Killing the Lawyers

by Reginald Hill

  But where was he? Merv had just come in with Molly McShane glowing on his arm. She spotted Joe, disengaged herself and headed towards him.

  "All alone?" she said. "Shall I give that friend I mentioned a ring?"

  "No, it's OK, I'm waiting for somebody."

  "Should've known," she said approvingly. "Good-looking chap like you can pick his own girl."

  "No, well, actually, it's a fella ..."

  Her eyes rounded in lunar amazement.

  "You don't say? Well, Joe, that really amazes me, I'd never have guessed."

  "No! I don't mean ... I mean it's not ... he's just a ..."

  Joe's confusion faded as he realized she was shaking with laughter. With her splendid figure, in a clinging silk blouse, it was a sight worth paying cash money to see.

  "It's OK, Joe," she said. "When you've been around as long as I have you can tell if a guy's AC or DC from a hundred yards."

  "Oh, my date's definitely DC," said Joe, appreciating his own wit. "How's that lovely granddaughter of yours?"

  "Oh, she's grand. It's her mother that bothers me. An hour, she said! She was so long coming back I wondered if I'd get away tonight. Then she has the cheek to ask me if I'd watch the little girl tomorrow! I sometimes think she must have been a changeling!"

  "No way," said Joe. Those're designer looks she's got, not off the peg."

  "Now that's a sweet tongue you've got there, Joe. No wonder you drink Guinness. You need the bitterness to stop your mouth tasting of sugar candy all the time."

  "Hello, hello, not sure if I like the drift of this conversation," said Big Merv, whc 'd turned up with a couple of drinks. "Joe, I don't mind you picking up my cast-offs, but I object to you trying to cut me out."

  "Cast-offs, is it?" said Molly. "You mean there's been women you got tired of before they got tired of you? I don't believe it. I've only been going out with you six months and already I know most of your taxi stories off by heart."

  "Six months? It's more like three," protested Merv.

  "Is that all? Seems a lot longer," said Molly, winking at Joe who laughed and said, "Walked into that one, Merv."

  "Not to worry. Just wait till it really is six months, she'll be thinking they passed like last night's beer. Mind if we join you, Joe?"

  "Well, actually, my date's just arrived."

  Merv turned to see DC Dildo Doberley heading their way.

  "Bloody hell, Joe," said Merv. "I know Beryl's been away, but surely you're not this desperate! Come on, doll. There's a table over there."

  Before Molly followed, she stooped to Joe and said, "What we were talking about, I thought I'd take Feelie to the park tomorrow. If you can manage it..."

  "Can't promise," said Joe. "Hey, I thought you were going to come down hard on Dorrie?"

  "I'm like you, a big softie," she said, ruffling his hair. "See you, I hope."

  Dildo glanced after her as he slumped in a chair and said, "I could fancy some of that. But not now. That bastard Chivers could work the dick off a blind donkey."

  Joe took this as an apology for being late. He also noted to his relief that the DC and his sergeant hadn't spent the afternoon building bridges.

  "Yeah, I know the type," he said. "You do all the work, he takes all the credit. Got you running around on this lawyer case, has he?"

  "Running? More like galloping! My bet is that this wanker Montaigne is going to turn up smiling after spending a week up some sodding Alp with the local mayor's wife."

  "Oh," said Joe trying to sound casual. This was better than he'd hoped, finding Doberley pissed off enough to talk about the Poll-Pott case. "You haven't found him yet then?"

  "No, that's the bloody trouble. No one's got an address in France for him. The Frogs got in touch with his mother but seems she just shrugged and said, you never can tell with our Victor, says he'll probably drop by sometime over the holiday, but if the skiing's good, or something better turns up en route

  "At least you can check if he actually left the country. Can't you?"

  "We can try. According to the couple who live in the next apartment, he was flying out of Heathrow on the twenty third. We had all the likely flights to France checked and sure enough, there was a Victor Montaigne booked to Grenoble but he was a no-show. Trouble was, it turns out this plane was held up for five hours by engine trouble and there were quite a lot of no-shows, probably meaning people found out before they checked in that they were going to be hanging around forever, so shot off to find alternative routes."

