Joe in his teens had got himself classed as a Son of Harpenden by wilfully provoking the police in three respects: one, by being young; two, by being black; three, by being working class.
As the passing years gradually diluted the first of these provocations, Joe found the police magnanimously tolerant of his steadfast refusal to do anything about the other two, and eventually, safely pinned down as an industrial wage-slave, he looked set to pass the remainder of his life in that state of armed truce which a Martian on a day trip to England could mistake for integration.
Then he had turned PI.
This to some cops was a provocation stronger even than youth.
And to make matters worse, Joe had the gift of the truly innocent of stumbling into situations which, like a bishop in a bathhouse, required some explanation.
Fortunately his matching serendipity had enabled him to come up with a couple of results which Detective Superintendent Woodbine had managed to transfer to his own record sheet. Therefore it was with reasonable equanimity that Joe accepted the beat boys' kind invitation to come down to the station and help with enquiries.
Nor did his heart sink more than a couple of ribs when the interview-room door opened and Detective Sergeant Chivers came in. Chivers was not a fan.
He was not so far gone in his dislike that he'd frame Joe, but he didn't bother to hide his pleasure at finding him already in the frame.
Joe said, "Hi, Sarge. Nice to see you."
"You reckon?"
"Well, I know it can't be all that serious," said Joe confidently. "Else Willie would be turning the handle himself."
The familiar reference to Superintendent Woodbine was by way of reminder to the sergeant that he was handling delicate goods, but Chivers looked unfazed.
"Super's sunning himself in Morocco for a week, thought you'd have known that, being such chums," he sneered.
Joe's heart dropped like an overripe plum and lay exposed, waiting to be trodden on.
"And the DC I?" he asked.
"In bed with flu. And the DI's got himself snowbound up a Cairngorm. So that leaves nobody in the place but you and me, Joe."
"I know the song. Maybe I should wait for my brief," said Joe.
"You want to be banged up till morning that's your privilege," said Chivers.
Shoot, thought Joe. One of the uniforms must've ear-wigged his conversation with Butcher; not hard, as Joe's indignation had made him echo much of what the little lawyer had said.
Tomorrow morning!" he yelled. "You can't do anything till tomorrow morning? Butcher, we're not talking car-insurance claims any more."
"I know, Joe, and I'm sorry. But there's this dinner in Cambridge, and I'm the main speaker, and I'm planning to stay over
"Oh well, if you're planning to stay over, don't you worry yourself about me!" said Joe.
"Hopefully, you haven't done anything to worry about," said Butcher. "Just tell Woodbine the truth. He knows which side his bread's buttered on. You'll probably be in bed before I am."
"Not from what I hear about them dirty dons," said Joe.
"Don't get cheeky. I'll call you soon as I can, OK?"
"I get it. Don't ring us, we'll ring you. What happened to kill the other lawyers, then call us?"
Not the cleverest of things to say. And he'd already said it, or something like it, earlier this evening, as he was soon to be reminded.
"Nose looks sore, Joe," said Chivers sympathetically. Joe didn't like it. Cops were like hospital nurses. The more helpless you were, the sooner they started treating you like you were five and backward.
"It's fine," said Joe, though his nose was twingeing like it knew it was being talked about. "Listen, is it true Potter's dead?"
"Surprise you, does it? Well, these things happen, Joe. It's not like on the movies. Fight starts. You go in there chopping and twisting, next thing someone's seriously hurt. Or worse. Specially when you've had the training."
Training? What the shoot does that mean?"
"It means one of my boys going into the sports centre for Mr. Takeushi's advanced class saw you coming away from the beginners' session."
"And that makes me a killer?"
"Shows you've got the inclination maybe."
"Yeah? And what does the advance class show about your boy? That he wants to be a mass murderer? It's self-defence, that's all. The whole philosophy is nonviolent."
Mr. Takeushi would be pleased to know that his words if not his techniques had made some impression.
"Nonviolent, eh? So why were you shooting your mouth off about killing lawyers, Joe?"
