Blood Sympathy

by Reginald Hill

  Then he remembered his great if rather late deduction.

  Even if the bull held some of the drug, it was far too light to hold all of it, and these two weren’t going to settle for less than all.

  Blue had stopped and was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Make sure he’s got some water, will you?’ said Joe. ‘He doesn’t care for milk, but he eats most things. Take care of him, please.’

  ‘You take care, we’ll take care,’ said Blue. ‘Ten sharp.’

  They vanished into the night, and the Hermsprong Estate seemed to heave a sigh of relief.

  Sixsmith got in his car. In the mirror he saw that his face was a mess, with blood oozing from both nose and mouth. His upper lip was split open but nothing seemed to be broken. The pain in his crutch had eased to within groaning distance of bearable. But this was no place to wait for improvement or administer first aid. He could sense Hermsprong refocusing its attention on the wounded animal in its midst now that the two deadly predators had gone.

  He turned the key and drove away.

  He headed for home. There was nowhere else to go, or rather no one else to go to. When you fell in deep doo-doo, you cleaned yourself up, you didn’t go tracking it into your friends’ houses.

  His mind was spinning with what had happened, what was going to happen, and as he turned into Canal Street, he thought that he’d spun totally out of control into time-slip. It was last night again!

  There were the spectators in the street, the police cars, the fire-engines outside Mr Nayyar’s shop. There was Mr Nayyar standing looking helplessly at the fire.

  But things weren’t quite the same. The fire-raisers had done a real job tonight. The flames were leaping high out of the shop window and even as he watched, they blossomed upstairs in the living quarters.

  Joe Sixsmith slowed, but he didn’t stop. Not tonight. Tonight the world could take care of itself. Tonight the Great Detective had troubles of his own.

  In his flat he took the bull into the kitchen and ripped it open with a carving knife. Kapok floated out of it. Nothing but kapok. He sniffed it and it smelt only of kapok. He tasted it and it tasted only of kapok. He soaked the remains in warm water in case they’d devised some method of transporting the stuff in solution, but the water tasted and smelled of nothing but kapok.

  He poured himself a large whisky. The spirit burned into his cut lip but he paid it no heed. Pain had made him forget Whitey once tonight. Perhaps pain would help him forget again.

  He drank himself into a troubled sleep. Dreams came. Dreams of Whitey, of Butcher trapped beneath a heap of files, of Bannerjee’s bull, grown life size and scattering the Chapel Choir. Then he was into the Casa Mia dream, only this time the bodies round the tea-table, still with their hands up to their faces, rose up like zombies and rearranged themselves as he’d actually found them. From their pale lips came a dull moaning sound, like an attempt at singing though he couldn’t pick out the tune as he followed Gina Andover out into the entrance hall and watched her insert the knife in her throat before lying down at the foot of the stairs. Then he heard a scream and looked up to see smoke billowing down the stairway. Out of it staggered Auntie Mirabelle leaning heavily on the shoulder of Beryl Boddington, and scolding her, and scolding him, and scolding everyone, till behind the escaping pair, huge flames erupted, and he found he was looking up at Mr Nayyar’s bedroom window, and there on the sill yelling his fear and anger and indignation was Whitey …

  He awoke. He was slumped in an armchair in his sitting-room. The whisky had spilled over the carpet. Its stench filled the room. So did daylight. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  It was coming up to seven. Three hours to go.

  CHAPTER 17

  He was sitting on the step of the Bullpat Square Law Centre when Butcher arrived just before eight.

  ‘Sixsmith, you’re no advertisement for early rising,’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing here? You look like you should be queuing up at Casualty.’

  ‘I rang you at home,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Your friend said you’d left for work.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you say friend, Sixsmith. Was it speaking that way that got your mouth needing stitches?’

  ‘No,’ said Sixsmith. ‘It was listening to you.’

  ‘You’d better come inside and explain.’

  He told his story. Her reaction was not what he was looking for.

