Blood Sympathy

by Reginald Hill

  At least there had been, but he now realized with some irritation that he’d quite forgotten the rest of the meaning of it all. His mind strained like Eddie the Eagle to make the leap, but he wasn’t going to get within migrating distance of a medal.

  He gave up and instead demanded rudely, ‘What are you doing breaking in here anyway?’

  ‘Wasting my time, quite clearly. I got worried about you after the strange response I got to my phone call. Finally I rang the police and Detective-Sergeant Chivers assured me everything was taken care of. That got me really worried. So soon as I could I got round to your office. Nothing. No one. Sick with anxiety, I checked that grisly place you drink in and they said no, they hadn’t seen you this lunch-time but could I give you your second prize in the Karaoke competition which you forgot to collect last night?’

  Joe seized the four-pack of draught Guinness from her and pulled the ring tab off one of them.

  ‘Second prize?’ he said indignantly. ‘Who won? Oh shoot!’

  The stout had ejaculated itself down his vest.

  ‘Sorry, it must have got a bit shook up, as did I when finally I came round here and found your door lock broken and the flat in a state of chaos. But I see I needn’t have worried. Thanks for wasting my time.’

  ‘Hey, I’m deeply touched,’ said Joe. ‘I’d be even more touched if you didn’t keep on putting down my theory about Andover. No conflict of interest, is there? I mean, he’s not another of your crooked clients?’

  ‘No, he is not. I simply cannot see Rocca, who by all accounts didn’t even like his brother-in-law, letting himself be talked into a murder conspiracy in which he does all the dirty work and takes all the blame. But why be in such a hurry to rush from one load of trouble that’s not your business into another? I presume you got yourself out of your last little bit of bother?’

  ‘Why do you presume that?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Because that animal’s still alive—I think. And because the police were reasonably polite when I mentioned your name. I was glad you took my advice and went to them after all.’

  ‘Your advice?’ snorted Joe indignantly. ‘I’d have gone to them a lot earlier if it hadn’t been for you trying to protect your client.’

  ‘Innocence is its own protection, Sixsmith,’ she said piously.

  ‘Innocent? You mean he didn’t have the bottle to be crooked, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not? If that makes him guilty, there’s a lot of guilty people running around loose.’

  ‘Listen, I reckon he thought seriously about getting into the dope-smuggling business, and anyone who needs to be scared of doing that is guilty as hell in my book.’

  He realized to his surprise that Butcher was looking rather discomfited. Just for once, he thought not ungleefully, I’ve got the moral high ground and she doesn’t like it!

  ‘That’s a lousy thing to say about someone you haven’t even met,’ she counter-attacked. ‘He saw the powder, guessed what it was, and got rid of it. You say he was scared off. Well, I’ve met the man and I say he was principled, and I’d back my judgement against yours any time.’

  Joe smiled but didn’t let it show. This was Butcher’s Achilles heel. You could stab her bleeding heart all day and get no change, but tap her ever so gently on her character judgement and watch her go tumbling.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Only if, say, he got as far as Luton baggage reclaim before he dumped the stuff, that would be pure terror wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Where did you dream that up from, Sixsmith?’ she demanded.

  ‘That’s what Blue and his friends at this end heard,’ he said. ‘And the only possible source is Bannerjee himself when his boss, Charley Herringshaw, went to see him.’

  Butcher thought a moment, then said, ‘Well, that’s what he would tell Herringshaw, isn’t it? The man’s got a grip on him. He’s not going to tell the truth, is he? He needs to put himself in the best light possible. He’d probably say yes, he got as far as baggage reclaim, then something happened, maybe he spotted that his suitcase had been tampered with, so he got scared and headed for the loo with his flight bag, and dumped the dope, and wasn’t he right to do so as the Customs had clearly been tipped off to look out for him.’

  ‘Maybe he tipped them off himself,’ mocked Joe.

  ‘Maybe he did. In fact, that’s very good thinking, Sixsmith. It would mean he must have decided he was going to get rid of the stuff as soon as he saw it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Joe, feeling lost.

  ‘Because he must have done the tipping off before he left Spain, which means he never had any intention of trying to smuggle the stuff through,’ she said triumphantly.

