Born Guilty

by Reginald Hill

  The torch came swinging down.

  I ain’t no lady killer, thought Joe Sixsmith, but at least they’ll have to admit I was killed by a lady.

  He closed his eyes.

  After a while he opened them again.

  There were two figures above him now. The second one had grabbed the torch with one hand and was pulling Mrs Calverley back with the other. A voice was shouting, ‘Is it true, Mother? Is what he said true? Why did you never tell me? Why? Why?’

  It occurred to Joe that Dora Calverley was now discovering what Pam Vicary had discovered – that being a mother meant you were always in the wrong. Maybe you had to somehow be born without parents to start free and clear. Like Adam and Eve at the Creation. And God saw everything that he had made; and behold it was very good … Wonder if the old boy felt quite so self-satisfied now? Wonder if maybe I should start shouting for help in case these two decide to postpone their row long enough to finish me off?

  But it soon appeared it wasn’t necessary. The illusion of isolation created by the mist couldn’t survive the kind of noise Fred Calverley was making. A gruff voice – the verger’s? – was shouting, ‘What’s going on there?’ Then there were other voices, and finally figures leaning over the box, till suddenly they were swept aside and Aunt Mirabelle said, ‘What you doing in that box, Joseph?’

  Then she too was moved aside and someone else stooped low over him and Beryl’s voice at once concerned and crisply professional said, ‘He’s been hurt. Don’t try to move him till I’ve taken a closer look.’

  ‘Close as you like,’ said Joe. ‘Close as you like.’

  28

  The Creation was a sell out. Everyone who was anyone in Luton turned up, and lots who weren’t anyone in particular. The Hacker family were there, all three generations, with Gallie, very demure in a little black dress and next to no make-up, sitting alongside Dunk Docherty who had misjudged the occasion and looked very uncomfortable in a Luton Town tracksuit. Willie Woodbine was there, flying the flag for his wife, and in the row behind sat the Dalgetys and a couple of rows further back, Butcher. Even Dick Hull from the Glit was there, come to suss out the opposition.

  Joe was present too, despite all medical advice. His face had more stitches than a Welsh sampler and he walked with the slow dignity of a Great War veteran. But he wore a splendid new suit. Rev. Pot had taken one look at him after his return from hospital and said, ‘Joe, you look like you’ve been put together by the same guy who made your suit. Mirabelle, burn that abomination and drag him to a tailor, naked if necessary.’

  The new jacket was much easier on the chest. Not that this mattered much as every time he tried to let himself into a note, it felt like his face was cracking. So after the opening chorus, he simply mimed the words, but presumably God heard them anyway.

  Not that Joe was sure he believed in God. Or rather, he was pretty sure the God he believed in wasn’t the same as the one he’d been brought up to serenade at the Boyling Corner Chapel. His God was an absent-minded old boy who liked Gary Glitter as much as Haydn and who lived in an old wooden house overrun by cats. Sometimes he overslept for days, or weeks, or even years, and when He woke up and saw how the scales of justice had got out of kilter due to His neglect, He felt real guilty and scattered a bit of divine revelation on the Good scale to try to re-establish the balance. For some reason Joe didn’t understand (but he didn’t kid himself it was part of any masterplan!) he seemed to get in the way of more than his fair share of this haphazard scatter. Or maybe he’d just found himself a job where it paid to take heed of it, especially when the alternative was applying the power of inductive reasoning, of which he’d got less than his fair share.

  One thing for sure about this odd God of his, He didn’t offload His own guilt on to kids. That was human business. Which meant trying to put it right was human business too, and that was work a man could be proud of.

  He reckoned he’d not done too badly recently. Galina Hacker was a definite success. He’d restored to her a grandfather whose human frailties her love could transcend. The things she now knew he had done were hardly even a test of her love, whereas the things she’d started to fear he might have done would have destroyed it.

  As for Mavis Dalgety, when Butcher came to see him after the attack, he asked her what she’d done about the pics.

  She said, ‘I went straight round to see Georgie at school, scattered them on her desk and said they’d be pinned up on the main school notice board and on the “Wanted” board outside the police station if she didn’t dump Andrew Dalgety. The headmaster stuck his head through the door while I was there and Georgie almost fell across the desk. I knew we’d got a deal then.’

