Joe Sixsmith: Killing The Lawyers Part 9

d.i.c.k Hull said Merv hadn't been in yet. Leaving him to draw his Guinness, Joe went out to the lobby phone and, using the s.e.xwith flier he had in his pocket, he dialled Merv's mobile. No answer, which didn't surprise him. Merv's electronic equipment tended to come from nervous men in pub car parks after nightfall, and they didn't offer extended care contracts.

Now he tried Merv's home number.

It chimed different from what he remembered, but that didn't surprise him. Merv was a natural Bedouin, moving from oasis to oasis, which in his case were marked not by the presence of palm trees but widows of independent means. Whenever he moved in, he always imagined permanency, but it never worked out that way. Presumably he was still with Molly who had the dyslexic daughter in stationery, but there was no absolute guarantee.

"Yes?" snapped a voice in his ear.

It was male and not Merv. Time to box clever. Merv owed him, but that was no reason to drop a friend in the clag.

"I'm ringing on behalf of my firm to say that if you ever felt in need of a confidential enquiry service Even as he began his ingenious cover-up, it occurred to him he could be in a fix if this guy tried to employ him to check up on his woman who was being balled by Merv ... "Who the h.e.l.l is this?" demanded the man.

"My name's Joe Sixsmith," he said. "Look, if this is a bad time ..."

"Bad time, of course it's a bad time, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. How did you get this number? Did the police give it to you?"

The man sounded even more agitated than a bit of unwanted cold-calling should warrant.

"No, why should they ... ? Look I'm sorry, perhaps I got a wrong number, who am I talking to here?"

"This is Naysmith, Felix Naysmith, who the h.e.l.l did you think it was? The police told me about you, Sixsmith. What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Naysmith," said Joe, completely bewildered. "From Poll-Pott? I mean, from the law firm ... what are you doing there .. ? I mean, just where are you, Mr. Naysmith?"

"At home, of course. Are you drunk, or what? And what is it you want?"

"Well, just to talk, perhaps we could meet, I thought it might help or something," bur bled Joe, trying to get his act together.

"You did, did you? Can you hold on a moment. There's someone at the back door."

Joe's mind which, like a small lift, had strict pa.s.senger limitations, was suddenly crowded with thoughts.

By what amazing coincidence had he managed to mis dial and get through to Felix Naysmith's home? And why was the guy there when his wife was expecting him back in Lincolns.h.i.+re?

And who on a dark midwinter's night went prowling round the rear of a house to knock on the back door ... ?

At last the surplus weight was dumped and the lift went shooting up his cerebrum.

"Mr. Naysmith!" he yelled. "Don't open that door!"

But it was too late. He'd heard the bang as the phone was dropped on to a table, and now he could hear distantly a bolt being drawn and a door opened, then Naysmith's voice saying, "Good Lord, what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" And then the sound he most feared, which was no sound at all for a long amazed second, then the silence violently broken by a confusion of noise, gaspings, groanings, scufflings, broken words, choked-off cries ... "Joe, my man. Not doing the heavy breathing to the nurses' home, I hope!"

A heavy hand clapped on to his shoulder. He looked up to see Merv's beaming face satelliting above him.

There were questions to ask but not now.

He thrust the phone into the taxi driver's huge hand and cried, "Merv, dial 999, tell them to get round to the Naysmith house on the Heights, tell them it's urgent."

Then he was off. What was it Butcher had said? Opposite Willie Woodbine's house ... well, he knew that, having been there once for a party which had gone off, literally, with a bang. Should mean the Rapid Response Unit would get their fingers out, but no guarantee. On the Ra.s.selas, RRU meant Really Rather U-didn't-bother-us. So, time for the lone PI to ride to the rescue!

The Mini's engine snarled as if it had been waiting all its long life for this moment.

But even breaking speed limits and shaving lights couldn't turn a fifteen-minute drive into less than twelve and as he hit the hill which (along with the property prices) gave Beacon Heights its name, he saw he'd been maligning the police. Up ahead the frosty night air was pulsing with blue. Which was good. Except that some of the strobe was coming off an ambulance. Which was bad.

A stretcher was being lifted into the ambulance. He ran the Mini up on to the pavement and hurried forward.

"What's happened?" he demanded as he forced his way through the small crowd of spectators. "Is Naysmith dead?"

"Don't know. What's it to you, anyway?"

The man responding was a crinkly blond, in his thirties, beautifully tanned or heavily made up, and wearing a dinner jacket. A butler maybe, thought Joe. Then he checked out the teeth and upgraded his guess. Anyone could wear a bow tie but only money in the bank got you teeth that looked like Michelangelo had chipped them out of Carrara marble.

"I'm just worried, is all," said Joe.

It occurred to him that most of the spectating men were dinner jacketed and their accompanying women were wearing fancy evening gowns which displayed a lot of rapidly goose-pimpling flesh. Presumably there'd been a top-people's party in one of the neighbouring houses, but good breeding hadn't stopped them pouring out to enjoy a spot of ghoulish gawking.

