Old banger! he yelled up at the blank-eyed building. Now this is an old banger. You lawyers cant tell tit from tat!
His anger took him down to the Glit, the famous Luton pub dedicated to the living legend of Gary Glitter, superstar, where he poured Guinness down his gullet and his woes into the ear of Merv Golightly. Merv, old workmate, fellow redundant, and reconstructed taxi driver, said, Yeah, yeah, in tones of sepulchral sympathy at all the right moments, but his body language, which was as articulate as his six and a half foot length, seemed to have a different script.
So what you been up to thats so interesting, Merv? said Joe, slightly hurt to find he was boring his friend. Hows the publicity campaign? I aint been swamped by enquiries yet.
It was a pretty mild retaliatory gibe, but it seemed to hit the button. Mervs face screwed up in a rictus of anticipated pain and he said, Well, yeah, something to tell you there, Joe.
Hey, Joe, howre you doing? You look tired, doesnt he look tired, guys?
Well, he would be, wouldnt he? All that hard work hes been doing, but he loves his work, dont you, Joe?
Yeah, night and day he stays on the job. Night and day!
The enigmatic greetings from a group of regulars whod just come in set the whole bar laughing. Joe grinned too and waved his glass, though he couldnt for the life of him see what was so funny.
About the hand-outs, said Merv.
Merv regarded himself as a kind of sleeping partner in Joes PI business, and as he was Joes oldest friend, and as he had sometimes been positively helpful and as he didnt want pay, Joe was happy to go along with this.
Just before Christmas Joe had been bewailing the slowness of business and Merv, a man of sudden enthusiasms, had said, Yeah, its all this goodwill but that wont last. Holiday over and its back to basics. You want to be ready, Joe. You want to be sure your name comes up first when folks find they need a gumshoe. You want to advertise!
Great, said Joe. Ill take a ten-minute spot in the middle of The Bill.
Start small, build big, said Merv. Printed hand-outs are the thing.
Couldnt afford more than three, handwritten, said Joe.
No sweat. I got this friend, Molly, whose daughter works with some printing firm
You going out with a woman old enough to have a working daughter? interrupted Joe mockingly. Youll be into grannies next.
She was a child bride, retorted Merv. Anyway, Ive been checking out the cost of putting out fliers advertising the cab, and Molly says Dorrie thats the daughter can get these hand-outs done real pro standard, cost next to nothing, materials only. And I got to thinking, sheet of papers got two sides, why not let my friend Joe in on this unique marketing opportunity? Ten quid your share, call it fifteen for cash. What do you say?
I say, what about distribution? said Joe, interested despite himself.
I go all over in my cab. Few here, few there, push em through letter boxes, pin em on walls, wordll spread like smallpox. Lets work out the wording. Direct message, thats the name of the game.
The direct message hed come up with was:
IN TROUBLE? NEED HELP?
JOE SIXSMITHS THE MAN
ON THE JOB NIGHT AND DAY
NOTHING TOO SMALL OR TOO BIG
FOR THE JOE SIXSMITH TOUCH.
GOT TROUBLE?
GET SIXSMITH!
Ring, write or call:
SIXSMITH INVESTIGATIONS INC
Top Floor, Peck House, Robespierre Place
(Tel: 28296371)
Couldnt do any harm, thought Joe. Also, he was touched to see Merv so enthusiastic, motivated by nothing more than friendship. So hed agreed.
Why was he suddenly wishing he hadnt?
Whats wrong, Merv? he asked.
Nothing. Well, not much. In fact youd hardly notice it.
He dug in his pocket and produced a pale-pink hand-out. Hed been lying. Joe noticed it at once. In fact, it leapt from the page and hit you in the eye.
Every time the name SIXSMITH occurred it was spelled SEXWITH.
It was Dorries fault, thats Mollys daughter, said Merv defensively. She must have misread it from my script and it seems shes a bit dyspeptic
You gave her the thing handwritten? said Joe incredulously. Shoot, Merv, you know your scrawl makes prescriptions look like road signs. And dont you mean dyslexic?
That too. And she shouldve checked, protested Merv.
Yeah, yeah, I bet you made sure she got your name right, said Joe, turning the sheet over to look at the advert for Mervs FAB CAB with his home and mobile numbers. So tell me the bad news. How many copies of this foul-up did you distribute?
Hardly any. And soon as I spotted it I started collecting them back in. Honestly, Joe, if half a dozen people saw it, thats the limit.
Hey, Merv, watch him or hell be giving you that special touch, said Dick Hull, the Glits owner, as he arrived behind the bar.
Yeah, half a dozen, and they all just happen to be in here, said Joe.
Pay them no heed. Joe, I really have been pulling these things back in and sticking them on the fire. Wont be any left very soon, I promise you.
He sounded so genuinely contrite, Joe found his anger ebbing. Confessions all right for Catholics, said Aunt Mirabelle. Its putting things right that saves your soul.
His mollification was completed when Merv offered to refund him the fifteen quid hed contributed to expenses.
Thats OK, it was a good idea, he said. But in future Ill stick to word of mouth. And lets not leave any of these things lying around, OK?
He picked up the hand-out lying on the bar, thrust it into his pocket, finished his drink and left the bar. This had not turned out to be one of his better days. Best thing to do was pick up Whitey from Mirabelles then head for home and see if he could find an old feel-good movie on the box to restore his faith in a benevolent deity. Failing that, he could carry on improving himself professionally by reading Beryl Boddingtons Christmas present. Not So Private Eye, the life story of Endo Venera, the famous Mafia soldier turned gumshoe, as told to some Pulitzer-winning journalist. Beryls purpose had, he guessed, been satirical, but Joe was finding the book fascinating and full of pointers.