  ‘Why go for her and not Dalgety?’ asked Joe, curious.

  ‘Men can get macho, decide to make the grand gesture, all that crap. Women are much more sensible.’ She hesitated, smiled and added, ‘Besides, you were right about me hating that cow, Joe. I really enjoyed it. Now we’re even.’

  She’d also had a word with Mavis. ‘Girls’ talk,’ she told Joe mockingly. Whatever had been said it seemed to have worked, thought Joe, looking at Mavis sitting happily between her parents.

  A bonus spin-off of all this had been Sally Eaglesfield, who’d come up to him earlier that evening, given him that nice shy smile of hers, and asked how he was feeling.

  Only with Fred Calverley was there total failure. The one whole thing in his fragmented life had been his father’s memory, and this Joe had inadvertently taken away from him. Willie Woodbine was delighted with the results.

  ‘You’ve done it again, Joe,’ he had complimented him. ‘Fred’s hurling all kinds of shit at his mum. Says she told him in the first place that Robbie was an impostor but could cause trouble about the estate so they had to get rid of him. Then she changed her tune and said they had to fix it up to look like he was Calverley’s bastard so’s they could get their hands on the Australian money. Then she said you were turning out to be one of those smart-ass kaffirs and they’d better fix for you to be taken out of the picture.’

  ‘He’s a druggie,’ said Joe. ‘Also, he’s all mixed up about his dad. He’s likely to say anything. Good defence brief will go to town.’

  ‘With Mrs C. pleading guilty, he won’t get a chance,’ laughed Woodbine. ‘She’s putting her hand up for everything her boy is willing to lay on her. The chief’s delighted.’

  ‘I don’t like this, not one little bit,’ protested Joe. ‘The woman’s just letting her guilt talk …’

  ‘Isn’t that what we all want, Joe? To let guilt talk? Now you’ve done enough talking, I reckon, certainly more than enough to compensate for your own little bit of guilt …’

  ‘My guilt? What’s that?’

  ‘Well, when I spoke to Greenhill, that Ozzie lawyer, he seemed to have this strange notion he’d already told most of what he knew to the chief constable. Natural mistake with a bad line. But you’ve done your bit, Joe. Now’s the time to relax and get better. I’ll be out there taking the flak and making sure nobody bothers you.’

  Man who could be so magnanimous deserved all the promotion he could get, thought Joe. But what do I deserve?

  ‘Why the shoot do I feel so bad about all this?’ he asked Beryl when she came visiting. ‘Mrs C. used me, Fred’s a nasty piece of goods. So why do I feel like I left my fingers in the lathe?’

  ‘Because you want justice without hurting people, which isn’t generally possible,’ said Beryl. ‘Because you’re fine for everyone else’s good, but too nice for your own. I’ve been thinking about those photos, Joe, and try though I might, I can’t see you getting deep into that stuff. So tell me all about them, the truth, I mean.’

  He told her. She didn’t say anything but leaned over him, her heavy breasts warm against his aching ribs, her full soft lips moist against his stitched-up face. It was all very painful but he didn’t complain.

  He glanced towards her now, her broad, handsome face very serious as she concentrated on the
movement of the music towards the next soprano entry. Just before it came she suddenly looked his way, sent a huge affectionate smile, and then exploded into ‘Awake the harp! The lyre awake! In shout and joy your voices raise!’

  Even without Joe’s small contribution, the performance was a tremendous success, touching those heights which Mr Perfect had shown them were within their reach. The Rev. Tin Can had banned applause as out of character with the hallowed setting, but the silence which stretched beyond the last Amen was more eloquent than beaten hands and hoarse bravos! It was somehow part of the work, an extension of its magic so that for a while longer they all, performers and audience alike, remained in that world of joyful innocence before the Fall.

  Finally, at a nod from the vicar, the verger drew open the great doors at the end of the church and let in the cold air of autumn and the traffic hum of St Monkey’s Square, and with them the old imperfect world. The listeners began to rise, some to leave, some to move forward to congratulate their friends and family. Joe, watching the embraces and smiling handshakes and listening to the rising hubbub of happy voices, felt that perhaps after all, the old imperfect world wasn’t such a bad place to live in.

