It was this capacity for making friends in unlikely places that had got her elected as one of Joes operatives. Casting around for ways of discovering whether in fact there was any official interest in Galina Hackers granddad, hed recalled Butchers wet Wykehamist. This was a Tory MP whod been damp enough to be sacked from a junior ministerial post under Thatcher and too intelligent to be offered another under Major. Even with these pluses, it was still difficult to see the common ground on which he and Butcher (who dated the new Dark Ages from 1979) might meet. But meet they did from time to time, and out of Government didnt mean that Piers (Piers!) was out of touch.
Joe had mentioned his problem. Butcher had said she would be going to town in a couple of days and might bump into Piers and if so she might mention Joes problem too. For a consideration.
What consideration? Joe had asked.
Well consider that when we see what I get from Piers, Butcher had replied.
Now Joe sat down to wait till Butcher was free, but the door to her office opened almost immediately.
Thought I recognized that grainy grunt, said the woman who appeared in the doorway. For once your timings perfect. Step inside. Someone I want you to meet.
Oh yes. Whos that?
Your consideration, said Butcher with a wicked grin.
Joe didnt like the sound of this. Hed been hoping Piers would have drawn a blank, which would have been good news for Gallie and also kept him out of Butchers debt. Nevertheless he rose, trying to look like a man without a care in the world. One good thing (one of many good things) about Butcher was she was small enough for even a short man to loom over, a rare pleasure in a country which free antenatal care seemed to have peopled with giantesses. Perhaps this was the secret agenda of the Tories anti-health service policies no woman allowed to be taller than Queen Victoria. It would certainly get the short PI vote!
In the office, piled high with the files which resulted from working a twenty-hour day and brumous from the strong cheroots Butcher used as a substitute for sleep, sat a girl, fourteen or fifteen, shoulder-length dark brown hair, tall (another giantess in the making!) with a sallow complexion and dark suspicious eyes. She was wearing the combination of grey skirt and blue blouse which was as close as they got to uniform at Grandison Comp, and a book-stuffed sports bag at her feet suggested she was on her way there now. Or rather out of her way, as Grandison lay on the far side of town.
Mavis, this is Joe Sixsmith I was telling you about, said Butcher.
Hello, said Joe.
The girl didnt reply but looked him up and down dubiously.
Doesnt look much like a private detective to me, she said.
Would he be much good if he did? wondered Butcher.
The girl considered Butchers logic then said, Sorry. Im dead stupid till morning break.
So what do you reckon?
What?
Do you think hell do?
Well, if you recommend him and theres nothing else on offer
Joe said, Hey, wasnt there some guy you told me about called Wilberforce or something got slavery off the statutes a few years back?
Sorry, Joe, but you put yourself in the marketplace, youve got to expect punters want to handle the goods. OK, Mavis, why dont you tell Mr Sixsmith your problem?
Joe looked expectantly at the girl who said, Well, its not really my problem, its this friend of mine, well, she was a friend, Sally Eaglesfield look, this is really embarrassing.
Im not embarrassed, said Butcher kindly. You embarrassed, Joe?
Not yet, he said.
Well, I am, said the girl spiritedly. Cant you tell him? Hell probably pay more attention to you. Besides, Ive got to scoot else Ill miss assembly. See you.
She was gone, moving with the awkward grace of a young deer.
So what is her problem? asked Joe.
You heard her. Not hers. Her best friends.
In my experience, when folk come to me weighed down with their friends problems, its usually just a way of telling me their own.
Thats quite sharp for you, Sixsmith, said Butcher. But in this case, youre wrong. Only problem Mavis has got is shes fallen out with her best friend.
Happens all the time, tell her to get a new best friend.
Suddenly youre an expert on adolescence too, mocked Butcher.
When I was a kid, we were too poor to have adolescence, retorted Joe who found Butchers company provoked him to PI wise-crackery. So whos she blaming?
Sharp, complimented Butcher. Theres a teacher at Grandison, invites kids home to little soirees, you know, listen to a few discs, drink coffee, talk about the world. An elite little group.
To which the friend got invited, Mavis didnt, so shes crying foul? guessed Joe.
Mavis, despite her name, is not musical. Sally plays the clarinet. Shes good enough to play in the South Beds Sinfonia, as does the teacher. Another bond.
