Читать книгу Blood Sympathy - Reginald Hill - Страница 8

Whenever Joe Sixsmith felt the sharp elbows of Anglo-Saxon attitudes digging in his ribs, he reminded himself that these people had invented the fried breakfast.

He liked the fried breakfast. He liked it so much he often had it for tea too. And sometimes for his dinner.

He’d been warned that addiction to the fried breakfast could kill him.

‘There are worse things to die of,’ said Joe.

Whitey enjoyed the fried breakfast too, which was just as well.

‘No fads and fancies here, man,’ Joe had warned him on first acquaintance. ‘You’ve joined the only true democratic household in Luton. We eat the same, drink the same.’ Which principle was sorely tested the first time Whitey caught a mouse and pushed it invitingly towards him.

They shared half a pound of streaky bacon, three eggs, two tomatoes and a handful of button mushrooms when they got back from Casa Mia. Then they split a pint of hot sweet tea sixty-forty and Joe settled before his twenty-six-inch telly to let the early evening news scrape the last traces of the day’s horror from his personal plate into the public trough.

In fact there wasn’t all that much about it. The politician and pony scandal still got main billing, and a crash landing on the A 505 came second. It was only a light plane and there were no fatalities, but a woman trying out her new camcorder had caught the whole drama in wobbly close-up and the resultant images must have been irresistible to the picture-popping TV mind.

If there’d been a camera to record what Joe Sixsmith had seen, he didn’t doubt that the Casa Mia killings would have been top of the pops, but they had to make do with exteriors and a close-up of Willy Woodbine confidently anticipating an early arrest and inviting viewers to look out for, but steer clear of, Carlo Rocca, who could help the police with their inquiries.

There was a photo of Rocca which looked like a fuzzy enlargement from a wedding group. Joe doubted if it would be all that much use except to anyone with a grudge against some fellow with a prominent moustache.

‘Now, sport,’ said the presenter. ‘Luton have made a late change in the team for their key league match tonight …’

Sixsmith sighed and felt his season ticket burning in his wallet. Trust the Major to call a residents’ meeting on a night when Luton were playing at home. That’s what came of being brought up on rugger and polo. Thoughts of truancy drifted through his mind, then drifted out. The Major he could avoid, but not Auntie Mirabelle.

Still he had time for forty winks before he needed to think about going …

He relaxed in his chair, closed his eyes … and was back in Andover’s dream. At least he tried to make himself think of it as Andover’s dream (which meant he knew he was dreaming), only it had his own little variation of the corpses raising their hands to their mouths and screaming … no, not screaming … this time they were making an insistent bell-ringing noise … ah, now they were screaming …

He awoke to find Whitey bellowing in his ear that the phone was ringing and wasn’t he going to answer it?

He yawned and reached for the receiver.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Joe, that you?’ demanded the unmistakable voice of his Aunt Mirabelle.

‘No, Auntie, it’s a burglar,’ said Sixsmith.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. You play with pitch, you going to get defiled, doesn’t the Good Book tell us so?’

‘Yes, Auntie. And you’ve rung to tell me not to forget I’m due at the Residents’ Action meeting, right?’

‘You so clever, how come you can’t get a proper job?’ she said briskly. ‘The Major says, make sure that nephew of yours shows up on parade. People are starting to think they can’t rely on you, Joe, and that’s bad.’

‘People?’

‘Yes, people. The Rev. Pot just the same. He says: Is that Joe singing in my choir or is he not? This is no public house singalong we’re trying to do, this is Haydn’s Creation. That took the Lord seven days, how many days you think it’s going to take you?’

‘I’ll come to choir practice tomorrow, I promise, Auntie. And I’ll be at the meeting tonight.’

‘See that you are. I got someone I want you to meet.’

Joe groaned inwardly, said, ‘Goodbye, Auntie,’ put the phone down, and groaned outwardly. He loved his aunt dearly but her efforts to direct his life were a trial, particularly since she’d decided that what he needed to get his head right and drop this detective nonsense was the responsibility of marriage. A steam of candidates had been channelled his way, most of them extremely homely and slightly middle-aged. Mirabelle would sing Joe’s praises to anyone, but even a loving aunt reckons a short, balding, unemployed nephew in his late thirties can’t be choosey. The odd ones who were comparatively young and attractive always turned out to have some hidden disadvantage, like a string of kids or convictions for violence.

