Hill, Reginald - Joe Sixsmith - Killing the Lawyers

by Reginal Hill

  Think I've been overdoing it," he said. "Not much sleep last night, got a bang on my head, all this excitement."

  "Shall I get a St. John's man to look at you?" enquired Endor solicitously.

  "No," said Joe. "Just need a pick-me-up. Wonder if this stuff will do all that Zak says it does."

  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a bottle of Bloo-Joo.

  Endor stood very still, his eyes fixed on the bright blue liquid.

  "Yes," said Joe. "I thought, Zak says she always has a swig before a race, last thing she takes. Maybe it's not just any bottle which does her so much good, it's that particular bottle. So I did a naughty thing. I helped myself from her bag. What do you think, Mr. Endor. Something special in that bottle, maybe?"

  Endor's hand snaked out and twisted the bottle out of Joe's grip.

  "Hey, man, what are you doing? Shoot, some poor sod's going to have to mop up that mess."

  The agent had unscrewed the top from the bottle and was pouring its contents on to the floor.

  "Sixsmith, you're dead meat, you'd better believe it. I don't know if you're more or less stupid than you look, but I do know you're dead meat."

  Joe's eyes opened wide as if at some stupendous revelation.

  "Shoot! You're not telling me you really did spike Zak's

  Bloo-Joo so that when she was tested she'd respond positive and get disqualified and banned for life? In that case I'm so very, very glad."

  "What?" Endor's fury turned to puzzlement. "You're glad? What have you got to be glad about?"

  "Glad that I handed the bottle I really took from Zak's bag over to the police for fingerprinting and analysis," said Joe. There's Superintendent Woodbine and his friends now. I think they'd like a word with you. Hey, man, where do you think you're going?"

  Endor foolishly made a run for it but, as the corridor led directly out into the tunnel, all that happened was that the crowd was hugely entertained by the last track event of the afternoon which consisted of several men in uniform pursuing a man in a mohair suit. It was no contest. Mohair was out of breath after twenty yards and the first of his pursuers brought him crashing to the ground right across the finishing line.

  "Should have drunk up his Bloo-Joo," said Joe Sixsmith.

  Twenty-Nine.

  As forecast, everybody who was anybody was at the mayor's reception in the Pleasure Dome.

  Joe was there with Beryl, who was impressed despite herself by his possession not only of the invitations which got them admitted but a couple of spare ones that got Merv and Molly admitted too. He didn't mention their source but tried to give the impression a man with his connections had an endless supply.

  He'd been a little surprised to see Molly.

  "Glad you could make it," he said. "Thought you might have to stay at home and baby-sit. Both your babies. How's Dorrie taking it?"

  It being the realization that her child's father was a crook and a killer.

  "Steady," said Molly. "She's cut up, naturally. But she's a sensible girl. Like her old mammy, it took her a lot of time and tribulation to tell a prince from a prick, but she'd just about got there already. It was pride as much as anything made her head round to Naysmith's. Didn't like to think he might actually choose his wife before her. Now it's dawned on her that he wasn't just making up his mind which of them he should dump, but which of them he should kill, she's starting to realize she came off lucky. It'll take time, of course. The flat'll have to go, so she's moving back in with me. I don't mind. Gives Merv and me an excuse for some long nights baby-sitting in front of the fire. Neither of us getting any younger."

  "Speak for yourself, doll," said Merv. "Have you clocked that Zak? Takes twenty years off a man, that does!"

  "In your dreams," said Molly. "And then you'd wake up embarrassed."

  Darby Pollinger was there, of course.

  He approached Joe and said, "Well done, Sixsmith. I had a feeling I could rely on you. Don't stint on your bill now."

  "I won't," promised Joe. "Finances looking OK, are they?"

  Pollinger raised his eyebrows at this piece of cheek, then said equably, "We'll survive. I'm a little short of partners, that's all. Fortunately I have a key-man indemnity policy covering all of them, in case of sudden death or disability, so that should sweeten the pill till I get replacements."

  "Would that be with Penthouse?" asked Joe.