  She said, ‘Great! That really puts Bannerjee in the clear. I couldn’t see any way the Customs boys were going to let a toy stuffed with smack through their hands anyway.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased you’re pleased,’ said Sixsmith angrily. ‘You’re getting job satisfaction while all I’m getting is a bleeding face. Plus they’ve got Whitey.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Sixsmith. But people are more important than pets, right?’

  Sixsmith’s instinct was to shove her head into her waste bin for mouthing such a smug generalization, but his natural courtesy and pacifism plus doubt whether he could actually hold her down in a direct physical struggle, gave him pause.

  He said with tight restraint, ‘I’m not arguing theory, I’m arguing reality. What’s important is what churns you up. I dreamt I saw Whitey in a burning house last night. According to you, if I had the choice between rescuing him or any human being from the fire, the human should always come first. I’m not sure I could promise that. In fact I could give you a short list of humans who wouldn’t even come second.’

  ‘Then you’ve got a problem, Sixsmith,’ she said.

  ‘You mean generally or specifically?’

  ‘I mean both. Listen, these people aren’t going to hurt your cat. Why should they? It’s a threat, that’s all. The more you show them you care, the more effective the threat will be.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Butcher? I should go along and tell them that Bannerjee’s brief is convinced he flushed their dope down the lavvy, and I’m not all that bothered about my cat anyway, so hard luck, boys.’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘Better still, why not tell the police? It’s their job to protect the citizenry, after all.’

  Sixsmith shook his head in painful wonder.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said. ‘When I wanted to go to the cops in the first place, you said no, don’t do it, because you were scared there really was some heroin floating around and it would incriminate your client. Now we’re pretty sure there isn’t, suddenly our corrupt and inefficient police force are just the boys to see.’

  ‘Sixsmith,’ she said, ‘you’re almost eloquent when you’re angry. Listen, I’m sorry for your troubles, I really am. And where I can help you, I will. Like this Andover business you were telling me about. First chance I get this morning. I’m going to check out the inheritance situation, I promise. But when it comes to protecting you against thugs who have stolen your cat and are making demands with menaces, that’s not my domain. No, I don’t believe the police are perfect, but they’re all we’ve got, and this is their line of country.’

  Sixsmith made for the door.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, lady,’ he said, pausing. ‘You feel pretty superior to that old school chum of yours, Baker, don’t you? Well, let me tell you this, for all her love of money and her daft magic, she’s still got time for a bit of direct action when there’s a threat to something she values, someone she loves. Next time I talk to your friend on the phone, I’ll maybe ask when was the last time you even let friendship make you a few moments late for work.’

  The door was too ill fitting to slam properly, but at least he had the satisfaction of hearing one of the joints go.

  Reason told him he was being unfair, but what did reason have to do with it? He’d wanted someone to share his gut-wrenching anxiety about Whitey, and Butcher had been the best, perhaps the only candidate.

  She was right about one thing, though. His lip needed a stitch, perhaps two. If he let it heal up the way it was, he was going to end up with a cleft he coul
d wedge a silver spoon in.

  He drove to the infirmary. As he locked the car he heard his name being called. He turned round and saw Beryl Boddington coming out of the Casualty door. She must have been up all night and she looked better than he did.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ she said. ‘Hey, what happened to your face?’

  ‘Accident,’ he said briefly. ‘I’ve come to get it stitched up. So long as I don’t have to wait for ever, that is.’

  ‘You should be in luck. This is usually the quiet time in Casualty, before the going-to-work accidents start coming in. Listen, I just wanted to tell you that your friend’s going home this morning. No more problems, she’s as good as new. They finally worked out what it was.’

  ‘They did?’ said Sixsmith.

  ‘That’s right. Simple, really. A kidney stone. Got stuck in the ureter, then moved along a bit and got stuck again before it finally got flushed clear. That was why the pain kept coming and going.’

  ‘But isn’t that fairly common?’ said Sixsmith. ‘I mean, you people were running around like this was weirder than a priest with a phantom pregnancy.’

