Joe Sixsmith: Killing The Lawyers Part 20

Joe said, "You complaining, d.i.c.k? We can go elsewhere. Only I'd have to say why."

"Joe, you've got to learn to take a joke. This one's on the house."

"He wants a Glitterburger and fries. That on the house too?"

"Yeah, yeah. Make sure you tell him."

Joe did and d.i.l.d.o raised his gla.s.s to the manager.

"I like it here," he said. "Friendly. Like me. Those names you gave me, Joe, I had a word with our collator. Nice girl. Pity she's married to the divisional cruiser weight champion. She came up with some interesting stuff. First, Mr. Starbright Jones. You want to tread carefully there, Joe. Couple of years back he was a bouncer at Miss Piggies, out Dunstable way.

There was a bit of trouble. Ended with Starbright putting a customer in his car. He got six months for a.s.sault."

"Seems a bit strong," said Joe.

"Maybe. Except he put him in through the sun roof. Without opening it. He's been working as a minder since he came out. He's kept his nose clean, except for doing the ton on a bike down the M1 last year. Likewise Jim Hardiman, nothing but traffic, speeding mainly. Got disqualified on a drink-driving charge last year but got off on appeal when there was that c.o.c.k-up about some of the breathalyzers being wrongly calibrated. Shouldn't have mattered in his case, he was so far over, but there was the usual overkill. Douglas Endor. Back in the eighties he looked set to be one of your loadsa-money lads. Whole series of small-time communications companies, glossy brochures, big promises, small results, usually went bust but as they were always limited liability, Endor came out smiling and set up the next. Moved into PR about seven years ago and started concentrating on sports management when he spotted Billy Bream playing snooker in his local club. Did Billy a lot of good by all accounts. Won a few tournaments, nothing really big but enough to get him into the top ten, and Endor got a lot of sponsors.h.i.+p. Endor started collecting a little stable of up-and-coming sports people. All above board so far as we know. Endor takes a hefty percentage, but there haven't been any complaints. So far."

He looked interrogatively at Joe who shook his head.

"Just checking," he said. "Honest."

"I'll believe you, thousands wouldn't. Finally the Otos. Nothing on any of them. OK, Joe. Like to tell me what's going on? How come you're checking on Zak Oto's family, her business agent, her minder, and her ex-trainer?"

"Just routine enquiries," said Joe, trying for a wide-eyed innocent look, feeling it come out s.h.i.+fty and settling for concealing his face in his gla.s.s.

"You sure there's nothing you want to share with me?" said d.i.l.d.o.

"d.i.l.d.o, it's just a little job Zak's hired me to do, and all I want is to be sure there's nothing iffy going on around her."

"I hope you're telling the truth, Joe, 'cos you know how that girl's regarded in Luton. Anything unpleasant happens around her, you could find yourself very unpopular with a lot of people."

"I'm her greatest fan," said Joe fervently.

"Not while I'm around," said d.i.l.d.o. "Isn't she gorgeous? The thought of all that highly trained flesh and muscle ..."

He shook his head, bit deep into his burger, and through the succulently anonymous meat went on, "In my dreams. How's your love life doing, Joe?"

Joe glanced at his watch. It was after eight.

"Disasterville," he groaned. "d.i.l.d.o, I gotta shoot."

"Sat.u.r.day night is nookie night, eh?" laughed the younger man sympathetically. "I'm hoping to score myself later. Thanks for the grub, Joe. Though on second thoughts if it's on the house, you still owe me. What's good for afters?"

"Cherry cheesecake," said Joe, rising. "Thanks a lot, d.i.l.d.o. Anything I can push your way, I won't forget."

"Couldn't push your cabbie friend's woman my way, could you?"

"Sorry. But you might like to take a look at her daughter. Cheers."

He started to move away, then paused and came back.

"Jones, where'd he do his time?"

"The Stocks I expect. Why?"

"Just wondered. Stay honest. "Bye."