  ‘Not sneaking out of the side door tonight, Joe?’ said Beryl.

  ‘No way,’ said Joe. ‘First time, I found a body. Second time I almost became one. From now on in, I stay in the bright lights and graze with the herd.’

  ‘In that case, we’d better head on to the party,’ said Beryl. ‘Pity though.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I was going to suggest I take you home and light a candle and serve you up something special.’

  Suddenly Joe’s new suit began to feel as tight as the old. He glanced down the aisle where he could see Mirabelle and Rev. Pot standing like sentinels by the main doorway.

  ‘But what would we say to Aunt Mirabelle and Rev. Pot?’

  ‘Well, we could always sneak out by the side door,’ said Beryl.

  Joe thought once more of the poor boy who had come across half a world searching for truth and a father, and had found drugs and death.

  Life was for being happy with what you’d got and joys that did not kill.

  ‘Why not?’ said Joe Sixsmith.

  If you enjoyed Born Guilty, read the next book in the Joe Sixsmith series:

  Click here to order Killing the Lawyers.

  Read on for the first chapter now.

  1

  Christmas.

  Season of d.i.y. divorce and marital mayhem.

  Meaning that while cop cars and meat wagons are ding donging merrily down Luton High, a PI can get festive and know he’s not missing much business.

  Especially a PI like Joe Sixsmith who doesn’t have much business to miss.

  December 28th, Joe called in at his office. Didn’t anticipate a queue of clients but what were the alternatives? More force-feeding at Auntie Mirabelle’s, more unforced boozing down the Glit, or joining the other lost souls cruising the Palladian Shopping Mall in search of bargains they didn’t want in sales that had opened in Advent.

  There were no turtle doves or partridges waiting for him, only a single typewritten envelope and a sodden cat-litter tray. Whitey must’ve taken a valedictory leak as Joe waited for him on the landing on Christmas Eve. Perhaps it was memory of this peccadillo which had kept the cat firmly pinned in front of Mirabelle’s fire, but more likely it was just his insatiable appetite for cold turkey.

  ‘Thanks a bundle,’ said Joe as he emptied the clogged grit and damp tabloid into a plastic carrier and dumped it on the landing for later transfer to the bin below. Swilling the tray out in his tiny washroom, he noticed that the uric acid had produced a kind of stencil through the newspaper on to the beige plastic bottom. At various levels there must have been a colour photo of Prince Charles, a Page Three girl, and some guys firing guns in one of the world’s chronic wars. The resultant blurred image, framed in broken sentences, lay there like a drunk’s philosophy at closing time, and as difficult to get rid of. Cold water wouldn’t budge it.

  ‘Shoot,’ said Joe. ‘Could get done for lèse majesté, I suppose, but long as Whitey don’t mind, who else is going to notice?’

  He gave the tray a good shake and balanced it to dry on the curtain rail over the window he’d opened to air the room.

  Turning up his collar against the draught, he checked his answer machine. His own voice said, ‘Hello, this is me talking to me. Hello.’ He’d bought it off his taxi-driving friend Merv Golightly, who claimed to have accepted it in lieu of a fare. After a week of no messages Joe had got suspicious and rung himself. It made him feel both shamed and saddened that clearly the machine worked better than he did.

  Now he turned to his mail. The single envelope had the title PENTHOUSE ASSURANCE printed across the flap and he tore it open with crossed fingers, which wasn’t easy.

  A cheque fell out.

  Usually the sight of a cheque had Joe beaming like a toy-store Santa, but the figures on this one creased his good-natured face with disbelief. He turned to the accompanying letter.

  Dear Mr Sixsmith,

  Thank you for your communication of December 14th, the contents of which have been noted. There being no material alteration to the facts of the case, however, I have great pleasure in enclosing our cheque for one hundred and twenty-five pounds (£125.00) in full and final settlement of your motor claim.

