Joe Sixsmith: Killing The Lawyers Part 19

"Oh, pretty well. Still a bit concussed and not able to remember much after answering the phone. But the damage to his head is mainly superficial, they say, though when I saw him bandaged like a mummy, I thought he must have lost an ear at least."

She managed a wan smile. Her teeth were perfect.

Joe said, "Any chance of me having a few words with your husband, Mrs. Naysmith?"

He thought, short of a chitty from Willie Woodbine, Lucy Naysmith's approval seemed the likeliest route to pa.s.sage past the guardian cop.

"Why?"

"Just to ask a few questions," he said, trying to sound laconically purposeful.

She said, uncertainly, "I don't know... Felix is still sedated. What he needs is lots of rest. And I can't see how you can get anywhere the police aren't going to get a long way ahead of you. Incidentally, you were asking questions about Victor Montaigne when I came in. Why was that?"

"Because if this is one case, not three, then the other two partners could be in ... danger."

He'd been going to say involved, and he might as well have spared himself the effort at diplomacy because she said, "You mean you think Victor could have had something to do with this?"

She didn't sound as if the idea was either novel or out of court.

He said, "I don't know him, Mrs. Naysmith. That's why I was asking questions. What do you think? Is he the kind of guy who could have got mixed up in this sort of thing?"

This sort of thing being murder and embezzlement. Condition of service for lawyers, Big Merv would say.

She was considering it seriously. Or perhaps she'd already considered it seriously and was now considering whether she wanted to share her conclusions.

"What would you say, Cherry?" she compromised.

Cherry was Butcher. At what point she'd decided that Cheryl wasn't a name that did much for a crusading lawyer's crusade-cred Joe didn't know. But he did know that his accidental discovery via another old acquaintance of what the C stood for gave him one of his very few vantage points in their relationship.

"Yeah, how about it, Cherry?" he said.

She gave him a promissory glare and said, "I don't know him all that well but he does have a reputation of being a top dirty-tricks man."

"Eh?"

"He practises law to the outer limits of legality," said Butcher.

"In the firm Felix says that they never decide a case is lost until Victor says it's lost," said Lucy Naysmith. "He likes to claim he's descended from Michel de Montaigne."

"Who?"

The essayist. Over his desk he's pinned the quotation, No man should lie unless he's sure he's got the memory to keep it up. It sounds better in French."

It sounded pretty good sense to Joe in English.

"And he's got the memory, I take it?" he said.

"That's right. Phenomenal. In law he can remember things the rest of us don't even know we've forgotten."

"I was forgetting. You're a sort of lawyer too, right, Mrs. Naysmith?" said Joe.

"I am, or rather I was, a legal secretary," said the woman rather shortly.

"Who needs to know more about the law than any solicitor," said Butcher supportively. "But all this begs the question: Could Victor be ruthless enough to kill, always a.s.suming he's clever enough to be in different places at the same time?"

She thinks he probably could, thought Joe. Otherwise she wouldn't be taking the question seriously.

"I don't know," said Lucy Naysmith wretchedly. "And it makes me feel dirty standing here talking about the possibility. He's a friend for G.o.d's sake!"

"Most criminals are someone's friend," said Butcher. Joe looked at her approvingly. It was nice having someone around to say the things you thought but didn't quite dare say.

"Anyway," said Lucy Naysmith, suddenly brisk and matter-of-fact, 'it's rather beside the point until the police establish whether or not Victor actually is in France."

"Or Felix remembers who attacked him," said Butcher.

"Yes, that too," said the lawyer's wife.

Joe felt a gentle tingle in his ear. As a small boy subject to the tyrannies of larger lads like Hooter Hardiman, he had developed a defensive sensitivity to linguistic nuance and could differentiate at a hundred yards between the 'come here!" which meant 'so's we can thump you!" and the 'come here!" which simply meant 'come here'. It seemed to him now that there was something a bit too throwaway about Mrs. Naysmith's 'that too'. As if maybe she didn't expect her husband to remember? But, shoot! the guy only had a concussion, not major cerebral trauma. Or as if maybe he's remembered already and told her he had reasons of his own for keeping quiet? Or maybe the poor woman was just in a real panic to get out of the hospital.

She certainly didn't look too well, but he forced his sympathy down and said, "I'd really appreciate a few words with your husband, Mrs. Naysmith."

She stared at him for a moment then said, "OK, I'll see ... but I'm pretty certain ..." then turned and went out.