  Joe gave up. It was no good. He never came out of an argument with Butcher anywhere but under. Not even when, as now, he felt there was something there he could club her into submission with, if only he could lay his hands on it.

  He said obstinately, ‘So what it comes down to is, despite you being so sure you were right and Bannerjee hadn’t got the dope through in the kid’s bull, you let me risk my butt chasing after it just in case you were wrong. Well, thanks. You won’t be sending me a bill for your unbiased professional advice, I hope.’

  ‘It was you and your mad cabbie mate who got us all into this, Sixsmith,’ she pointed out. ‘But OK. You know I can’t resist that downtrodden minority look. Will a pint and a cheeseburger at the Glit buy your friendship again?’

  ‘Hey, you think I’m that cheap? I want something classy. Like lunch at the Georgian Tea-room.’

  ‘You want to get me banned? Oh all right. But that’s it, account clear.’

  ‘Just one thing more,’ said Joe. ‘That The Times you’ve got there? You couldn’t leave it? My newsagent just went out of business.’

  She dropped the paper into his lap and said, ‘Still doing the crossword back to front, are we? Let me know when you finish one. I’ll buy you two lunches!’

  ‘Don’t be a lousy loser, Butcher,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘I haven’t had your practice,’ she replied. ‘Incidentally, it might be wise to cover your naked frailties a bit more comprehensively before you start in on the puzzle. Your next visitor could be a little more strait-laced.’

  ‘My next visitor?’

  ‘That’s right. Gwen Baker rang this morning. She didn’t sound too pleased with you. I got the impression she was going to call at your office this afternoon.’

  ‘You didn’t give her my home address, did you?’ asked Joe alarmed.

  Butcher grinned evilly.

  ‘As if I’d do that. Mind you, someone in her line of business shouldn’t have too much difficulty tracking you down. Promise me one thing. When Gwen starts suing you for false accounting, and Andover starts suing for defamation, call some other solicitor.’

  She left laughing. Sixsmith didn’t bother to try a riposte. You could never have the last word with a lawyer. And besides, he was too busy dressing.

  CHAPTER 20

  With all his clothes on and another can of Guinness in his belly, Joe felt a little more in control of his destiny. But not much.

  He checked the phone was still unplugged and though he couldn’t lock his door, he pushed a table against it to give the impression it was locked.

  Then, opening a third can, he sat down to steady his nerves with The Times crossword.

  Time passed. Outside the afternoon greyness gloomed towards night. But time and tide meant nothing to Joe Sixsmith. No thought of Gwen Baker troubled his mind, and it was as if Stephen Andover and Carlo Rocca, Mr Blue and Mr Grey, Suzie and Glen and Mr Nayyar, had never existed.

  One of life’s glittering prizes was within his grasp.

  He’d almost completed a Times crossword puzzle.

  He’d found real words to fit nearly all the spaces, and invented good clues to point to all the words. It was all going to hinge on a nine-letter word across the middle of the puzzle, six of whose letters were dictated by Down answers. Exercising all his ingenuity,
he had avoided x’s and z’s and q’s but still he ended up with the unpromising combination of P-TW-TR-P. He tried every possible vowel combination in the blanks, but soon had to acknowledge that a single word was impossible. But two words were permissible, even three, as long as you could come up with a decent clue. His first experiment produced PET WET RAP. He looked at Whitey, who sneered. He tried again and again, and eventually ended with PIT WIT RIP. Three real words, certainly, but could they be linked together?’ A pit was a mine … wit was a funny man, or his humour … and rip?

  All kinds of things. He needed a connection. He reached for his tattered dictionary, opened it … and there it was, leaping out of the page. Rip: in coal-mining, the act of blasting a tunnel or ‘gate’ to the coal face; or the rock brought down by such a blast; or the roof space left by such a blast which it is then necessary for a specialist, called a ripper, to make safe.

  And there it was too, the cryptic clue.

  Underground comic brings the roof down.

  He looked at it with ineffable satisfaction. Whether it was good enough to get another lunch out of Butcher remained to be seen, but it would do for him!