‘Whitey, you look after the place. Anyone tries to get in, you bark like a dog.’

The cat looked suitably disgusted by the suggestion and snuggled into the cushion made warm by Joe’s behind.

Sixsmith envied him as he stepped out into the shadowy canyons of the estate, specially constructed so that where’er you walked, cool gales fanned your butt. With designs like this, who needed nuclear energy? The meeting was in the community room in one of the newer blocks about half a mile away. Normally he would have walked, but there was rain in the wind so he made for his car.

There were no purpose-built garages at this end of the estate. Back in the ’sixties you weren’t expected to own a car if you lived here. There were a dozen lock-ups available in Lykers Yard, a relict of the old nineteenth-century settlement, most of which had been demolished to make way for the high rises. But these were privately owned and let out at rates almost equalling what the council asked for its flats. Joe valued his old Morris, but not that much. It was not a model greatly in demand by joyriders, so, theorizing that crooks didn’t like a dead end, he usually left it parked on Lykers Lane facing into the exitless yard. So far it had survived unscathed.

On arrival at the community room, he hung around outside till he heard the Major’s unmistakable voice calling the meeting to order. Then he slipped in quietly, hoping thus to avoid the threat of Auntie Mirabelle’s latest introduction. But there was no escape. Seventy-five she might be, overweight and somewhat rheumatic, but she had an eye like a hawk, and she patted a vacant seat next to her with an authority that would have intimidated a cat.

On her other side was a woman Joe didn’t recognize, presumably Mirabelle’s latest candidate. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She looked to be in her late twenties and had a strong, handsome face, which meant she was either a single parent or a psychopath. Suddenly, as if attracted by his appraisal, she glanced towards him and smiled. Flushing, he turned away and concentrated his attention on the Major who was introducing Sergeant Brightman.

Joe had mixed feelings about Major Sholto Tweedie. In many ways, with his cavalry officer’s bark, his hacking jacket, cravat and shooting stick, his habit of addressing anyone black in Bantu, and his simplified view of life as a chain of command, he was a comic caricature of a dying species. After a lifetime spent pursuing wild beasts and women between Capricorn and Cancer till Britain ran out of Empire and he ran out of money, he’d headed home to die in poverty. Landing in Luton, he’d presented himself to the Housing Department saying he understood they had a statutory duty to provide accommodation for anyone in need. A council official, irritated at being addressed imperiously by his surname, thought to get simultaneous revenge and riddance by offering the Major a one-bed flat in the darkest Rasselas block which was scheduled for demolition as soon as there was enough money available to hire the bulldozers.

It was a monumental tactical error. Instead of curling up or crawling away somewhere else to die, the Major, after sampling the conditions, exploded into life. He mounted an assault on the council, at first on his own behalf, but rapidly on behalf of the whole estate. This was not, Joe surmised, because the man’s politics had been radicalized, but simply because as an old soldier he knew that a general was nothing without troops.

The council had been gingered into doing repairs, improving the lighting and providing this community room, and the residents had been inspired to united resistance against graffiti, vandalism and general criminality.

You couldn’t argue with the results. Sergeant Brightman was reciting statistics to show the continuing decline on Rasselas of break-ins, car thefts, drug-dealing, etcetera. Indeed, by comparison with Hermsprong, its twin estate across the canal, he made Rasselas sound like Utopia.

On the other hand, thought Joe cynically, by comparison with Hermsprong, Sodom and Gomorrah probably came across like Frinton-on-Sea. Nor did he much like the sound of the Major’s latest scheme to organize security patrols to deal with offences like wall-spraying and peeing on the stairs. Tweedie referred to ‘residents’ platoons’ but they still sounded like vigilantes to Sixsmith, and to Brightman too, who was trying to steer a delicate path between applauding the Major’s leadership and warning him that private armies were against the law.