The Stocks, thought Joe as he went out into the chill dark night. Where Henry Oto had been a prison officer for the past fifteen years. Must've recognized him. It wasn't as if Starbright was someone you soon forgot! And he can't have been all that chuffed to find his daughter was being minded by an ex-con. So why hadn't he said anything? Or perhaps he had and ... and what? Could this explain Mrs. Oto's antipathy for the guy?

He got in the Magic Mini and set off for Ra.s.selas. He was trying to rehea.r.s.e apologies to Beryl but his mind refused to focus. Was that a motorcyclist in his rear-view mirror? Did the helmet gleam red under the slippery silver of the street-lamps? What was it d.i.l.d.o had said about Jones being clocked doing the ton on his bike on the M1 ... ?

He looked again. No bike. Overactive imagination. Not one of his most common failings!

On reaching Ra.s.selas he parked in his usual spot in Lykers Lane, which was handy for his own flat but a good half mile from Beryl's block. He could have saved himself a few minutes by driving straight there, but the trouble was Aunt Mirabelle lived in the same block, and while he might just about escape observation by slipping in through the janitor's door at the rear, the presence of the Magic Mini parked anywhere close would be reported instantly by one of MI6, which in this instance stood for Mirabelle's half dozen ever alert close cronies and informants.

Not that she'd come bursting in. On the contrary, she'd probably post an armed guard on the lift to make sure the visit was in no way disturbed! But it did nothing for Joe's libido to know that the length of his stay was being monitored to the last significant second by his aunt's stopwatch.

On foot the only danger was running into one of Major Tweedie's vigilante patrols who would of course recognize him as a friend, but also recognize he was heading in the wrong direction, and another alert would be sounded down the line.

So he skulked his way from one block to the next, like a prisoner trying to escape from Colditz. At one point he thought he heard the growl of a motorbike engine and dived into the shadow of a doorway till all was silent again. Not that the silence was really silent. Just as in the darkened countryside, sounds of nature's nightlife start crackling and snuffling all around you, so here in the suburban jungle distant footfalls, a window opening, a car door closing, a s.n.a.t.c.h of laughter, a dog's bark, a blast of rock, all merged together in a sinister symphony which to Joe's musical ear seemed to be crescendoing to some explosive climax.

"You got to get your head together, man," he admonished himself. But so strong was his sense of menace, that he almost abandoned his plan of going in through the back in favour of entering via the much better lit front entrance.

"Shoot! You a man or a mouse, Sixsmith," he said aloud, and kept on his chosen course.

One thing, under the major's benevolent despotacy, even the service areas of the tower blocks were no longer the foul-smelling, rubbish-littered rodent runs they once had been and still were across on the Hermsp.r.o.ng. The huge wheelie bins were lined up like motor pool vehicles on inspection and even the lights, albeit dim, all actually worked.

Emboldened, Joe set out for the janitor's entrance. It was of course kept locked, but one of Joe's most closely guarded secrets was that as a result of a helping hand he'd been able to offer the janitor's daughter when she got out of her depth with a bunch of teenage pushers, he had his own personal key.

He had almost made it to the door when the figure stepped out from behind one of the big metal bins and hit him with some kind of club. It was a savage, full-blooded swing which would have split even his hard head like a melon if it had connected direct. But Joe's senses hadn't been alerted for nothing and a saving moment before his mind signalled ATTACK! his body was into evasion. Even then the best it had time to manage was shoulder up and head down as the club came whistling round. The shoulder took most of the blow, leaving his arm numb and paralysed, while the weapon went onward and upward, clipping the top of his skull with a glancing but nonetheless stunning blow.

He went down. His body was divided between evasion and defence, but his mind advised submission. Do like an overmatched cat would. Lie on your back with your legs in the air, let the guy take your wallet must be all of twenty quid in it! then raise the alarm and wait for the paramedics.

Except that this guy didn't know cat's rules. Mind was still saying, "Hey look, fella, I'm out of this!" while body was twisting sideways as the club crashed into the ground where his head had just been with a force that sent splinters of concrete into his ear.