  ‘The duty doc was very young and he’d been on for fifty hours,’ she said defensively. ‘What’s the matter anyway? You still think it’s down to your magic matchbox?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to hear she’s OK. Thanks for taking the trouble to tell me. Now I’d better get in and see what the stitching’s like in this place.’

  ‘Look, I’ll come with you, maybe help you jump the queue if there is one.’

  He didn’t argue. To tell the truth he was beginning to feel a bit weak at the knees. He hadn’t had anything to eat since Whitey’s haddock, twelve hours ago, since when he’d been knocked about and consumed half a bottle of Scotch.

  He wasn’t certain whether she jumped a queue or not, but in what seemed remarkably little time he was gingerly fingering two very neat stitches in his upper lip.

  Beryl was still there.

  ‘You OK now,’ she asked. ‘If I were you, I’d get home and have a day in bed, you look like you could use it.’

  ‘I could use it but I can’t afford it,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Why? What you got to do that’s so important?’

  ‘I’ve got to get you home, that’s the first thing. No, I insist. I’ve made you late already. And I reckon I owe you a lift.’

  He urged her into the car and they headed off back to the Rasselas Estate. On the way they passed Mr Nayyar’s shop. It looked like a burnt-out shell. Inside he glimpsed firemen picking over the ashes.

  Beryl said, ‘That looks bad. I hope no one got hurt.’

  ‘What? Oh yes. I hope so too.’

  ‘You sure you’re all right, Mr Sixsmith?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve just got worries. Like everyone else. And why’re you Mistering me again? I feel old enough today without that. The name’s Joe.’

  ‘OK, Joe,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry you’ve got worries.’

  ‘Yeah? No need,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s nothing important. Just a cat, that’s all. Nothing that anyone concerned with real human troubles in their work is going to think worth worrying about.’

  The shaft was aimed at Butcher. He spotted too late that it might sound like he was having a go at Beryl too.

  She said equably, ‘A cat? Oh yes, Mirabelle told me about your cat. Whitey, isn’t it? He got lost or something?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t got lost, he’s got stolen, and the people who stole him aren’t nice people, and they’re going to do something not very nice to him unless I give them something I ain’t got.’

  It came out explosively, and he felt instant shame at unloading his worry and irritation on someone who’d gone out of her way to help him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he began, but she was saying with real concern, ‘Joe, that’s terrible. These people must be sick. No wonder you’re so snarled up.’

  He said, ‘I know it’s just a cat, and—’

  ‘No need to explain to me, Joe,’ she said. ‘There was an old tabby hung around where I lived. Didn’t belong to me, but she came to eat with us couple of times a day. Once I came across a couple of the local kids giving her a hard time. The way I whaled into them I really surprised myself! After that she more or less moved in, then a while back she just jumped on my lap, went to sleep, and didn’t wake up no more. When I realized what had happened, I sat there and held her and cried. So I know how they can tear you up. What are you going to do? Tell the police?’

  ‘There’s no proof,’ said Joe wretchedly. ‘Except catching them with Whitey, of course. I’m scared if I bring the cops in, they’ll just destroy the evidence.’

  ‘But what else can you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to persuade them I’m telling the truth. If I can do that, maybe they’ll just dump Whitey. If he gets loose, he’ll find his way home, no bother.’

  He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.

  Beryl said, ‘Next left.’

  It was a street of small neat red brick semis, part of the old estate which, like Lykers Yard, had survived the birth of the high rises, though unlike the Lykers area, this had an air of being very well cared for.

  ‘This is nice,’ said Joe, ‘but I thought you had a flat in the same block as Mirabelle?’

  ‘That’s right. This is where my sister, Lucy, lives. She takes care of my boy Desmond while I’m working.’

  ‘You’ve got a kid?’

  It came out all wrong and she turned to him with a hostile, challenging expression.

  ‘That’s right. Four and a half. Just started school. You got some objection?’