  ‘Whitey,’ he said, deciding maybe his satisfaction was effable after all. ‘What’s it feel like to be associated with Joseph Sixsmith, Private Investigator and Public Genius?’

  ‘Like being ravished by a midget. You know someone’s screwing you, but you can’t see who,’ said Gwen Baker.

  Joe shot to his feet. It was a courtesy he’d been brought up to extend to a lady. Also it was a better position from which to start running.

  How had she managed to get in without him hearing? And did he want to know?

  He said, ‘Mrs Baker … Ms Baker … nice to see you. Won’t you sit down?’

  She looked at the chairs on offer and said, ‘I think not. This shouldn’t take long. I just thought you might care to know that my husband has left me. His tart, it seems, was ill, but for reasons no one quite understands made what is described as a miraculous recovery. Gerald writes that this experience has forced him to face up to his true feelings. Don’t you find that very moving, Mr Sixsmith?’

  ‘He writes?’ said Joe, focusing on what seemed the area of least provocation.

  ‘You don’t imagine Gerry had the balls to say such things to my face?’ she said. ‘He and she have taken the precaution of putting the Channel between them and me. She probably has the old-fashioned notion that moving water is a barrier.’

  He knew better than to ask, to what? He said, ‘And how can I help you now, Mrs … Ms Baker?’

  ‘Help me now? As opposed to helping me when, Mr Sixsmith? Perhaps you’d like to tell me which of your services I’ve already paid for?’

  It was time to be bold.

  He said, ‘Maybe for upholding the law.’

  She gave him a look which with a little more effort could have turned a prince into a frog and he added hastily, ‘Look, if it’s a refund you’re after, maybe we could come to an accommodation …’

  ‘Money’s not what I came here for,’ she said.

  ‘What, then?’ he asked fearfully.

  And suddenly she laughed, turning in an instant from a ticking bomb to a handsome sophisticated woman sharing a joke with the help.

  ‘Just to look,’ she said.

  ‘You mean, you’re not mad about the Hyphen … that is, your man …’

  ‘The Hyphen? I like that. Listen, Joe, any woman’s mad when another woman lifts her husband, no matter what kind of rat-fink he is. But the good news is my lawyer tells me he’s got the legal tangle sorted and if old Meg Merrilees imagines she’s going to see any of my money, she’s in for a shock.’

  ‘And what about, you know, the string thing …?’

  ‘This, you mean?’ She pulled the knotted cord out of her bag. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you actually believe in any of this, do you, Joe?’

  The cord was swinging like a pendulum. His eyes followed the hypnotic motion.

  He said, ‘All I know is, I’d feel better if you’d undo it.’

  ‘That’s what you want? OK.’

  She twitched the cord in her hand and the knot unravelled.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘About the money, now, maybe if I hung on to enough to cover expenses …’

  ‘I told you, I don’t care about the money. Like I said, all I came for was to look.’

  ‘At what?’ he asked bewildered.

  ‘At nothing, that’s the secret.’ She smiled and offered her hand. ‘We’re parting friends, OK, Joe Sixsmith?’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ he said, taking the offered hand. It was cool and dry and the contact set up a small tingle like a minute electric shock which persisted as she held on and peered close into his face. Finally she said, ‘You’re not thinking of going somewhere dark and confined? A cellar, maybe. Somewhere there’s a lot of boxes stored—and a nasty smell?’

  ‘I’m sorry? A cellar? No, I don’t think so …’

  ‘If you do, take care.’ Then she laughed again and released his hand. ‘But why am I saying take care to a man who’s taken care of? Cherry was right. You’re not a man to mess with.’

  ‘Butcher said that?’ said Joe, now thoroughly bewildered. ‘Why? What’s she mean?’

  ‘Better ask your cat,’ she said. ‘Be happy.’

  Joe remained standing till he heard the downstairs door close behind her, then he sat down with a thump.

  ‘Weird lady,’ he said to Whitey. The cat gave him its takes-a-one-to-know-a-one lip-curl, then went into the kitchen to renew its five year project to find a way of breaking into the refrigerator.

  ‘Shouldn’t bother,’ shouted Joe. ‘We’re out of everything again. Looks like another night on the junk. What’s it to be? Luciano’s? The Gourmet Emporium? Or the Glit?’