He tried to roll and scuffle away. He could hear a medley of noises. Voices shouting distantly. An engine approaching fast. The cavalry? Or more Indians? His desperate attempts at evasion brought him up against something solid. His blurred vision a.s.sembled it into a leg. It was wearing a biker's leather boot. He grappled with it. It was like embracing a telegraph pole except that it bucked and kicked as it tried to shake him off. Grimly he hung on. It had to be Jones, who else could have a leg like this? To let go was to die. To hang on could only be to delay matters, but at least it made it awkward for the murderous b.a.s.t.a.r.d to take another full-blooded swing. In fact, he didn't seem to be taking any swings at all. The voices closer now. One of them sharp, clipped, authoritative. The major! He was saved. Thank the good Lord, he was saved.

He let go of the leg and lay on his back waiting for others to take over the struggle. He doubted if even three or four of Tweedie's irregulars could deal with Jones, but at least the Welshman would probably run for it.

Only he didn't. He stood there removing his bright red helmet. Yes, it was Starbright, no doubt about that. What was his plan, to kill the whole lot of them? And he could probably do it. He tried to shout out a warning to the major, but the old fool was kneeling down beside him, exposing his back and head to the full fury of Jones's attack.

"How're you doing, soldier?" said Sholto Tweedie.

"Not a soldier," croaked Joe. "Look out behind you!"

That's the spirit. Bit of a pantomime, eh? Just take it easy till I get things sorted."

The major stood up and said, "Well done, my man. Good job you happened along. Pity you couldn't have got a hold of the blighter though."

"Would have done," said Starbright, 'if this t.o.s.s.e.r hadn't got a hold of me? How's he doing?"

"Bit of bleeding from the head. Better call the bone-cart."

"No," said Joe. "No ambulance. Arrest him. He attacked me."

"Sorry, old chap, you're getting confused. Saw it all from level two. Fellow knocking h.e.l.l out of you. Too far away to do anything but shout. Then our friend here comes roaring up on his bike, chap trying to smash your head with what looked like a mas.h.i.+e-niblick takes off, and our friend here would have gone after him if you hadn't tackled him round the knees. Brave but a bit counterproductive. Now I'll see about that ambulance."

"No," said Joe again. "Get me up to Beryl's ... she'll take a look."

"Miss Boddington. Of course. Trained nurse, just the ticket. But if she says ambulance, no argument."

Joe got to his feet, staggered and would have fallen if the strong right arm of Starbright Jones hadn't steadied him. He tried to push it away but even at full strength, he'd have had a problem. So, comforting himself with the pragmatic thought that having Jones hang on to him was as good as him hanging on to the Welshman, he let himself be guided into the lift and up to Beryl's floor.

Eighteen.

The Lost Traveller's Guide says: "The citizens of Luton are natural Samaritans. Perhaps long exposure to trial and tribulation has made them more than averagely sensitive to the misfortunes of their fellows. If you find yourself in real trouble, knock on any door, and in nine cases out of ten help with be forthcoming. Of course, in the tenth case, you will probably be brought to a realization that your previous trouble was inconsequential in the extreme."

Anyone knocking at Beryl Boddington's door would have thought they had arrived at the court of the Queen of Samaria.

Confronted by the bruised and bleeding figure of Joe Sixsmith, all she said was, "Oh Joe, the things you'll do for a bit of sympathy." Then she made him lie down on her bed with a towel under his head while she examined and cleaned his scalp wound. His shoulder was throbbing painfully but movement had returned to his arm. After a couple of painful tests she announced she didn't think anything was broken.

"And with that thick skull of yours, I doubt if there's anything cracked there either. But better safe than sorry. Let's get you down to the infirmary for X-rays. Also you'll need a couple of st.i.tches. And how's your teta.n.u.s status?"

"All right there. Got done when the Morris got wrecked."

He didn't want to go to hospital but the arrival of Aunt Mirabelle, alerted by one of her spies, persuaded him.

"What've you been up to now, Joseph? Dripping blood all over that nice new carpet of Beryl's. When are you going to put all this nonsense behind you and get yourself a real job again? Haven't you heard, this recess thing is just about over, heard a man on the telly say so the other night, soon going to be jobs for everyone that wants them, no excuse to be playing at chasing gangsters any more, what do you say, Beryl?"

