Blood Sympathy

by Reginald Hill

  But even without the necromancy, that was how she was looking at him when he finished.

  ‘This is like old Chicago!’ she said.

  ‘It’s a tough old world out there,’ he said complacently.

  ‘Maybe. But you don’t have to go looking for it,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s not like you’re some macho kid, or some guy who’s come out of the police or the army with a taste for action. You seem a nice ordinary man—I don’t mean that as a put down, I think ordinary is great, it’s what we get when we’re settled with ourselves—so what I’m really asking is, why do you do it, Joe?’

  He felt an upsurge of irritation but washed it back down with a draught of Guinness.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘But only if you promise to tell me how come a nice girl like you got so obsessed with other people’s blood and crap.’

  ‘That’s not the same,’ she flashed. ‘I want to help people, make them feel better, help them deal with their pain. The blood and crap as you put it are incidental.’

  ‘It is the same,’ insisted Sixsmith mildly. ‘Only if you’re a PI or a man, you’re not allowed to put it like that; at least, not in Luton.’

  She snorted a disbelieving laugh and he said, ‘See what I mean?’ She sipped her drink thoughtfully, then shook her head.

  ‘No, it won’t do,’ she said. ‘You want to help the world, there’s a lot better ways than bunking off from real work to spend your time peeping through bedroom keyholes.’

  The phrase sounded familiar. It was one of Mirabelle’s favourites.

  He said abruptly, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And what happened to your kid’s father?’

  ‘None of your damned business.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but I’ve gotta ask because I don’t know your Auntie Mirabelle.’

  ‘I haven’t got an Aunt Mirabelle,’ she said in bewilderment.

  ‘But surely you must have? Everyone’s got a Mirabelle. She’s the one who saves folk the embarrassment of asking you stuff that’s none of their damn business by filling them in with all the details of your life.’

  For a moment she looked ready to give him an argument, then she began to grin, rather shamefacedly.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Point taken. But I never had to ask her anything. Once she took it in her mind to give me a rundown on her favourite nephew, there was no stopping her.’

  ‘I bet there wasn’t,’ said Joe, smiling. ‘So along with all this bedroom keyhole bit, what was the good stuff?’

  ‘What makes you think that wasn’t the good stuff?’ she mocked.

  ‘Because Auntie was selling,’ he said. ‘I bet you got what a cute kid I was, and would be again once I got this silly PI thing out of my system and settled down to a steady life once more. I bet you know more about me than I know about myself!’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ she said gently. ‘OK, she did give a pretty comprehensive rundown.’

  ‘Bet she didn’t mention I was losing my hair,’ he said.

  ‘No, but I expected that,’ she said. ‘Bound to be a bare patch with that halo rubbing all the time.’

  ‘It’s the dunce’s cap that does the damage,’ said Joe gloomily. ‘Look, you asked why I do this stuff, and you were right when you said I don’t have the build or the speed for it.’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘You implied. And you were right ’cos I implied I’m the kind who can handle himself. Well, I’m not. The only reason I got myself messed up like this is stupidity. My legs get me places before my mind catches up and says, Legs, this ain’t where you want to be. But I’m learning. It’s like being a nurse, I suppose. You want to be one, but that doesn’t make you into one overnight. You’ve got to do the training. Only with PI-ing, the training’s all on the job, the only manuals are what you see at the movies or read in the pulp paperbacks, and for every one pointer, you get half a dozen red herrings.’

  He suddenly realized he was sounding very earnest, flushed and said, ‘End of lecture. Bet Mirabelle didn’t tell you I could bore the pants off you, did she?’

  ‘That would certainly be a novel technique,’ she said demurely.

  Shoot! thought Joe. We’re flirting. How did I get into this? How do I get out of it? Do I want to get out of it?

  A voice cried, ‘Well, there he is, my main man, the Sam Spade of sunny Luton, enjoying a drink with his little niece up from the country.’

  It was Merv Golightly. He folded his lean length into the chair next to Beryl and grinned deep into her eyes.