"Figure of speech," said Joe. "It's from Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare?" said Chivers in mock admiration. "Didn't know you had such classy tastes, Joe. Now which play would that be in? Macbeth where the king gets killed? Or Othello where the black guy kills his wife? Or Hamlet maybe where everybody kills everybody else? Lots of killing in Shakespeare. Turns you on, does it?"
"When does this get official, Sarge?" asked Joe. "I mean, I've come here voluntarily to make a statement and as it sounds like a serious matter, I thought you'd have been wanting to hear it while it's still fresh."
He waited to see if Chivers would suggest his presence wasn't voluntary. He could see the man was tempted, but while he might be a fascist he wasn't a fool and in the end all he said was, "We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Sixsmith. Let's get the tape running, shall we?"
Joe told it like it had happened. Chivers probed his story for a bit then, with the unconcealed reluctance of a man leaving the warm pub where he wants to be for the cold night air which he doesn't fancy, he began asking questions based on the possibility that Joe could be telling the truth.
"Did you see anyone else in the building but Ms lies and Mr. Potter?"
"No."
"Did you see or hear anything which might have suggested there was someone else in the building?"
"Don't think so."
"Come on, Sixsmith. A footstep, a creaking board, an open door. Anything."
"Like I say, I don't recollect anything. But I'll work on it."
"What about outside? When you arrived and when you left, did you see anyone hanging around? Or anyone at all?"
"No. The Row was empty. No one walking. No cars parked. Except mine and Ms Iles's. It was six o'clock in Christmas week. All them businesses would be shut for the duration."
"What about the park?"
Joe thought.
"Didn't see anyone," he said. "But I wasn't really looking."
"So there could have been someone in the park?"
"Could have been King Kong up a tree, but I didn't see him," said Joe.
"What about lights? What lights were on in the building?"
"When I arrived, none that I could see. But there wouldn't be. Mr. Potter's room looks out on the back."
"How do you know that?" demanded Chivers. "You told me you never got into his room, only as far as his secretary's office."
"I didn't. But I know which way I'm facing."
"Always?"
"Usually."
"Not a Muslim, are you?"
"No. Why?"
"Could be a useful talent for a Muslim."
Joe glanced towards the tape and coughed gently.
"Yeah, yeah. Well, thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Sixsmith. We may need to talk to you again and meanwhile if anything comes to mind that you think might help us, please get in touch. Interview ends at 20.15 hours."
He switched the recorder off and sat glowering at Joe.
"You're a waste of my time and everyone's space, Sixsmith," he said. "Why don't you sod off out of here?"
"Hey, if you're going to get personal, let's have the recorder back on," said Joe. "Making jokes about Muslims just gets you killed, but being rude to witnesses may get you sued. What's your beef anyway, Sarge? I told you all I know. Don't want me making stuff up, do you?"
"No, don't want that," said Chivers, relaxing a little. "Just wanted a bit of a poin
ter but I suppose that was too much to hope for."
Suddenly Joe got it. When Woodbine had been made up to superintendent, his detective inspector had become acting DC I, but Chivers hadn't moved up to acting inspector. Instead, a new young high flier had been appointed. But Scottish snow, African sun, and Asian flu had united to leave the sergeant temporarily in charge of the shop. A good quick result in a murder case would do him no harm at all and at the very least be a satisfying two fingers to his sceptical superiors.
He said, "I'm doing my best, Sarge. You know that."
He saw the man tremble on the brink of another insult then pull himself back, maybe recalling that Willie Woodbine had done OK by giving Joe his head.
"Yeah, sure," he said. "I meant it when I said, any little pointer."
Happy to extend the phoney peace, Joe racked his brain for an idea.
There was the phone call," he said. "Someone called Felix. Listen, if you dialled 1471, you'd probably get his number
He saw from Chivers's face this was mutton to the Falklands.
