Killing the Lawyers

by Reginald Hill

"No," said Joe, who wasn't a naturally assertive person but knew that with certain types, like Jehovah's Witnesses and shop assistants keen to sell you an expensive tub of gunge to clean the shoes you just spent your last farthing buying, you had to be unwaveringly firm. "Has to be Mrs. Airey."

  "Well, I'll see ... it is about a claim, is it?"

  Nor was Joe a naturally sarcastic man, but at times the temptation was very strong.

  "No, it's about a crime," he said, taking out one of his dog-eared cards and laying it on the desk. "I think she can help with my enquiries."

  The young woman did not look persuaded but she picked up her phone and spoke into it. Then, after a moment's listening, she said, "Mrs. Airey says to go on up. Fourth floor. Room seventeen."

  "Thanks," said Joe, smiling again, in a conciliatory manner. He didn't like having to lean, even if ever so gently, on kids guilty of nothing more than a slight lack of manners.

  Mrs. Airey was a different kettle of fish. Despite the fact she was so thin even her ear lobes looked anorexic, you could lean on her till your shoulder ached without getting any movement.

  Knowing from experience there was no room in that narrow ribcage for a heart, Joe aimed his puny attack straight at the wallet.

  "This is offensive," he said, waving the cheque. "I've got a notarized statement from my mechanical adviser testifying to the first-class condition of my car plus affidavits from collectors' clubs confirming its market value."

  That pretty well exhausted his legal jargon.

  Mrs. Airey smiled and said, "Naturally we'd be interested to see them, Mr. Sixsmith, but I doubt if they will materially change our assessment."

  "Oh, you'll be seeing them all right. In court."

  "In court?" She stopped smiling without actually starting to quake in her boots. That's your prerogative, of course, but you must be aware that in civil cases the plaintiff, if he loses, can end up being responsible for the defence costs as well as his own, which may themselves be considerable. You would be well advised to think hard before embarking on such a perilous course. Unless you have private means."

  Meaning, man who can't afford a decent car certainly can't afford justice.

  "Oh, I've been well advised," said Joe, getting angry. This new law which says British lawyers can do like the Yanks and take on no-win-no-fee cases, that's going to apply here. And no fat cat lawyer's going to take that risk without he reckons he's on a certain thing!"

  He sat back to observe how Endor's ploy was working out. Mrs. Airey hadn't yet fallen off her chair.

  "Really?" she said. "And may I ask which law firm takes such an unlikely view of things?"

  Joe guessed that the Bullpat Square Law Centre wouldn't send her reaching for her smelling salts. So he heard himself saying, I've consulted Messrs Pollinger, Potter, Naysmith, lies and Montaigne of Oldmaid Row."

  She was giving him an oddly doubting look. OK, so she'd read the papers and knew that Poll-Pott were short a couple of names from the team sheet, but so what? Premier-division outfit like that could surely rustle up an international-strength reserve side.

  "And they advised you to go ahead?" she said, incredulous this side of politeness.

  He hadn't actually told the lie direct so far, but now he was in too deep to back off.

  That's right," he said, adding on the sheep-as-a-lamb principle, They were real enthusiastic about my chances."

  "Well," she said, rising from behind her desk and offering her hand and an almost sympathetic smile. "In that case, Mr. Sixsmith, we'll see you in court."

  As he stood waiting for the lift, he tried to reassure himself it had gone OK. So she hadn't caved in and offered to renegotiate, but she wouldn't, would she? Not before she'd tossed it around with her legal eagles. Then, he hoped, they'd decide it wasn't worth the risk of losing and offer a settlement.

  The lift arrived. He got in. Instead of going down it continued its upward journey to the top floor. When the door opened, you could tell just by the different quality of the carpet that this was where the high fliers roosted. A hard-faced young man with Security written all over him got in and leaned his finger on the Door Open button. You came this high, you got an escort, thought Joe. Hard Face was giving him a what-the-hell-is-this? look. Joe said, "I was on my way down," by way of explanation. Hard Face didn't reply, but his unblinking gaze signalled, better you should have stepped out of a window.

  Voices were approaching, presumably belonging to the important people the lift was being held for.