  "Indeed." They shared a tasty moment, then he went on, "By the way, I asked my chum there to take another look at your car claim. As I pointed out, can't afford to have a local celebrity as a dissatisfied customer, can he? Daresay you'll hear something shortly. Cherry, my dear, how very timely. I was just telling Mr. Sixsmith how desperate I am for top-flight assistance. How would you like to make an immoral penny temping, as 'twere, for a few weeks?"

  Butcher had joined them. Joe did a deliberate double take to register his three-fold surprise: one, that she was present at this elitist, up market event; two, that she was on such friendly terms with Pollinger; three, that she didn't kick him in the crotch for his disgusting suggestion.

  She said, "Cost a lot more than a penny, Darby."

  The labourer is worthy of her hire," said Pollinger. "I'll ring you."

  He moved away.

  "Not a word, Sixsmith," warned Butcher.

  "I don't know words like that," said Joe. "Listen, how's your friend?"

  He'd rung Butcher and put her in the picture about the Naysmiths.

  "Badly in need of help and I don't just mean legal. I blame myself a lot. I knew what a bad way she was in after the op." but then suddenly she started to pull out of it, and instead of looking for reasons, all I did was think, thank Christ for that, one less thing for me to worry about."

  "Butcher, you're not a trick-cyclist," said Joe gently. "You can't be responsible for everything."

  "Jeez, this is the donkey telling the cow it shouldn't crap on the grass," said Butcher acidly.

  But she was smiling affectionately and suddenly she reached up, gave him a kiss and said, "You did good, Sixsmith," before moving away.

  Across the room he caught Beryl watching him. She made a comic there-you-go-again face.

  Joe turned away, smiling, and bumped into something solid. It was Starbright Jones.

  "Hi," said Joe. "Enjoying yourself."

  "Not here to enjoy myself. Some of us are still on duty."

  "Sorry. Look, I was thinking, that voice of yours if you're interested, why don't I introduce you to Rev. Pot who runs our choir? He'd be knocked out, I'm sure."

  "Now that's real friendly of you, Joe," said the Welshman. "Only I shan't be around long enough to learn a part, see. Zak's putting me on the payroll permanent. I'm going across the water with her, keep her safe from them heathen Indians and such."

  "That's great," said Joe sincerely. "Send me a postcard."

  They shook hands, which was a mistake. Joe was still nursing his crushed fingers when Jim Hardiman touched his elbow.

  "Hi, Hooter," said Joe. "Oh, sorry."

  "Joe, why do you apologize every time you use that old name? I don't mind. Takes me back to those good old days when we were all a lot younger and thought an ulcer was a bit of Ireland, eh? By the way, I hear it's down to you that we missed a big scandal today. That bastard, Endor, who'd have thought it? Just goes to show you can't tell a melon till you squeeze it. Good work, Joe."

  Meaning I'm a melon as well as Endor? wondered Joe. And Hardiman too, maybe. Perhaps he really does believe we were all pals together at school. And perhaps he's not so wrong there as I think he is. After all, I had him high on my suspect list from the start, so just how partial was I being the way I looked at him?

  "My pleasure, Hooter," he said. "See you around."

  He caught Willie Woodbine entertaining a little crowd of admirers with a potted version of how he'd cracked the Poll-Pott murder case. When he clocked Joe smiling from the edge of his audience, Woodbine, like a seasoned trouper, didn't break stride but said, "Joe,
glad you could make it," (like he'd issued the invite personally). "Ladies and gents, this is Joe Sixsmith, living proof of just how much us pros rely on the eyes and ears of the great big British public."

  Not exactly sharing the glory, but the kind of public endorsement which was worth its weight in parking tickets.

  All in all, it was a pretty fair kind of party, he decided, as he accepted another glass of the bubbly wine which seemed to be on endless stream.

  As he sipped it, Beryl's voice spoke in his ear like a nun's conscience.

  "Joe, I'm not staying on the orange juice tonight. And I said I wouldn't be back late. Sis is good hearted but she don't like to feel overused."

  "OK," said Joe. "Let's just see Zak do the opening stuff then we'll be on our way."