"Don't live round here, do you?" said the man with the authority of one who did.

"No," said Joe. "Just pa.s.sing through."

"Or just coming back to the scene of the crime, eh? Hold on. I think you'd better have a word with the constabulary."

Joe, realizing nothing useful was likely to pa.s.s between those twinkling teeth, had taken a step away in search of higher intelligence. Now he felt himself seized by the collar and dragged up till he stood on his toes. If he'd paused to think, probably good sense would have made him decide against a physical reaction. Or even if he'd opted for it, the intervention of the thought process would have meant he got it all wrong. But indignation blanked his mind, leaving plenty of uncluttered s.p.a.ce for the exercise of pure intuition.

In a move of which Mr. Takeus.h.i.+ must have been the source, but whose execution by this least cpt of his pupils would have amazed the old judo instructor, Joe jumped in the air, transferring all his weight to marble-tooth's arm. The man staggered forward, bending under the sudden burden, and Joe, reaching back over his shoulder with his right hand, seized him by the bow tie and brought him flailing through the air in a very effective if slightly unorthodox hip throw.

The women screamed in terror, or delight; the men made the kind of indignant baying noises by which good citizens since time began have indicated their readiness to become faceless cells in a lynch mob; and Joe looked anxiously down at the rec.u.mbent man, his mind full of fear that he might have incidentally dislodged one of those perfect teeth.

"You OK, mate?" he said.

The man had difficulty in replying, mainly because his tie was half strangling him.

Joe stooped to loosen it, saying, "Always use a clip-on myself. Lot safer."

Then he felt himself seized again and dragged upright. Any inclination he had to resist died when he saw it was two cops who'd got a hold of him and a moment later he heard Sergeant Chivers's familiar voice cry, "I don't believe it. Twice may be coincidence but three out of three's too good to be true. Bring him inside!"

"Shall we cuff him, Sarge?" said one of the uniformed men.

"Cuff him?" said Chivers. "You can kick him senseless for all I care. Only don't let anyone see!"

Nine.

There was good news.

Felix Naysmith wasn't dead.

And there was bad news.

He'd been badly beaten about the head and was in such a state of shock, he'd been unable to say anything about what had happened. He certainly hadn't said anything to confirm Joe's story.

"Ring the Glit," said Joe. Talk to Merv Golightly. All I came here to do was save the guy's life."

He tried to sound persuasive but he wasn't at the best angle for persuasion. Chivers had put him in what must be Naysmith's study, sat him at a huge leather-topped desk, then handcuffed his right hand to the desk leg so that he was forced to lean forward and rest his head on a large blotter.

"Sixsmith, you've gotta learn to tell better lies," said Chivers.

"Chivers, you gotta learn to keep better laws," said Joe. "This is illegal restraint, you know that?"

"Sue me," said Chivers.

The door opened and a head appeared.

"Sarge, there's a gate in the garden fence where it boundaries the wood and they think they've found a recent print."

"Great." He stooped down and pulled off one of Joe's slip-ons. "Let's see if it matches this. Don't go away, Sixsmith."

He was seriously out of order, of course, and it was all the worse because Joe suspected that he knew not too deep down in his shrivelled heart that he had as much chance of pinning this on Luton's finest black PI as he did of making If Chief Constable. This was mere ritual humiliation which he could get away with because there was nothing Joe could do about it.

Or perhaps there was. From his snooker player's viewpoint Joe could see the smooth silhouette of an answer phone at the extreme left edge of the desk. Reach that, ring Butcher, get her down here to witness his illegal imprisonment, and he could possibly get Chivers by the legal short and hairies.

He swung his left arm and touched the machine. Unfortunately the actual phone was at its left edge. He strained to reach the few extra inches, the ball of his thumb pressed a b.u.t.ton and suddenly a female voice with a backing of "Santa Rock' was screeching in his ear.

"Feel loose! It's Wilma. We're just having the greatest time here on the beach and I thought I just had to ring and say HI! Hope all your troubles are behind you and that you're having the happiest Christmas of your lives. Ring me soon. Bye-eel"

He'd started the message tape. He worked out that 'feel loose' was Australian for Felix and Lucy who had narrowly missed being woken in the early hours of Christmas morning.

He started searching blindly for the stop b.u.t.ton then changed his mind. Could be something significant on the tape. And besides, what else did he have to do just now?

He settled down to listen.

Next voice was male, local, blurred with booze.

"Can you send a cab to the Queen's, mate? Quick as you like ... oh b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Trace!"

There was a brief vomiting sound then the phone went dead. Some other poor sod who had been misled by Merv's flier. Not that any sane taxi driver would agree to pick up a fare at chucking-out time from the Queen's notorious Xmas Rave!

Several bleeps indicating calls but no messages left. More misled revellers. The drunk's voice again Still waiting at the Queen's, you gonna be long? Then another couple of seasonal greetings, this time English and presumably at civilized times. Then, still slurred, but with sleep now as much as drink -Where's that sodding taxi? How long you gonna keep us waiting?