Butcher said angrily, "For Christ's sake, Sixsmith, can't you see that all the poor woman wants is to get out of this place?"

"Yeah, sorry," said Joe.

He stepped outside just in time to see Lucy Naysmith turning a corner in the corridor. He followed her and peered cautiously round. About six feet away and fortunately with his back towards him was a tubby figure he recognized even from behind. It belonged to PC Dean Forton, whose view of Pis in general and Joe in particular was that they were a waste of s.p.a.ce. Any vague thought he'd had of getting in without the woman's say-so vanished.

He returned to the waiting room where he and Butcher sat in silence for two or three minutes till Lucy returned.

"Sorry, no, he's asleep," she said. "Now, please, can I get out of here before I collapse and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds try to keep me in as well!"

She took Butcher's arm and the two women left.

Joe picked up the Reader's Digest. Hospitals didn't bother him. In fact, he felt safer in here than almost anywhere out there. And this looked like quite an interesting article on The Most Charismatic Person I Ever Met'. But he knew it was an illusory safety. Sooner or later PC Forton or the mountainous security man would winkle him out.

With a sigh, he hurried after the women.

Seventeen.

It was the second last night of the year and as if in rehearsal for tomorrow's Hogmanay Hoolie, the Glit had started jumping early.

By half seven most of the tables were taken, the air was heavy with smoke, and the rising tide of chatter was close to drowning even Gary top-decibel ling "Another Rock'N'Roll Christmas' from the juke box.

For Joe, however, half seven wasn't early but late. He had no firm commitment to be at Beryl's flat by any particular time, but she'd mentioned putting Desmond to bed and Joe would hate her to think he'd deliberately hung back till he was sure the youngster was safely tucked away. What was keeping him here was his appointment with d.i.l.d.o Doberley. Six o'clock, they'd arranged. Where the shoot was the guy? Anyone else, and Joe would have been long gone, but his job was hard enough without messing up his main contact in the local constabulary. OK, Willie Woodbine had the rank and authority to dish out the real gems, but he only cast his pearls on the waters when he felt a bit clueless and reckoned Joe might return them after many days. (Or something like that. Despite the combined efforts of Aunt Mirabelle and Rev. Pot, Joe was a pretty mediocre Bible scholar.) d.i.l.d.o, on the other hand, might be a mere hewer of wood but at least he tried to carve out what Joe needed to know.

But where was he? Merv had just come in with Molly McShane glowing on his arm. She spotted Joe, disengaged herself and headed towards him.

"All alone?" she said. "Shall I give that friend I mentioned a ring?"

"No, it's OK, I'm waiting for somebody."

"Should've known," she said approvingly. "Good-looking chap like you can pick his own girl."

"No, well, actually, it's a fella ..."

Her eyes rounded in lunar amazement.

"You don't say? Well, Joe, that really amazes me, I'd never have guessed."

"No! I don't mean ... I mean it's not ... he's just a ..."

Joe's confusion faded as he realized she was shaking with laughter. With her splendid figure, in a clinging silk blouse, it was a sight worth paying cash money to see.

"It's OK, Joe," she said. "When you've been around as long as I have you can tell if a guy's AC or DC from a hundred yards."

"Oh, my date's definitely DC," said Joe, appreciating his own wit. "How's that lovely granddaughter of yours?"

"Oh, she's grand. It's her mother that bothers me. An hour, she said! She was so long coming back I wondered if I'd get away tonight. Then she has the cheek to ask me if I'd watch the little girl tomorrow! I sometimes think she must have been a changeling!"

"No way," said Joe. Those're designer looks she's got, not off the peg."

"Now that's a sweet tongue you've got there, Joe. No wonder you drink Guinness. You need the bitterness to stop your mouth tasting of sugar candy all the time."

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, not sure if I like the drift of this conversation," said Big Merv, whc 'd turned up with a couple of drinks. "Joe, I don't mind you picking up my cast-offs, but I object to you trying to cut me out."

"Cast-offs, is it?" said Molly. "You mean there's been women you got tired of before they got tired of you? I don't believe it. I've only been going out with you six months and already I know most of your taxi stories off by heart."

"Six months? It's more like three," protested Merv.

"Is that all? Seems a lot longer," said Molly, winking at Joe who laughed and said, "Walked into that one, Merv."

"Not to worry. Just wait till it really is six months, she'll be thinking they pa.s.sed like last night's beer. Mind if we join you, Joe?"

"Well, actually, my date's just arrived."