  The time for the official part of the evening had arrived. In a shallow alcove in the art gallery's main wall, two squares of curtain hung, each with its own tasselled draw cord. The mayor stood at a lectern and gave a brief antenatal account of the Pleasure Dome.

  He concluded, There have been those who sneered at the undertaking from the start, those who opposed it on financial and political and even ecological grounds. We have, I think, met all their arguments with better arguments and if any doubts remained, I am sure they were washed away in that great surge of emotion every true Lutonian shared when we witnessed our own Zak Oto's magnificent achievement this afternoon."

  Lots of applause, with Starbright's beady eye checking to see if anyone was being a touch languid.

  "Zak is, of course, not only the finest athlete of her generation ..." (If you're going to lay it on, lay it on thick, thought Joe.) '... but a trained and talented artist. So when it came to deciding who should perform this final opening ceremony here in the gallery tonight, there was only one possible choice. That lady of all the talents and all the graces, our very own, Zak Oto!"

  Even more applause. Zak took centre stage looking very young, very shy, and very beautiful. Her voice, at first hesitant, quickly gained strength and she seemed to know instinctively that what was wanted was quality not quantity of words.

  A few quick but vibrantly sincere thanks then ... 'and so it is with great pleasure that I declare this gallery and the whole of this splendid Pleasure Dome open."

  She pulled on a tassel and the first curtain slid aside to reveal an ornately carved plaque bearing the Lutonian coat of arms and all necessary details of the occasion.

  But it wasn't over yet.

  She moved to the second curtain.

  "Someone had the bright, or perhaps not so bright, idea that maybe they could hang one of my own paintings here permanently as another mark of the occasion," she said. "Well, one of the things I've learned as a runner is to know myself, to assess how far and how fast I can move. I think I'm making fair progress' Laughter 'but when I apply the same touchstone to my progress as an artist, I know just how far I've got to go. Maybe in ten years I'll have something I may dare to submit to public view here. At the moment all I would be doing is offering a permanent proof, by comparison with the work of really mature artists, of just how much I had to learn. So I said no. But the idea of having a permanent exhibition of the very best of local talent is a good one. And I thought I would set the ball rolling by presenting to this gallery, and to the lovely old town of my birth, a remarkable piece of art by someone whose name may surprise you but whose talent will astound you!

  Joe looked fixedly at the un drawn curtain which showed the outline of something standing proud from the wall. Art he knew dick about, but a length and breadth he could gauge to the nearest centimetre, and he didn't like what he was thinking.

  Turning to Beryl, he whispered, "OK, let's be getting you back to Desmond."

  "No, hang on, she's almost finished."

  Zak was saying, "This is, I think, a profound statement of oh so many modern themes. Maybe it's his job, which brings him into contact with life in the raw, that gives him this profound and subtle insight

  Joe said, "I don't feel so good. Let's go. Please."

  He didn't wait to see the result of his plea but headed out of the door. A few steps on he turned his head to see if Beryl was following. She was. The door opened to let her out just as Zak reached the climax of her address. She pulled the remaining tassel and Joe had the briefest glimpse of the curtain opening on what to his eyes was unmistakably a cat's plastic litter tray with a picture printed on its base. Then the door swung shut.

  "Joe," said Beryl as she joined him. "You OK? You shouldn't drink that stuff if you can't take it."

  I'm fine. Just needed the air," said Joe.

  "Oh good. Funny, I was sure I heard Zak mention your name as I came out."

  "Me? Shoot, you could put everything I know about art down on the bottom of Whitey's litter tray," said Joe Sixsmith.

  And hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, because it's hard to move fast when you're giggling and kissing at the same time, they made their way to the Magic Mini.

  REGINALD HILL was brought up in Cumbria where he has returned after many years in Yorkshire, the setting for his award-winning crime novels featuring Dalziel and Pascoe, whose 'double act... is one of the delights of English crime fiction1 (The Times). These novels have now been made into a successful BBC TV series.

  Now Reginald Hill has created a new character, Joe Sixsmith. Born in a short story, the author found writing about him so enjoyable that he felt the redundant lathe operator turned private eye from Luton deserved his own series of novels. The first two. Blood Sympathy and Born Guilty, are also published in Collins Crime.