  Whitey re-entered spitting out bits of rubber. Eventually he would pierce the air-tight door seal, thus rendering useless what he had won. There was a Radio Four Thought-for-the-Day in there somewhere.

  Joe looked at the flakes of rubber and said, ‘You fancy the Chinese chicken, then? OK, the Emporium it is. Let’s go.’

  In the hallway, he noticed the unplugged phone. It had probably been ringing all afternoon with Californian millionaires offering him employment in Beverly Hills.

  ‘Let ’em ring,’ he said with the devil-may-care indifference of a man who’d seen off a witch and The Times crossword in a single afternoon.

  He turned to the door, which opened so suddenly, he stepped back, stumbled on Whitey, and sat down heavily.

  ‘Joe, are you OK?’ said Beryl Boddington anxiously.

  ‘I was till you knocked me down,’ he groaned.

  She stood over him. She had nice legs.

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring your office all day. And I got so worried I got your home number from Mirabelle and tried here and there’s been no reply all afternoon, and I didn’t want to worry Mirabelle no more so I thought I’d …’

  Her words, and her concern, dried to a trickle as her gaze drifted to the unplugged phone, then to Whitey who was rubbing himself against her legs and purring.

  ‘I see I needn’t have worried,’ she resumed flatly. ‘I’ll let your aunt know you’re OK.’

  She turned to go. Joe scrambled to his feet.

  ‘Yes, you should’ve been worried,’ he called, hurrying after her. ‘What are you saying? You’d have been happier to find me bleeding on the floor and Whitey dead?’

  She stopped and said over her shoulder, ‘OK, well, maybe, but at least you could have told Mirabelle you were OK.’

  ‘Mirabelle didn’t need told ’cos she’d no reason to think I mightn’t be OK, not till you got her stirred up.’

  He could sense her reluctantly admitting the justice of this.

  She said, ‘But I had reason, didn’t I? Not that I was all that worried, you understand. But I bumped into the Major and he said he hadn’t been able to get hold of you and could I give you what he calls this bumf seeing as I was
in your section.’

  She reached into her handbag but Joe said, ‘No, hang on to it, will you? And wait here while I run back in and phone Mirabelle, OK?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but she was still there when he returned a minute later.

  ‘That didn’t take long,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘To listen to one of Auntie’s lectures you mean? You’re right. Only I told her I was taking you out for a drink and you were waiting. After that, she couldn’t get the phone down quick enough.’

  ‘Who said you were taking me for a drink?’ she demanded.

  ‘You want to make me a liar to Auntie Mirabelle? Besides, you’re on my team, remember? We need to talk tactics.’

  She smiled and said, ‘So long as it’s business. Where’re we going?’

  ‘How about the Glit?’ he said. Whitey wouldn’t mind. Their chicken was even more rubbery than the Gourmet Emporium’s.

  ‘The Glit?’ she echoed. ‘I was told respectable girls don’t go in there.’

  ‘What you heard was, they don’t come out. Come on.’

  When they entered the bar, Gary was blasting away with Rock’n’Roll Part 2. Beryl winced in pain, though perhaps some of this was caused by the sight of Dick Hull’s bespangled suit.

  ‘Come early to get your seat for the Mastermind-of-Luton Quiz Nite, have you?’ he yelled above the music.

  Joe looked around the empty room.

  ‘No, we’ve come early to miss it,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever have a Quiet-Drink-Nobody’s-Going-To-Hassle-You Nite?’

  ‘Where’s the profit in that?’ said Hull. ‘So what can I get you?’

  ‘Pint of the black stuff, bag of cheese-and-onion crisps to put Whitey on, and …?’

  ‘Gin and tonic. I’m not working tonight,’ said Beryl.

  They took their drinks to the quietest corner and sat down.

  ‘So what happened, Joe?’ she asked.

  He meant to be non-committal, but he found himself giving a detailed account of nearly everything that had happened from the time Andover walked into his office. All he censored was the necromancy. He didn’t mind her thinking he led an exciting life, but he didn’t want her thinking he was a nut.