Joe tried to conjure up a picture of the Sinfonias clarinettists without luck. Choristers didnt pay much heed to instrumentalists so long as they didnt get above themselves and drown the singing. Not much chance of that with the Boyling Corner Choir. Even the famous Glitterband would have found it hard to compete.
So whats Mavis saying?
She reckons theres something going on at these soirees.
Sex, you mean?
Je-sus! The man with the tumescent mind. Yes, possibly, but not uniquely. Not even necessarily physically, though we should never discount that possibility. Theres all kinds of corruption, Sixsmith
No, hold on! said Joe. These are allegations from one teenage girl about something that may be happening to another
Im no teenage girl, said Butcher sharply. And I think there may be cause for concern here.
Yes, OK, said Joe, unhappily acknowledging that if Butcher was worried, there might be something in it. How come you got in the act anyway? Who is this kid?
Glad to see you show some curiosity about your client at last, said Butcher. Mavis Dalgety, younger child of Maude and Andrew Dalgety of 25 Sumpter Row, Luton. Her brother Chris is doing law in London. During the vac he helps out sometimes in the Centre, and Mavis would tag along, so we got acquainted. She was hanging around here this morning when I arrived. Said it was an accident, just passing, but I could see there was something wrong. Besides, you dont just pass Bullpat Square on your way to Grandison.
Still dont sound the kind of thing you go running to a lawyer with, said Joe.
I think all she wanted was a sympathetic female ear, said Butcher. Look at the alternatives. Parents? Teenage kids do not confide in their parents. The school? Theyd close ranks faster than the Brigade of Guards. So what does that leave?
The police? suggested Joe.
Butcher gave a savage laugh.
Oh no. Definitely not the police. No way!
Even for Butcher, who thought of the police as funnel-web spiders to keep down the flies, this was a bit vehement.
So where do I come in? he asked.
Through that door with perfect timing. I cant help this kid, Sixsmith. I can give her advice, but the practical side of investigating this thing I dont have the training for and I dont have the time for. I tell her this. And Im also telling her that I do happen to know this PI who owes me a big favour. And at that very moment I heard your dulcet tones on the morning air. Bit like St Joan hearing the bells.
I think all she wanted was a sympathetic female ear, said Butcher. Look at the alternatives. Parents? Teenage kids do not confide in their parents. The school? Theyd close ranks faster than the Brigade of Guards. So what does that leave?
The police? suggested Joe.
Butcher gave a savage laugh.
Oh no. Definitely not the police. No way!
Even for Butcher, who thought of the police as funnel-web spiders to keep down the flies, this was a bit vehement.
So where do I come in? he asked.
Through that door with perfect timing. I cant help this kid, Sixsmith. I can give her advice, but the practical side of investigating this thing I dont have the training for and I dont have the time for. I tell her this. And Im also telling her that I do happen to know this PI who owes me a big favour. And at that very moment I heard your dulcet tones on the morning air. Bit like St Joan hearing the bells.
She the one got barbecued? said Joe hopefully. Listen, Butcher, before we go any further, lets just establish how big this favour is. Do I gather you got something from good old Piers? I mean something more than a very good time. Looks to me like youve come straight from the station.
His detective sensors might not be state-of-the-art, but hed registered that instead of her normal working uniform of jeans and T-shirt, Butcher was wearing a nifty green and orange dress which clung above, and stopped not much short of Gallie Hackers plimsoll line below. Just the job for a cosy supper with a wet Wykehamist.
She lit one of her foul cheroots, perhaps to hide a blush, and said, Sixsmith, with those attitudes, Ill get Piers to put you up for the Carlton.
As a target, you mean, said Joe. OK. So lets have the pillow talk.
You be careful, she said. OK. Here it is. This war criminals in Britain thing has been rumbling on for years now. Since way back when, a combined task force from the Home Office whove got the records and the Yard whove got the investigatory know-how, has been digging deep to see if in fact there is anyone living here it would be safe to prosecute. Opinion both in and outside the House is divided between those who think that no prosecution could be safe, either legally or ethnically, and those who think the bastards should be pursued to the ends of the earth or their lives, whichever comes first.
How do you feel? asked Joe.