  ‘No, of course not, I’m sorry …’

  He couldn’t tell her that recent events and her kindness had quite put out of his head that she was one of Mirabelle’s menaces and his tone was merely the surprise of being reminded that for once he’d been right. She wasn’t ancient and she wasn’t homely, and she showed no sign of inherited lunacy or a drug habit, therefore she had to have some other built-in marital impediment like a ready made family.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘My head’s not really together at the moment. Anything new’s hard to take in. I like kids, I really do. I’d just got you placed in a slot and suddenly you’re out of it, that’s all. Sorry.’

  She considered this, then nodded.

  ‘You mean, you’d temporarily forgotten there’s always some catch with the females Mirabelle pushes at you, and suddenly you’ve spotted mine. That’s OK, Joe. I understand.’

  He looked at her aghast. Old-fashioned witchcraft was one thing but this kind of mind-reading was pure sorcery!

  Beryl threw back her head and laughed joyously.

  ‘Come on, Joe,’ she said. ‘You don’t imagine the old girls in the block don’t gossip? First thing they told me was that if I was looking for a daddy for my little Desmond, Mirabelle Valentine would be serving up her nephew, Joseph, on a plate. Only he didn’t seem to want to be served. And I got a list of all the others who’d been paraded before you.’

  ‘Oh shoot. Look, I’m really sorry—’

  ‘For what? Look, I like Mirabelle, so that’s OK. And my boy’s got one daddy, and that’s one more than enough,’ she added rather grimly. ‘So you can uncross your legs, Joe Sixsmith. I’m not after getting in your Y-fronts. So there’s one trouble for you to cross off your list. As for the others, I really hope you get them sorted. Best of luck. Keep me posted, huh?’

  She got out and walked away with a wave.

  Joe drove away feeling irrationally comforted, but it didn’t last for long. He had an hour to come up with something brilliant. No problem to the legendary PIs of old. But legends didn’t live in Luton. He was down to his own resources and the cupboard was bare. The Sixsmith serendipity was out of stock. Which left only the last resort of the honest citizen.

  He went to the police.

  At the station they told him that DS Chivers was busy and he�
�d have to wait. He sat on a bench and watched a wall clock with a sweep hand making circuits like Seb Coe. He heard a familiar voice and looked round just in time to see Dildo Doberley escorting Mr Nayyar out of the door. A moment later the door opened again and Dildo came back in.

  ‘Hello, Joe,’ he said. ‘Thought it was you in spite of the plastic surgery. What can we do for you, mate?’

  ‘I was hoping to see Chivers,’ said Joe. ‘Dildo, I need help badly.’

  ‘You must do if you’ve come asking for it from Chivers,’ said Dildo. ‘Still, the way you look, maybe it’ll melt his heart or something. Come and wait through here, I’ll see if I can rustle you up a mug of tea.’

  He led Joe through the swing doors out of the public area.

  Here, sitting on a chair with a uniformed constable in attendance, he was surprised to see Glen Ellis. The boy looked at him with unconcealed hate and bared his teeth in the snarl Joe remembered from Nayyar’s shop.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ he asked Doberley in a low voice.

  ‘Shortage of space. All the cells jammed with remand prisoners, and we’ve even got a waiting list for interview rooms.’

  ‘No, I mean, why’s he been brought in.’

  ‘You’ve not heard, then? Mr Nayyar’s shop got done again last night and this time they made a real job of it. Fortunately Nayyar had decided to send his family off to stay with relatives after the previous do.’

  ‘And you’ve brought Ellis in on suss?’

  Doberley grinned, not unlike the boy’s snarl.

  ‘Better than that. Mr Nayyar got woken up by the noise they made breaking in and pouring petrol everywhere. He looked out of his window just in time to see them tossing matches into the doorway. Then whoosh!’

  ‘Them!’

  ‘Yeah. Ellis and his tart, Sickert, the one who tried to fit you up. Absolutely firm ident. No messing. Cast iron.’

  A door opened and a WPC came out with Suzie Sickert in tow.

  ‘You OK?’ said Ellis, but he was pushed by her into the room before she could reply. The WPC forced Suzie to occupy her boyfriend’s chair.