  One was saying, "Like I say, this is a matter which requires the instant attention of the board. Some may be impressed, like me, that you have come in person to offer your reassurance. Others, I'm afraid, may find even more cause for alarm in that. Goodbye, Darby. We'll be in touch."

  "Goodbye, Harold."

  Harold, Joe could now see, was a short breathless man who didn't look happy. And Darby he knew, from his picture at least. Darby was Darby Pollinger, founder and headman of Poll-Pott.

  Maybe he was having trouble with his motor too, thought Joe.

  But he knew that wasn't the answer. That lay in Mrs. Airey's reaction when he said Poll-Pott had advised him he had a case. No wonder she'd found this hard to believe. He'd bet his pension if he had one that Penthouse's legal advisers were none other than Poll-Pott!

  Pollinger's gaze hardly touched Joe as he entered the lift, but he felt like he'd been fully registered.

  In the foyer Hard Face held the main door open for the lawyer. Joe rushed forward before he could close it, said, Thanks, my man. Hey, you ought to get someone to call a plumber, all this water running down the walls," and got out with only minor damage to his trailing ankle.

  A step behind Pollinger, he followed his exact path to the managing director's bay. There the lawyer paused with his hand on the door handle of the Merc.

  "It's Sixsmith, I believe," he said.

  "That's what I believe too," said Joe.

  Pollinger slid into the driving seat, reached over and opened the passenger door.

  "If you have a moment to spare, I'd appreciate a little conversation, Mr. Sixsmith," he said.

  Joe looked down at the soft leather seat. He'd got into worse messes than this.

  "Why not?" he said.

  It was nice in there. He kept the interior of the Magic Mini as clean as he could, but it still ponged faintly of oil and takeaways and (don't even think it, but too late! Whitey's disgruntled face had already appeared at the Mini's window) cat.

  Nothing here though but the intoxicatingly elusive smell of money.

  "First things first, Mr. Sixsmith," said Pollinger. "Could we just remove the very faint possibility that you are following me?"

  "Shoot!" exclaimed Joe indignantly. "Why should I be doing that? I was in there on private and personal business."

  "Yes, I believe you. I did not think it possible that you would be so obvious if I were under surveillance."

  Joe looked carefully to see if there was space for an implied even before the you, but found none.

  "Well, you're not. Not by me anyway. Why would you think you might be?"

  "In view of what's been happening recently, I should have thought that was obvious. Protection or suspicion, take your choice."

  Joe digested this then said, "I get you. But either or both, that would be a cop job. I only work at what I get paid for."

  "From what I have heard, that's not strictly true, Mr. Sixsmith," said Pollinger. "Who, for instance, paid you to go round to poor Sandra's flat? Or Felix's house?"

  "I thought he was in trouble," said Joe.

  "Which he was. That was good hearted of you. And Sandra, did you think she was in trouble too?"

  "No," said Joe, who found lying so uncomfortable that he didn't bother with it except as a last resort. "I thought she might have been the one who killed Mr. Potter."

  "So for the sake both of helping a fellow human in peril and of advancing the cause of justice, you were willing to inconvenience if not en
danger yourself without pay? This is a degree of virtue I rarely encounter in my profession."

  "Maybe you should spend some time down Bullpat Square then," said Joe.

  "Oh yes. The redoubtable Ms Butcher. Who was responsible for getting you involved in this business in the first place, so the police inform me."

  That's right. And if she'd checked her facts, I wouldn't have got involved. And I still think it was pretty irresponsible once Potter realized I was talking about Penthouse

  It occurred to Joe that maybe complaining about the professional standards of the murdered lawyer to his partner and probably friend was not the seemliest thing he'd ever done.

  "You mean that when you explained your problem to Peter, he did not at once say there was a conflict of interest?" completed Pollinger. "I regret that, Mr. Sixsmith. What did he say?"

  "Said I was wasting my time, I had no case."

  "Perhaps, in fact almost certainly, that was his honest opinion and he merely wanted to save you from further inner turmoil and external expense. Let us hope so anyway. De mortuis

  This was one very cool guy, or very cold, Joe wasn't certain which.