More bleeps. Another seasonal message, this time referring to Boxing Day. Joe hoped the drunk and Trace had made it home. Still more mess ageless bleeps. A woman leaving a message for Lucy which included the sentiment Thank G.o.d Christmas is over!" so presumably the twenty-seventh or -eighth.

And then a man's voice. He didn't recognize it straight off, which wasn't surprising as last time he'd heard it, it had been raised in anger. Now it was quiet, but with restrained emotion. Perhaps worry?

"Felix, tried you at the cottage but no reply. I'll try again but this is a fail-safe in case you're on your way back to town. That business, you know what I mean. Well, it's looking urgent. If possible I'd like to meet in the office tomorrow to check it out. If you hear this before I reach you, ring me straight back. I'm at the office now, it's four thirty. I'll hang on till six, then I'll head for home. Do ring. It really is urgent."

Food for thought there, but no time to digest it. The tape was still running. Couple more no-messages, then a woman's voice, young, irritated, "Mr. Naysmith, this is Freeman's, your stationery order is ready. Please ring us to make arrangements for collection at your convenience." Nice to know not all the business world ground to a halt between Christmas and the New Year. A man's voice, East End accent and again very irritated Naysmith seemed to have the art not uncommon in lawyers of getting up noses Where you been? The wheels are coming off of this thing. I pay for service, I get nothing, you get nothing. Ring me! Another satisfied customer. Joe had had a few like that who felt that buying a bit of your time meant they had freehold on your soul. Another couple of bleeps then nothing more. The tape reached its end and rewound itself. Time to renew his efforts to get hold of the phone and summon Butcher.

He stretched, strained, got two fingers on the phone, tried to pull it towards him then it rang. His hand jerked in shock, the receiver fell off its rest.

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" Joe shouted.

He strained his ears to catch the reply. The voice sounded familiar.

"Can you send a cab to the Queen's? And listen, mate, last time you kept me waiting forever."

Oh shoot! thought Joe. Not much chance of getting a.s.sistance from what must be the most optimistic idiot in Luton. Still, it was all he had. But before he could try to open negotiations, the door burst open and into the room burst a wild-eyed, haggard-faced, unshaven creature in a baseball cap and a flowered T-s.h.i.+rt which made the Magic Mini look like a model of Puritan restraint.

"Chivers!" it bellowed.

"In the garden," said Joe, who believed in being helpful to madmen, particularly when chained to a desk.

"Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?"

The man sounded amazed but nowhere near as amazed as Joe as he squinted up at the newcomer and said incredulously, "Mr. Woodbine? Is that you?"

Any doubts he had vanished next moment when Sergeant Chivers appeared, snapped to attention and said, "h.e.l.lo, sir. Welcome home."

"Welcome?" snarled Detective Superintendent Woodbine. "I spend three hours sitting in a motionless plane in a temperature in excess of one hundred degrees because my travel company omitted to pay airport fees before it went bust. I get diverted for reasons not yet clear from Luton to Manchester, I finally arrive home wanting nothing but my own bed and about three days uninterrupted sleep, and what do I find on my doorstep, which I am unable to reach because of the crush, but more flas.h.i.+ng lights and wailing sirens than I'd expect at a major incident. Sergeant, explain. And it had better be good."

Chivers began to explain. When he got to the attack on Naysmith, it said much for Woodbine's humanity that concern for his neighbour temporarily overcame his own fury and fatigue.

"Felix attacked? My G.o.d. Is he going to be all right?"

"Can't say, sir. I've got Doberley at his bedside."

"And what about Lucy? How's she?"

"Sir?" said Chivers, meaning never mind how's she, who's she?

"Still up at their cottage in Lincolns.h.i.+re," said Joe, squinting up at the superintendent.

Thank G.o.d she wasn't here," said Woodbine. "She'll have been told, I presume?"

"Thought it best to hold back till we got definite word from the hospital, sir," said Chivers. It was a pretty good lie. Joe would have nodded appreciatively if nodding had been possible with his head resting on the blotter.

Woodbine was regarding him with a frown.

"Joe," he said. "Just what the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"Came to try to help Mr. Naysmith," said Joe. "It was me who raised the alarm."

Woodbine glanced at the sergeant for confirmation and got a vigorous shake of the head.

"Yes, it was," said Joe indignantly. "If I hadn't got Merv to ring you "Alarm was raised by Constable Forton who I'd put on watch outside Mr. Naysmith's house, sir," said Chivers. "He saw a light flas.h.i.+ng on and off in the hallway and went to investigate. Getting no reply at the front door he went round the back and found the kitchen door wide open and Mr. Naysmith lying injured on the floor."

"And the flas.h.i.+ng light?"

They've got like a swing door from the hallway to the kitchen, one of them that open either way like they have in restaurants, and the struggle must have banged up against it several times so the kitchen light showed intermittently in the hall."

"Good job Forton was awake," said Woodbine. "So, Joe, I still don't understand why you're here. And for G.o.d's sake, you may be knackered, but you can't be as knackered as I am. If I can stand up to talk, so can you!"