  She regarded him coldly and said, ‘I’m not his niece.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, girl,’ said Merv. ‘Because this man is far too old for you and besides he has a wife and seventeen children back home in Bechuanaland. Me now, I’m twenty-nine and fancy free.’

  ‘Merv, we were talking,’ said Joe.

  ‘At your age, that’s very wise,’ said Merv. ‘I just wanted to ask how it went. I’ve called by your office a couple of times but you’re never there. Hey, has someone beaten you up, or are you having that face job at last?’

  ‘Beryl, meet Merv,’ said Joe. ‘He used to be a friend of mine.’

  ‘Best friend he ever had,’ said Merv. ‘Sorry, cancel that. The only friend he ever had. Glad to meet you, Beryl. Take no heed of me. It’s just I’m used to seeing Joe out with them old dogs his Auntie Mirabelle digs up from the RSPCA, so it knocks me back to see him sitting next to a real vision. You gotta be a client. This can’t be social.’

  ‘It’s social,’ said Beryl, refusing to thaw. ‘And it was enjoyable till a moment ago.’

  Merv whistled, unabashed. Joe who abashed very easily watched with envious admiration. Merv said, ‘Sassy too. I like that. Any time you want to ride in my taxi, you’re welcome, though I should warn you I charge extra after midnight. Joe, did you or did you not get the stuff?’

  ‘Not,’ said Sixsmith. ‘It wasn’t there. I mean, the bull was there, but the stuff wasn’t in it.’

  ‘So what about the stitched lip?’

  ‘Bit of trouble with some Brits, but I sorted it.’

  He saw Beryl’s nose wrinkle in distaste at this macho modesty.

  ‘Yeah, I see,’ said Merv. ‘Beat their fists to a pulp with your face, did you? So all that scag’s still floating around?’

  ‘Floating’s the word,’ said Joe. ‘It went down the pan in the Med. Or at Luton Airport. Take your pick.’

  ‘Is that right? Always thought the scampi they serve here must be on something. By the by, Joe, congrats on your second prize in the Karaoke comp.’

  ‘Yeah, I meant to ask Dick, who got first.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ Merv took out a ballpoint and scribbled his name on a beer mat.

  ‘Treasure that, kid,’ he said handing it to Beryl. ‘Ten years from now it could be worth millions.’

  ‘You?’ said Joe incredulously. ‘But you had the punters chewing the carpet.’

  ‘That’s right. Made ’em thirsty. Haven’t you sussed it out? Listening customers aren’t buying customers. It’s the turns that send them rushing to the bar that Dick rewards. Seriously though, I got this great idea as I was driving around after my triumph. How about we make it your theme song?’

  ‘Make what?’

  ‘Sweet Mystery of Life. Get it? I could put it on tape and feed it into your answerphone, so whenever anyone rang you and you weren’t there, what they’d hear is … Are you listening to me, Joe?’

  It was clear he wasn’t. In fact he stood up so abruptly, the other two were momentarily united in surprise.

  ‘Joe, are you all right?’ said Beryl.

  ‘Call of nature,’ said Sixsmith. ‘Excuse me.’

  He headed for the Gents. It wasn’t nature that was calling, not in the conventional sense. But something was calling. He was on the edge of another revelation and this time he wanted to see all the way before something happened to knock him off.


  He locked himself in a cubicle and tried to let his thoughts drift in free association. The trigger was ‘Sweet Mystery of Life’. Merv singing it … More importantly, in his dream the Casa Mia corpses had been singing it as they rearranged themselves in the order that would best suit Andover legally … His mind kept drifting from the corpses to Merv doing his turn in the Glit and he had to drag it back in search of the real answer, the true connection …

  It was going, it was fading, he was losing it …

  ‘Sixsmith, you’re trying too hard!’ he admonished himself.

  He let go the reins again, and again with renewed irritation found himself back at Merv’s performance when the real clue had to be somewhere in the words of the song …

  ‘Oh, Sweet Mystery of Life,’ he crooned, bringing an uneasy cough from the next cubicle. He stifled a giggle, and in the gap thus created in his thinking there popped up a woman, gleaming with gold like a pharaoh’s tomb and almost as dusty.