"Felix Naysmith. One of the partners. Number was his holiday cottage in Lincolnshire. We rang back, but they must have gone out for the evening. No sweat. Unless Potter was actually attacked while he was on the phone, which doesn't seem likely, there's not much chance of Naysmith being able to help. It's those who were on the spot I'm interested in."
Grinding his teeth significantly, Joe said, "Like Ms lies, you mean?"
"Ms lies has been very helpful," said Chivers, implying compared with some people. "First off, she told us she heard a din upstairs and went to her door in time to see you flouncing out, yelling about killing lawyers."
"I explained that."
"Yeah, like you explained about forcing your way into the building, scaring the pants off the poor woman."
"Come on, Sarge. Did she really say that?"
"No," admitted Chivers reluctantly. "Just the opposite. What she did say was that after you left she went back into her own room, leaving the door open so she'd see Potter when he came down. Fifteen minutes later when he hadn't shown and she was ready to leave, she rang his office. When he didn't reply she got worried."
"Isn't there some other way out of the building?" interrupted Joe.
"How do you know that?" demanded Chivers, suspicion re-entering quick enough to show it hadn't retreated far.
"Because them houses were built for monied folk to live in with maids and cooks and backstairs and tradesmen's entrances," said Joe.
That your deduction of the month, Sixsmith?" sneered Chivers. "OK, there's still a backstairs and a rear entrance from the back yard. Takes you out into Ligover Lane."
"So why was she worried when Potter could just have gone out the back way which, if his car wasn't parked out front, seems the most likely explanation?"
"She had a feeling something was wrong," said Chivers.
"Sort of feminine intuition?" offered Joe.
"No. Sort of feeling anyone might get when an aggressive little black man bursts in, rushes upstairs, starts throwing furniture about, and storms out shouting stuff about killing people," said Chivers.
"Yeah, well, we've been through all that, Sarge," said Joe. "So what's she do now?"
"She goes upstairs, goes into Potter's room, and finds him lying by his desk, dead as a doornail."
"And how'd he die?"
"Neck broken. No sign of a struggle. One quick professional twist. That's what really got you off the hook, Sixsmith."
"Why so?"
"Because I got my Black Belt boy to check with Mr. Take-ushi who told him, wrapped up in Oriental politeness, of course, that after six lessons you still couldn't punch your way out of a paper bag, let alone inflict damage on a fully grown man with all his limbs and senses about him. So now, sod off, Sixsmith, and let me get on with some real detection!"
Four.
Joe woke up next morning knowing exactly who had killed Peter Potter.
Or at least having a vague idea who might possibly, all else being equal, have had something to do with his death.
It was hard experience had taught Joe to approach his certainties with this degree of caution. He'd seen so much solid ground dissolve beneath his feet he could have freelanced as an oil drill. But as he worked his way through the Full British Breakfast, which was his patriotic way of starting each new day, he could detect no flaws in his logic.
He went through it again.
He had left Potter alive and well though in a lousy temper.
Twenty minutes later he was dead, his neck broken by someone who knew how to do that sort of thing.
The only other person definitely in the building was Sandra lies, who had claimed to be expert in the neck-breaking arts and had given Joe himself a fair example of her skills.
She had found herself with a great opportunity of offing Potter with a short-odds prime suspect all laid on. Or maybe she had killed the guy on the spur of the moment and got the idea of fingering the pathetic little black man later. Didn't matter. Nor did motive. They were business colleagues which, like marriage, is notoriously a relationship in which incentives to murder are offered daily.
So why look further?
The only trouble was, if he could think of it, almost certainly Chivers had thought of it too.
He rang the station to check.
Chivers wasn't in yet, he'd had a late night, yawned D C Dylan Doberley unsympathetically.
"So how's it going, Dildo?" asked Joe. Doberley was a friend, or at least a fellow member of the Boyling Corner Choir where he atoned for being a materialistic, lecherous, C of E dropout by possessing a natural basso prof undo
"Slowly," said Doberley. "Word is, there's a thaw in the Cairngorms, the DCI's wife is more irritating than his flu, and the Super's holiday firm's gone bust, so poor old Chivers's dreams of glory are fading pretty damn fast."