‘A watching brief is all they’d have,’ Tweedie cut across the policeman’s diplomacy. ‘No harm in that, eh? Call the boys in blue first sign of trouble. Now here’s what I propose. Battalion HQ, for general surveillance and overall control, myself, Sally Firbright, Mr Holmes and Mirabelle Valentine …’

He then ran through a list of sub-groups (which he called ‘sections’), pausing for comment after each area of responsibility and list of names. No one offered either query or objection. He’s got them scared witless, thought Joe with cynical superiority till he heard the Major say, ‘South-Eastern Sector to take in Bog Lane underpass and the Lykers Yard lock-ups, section leader, Joe Sixsmith; assisted by Mr Poulson and Beryl Boddington …’

Joe started angrily in his seat but Auntie Mirabelle’s fingers were round his wrist and she murmured, ‘Congratulations, Joseph,’ as she gave him a smile and a squeeze which defied him to make a fuss.

‘Everyone happy?’ concluded the Major. ‘Good. Section leaders, there’ll be a bit of bumph coming your way. Watch out for it. Thank you, everyone. Dismiss.’

Sixsmith shot up like a man who is late for an urgent appointment, but Mirabelle’s wrist lock was still in place.

‘This your idea, Auntie?’ he said accusingly.

‘I put in a word,’ she admitted. ‘But no need to thank me. I thought, with you so keen to do the policemen’s work for them, this is a good way to get it out of your system. How’re you keeping anyway, Joseph? You look pretty peaky to me. Scruffy too. If your poor dead mother could see you now, the shock would probably kill her. You need someone to take care of you.’

Determined to head off this line of attack, Joe said, ‘Mr Poulson I know. Isn’t he waiting for his Zimmer? Some vigilante. But who’s this Beryl Boddleton?’

‘Boddington,’ said Mirabelle, with a broad smile which warned Joe too late of the trap that she had laid for him. ‘You want to meet her? Why, here she is. Beryl, this here’s my nephew Joseph I’ve told you about. Also your section leader. Joseph, meet your new neighbour and team colleague, Beryl Boddington. Just moved into my block. Beryl’s a nurse at the Infirmary. Good job, regular money, career prospects, more than can be said for some people who should know better!’

The woman held out her hand. Beneath her coat Joe could see a nurse’s uniform clinging to a sturdy but shapely body. She smiled as he shook her hand. Two smiles without saying a word; I bet she’s been coached to show off her teeth, thought Joe unkindly.

‘Pleased to meet you, Joseph,’ she said.

‘Joe,’ he said, instantly regretting this tiny invitation to intimacy.

‘Joe,’ she echoed, smiling again. She did have very nice teeth.

‘You two will need to talk about your team tactics,’ said Mirabelle.

Joe’s mind instantly started lumbering towards excuses for doing no such thing, but Beryl Boddington was ahead of him.

‘Sorry, not now,’ she said as if he were pressing her. ‘I’ve got to be on duty in twenty minutes.’

‘Joseph’s got a car, he can give you a lift, ain’t that right, Joseph?’

To Sixsmith’s jaundiced ear this sounded like a well-rehearsed exchange in a second-rate soap.

He said brusquely, ‘Sorry, but I got trouble with my carburettor. I’m just heading back to fix it.’

The nurse said indifferently, ‘That’s OK. I’ll get the bus. See you, Mirabelle.’

‘Don’t forget the choir practice,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Rev. Pot’s desperate for sopranos.’

‘I’ll see. But with shifts, it’s not easy. ’Bye now.’

The nurse turned and left.

Mirabelle said, ‘Joseph, why are you so rude?’

Sixsmith might have felt a little guilty if it hadn’t been for the revelation that his aunt was mounting a second front at the choir.

He said, ‘Don’t know what you mean, Auntie. Excuse me. I need to talk to Sergeant Brightman.’

The Sergeant greeted him accusingly.

‘Joe, that’s a real hornets’ nest you stirred up. You’ve got everyone running around like mad downtown.’

‘Hey, Sarge, I didn’t kill them,’ protested Sixsmith. ‘How’s it going? They got this Rocca yet?’

‘Give us time, Joe. It’s only you PIs in books that get instant results. Real police work takes a bit longer. Isn’t that right, Mirabelle?’

Joe realized his aunt hadn’t let herself be shaken off so easily. Fortunately the Major, whose keen military eye had quickly recognized good warrant officer material, seized her and said, ‘Belle, my dear woman, we must talk about disinfectant for the back stairs. I gather the council’s still dragging its feet.’

‘That’s right. And did you see the mess they left last time they emptied the bins?’