  "Such as?"

  "Cancellations on other flights. The Chunnel. Ferries. Or maybe some of them just went home."

  Joe considered this then said, "So you've had to check every other possibility to see if he really went."

  "And to see if he slipped back in in case we do find out he really went. And of course, this time of year, on the ferries in particular, there's no real way of ever being sure whether he sailed out or sailed back in or anything!"

  "A real problem," said Joe. "Anything else developing on the Potter case?"

  He tried to make it sound like just another sympathetic-ear question but this time Doberley was on to him.

  "Hey, Joe, I haven't come here to fill you in on current case business. I've probably said too much already. You want more, ask your friend, the super. Or better still, ask Sergeant Chivers!"

  "You can just see me doing that, can't you?" said Joe. "You look like you could do with a drink. What's it to be?"

  He returned a few moments later with a pint and a menu. The bar was getting busier by the minute but Dick Hull, the manager, could spot cops at fifty yards and made sure they were never kept waiting. "Quicker you serve 'em, sooner they drink up and piss off," was his precept.

  Dildo sank half a pint in one draught and said, "That's better."

  It always fascinated Joe that his speaking voice was light and rapid and indelibly stamped with the vowels and rhythms of Luton, while his singing voice was a fine basso prof undo which might have come straight from the depths of Russia.

  He said, "Rev. Pot says there's a rumour LOS are after you for Emile de Becque in South Pacific."

  LOS was the Light Operatic Society, whose approach to one of his choristers was in Rev. Pot's eyes like seeing a randy soldier climbing over the walls of a convent school.

  "Yeah, I thought about it," said Dildo. "They've got this bird I really fancy singing Nellie. Knockers on her like watermelons. But they're planning a whole week's run in the spring and there's no way I'm going to be able to manage that, not without taking leave."

  Whereas the one or at most two performances of the oratorios the Boyling Corner Choir specialized in were more easily accommodated into aCID officer's schedule, particularly as the Chief Constable's wife was an aficionado of the genre in general and Rev. Pot's choir in particular.

  "Well, Rev. Pot will be glad to hear that you decided the Elijah was more important," said Joe. "Aunt Mirabelle too."

  Mild threat there. He let it register, then went on, That stuff I asked you, you manage anything there, Dildo?"

  "I did as a matter of fact," said the detective, downing the second half of his pint and placing the glass significantly in front of Joe. "And I'll have a Glitterburger and fries. To start with."

  "Thirsty work, snouting," observed Dick Hull as he pulled another pint.

  Joe said, "You complaining, Dick? We can go elsewhere. Only I'd have to say why."

  "Joe, you've got to learn to take a joke. This one's on the house."

  "He wants a Glitterburger and fries. That on the house too?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Make sure you tell him."

  Joe did and Dildo raised his glass to the manager.

  "I like it here," he said. "Friendly. Like me. Those names you gave me, Joe, I had a word with our collator. Nice girl. Pity she's married to the divisional cruiser weight champion. She came up with some interesting stuff. First, Mr. Starbright Jones. You want to tread carefully there, Joe. Couple of years back he was a boun
cer at Miss Piggies, out Dunstable way.

  There was a bit of trouble. Ended with Starbright putting a customer in his car. He got six months for assault."

  "Seems a bit strong," said Joe.

  "Maybe. Except he put him in through the sun roof. Without opening it. He's been working as a minder since he came out. He's kept his nose clean, except for doing the ton on a bike down the M1 last year. Likewise Jim Hardiman, nothing but traffic, speeding mainly. Got disqualified on a drink-driving charge last year but got off on appeal when there was that cock-up about some of the breathalyzers being wrongly calibrated. Shouldn't have mattered in his case, he was so far over, but there was the usual overkill. Douglas Endor. Back in the eighties he looked set to be one of your loadsa-money lads. Whole series of small-time communications companies, glossy brochures, big promises, small results, usually went bust but as they were always limited liability, Endor came out smiling and set up the next. Moved into PR about seven years ago and started concentrating on sports management when he spotted Billy Bream playing snooker in his local club. Did Billy a lot of good by all accounts. Won a few tournaments, nothing really big but enough to get him into the top ten, and Endor got a lot of sponsorship. Endor started collecting a little stable of up-and-coming sports people. All above board so far as we know. Endor takes a hefty percentage, but there haven't been any complaints. So far."