  Mrs Rathbone, Andover’s nosey neighbour, accosting him in the Georgian Tea-Room … Mrs Rathbone telling Dildo Doberley, ‘I saw him come running out of the house. Oh yes, it was definitely Rocca. He had his hand up to his face as if he was trying to hide in case anyone was watching, but I’d recognize that awful moustache and dreadful gangster’s hat anywhere!’

  The revelation exploded in his brain like frozen cod dropped into a pan of boiling fat.

  It was after all the singer, not the song. It was Merv’s performance, not Merv’s material which had made the connection Merv with his hand to his face, trying to hold his false moustache on …

  Rocca running out of the house, his hand to his face …

  ‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe Sixsmith.

  He needed time to think this over. He also needed a drink.

  He pulled the chain and went back into the lounge.

  ‘You OK?’ said Merv.

  ‘Fine,’ said Joe, sinking the rest of his pint in one draught.

  ‘No wonder nature calls so often,’ said Merv. ‘Same again?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he gathered up the glasses and made for the bar.

  Sixsmith said, ‘Sorry about Merv. He’s OK. In fact, he’s great, only he sometimes gets carried away.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ smiled Beryl. ‘No need to apologize. He was quite different while you were in the Gents. Really nice. I’ve often noticed that with men. You bring out the worst in each other.’

  ‘Only when you women are egging us on,’ said Joe. ‘Look, I’m sorry, after this drink, I’ve really got to go, one or two things to sort out …’

  ‘No sweat, Joe,’ she said with a slightly hurtful indifference. ‘We’re not on a date, are we? If maybe you could give me a lift back home first … It sounds like there might be a storm coming on …’

  There was a confirming rumble of thunder which filled the gap between Hello, Hello, I’m Back Again and Shake It Up on the tape.

  ‘Sure,’ said Joe.

  ‘But one thing we should do while we’ve still got a moment is make some arrangement about this Watch thing. Like I said, I saw the Major—’

  ‘Look, I’m sure you’re better organized than me. Couldn’t you sort it out?’ said Joe rather irritably. He wanted to think and here she was distracting him with Major Sholto’s daft vigilante schemes, not to mention her full soft lips, rounded figure and sweet perfume …

  ‘No way,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m just the messenger girl because you’re so hard to get hold of. Here, captain, these are for you …’

  She produced a sheaf of papers from her bag and placed them before him.

  He glanced down, uninterested. The topmost sheet was headed Lykers Yard Lock-Ups. Key-holders and telephone contact nos. where known.

  ‘The Major really ought to leave this kind of thing to the cops,’ he complained.

  ‘Like you, you mean?’ she laughed.

  ‘Hey, come on! It’s my job …’

  His voice died away, his gaze became fixed.

  ‘Joe?’ said Beryl.

  ‘Gone again, has he?’ said Merv returning. ‘Not another call of nature? You need a good flush out, my son. Get that through your system.’

  He banged a black pint on the Major’s sheet. Joe picked it up. The name was still there. Lock-up 5, Lykers Yard. Keyholder: S. Andover. No telephone number.

  This was the way it happened with him. Some people might give it that fancy name serendipity; he preferred to think of some jokey minor god having a laugh, nudge nudge, wink wink, let’s get old Joe Sixsmith going. Sometimes it pissed him off, but no point in getting narked with a deity, even if he was only second team stuff.

  His mind fitted things together. The vaguely familiar figure he’d seen in the Yard the night he ran from Blue and Grey. His encounter with Andover in Lykers Lane which the quick-thinking insurance man had explained by claiming he was on his way to see Sixsmith to warn him off harassing Debbie Stipplewhite.

  He put the pint down untouched and stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ he said.

  ‘Crikey, Joe, you ought to see a quack about your prostate,’ said Merv.

  ‘I mean, go,’ he said, scooping up Whitey who protested he hadn’t had his chicken. ‘Beryl, I don’t want to rush you …’

  ‘That’s OK, Joe, I’ll look after Beryl,’ volunteered Merv.

  Beryl grinned at him.

  ‘No, thanks, I can’t afford the fare. Hey, Joe, wait for me.’