Sixsmith headed for the door. A man who didn’t grab his chance to escape deserved to stay locked up.

Outside he found the forecast rain coming down in earnest. His headlights picked out a figure leaning into the wind-driven downpour. It wasn’t till he was past that he realized it had been Beryl Boddington.

He hesitated, then said, ‘Oh shoot!’ and pressed on. She probably hadn’t spotted him and to stop now would be a tactical error of monumental proportions.

But he still felt guilty.

He parked his car in Lykers Lane and set off at a brisk trot for his block. There was a taxi outside the entrance. An Asian woman in a sari with a small child in her arms got out, followed by a boy of five or six carrying a large plastic bull with purple horns. The taxi-driver grabbed a suitcase from the boot, then shepherded the party to the shelter of the entrance, stooping over them from his great height as if to protect them from the rain.

Joe knew the man. Mervyn Golightly, one-time fitter at Robco Engineering till the same collapse which sent Joe down the road had dumped him too. He’d put his redundancy money into a cab and he and Joe had a vague deal—‘Any of my customers need a PI, I’ll pass them on to you, any of yours need a cab, you pass them on to me.’ It didn’t occur to Joe that Golightly’s presence here tonight might have something to do with this so far unproductive arrangement.

‘Merv,’ he said. ‘How are you doing? This is some lousy weather.’

‘Joe Sixsmith,’ yelled Golightly, slapping his hand with so much force he almost knocked Joe back out into the wet. ‘Now this is fortunate. Lady, this is the man I was telling you about. Luton’s answer to Sam Spade and Miss Marple all in one. Joe, I’m dropping a punter at the airport when I spot this lady and her family standing all forlorn, so I ask her, what’s up, lady? And she tells me they won’t let her husband into this great free country of ours, did you ever hear such a thing? Her and the kids they let through, but her husband they hold on to. What’s she supposed to do? She says she needs a lawyer, but where do you get a lawyer in Luton this time of night? You can get laid, you can even get a plumber if you’re a millionaire, but a lawyer, no way. Then it hits me, if you can’t get a lawyer, next best thing is my friend Joe Sixsmith. So here she is. Name’s Bannerjee, do what you can, huh?’

‘Merv, I don’t see what—’

‘You’ll think of something. I’m out of here. Regular pick-up over in Hermsprong. Exotic dancer, if she’s not shaking her stuff in Genghis Khan’s in forty minutes, she’ll uncouple my tackle. Ciao, bambino!’

He gave the Indian family a smile like a neon sign, waved aside the woman’s attempt to open her purse, and folded himself dexterously into his cab.

‘Merv, wait!’ yelled Joe. ‘We need to talk!’

‘We’ll sort out my commission later, Joe,’ yelled Merv. ‘See you!’

He gunned his engine and shot away in a screech of spray.

It was time to be firm, decided Sixsmith. He felt sorry for this woman, transported from her Third World rural environment to this cold unwelcoming country, but she had to understand from the start that there was nothing he could do for her except point her to the right authorities.

He said, ‘Mrs Bannerjee, I’m sorry. My friend has made a mistake. I don’t do immigration work. I’m a private detective. What you want is the Immigrant Advice Centre …’

She was looking at him like he was raving mad.

‘What is all this about immigrants?’ she demanded angrily. ‘I have been living in Birmingham for fifteen years. My children are all born here. I have a National Insurance number, and a job as part-time receptionist at the Sheldon Airlodge Hotel.’

‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe. He’d made the same kind of bonehead assumption that so irritated him when people made it about him. This was clearly his night for guilt.

He said, ‘I’m sorry, I thought when Merv mentioned the airport …’

‘We are coming back from holiday, ten days in Marbella, three star hotel. We arrive at Luton, very good flight, only ninety minutes late, and as we go through Customs green light, a man says, will you come this way, please? And he takes us to a little room … please, is there somewhere we could sit down? This has been a very tiring day.’

Joe didn’t know if it was written somewhere, never let a woman with two kids and a suitcase into your home, but he guessed it was, probably in the Dead Sea Scrolls or on a pyramid. Maybe it went on to give advice on how to keep them out, but not having the benefit of a classical education he lacked the art. And the heart.

He picked up the suitcase. It was very heavy.

‘You’d better come on up,’ he said.