"I say we ought to be off to Casualty. Mirabelle, could you stay here to look after Desmond?"

Joe shot her a glance full of admiration and grat.i.tude. With her skills of management and diplomacy she ought to be Queen.

Starbright helped Joe down to the car and showed no sign of wanting to make good his escape. Joe was beginning to admit reluctantly that maybe he'd got it wrong. The other vigilantes all agreed with the major that the Welshman was his saviour, though they couldn't achieve a similar unanimity in their descriptions of his attacker, who ranged from a tall thin man in a brown overcoat to a medium-sized fat man in a gaberdine. But all agreed he wore a hat of some kind and was masked. "Sort of whitish," said the major. I'd say a ski mask." "More like a cream-coloured balaclava," said one of the others. "No," said a third. "It was a scarf wound round to hide his face."

One for the police to sort out. Joe's pa.s.sage through the Casualty sausage machine was expedited by Beryl's presence and he was st.i.tched up and confirmed bruised, b.l.o.o.d.y but unbroken, in record time. He gave a statement to a uniformed constable he didn't know and did nothing to correct the a.s.sumption that it was a routine mugging with robbery as the sole motive. The hospital waiting room, with Beryl, the major and Starbright in close attendance, was not the place to start talking about a series of attempts on his life.

The major, who was acting as chauffeur, drove them back to Ra.s.selas. Here Beryl a.s.sumed that she'd have the job of seeing Joe safely into his flat and let her surprise show when he said, "No, that's OK, Starbright here will see me up."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. You'll want to get back to Desmond. Do me a favour.

Tell Aunt Mirabelle I'm tucked up safe and what I need is twenty-four hours undisturbed sleep."

The last bit's certainly true."

"And Beryl, thanks a million. I'm really sorry I mucked up your night. And your carpet."

He offered to kiss her but she stepped back.

The carpet's easy to put right," she said. "Good night, Joe. Good night, Mr. Jones."

"Fine-looking woman," said Starbright in the lift. "Not often I get preferred to something like that."

"Not even in prison?" said Joe.

The Welshman didn't reply and they completed the journey in silence. In the flat Whitey came out of the bedroom (bleary eyed) to inspect Starbright, decided he was harmless and food less and yelled angrily at Joe for his supper.

Joe winced as he pulled open the fridge door.

"Here, I'll do that," said Starbright. "What's he have?"

There's some pork pie. That'll do," said Joe. "And help yourself to a beer."

"No, thanks. Not when I'm riding. Cuppa tea would be nice."

"Be my guest," said Joe.

With Whitey provided for and tea and biscuits set with a domestic neatness on a tray, the Welshman took a seat opposite Joe, who was draped like a Roman emperor along his sofa, and said, "So what do you want to say to me?"

"Just wanted to thank you for saving me from that mugger."

"I didn't," said Starbright.

For an awful moment Joe thought he must have got it right all along and the Welshman was about to finish the job. But the man was sipping his cup of tea most delicately, his little finger crooked according to the best tenets of refinement, and generally looking as un menacing as a man of his size and aspect could.

"Sorry?" said Joe.

"I mean, that joker wasn't mugging you, he was trying to off you," said Starbright.

"Why do you say that?"

"All the difference in the world between putting the fright-eners on to get at your wallet, or even giving a good kicking to warn you off, and what he was doing. Lucky for you he wasn't a pro."

"He felt professional enough to me," said Joe, wincing in memory.

"What I mean, isn't it? He'd been a pro, you'd have felt exactly what he wanted you to feel, which if it was a contract would be nothing. Crack, you're dead."

He said it very mildly in that light high-pitched voice of his, but Joe still s.h.i.+vered.

"So that guy you got sent down for a.s.saulting, he just got exactly what you wanted to give him, did he?" said Joe with an effort at boldness.

"You've taken some trouble to find out about me, haven't you? I'm flattered."

"No need. What I really want to know is why you've been following me around?"

"Have I?"