  Yours sincerely,

  Imogen Airey (Mrs)

  (Senior Inspector – Claims Dept – Penthouse Assurance)

  ‘We’ll see about that!’ said Joe.

  Thrusting the letter into his donkey-jacket pocket, he headed out of the office.

  Halfway down the stairs he heard his phone ringing. It rang four times before the answer machine clicked in. He hesitated. 28th was the Fourth Day of Christmas. (Or was it the Third? He never knew where to start counting.) Anyway, his superstitious mind was telling him these could be the Four Golden Rings from the carol, heralding the case which was going to make him rich and famous. Or more likely it was Aunt Mirabelle telling him the table was set for tea, and where the shoot was he?

  Whoever, there was no time to go back. His business was urgent, it was coming up to five, and this time of year maybe even the Bullpat Square Law Centre kept conventional hours.

  As he resumed his descent he realized he was wheezing like a punctured steam organ. Even going downstairs knackers me, he thought. Sixsmith, you got to get yourself in shape!

  His car was parked out of sight round the corner. He tried to keep it out of sight as he approached but it wasn’t easy. It yelled to be looked at and three months’ possession hadn’t dimmed the shock.

  It was a Magic Mini from the psychedelic sixties, still wearing its body paint of pink and purple poppies with weary pride. Clashing desperately with the floral colours was the legend in pillar-box red along both doors ANOTHER RAM RAY LOAN CAR.

  At least after many hours of Sixsmith tender loving care, the engine now burst into instant life and the clutch no longer whined like a heavy-metal guitar.

  It was already dark and the bright lights of downtown Luton struck sparks off the slushy sidewalks, while high in the sky the Clint Eastwood inflatable over Dirty Harry’s bucked in the gusting wind, now aiming its fluorescent Magnum at the glassy heart of the civic tower, now drawing a bead on the swollen gut of a jumbo as it lumbered with its cargo of suntanned vacationists towards the line of festal light on Luton Airport.

  Even through his anger, Joe felt the familiar pang of affection and pride. This was his town. And he was going to leave it better than he found it.

  Just leaving it should do the trick, said a deflating voice.

  He glanced towards the passenger seat, but Whitey, who usually got blamed for such cynical telepathy, wasn’t there.

  OK, so I’m talking to myself now. And I know better than to take myself too seriously. But there’s folk in this town got to learn to take me serious enough!

  Armed with th
is thought, he parked his car on a double yellow in front of Bullpat Square Law Centre and strode into the building.

  He saw at once he needn’t have worried about the time. Christmas might jerk the daily bread out of the mouths of gumshoes and hitmen. It did nothing to remove the bitter cup from the lips of the deprived and the depressed.

  For a moment his resolution wavered and he might have headed for the comfort of the Glit if Butcher’s door hadn’t opened that second to let out a black woman with two small children.

  Ignoring both the young man at the reception desk and the people crowding the wall benches, he walked straight in.

  From behind a pile of files and beneath a miasma of smoke a small woman in her thirties glared at him and said, ‘Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.’

  ‘Butcher, I need a lawyer. Read this.’

  He handed her the letter. She read it, at the same time lighting another thin black cheroot from the butt end of the one she’d just finished.

  ‘Don’t you ever think of your unborn children?’ he asked, wafting the smoke away.

  ‘When would I have time for unborn children?’ she asked. ‘This looks fine to me. Generous almost. That heap of yours couldn’t have been worth more.’

  ‘That heap was a 1962 Morris Oxford which I had restored to a better than pristine condition. Also it was part of my livelihood. I need a car.’

  ‘You’ve got a car. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Then you know what I mean. I’m a PI. I follow people. I sit outside their houses and keep watch. In that thing, I might as well be beating a drum and shouting, Hey there, folks, you’re being tailed by Joe Sixsmith!’

  ‘At least it’s free,’ she said. ‘It’s a Ram Ray loan car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. The work I’ve done on it to make it fit to drive would have cost you four figures if one of Ram’s ham-handed mechanics had done it. And besides, only reason he made the loan is he’s anticipating I’m going to get enough money to pay him to repair the Oxford or replace it with one of them Indian jobs he’s importing. Now what happened was …’