Merv turned to see DC d.i.l.d.o Doberley heading their way.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Joe," said Merv. "I know Beryl's been away, but surely you're not this desperate! Come on, doll. There's a table over there."

Before Molly followed, she stooped to Joe and said, "What we were talking about, I thought I'd take Feelie to the park tomorrow. If you can manage it..."

"Can't promise," said Joe. "Hey, I thought you were going to come down hard on Dorrie?"

"I'm like you, a big softie," she said, ruffling his hair. "See you, I hope."

d.i.l.d.o glanced after her as he slumped in a chair and said, "I could fancy some of that. But not now. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d Chivers could work the d.i.c.k off a blind donkey."

Joe took this as an apology for being late. He also noted to his relief that the DC and his sergeant hadn't spent the afternoon building bridges.

"Yeah, I know the type," he said. "You do all the work, he takes all the credit. Got you running around on this lawyer case, has he?"

"Running? More like galloping! My bet is that this w.a.n.ker Montaigne is going to turn up smiling after spending a week up some sodding Alp with the local mayor's wife."

"Oh," said Joe trying to sound casual. This was better than he'd hoped, finding Doberley p.i.s.sed off enough to talk about the Poll-Pott case. "You haven't found him yet then?"

"No, that's the b.l.o.o.d.y trouble. No one's got an address in France for him. The Frogs got in touch with his mother but seems she just shrugged and said, you never can tell with our Victor, says he'll probably drop by sometime over the holiday, but if the skiing's good, or something better turns up en route "At least you can check if he actually left the country. Can't you?"

"We can try. According to the couple who live in the next apartment, he was flying out of Heathrow on the twenty third. We had all the likely flights to France checked and sure enough, there was a Victor Montaigne booked to Gren.o.ble but he was a no-show. Trouble was, it turns out this plane was held up for five hours by engine trouble and there were quite a lot of no-shows, probably meaning people found out before they checked in that they were going to be hanging around forever, so shot off to find alternative routes."

"Such as?"

"Cancellations on other flights. The Chunnel. Ferries. Or maybe some of them just went home."

Joe considered this then said, "So you've had to check every other possibility to see if he really went."

"And to see if he slipped back in in case we do find out he really went. And of course, this time of year, on the ferries in particular, there's no real way of ever being sure whether he sailed out or sailed back in or anything!"

"A real problem," said Joe. "Anything else developing on the Potter case?"

He tried to make it sound like just another sympathetic-ear question but this time Doberley was on to him.

"Hey, Joe, I haven't come here to fill you in on current case business. I've probably said too much already. You want more, ask your friend, the super. Or better still, ask Sergeant Chivers!"

"You can just see me doing that, can't you?" said Joe. "You look like you could do with a drink. What's it to be?"

He returned a few moments later with a pint and a menu. The bar was getting busier by the minute but d.i.c.k Hull, the manager, could spot cops at fifty yards and made sure they were never kept waiting. "Quicker you serve 'em, sooner they drink up and p.i.s.s off," was his precept.

d.i.l.d.o sank half a pint in one draught and said, "That's better."

It always fascinated Joe that his speaking voice was light and rapid and indelibly stamped with the vowels and rhythms of Luton, while his singing voice was a fine ba.s.so prof undo which might have come straight from the depths of Russia.

He said, "Rev. Pot says there's a rumour LOS are after you for Emile de Becque in South Pacific."

LOS was the Light Operatic Society, whose approach to one of his choristers was in Rev. Pot's eyes like seeing a randy soldier climbing over the walls of a convent school.

"Yeah, I thought about it," said d.i.l.d.o. "They've got this bird I really fancy singing Nellie. Knockers on her like watermelons. But they're planning a whole week's run in the spring and there's no way I'm going to be able to manage that, not without taking leave."

Whereas the one or at most two performances of the oratorios the Boyling Corner Choir specialized in were more easily accommodated into aCID officer's schedule, particularly as the Chief Constable's wife was an aficionado of the genre in general and Rev. Pot's choir in particular.

"Well, Rev. Pot will be glad to hear that you decided the Elijah was more important," said Joe. "Aunt Mirabelle too."

Mild threat there. He let it register, then went on, That stuff I asked you, you manage anything there, d.i.l.d.o?"

"I did as a matter of fact," said the detective, downing the second half of his pint and placing the gla.s.s significantly in front of Joe. "And I'll have a Glitterburger and fries. To start with."

"Thirsty work, snouting," observed d.i.c.k Hull as he pulled another pint.