, they just want to use her to make a bunch of cash for themselves."
"Same thing," said Starbright obstinately.
But it wasn't, thought Joe. Zak was already a big earner, was going to be even bigger. Anyone who got themselves an inside track on her appearance and promotions money would be able to fill their boots. Whereas the betting coup was a one-off.
This needed the application of a seriousl
y incisive detective mind backed up by all the powers of modern technology.
But failing that, it was left firmly in the lap of a small, balding, overweight PI with a stitched-up head and a shoulder which felt like he'd be bowling underarm all next season.
Starbright said, "I gotta go. You take care of yourself."
"Couple of aspirin and a can of Guinness will put me right," said Joe, touching his stitched-up wound with modest bravery.
"Don't mean that scratch," said Starbright with the scorn of one to whom assault with anything less than an Exocet was probably like being bitten by midges. "I mean, lock your door and don't open it till you know for sure who's outside. Remember what I said, that guy was trying to kill you."
It occurred to Joe that though he'd heard the full range of vigilante descriptions, he hadn't heard the Welshman's.
"You got closest," he said. "What did he look like?"
Starbright screwed up his eyes in the effort of memory.
After a full minute he said, "Beefy sort of guy. Face wrapped up. Had a hat on."
"Beefy? Like what? Schwarzenegger?"
"No. More like that geezer at the Plezz. Hardiman. Well built."
"Hooter? Do you mean there was something positive? Or just general build?"
The long, thinking pause again.
"No. Could've been any of that lot down there. Endor. Or Schoenfeld. Or Hardiman."
"But what makes you think it was something to do with the Plezz?" demanded Joe anxiously.
"Don't think that," said Starbright. "Lots of reasons why you might piss somebody enough to give you a kicking, but an offing is usually down to someone wanting to get rich or to stay safe. You don't look to me like the type who could know enough to put somebody away for a long time without telling the fuzz. So most likely it's down to money. Which is what this business with Zak is probably all about. So, watch your back. Some nasty people out there."
Joe mulled this over as he walked Starbright to the lift. He was still not sure about the minder. OK, Zak was his bod, he was contracted to protect her from physical hassle. But his involvement seemed to go a lot deeper than that.
He said, "One thing more, when you were banged up, you ever hear any whisper among the cons about Officer Oto, you know, liking a drink, that sort of thing?"