  He said, "So I'm right, you do represent Penthouse?"

  Pollinger said, "Yes. Normally a company of their size would have developed their own legal department by now, but Harold Duhig and I have seen our businesses grow side by side over the years and know each other too well to separate. Until now."

  "You got problems with him?" said Joe, ready to sympathize with anyone who was suffering at the hands of Penthouse.

  "I think rather he has problems with us, Mr. Sixsmith."

  Pollinger closed his eyes and seemed to enter into a kind of trancelike state which would have had his family sending for the doctor and his doctor sending for the drug squad.

  Joe, being in neither state of relationship, waited for him either to recover or pitch forward on the steering wheel, but was glad when he opted for the first.

  "To recap then, Mr. Sixsmith, you are not in a client relationship with anyone connected with this case?"

  "You mean, am I getting paid? I told you already. No."

  "In that case perhaps I could retain your services?"

  "To do what?"

  "Why, to help a fellow human being who may be in peril, and to advance the cause of justice, of course," said Pollinger, smiling. "I realize you do both of these for free, but the extra I would require for my money would be total confidentiality."

  That's what all my clients get, this side of the law."

  "Excellent. Then put this under your hat and keep it there. I regret to say that there may be some discrepancies in some of our client accounts."

  "You mean, someone's been on the fiddle and that's what these killings are about?" said Joe, delighted at this confirmation of his own theory. "You spoke to Nay smith, did you?"

  "Naturally. I was at the chambers when he arrived for his appointment with Peter. Poor chap. He was really shocked. They were very close, you know."

  "Yes, second row," said Joe impatiently. "What did he say Potter said to him on the phone?"

  "Not a lot, unfortunately. It seems that just before Christmas Peter had stumbled across an inconsistency in the movement of certain client funds. He'd mentioned it to Felix but had decided not to bother me with it till he had more information. Presumably he'd found something more and wanted Felix to double check."

  "So no names?"

  "Evidently not."

  "Suspicions?"

  Those I will keep to myself for the moment. You see, Mr. Sixsmith, if it turns out the killings and the embezzlements are connected'

  "If?" interrupted Joe. "You got reason to think different?"

  "When you've worked in the Law as long as I have, you don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Sixsmith. Post hoc and propter hoc are two very different things."

  Joe took his word for it and said, "So someone with a grudge, maybe?"

  "A possibility. But as I was saying, my accountant's investigations which have already thrown up some irregularities, will certainly lead us to the perpetrator of the financial crime. I would prefer to discover this person had nothing to do with the killings."

  Yeah, you can hush up thieving but not murder, thought Joe.

  "So who's lost money apart from Penthouse?" he said.

  "I never said Penthouse had lost money," reproved Pollinger. In fact, until the full audit is complete, it's difficult to locate any losses precisely. The skein is tangled and the situation fluid, if you'll forgive my mix of metaphors. If as seems likely funds have been moved around so that no particular depredation could be spotted at one time, then the question of the precise locating of losses becomes complicated."

  "You mean like if I nick a fiver from you, then a bit later I put a fiver in your wallet that I've nicked from someone else, whose fiver is that?"

  "I wish my accountant could put things so plainly," said Pollinger, smiling.

  "Maybe you should change them. How come they didn't notice something funny was going on?"

  "A good question. Their pre-emptive answer is that any irregularities must have occurred since the last annual audit. If they turn out to be wrong, I shall of course be delighted to sue them. In fact, that would solve a lot of problems."

  "You mean, they could be held responsible for the losses?"

  "For all that have occurred since the audit, certainly."

  He nodded with pleasure at the thought. Vampires,

  thought Joe. As long as they've got someone else's big fat vein to suck, they're happy.

  "So why, if you don't know yet who's lost what, have you been visiting your old chum at Penthouse?" asked Joe.

  "When two lawyers get killed and a third is attacked, rumours soon start circulating, Mr. Sixsmith. You'd be amazed at the number of calls I've already had, vibrant with sincere condolence rapidly modulating into equally sincere concern about the state of our finances. People can be so self-centred."

  "So you went to Penthouse to deal with these rumours?" persisted Joe.