  She grabbed the papers he’d left on the table and set off after him. Merv shook his head sadly, then drew the abandoned gin and tonic and pint of Guinness to flank his lager.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said and began to drink.

  CHAPTER 21

  The storm was getting nearer. Thunder rolled across the sky like the Jumbos in July, and from time to time lightning turned the eastern horizon into the Western Front.

  Joe knew all about the First World War. In fact he’d been educated to the age of fifteen before he realized that history happened anywhere else but Europe. So now, as the moment approached when he would confront the cunningly concealed and deeply dug-in truth, it was natural for him to think of himself as going ‘over the top’.

  He would have preferred to be alone with his thoughts at such a time, but with Beryl beside him, burrowing for explanation, it seemed an acceptable compromise to shut her up by testing some of his theory in words.

  ‘Here’s how I see it now,’ he said. ‘Andover wasn’t just a conspirator with Rocca, he was the main man. He did the lot! Came to see me to set up an alibi, provoked me into bringing Sergeant Chivers, watched his house till DC Doberley turned up, then put on a false moustache and Rocca’s hat and “accidentally” bumped into Dildo as he was coming down the drive …’

  ‘Hang on. You’re saying it was Andover who actually did the killings? But what’s Rocca doing while all this is going on?’

  ‘Being seriously dead, is my guess. Andover probably killed him that same morning and hid the body. Now he does for the rest of the family, making sure his own wife is definitely last so that he’ll inherit everything. Mrs Rathbone, the neighbour, sees him rushing to the car with his hand up to his face, not, like she thought, trying to shield his identity, but holding on to his moustache which probably came loose during the killings.’

  ‘But he was back in your office by the time Sergeant Chivers rang to tell you it was all a load of nonsense,’ Beryl objected.

  ‘Dildo had to get back too, remember. And knowing Dildo, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t stop off for a coffee or something on the way, though that wouldn’t appear in his report.’

  ‘But Andover’s car …? There wouldn’t be time to hide that surely?’

  ‘No. He probably got out of it round the corner from my office, his partner got in and drove it away to a pre-arranged hiding spot.’

  ‘His partner? But you said he’d probably killed Rocca …’

  ‘Not Rocca,’ said Joe impatiently. ‘Deb
bie Stipplewhite. He actually rang her from my office, probably she had a mobile phone. His call let her know that everything was going OK and she could ring the police with a pre-recorded tape of Andover in his best Italian accent putting the finger on himself! I think he intended to turn up at the house after the police, but when he conned me into giving him a lift, it didn’t matter that we made it before they did. He had his built-in witness.’

  The towers of Rasselas loomed ahead, momentarily etched sharp against a sheet of lightning.

  ‘So where do you think Rocca’s body is? And the car? And where are you going in such a rush, Joe?’

  This was where frankness had to falter to a stop. Joe Sixsmith didn’t know much about women, but he knew that where a man can’t command obedience, he’d better make very sure he contrived ignorance.

  ‘Some stuff at the office I need to look at,’ he said vaguely. ‘Just to make sure I’ve got my ideas all sorted before I contact the cops.’

  ‘So you are going to get in touch with the police?’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Hey, what do you think I am? One of these gung-ho gumshoes who goes rushing in where the fuzz fears to tread? This is Luton, girl, and this is Joe Sixsmith speaking!’

  He pulled up in front of her block. She opened the door but didn’t move to get out. It was, he thought, his mind still dwelling on war imagery, like one of those old movies where the guy’s going back to the front after leave and they both get this premonition of death, so she lets him have his way with her to make sure that some of his being remains …

  Now this was really going over the top, in every sense, he mocked himself. But enough of the impulse remained to make him lean across and plant a substantial kiss on her lips which parted probably in surprise rather than welcome, but nevertheless giving him the full benefit of that warm moist mouth, tasting of honey and perfumed with coriander, or maybe it was just gin and tonic …

  She moved away, not forcefully but firmly, and got out of the car. He reached over and pulled the door shut. As he drove away, he could see her in his mirror, still standing on the pavement, just like an old movie shot.