Lets save that for sometime when Ive got some time, she said. For the moment, as one of your great predecessors said, just the facts, Joe, just the facts. Of course, as this is an official government enquiry and highly classified, its got more leaks than a Liberian tanker. It seems theyve got it down to three main groups. First is a handful of highly probables. Second is a larger number of pretty possibles, and the third is a still larger group of could-be-worth-a-closer-looks.
And Taras Kovalkos on one of these lists? said Joe unhappily. Which one?
Just the third, said Butcher. It should have sounded more reassuring than it did.
And its definitely him?
Pierss informant says theres a Manchester address crossed out with a note, moved to Luton area.
Cant be very important if they dont have the exact address, said Joe.
Dont fool yourself. Therell be a file with the Hackers address in it somewhere.
A file? Hey, that makes it sound real heavy. Surely no ones that bothered about this third list?
Youre right, thats what Piers says. But he also says if someone official has decided to take a closer look at your Mr Kovalko, that bumps him right up out of list three into list two at the least. Sorry, Joe. And thats all Piers was able to get with a couple of phone calls. Any more will be word of mouth in the Turkish baths stuff. So, have we got a deal?
I suppose so, said Joe in a depressed voice. I mean, yes, of course we have. I make a bargain, I stick to it. Dont know how Im going to set about it but Ill try to take a look at this randy schoolmaster of yours.
Ah, said Butcher. Didnt I say? Not a schoolmaster exactly.
It took Joe a moment to register this.
You mean, a lady teacher? he said aghast. But women dont do things like that!
Butcher sighed and said, Id need notice of that remark to decide if its sexist or not. Listen, Joe. Dont be deceived. Anything a man can do, a woman can be cleverer at, and this Georgina Woodbine is a real operator. Couple of years back there was a Grandison girl, Eileen Montgomery, fell off an edge during a school expedition to the Peak District. There were rumours of emotional upset, suicide attempt, and so on, but the teacher in charge, deputy head Georgie Woodbine, came out squeaky clean. So take care. Its the same in a comp as in any business. You dont get to the top without knowing how to cover your tracks with other peoples careers.
But only one word of all this was really registering with Joe.
Woodbine? he said. You keep on saying Woodbine. Nothing to do with
He didnt even like to voice the idea. But Butcher had no such qualms.
Oh yes, she said cheerfully. Georgina Woodbine, dearly beloved wife of Detective Chief Inspector, no, I beg his pardon, Superintendent Willie Woodbine. Didnt I mention it? Sorry, Joe. It must have slipped my mind.
5
Luton on a bright autumn morning, with the impartial sun gilding the tower of St Monkeys, the dome of the Sikh temple, and the Clint Eastwood inflatable above Dirty Harrys, was not a bad place to be, but Joe felt little of his customary filial pride as he drove to the office.
Whitey, he said, there has to be something better than investigating things I dont want to investigate for clients who aint going to pay. What say we run away to sea?
The cat sleeping on the passenger seat opened the eye in the white eye patch which, luckily or unluckily depending where you got your hangups, stopped him from being completely black, and fixed Joe with a gaze which said, youre on your own, sailor!
Maybe I set my sights too high, thought Joe. Maybe if I devoted myself to begging packets of cheese and onion crisps and ashtrays full of beer down the Glit, Id be happy too.
Whitey yawned widely. The message was clear. You dont have the talent for it. Stick to what you know.
A little while later they arrived at the office which was housed in the kind of building where small businesses went to die.
Joe picked up his mail. It was junk except for Pius Thoughts, the journal of PIU, the Private Investigators Union. Ignoring the tiny lift which Whitey, who valued his skin above rubies, refused to enter, he laboured upstairs after the cat. In the office, he went through the ritual of checking his answerphone and his desk diary. No calls, no appointments. He wrote Galina Hacker 12.30 in the diary. It looked better, but he preferred the blank page.
Next he filled his kettle in the tiny washroom, plugged it into the skirting board socket and nudged it on with his foot. While it boiled he improved the shining hour by cleaning out Whiteys litter tray, a job too long postponed. The cat watched with the idle interest of a man in a bus queue watching a navvy dig a hole. Then, when Joe had finished, he stepped daintily on to the pristine litter and crapped copiously.