  He looked interrogatively at Joe who shook his head.

  "Just checking," he said. "Honest."

  "I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't. Finally the Otos. Nothing on any of them. OK, Joe. Like to tell me what's going on? How come you're checking on Zak Oto's family, her business agent, her minder, and her ex-trainer?"

  "Just routine enquiries," said Joe, trying for a wide-eyed innocent look, feeling it come out shifty and settling for concealing his face in his glass.

  "You sure there's nothing you want to share with me?" said Dildo.

  "Dildo, it's just a little job Zak's hired me to do, and all I want is to be sure there's nothing iffy going on around her."

  "I hope you're telling the truth, Joe, 'cos you know how that girl's regarded in Luton. Anything unpleasant happens around her, you could find yourself very unpopular with a lot of people."

  "I'm her greatest fan," said Joe fervently.

  "Not while I'm around," said Dildo. "Isn't she gorgeous? The thought of all that highly trained flesh and muscle ..."

  He shook his head, bit deep into his burger, and through the succulently anonymous meat went on, "In my dreams. How's your love life doing, Joe?"

  Joe glanced at his watch. It was after eight.

  "Disasterville," he groaned. "Dildo, I gotta shoot."

  "Saturday night is nookie night, eh?" laughed the younger man sympathetically. "I'm hoping to score myself later. Thanks for the grub, Joe. Though on second thoughts if it's on the house, you still owe me. What's good for afters?"

  "Cherry cheesecake," said Joe, rising. "Thanks a lot, Dildo. Anything I can push your way, I won't forget."

  "Couldn't push your cabbie friend's woman my way, could you?"

  "Sorry. But you might like to take a look at her daughter. Cheers."

  He started to move away, then paused and came back.

  "Jones, where'd he do his time?"

  "The Stocks I expect. Why?"

  "Just wondered. Stay honest. "Bye."

  The Stocks, thought Joe as he went out into the chill dark night. Where Henry Oto had been a prison officer for the past fifteen years. Must've recognized him. It wasn't as if Starbright was someone you soon forgot! And he can't have been all that chuffed to find his daughter was being minded by an ex-con. So why hadn't he said anything? Or perhaps he had and ... and what? Could this explain Mrs. Oto's antipathy for the guy?

  He got in the Magic Mini and set off for Rasselas. He was trying to rehearse apologies to Beryl but his mind refused to focus. Was that a motorcyclist in his rear-view mirror? Did the helmet gleam red under the slippery silver of the street-lamps? What was it Dildo had said about Jones being clocked doing the ton on his bike on the M1 ... ?

  He looked again. No bike. Overactive imagination. Not one of his most common failings!

  On reaching Rasselas he parked in his usual spot in Lykers Lane, which was handy for his own flat but a good half mile from Beryl's block. He could have saved himself a few minutes by driving straight there, but the trouble was Aunt Mirabelle lived in the same block, and while he might just about escape observation by slipping in through the janitor's door at the rear, the presence of the Magic Mini parked anywhere close would be reported instantly by one of MI6, which in this instance stood for Mirabelle's half dozen ever alert close cronies and informants.

  Not that she'd come bursting in. On the contrary, she'd probably post an armed guard on the lift to make sure the visit was in no way disturbed! But it did nothing for Joe's libido to know that the length of his stay was being monitored to the last significant second by his aunt's stopwatch.

  On foot the only danger was running into one of Major Tweedie's vigilante patrols who would of course recognize him as a friend, but also recognize he was heading in the wrong direction, and another alert would be sounded down the line.