  "No. There's another problem there," admitted Pollinger. "You see, we are of course insured against losses of this kind. All law firms need to be."

  Joe worked on this for a while then began to chuckle.

  "You mean it's Penthouse you're insured with? So if they've been ripped off they could find themselves paying out money to cover their own losses?"

  "You have a gift for the simplistic precis," said Pollinger. "Harold Duhig is not happy."

  "I bet. Piece of advice, Mr. Pollinger. Next time you go to see your friend, take a sledgehammer, 'cos getting what you're due out of Penthouse is like getting blood out of a stone!"

  Surprisingly this seemed to cheer Pollinger up immensely.

  "I see we are going to get on famously, Mr. Sixsmith," he said. "My curiosity was already aroused when your name kept cropping up in the accounts I received of the police investigation. Could it be pure chance, I wondered. Then when I saw you in the lift'

  "I'd been described?" interjected Joe.

  "In general terms," said Pollinger evasively. "But your car more unmistakably. No, your involvement here is more than pure chance."

  "You don't look like a superstitious man to me, Mr. Pollinger," said Joe.

  "And you're right. I'm not. The chance I refer to is an accepted area of modern scientific theory. Anything can hap pen. But if it keeps on happening, then it is removed from the realm of accident and someone posits a law."

  "You're losing me," said Joe.

  "On the contrary, I am hiring you."

  "But to do what?" demanded Joe.

  To find out who has murdered two of my colleagues. Also there is a great deal of money missing. I should like to know where it has gone."

  Ah, thought Joe. The money. He'd put the deaths of his colleagues first, but it sounded like a close call.

  "But where do you want me to start?" he asked.

  "Start? Man, you're so far in, I suspect you could hardly find you
r way back! You will need to talk to all our staff, of course. Mrs. Mattison, our office manager, is ideally placed to give you an overall view. I've asked her to come in tomorrow morning to help sort out this mess. I'll tell her you'll call."

  "Yes, sir," said Joe. "Am I just going to talk to her or ... ?"

  "You mean, is she suspect? Everyone of them is suspect, Mr. Sixsmith, till you find out different, or they get killed."

  Shoot! thought Joe. This guy wasn't just icy cold, he was permafrost!

  "Mr. Naysmith didn't get killed, just beaten up," he probed. "But you don't think he's a suspect, do you?"

  "Felix?" said Pollinger thoughtfully. "It's my understanding you yourself alibi'd him?"

  "Yeah, well, I overheard Mr. Potter talking to him on the phone and the cops confirmed the call was from Lincolnshire."

  "And poor Peter got killed within minutes of your leaving him. So, unless you're a terribly unreliable witness, Mr. Sixsmith, that seems to let him off the hook. But you'll still want to interview him, I daresay. Now, is there anything else we need to discuss?"

  "We haven't talked about my rates," said Joe diffidently.

  "Worried about working for a man whose firm is likely to have suffered substantial losses? Quite right. Take this on account and let me know when it has run its course. Good day now. I feel better for knowing you are on the case."

  Joe slid out of the rich comfort of the Merc, clutching the bundle of notes Pollinger had produced from his wallet. The Merc moved silently away. Joe opened the door of the Mini and Whitey let out an angry howl which diminished as Joe flapped the notes in his face.

  "I got the only cat in the world that recognizes the smell of money!" said Joe. "Let's count this lot then head to Daph's Diner to celebrate!"

  Fourteen.

  Daph's Diner gets a cautious recommendation in The Lost Traveller's Guide for the depth and nutritional qualities of its hot bacon sandwiches.

  With the casual indifference to expense of a man who's got eight hundred quid tucked down his Y-fronts, Joe ordered two and a pot of tea. Someone had left a copy of the Bugle at his table. He used the thick Property Market supplement as a fat-absorbent tray for Whitey's sandwich after checking he was out of the sight line of the counter. Daph, a formidable young woman with a second-class honours degree in art history and a realistic attitude to its attendant job opportunities, was unreliable in her attitude to animals on the premises. Last time a customer complained, she'd thrown Joe and Whitey out, but the time before it had been the amazed customer who ended up on the pavement, closely followed by her jam doughnut.