"Nothing then? No arrests, no suspects?" enquired Joe.
"Only you. I'd go into hiding, he's getting really desperate."
"Thanks, Dildo. I may do that. See you at choir practice."
Joe put the phone down and said, "You hear that, Whitey? Time running out for poor old Chivers, but I don't see why I shouldn't grab a slice of that glory."
Whitey, who had grabbed a slice of fried bread, chewed sneeringly.
"Just you wait and see," said Joe.
Wait and see what? was the question which the cat or any sentient being might legitimately have asked, but Joe was able to postpone essaying an answer by his awareness that while glory might exalt the ego, it took paying customers to feed the flesh. Miss Jones was probably a wind-up, but he couldn't afford to neglect the chance she was for real.
He arrived in Robespierre Place at eight forty-five, parked the Magic Mini round the corner, and walked back to Peck House with Whitey slouching at his heels, disconsolate to discover they weren't about to launch another assault on Mirabelle's prize turkey.
Peck House, named for Alderman Peck who had conducted himself as chairman of the council's planning committee and as chief shareholder in the firm which got the contract to develop this and many other sites with an aplomb which didn't desert him during his later appearances in the dock, was a nineteen sixties that-was-the-future-that-was building, only saved from the high-rise demolition boom of the eighties by the fact that the Alderman's luck ran out shortly after the third floor. Hastily capped and redirected from residential to office use on the grounds that, while in five years it probably wouldn't be fit for even the most desperate of council tenants the kind of businesses driven to seek a base in Robespierre Place couldn't afford to be so finicky it loured disdainfully at the stolid Victorian terrace opposite like a misunderstood romantic hero.
Its frowning exterior was reflected on the face of a man lurking in the doorway, though any claims he had to be romantic were well hidden. About five and a half feet tall, and almost as much across the shoulders, he might have got close to six feet if God had given him the usual proportion of neck
. Perhaps the material saved here had gone into the formation of his ears which were large, pasty-grey, and wrinkled, reminding Joe of something he'd seen in a packet down the Chinese supermarket.
He was wearing a tracksuit and trainers. Perhaps, thought Joe, who always tried to look on the bright side, he was a British heavyweight out on a training run who'd stopped for a rest and a smoke.
Why was the bright side always fantasy?
The man was blocking his path. Purposefully.
"Sixsmith?" he growled or rather shrilled, in a surprisingly high voice which was nonetheless menacing.
That's right," said Joe. "It's not Miss Jones, is it?"
To his surprise, instead of breaking him in two, the man said, "Just Jones. Inside."
Taking this as instruction rather than analysis, Joe pushed open the door and stepped in. He glanced round to see if the man was following but he remained on the step glaring down at Whitey who returned the glare with interest.
"It's OK," said Joe. "He's with me."
Despite a slight weakness round the knees, he ignored the lift and headed for the stairs. Whitey never used the lift on the grounds that his life was far too valuable to entrust to a piece of machinery installed by Alderman Peck. Joe, no great lover of exercise, usually thought it a risk worth taking, but the fear of being followed into that rickety tin box by that slab of flesh and bone on the doorstep sent him heading for the stairway.
But his fears were groundless. The street door closed and the man remained outside.
His relief only lasted to the final half landing. Whitey as usual had nimbled ahead of him, but as Joe turned the final bend he saw the cat had halted in his I'm-going-to-get-me-a-wildebeest crouch.
Oh shoot, thought Joe. There's someone else up here.
He thought of a discreet retreat, but memory of what stood on his doorstep plus shame that he should be revealed as scareder than a cat combined to move him onward and upward. But pride did not inhibit him from calling, "Hello. Someone up there?"
"Mr. Sixsmith? Is that you?"
The voice was if anything pitched lower than the neck less monster's, but undeniably and very pleasingly female. A figure advanced from the shadows of the landing.
Killing the Lawyers Page 3