  So he skulked his way from one block to the next, like a prisoner trying to escape from Colditz. At one point he thought he heard the growl of a motorbike engine and dived into the shadow of a doorway till all was silent again. Not that the silence was really silent. Just as in the darkened countryside, sounds of nature's nightlife start crackling and snuffling all around you, so here in the suburban jungle distant footfalls, a window opening, a car door closing, a snatch of laughter, a dog's bark, a blast of rock, all merged together in a sinister symphony which to Joe's musical ear seemed to be crescendoing to some explosive climax.

  "You got to get your head together, man," he admonished himself. But so strong was his sense of menace, that he almost abandoned his plan of going in through the back in favour of entering via the much better lit front entrance.

  "Shoot! You a man or a mouse, Sixsmith," he said aloud, and kept on his chosen course.

  One thing, under the major's benevolent despotacy, even the service areas of the tower blocks were no longer the foul-smelling, rubbish-littered rodent runs they once had been and still were across on the Hermsprong. The huge wheelie bins were lined up like motor pool vehicles on inspection and even the lights, albeit dim, all actually worked.

  Emboldened, Joe set out for the janitor's entrance. It was of course kept locked, but one of Joe's most closely guarded secrets was that as a result of a helping hand he'd been able to offer the janitor's daughter when she got out of her depth with a bunch of teenage pushers, he had his own personal key.

  He had almost made it to the door when the figure stepped out from behind one of the big metal bins and hit him with some kind of club. It was a savage, full-blooded swing which would have split even his hard head like a melon if it had connected direct. But Joe's senses hadn't been alerted for nothing and a saving moment before his mind signalled ATTACK! his body was into evasion. Even then the best it had time to manage was shoulder up and head down as the club came whistling round. The shoulder took most of the blow, leaving his arm numb and paralysed, while the weapon went onward and upward, clipping the top of his skull with a glancing but nonetheless stunning blow.

  He went down. His body was divided between evasion and defence, but his mind advised submission. Do like an overmatched cat would. Lie on your back with your legs in the air, let the guy take your wallet must be all of twenty quid in it! then raise the alarm and wait for the paramedics.

  Except that this guy didn't know cat's rules. Mind was still saying, "Hey look, fella, I'm out of this!" while body was twisting sideways as the club crashed into the ground where his head had just been with a force that sent splinters of concrete into his ear.

  He tried to roll and scuffle away. He could hear a medley of noises. Voices shouting distantly. An engine approaching fast. The
cavalry? Or more Indians? His desperate attempts at evasion brought him up against something solid. His blurred vision assembled it into a leg. It was wearing a biker's leather boot. He grappled with it. It was like embracing a telegraph pole except that it bucked and kicked as it tried to shake him off. Grimly he hung on. It had to be Jones, who else could have a leg like this? To let go was to die. To hang on could only be to delay matters, but at least it made it awkward for the murderous bastard to take another full-blooded swing. In fact, he didn't seem to be taking any swings at all. The voices closer now. One of them sharp, clipped, authoritative. The major! He was saved. Thank the good Lord, he was saved.

  He let go of the leg and lay on his back waiting for others to take over the struggle. He doubted if even three or four of Tweedie's irregulars could deal with Jones, but at least the Welshman would probably run for it.

  Only he didn't. He stood there removing his bright red helmet. Yes, it was Starbright, no doubt about that. What was his plan, to kill the whole lot of them? And he could probably do it. He tried to shout out a warning to the major, but the old fool was kneeling down beside him, exposing his back and head to the full fury of Jones's attack.

  "How're you doing, soldier?" said Sholto Tweedie.

  "Not a soldier," croaked Joe. "Look out behind you!"

  That's the spirit. Bit of a pantomime, eh? Just take it easy till I get things sorted."

  The major stood up and said, "Well done, my man. Good job you happened along. Pity you couldn't have got a hold of the blighter though."

  "Would have done," said Starbright, 'if this tosser hadn't got a hold of me? How's he doing?"