He took a deep breath of the cold night air. Promised to be a hard frost. Which reminded him he hadnt closed his office window when he rushed out in his foolish eagerness to get legal advice. Like a man with piles sitting on a red-hot stove for relief. Best head back there to shut it. Way things were working out today, someone would be up the drainpipe and in through the window to help himself to the electric kettle and the answer machine. Probably had been already.
But no, they were both still there, with the machine registering that one call Four Golden Rings fat chance!
It was a womans voice. Young, nicely spoken, probably black, but with so much cross-dressing these days, it was hard to say. Kids picked their accents like they picked their clothes, to fit the fashion.
She said, Hi, Mr Sixsmith. Like to see you sometime, have to talk about a problem I got. Look, Ill pass this way early tomorrow, look in just on the off chance. But before nine. If not, Ill ring again. OK? By the way, the names Jones. Miss Jones. OK?
She said, Hi, Mr Sixsmith. Like to see you sometime, have to talk about a problem I got. Look, Ill pass this way early tomorrow, look in just on the off chance. But before nine. If not, Ill ring again. OK? By the way, the names Jones. Miss Jones. OK?
Way she said Jones had a bit of a giggle in it. Could this be a wind-up by one of the Glit jokers? He played it again, listened carefully. No, definitely Sixsmith not Sexwith. So where was the joke? Get him into the office before nine? Ha ha, really funny.
The phone rang. He grabbed it but didnt say anything. If this was some joker, let them make the first move.
Sixsmith, is that you?
The voice was female but this time he recognized it.
Butcher, is that you? he echoed.
She wasnt in the mood for joking. Her voice was urgent.
Listen, you went to see Peter Potter, did you?
Thats right, he said, his sense of grievance welling up. And hes a lot further gone than you imagine.
What do you mean?
She sounded alarmed.
You just got him down as a self-seeking fascist, if I remember you right. Id say he was an A1 dickhead with all the charm and good manners of a wire worm!
You didnt get on?
No, we didnt.
So what happened?
What happened? He told me Id got no case and should think myself lucky to be getting one twenty-five. I told him he should think himself lucky still to be chewing on a full set of teeth.
Sixsmith, you didnt?
No, Im just being macho after the event, he confessed. Why? Has he been complaining? What does he say I said?
Nothing. What happened then?
Well, I left, didnt I? Nothing more to be said and he looked the type who was capable of billing me by the millisec.
And he was all right when you left?
Yes, of course, he was fine Butcher whats going on?
Listen, Joe, Ive just had the police here. They came to ask if Id sent a small balding black man round to see Potter. I said I needed to know why they were asking before I answered. They said that Potter had been attacked in his office and they needed the said small balding black man to help with enquiries.
What? Shoot, Butcher, this is crazy. All they got to do is ask Potter. Hell tell them I never laid a hand on him.
They cant do that, Joe. Hes dead. Pete Potters dead.
Joe sat and looked at the phone as if hoping it would burst into laughter and tell him it was OK, this was just the new British Telecom dial-a-joke service.
He could hear footsteps running up the stairs.
Joe, Im sorry, I had to give them your name. Theyll be round to see you any minute
The door burst open and three uniformed policemen spilled into the room.
With you in a moment, gents, said Joe Sixsmith. Butcher, I think I need a lawyer.
3
The policemen of Luton have a tradition of liberal thought running back to the Middle Ages when the sheriffs charge to the constables of the watch contained the clause, Nor shall it be taken as mitigation of rudely laying thy hands on a citizen and breaking his head, to say that thou mistook him for a Son of Harpenden. But against such as are known by certain signs to be Sons of Harpenden, whose depravations and depredations are notorious amongst sober Christian folk, then lay on amain!
Joe in his teens had got himself classed as a Son of Harpenden by wilfully provoking the police in three respects: one, by being young; two, by being black; three, by being working class.
As the passing years gradually diluted the first of these provocations, Joe found the police magnanimously tolerant of his steadfast refusal to do anything about the other two, and eventually, safely pinned down as an industrial wage-slave, he looked set to pass the remainder of his life in that state of armed truce which a Martian on a day trip to England could mistake for integration.
Then he had turned PI.
This to some cops was a provocation stronger even than youth.
And to make matters worse, Joe had the gift of the truly innocent of stumbling into situations which, like a bishop in a bathhouse, required some explanation.
Fortunately his matching serendipity had enabled him to come up with a couple of results which Detective Superintendent Woodbine had managed to transfer to his own record sheet. Therefore it was with reasonable equanimity that Joe accepted the beat boys kind invitation to come down to the station and help with enquiries.
Nor did his heart sink more than a couple of ribs when the interview-room door opened and Detective Sergeant Chivers came in. Chivers was not a fan.
He was not so far gone in his dislike that hed frame Joe, but he didnt bother to hide his pleasure at finding him already in the frame.
Joe said, Hi, Sarge. Nice to see you.
You reckon?
Well, I know it cant be all that serious, said Joe confidently. Else Willie would be turning the handle himself.
The familiar reference to Superintendent Woodbine was by way of reminder to the sergeant that he was handling delicate goods, but Chivers looked unfazed.
Supers sunning himself in Morocco for a week, thought youd have known that, being such chums, he sneered.
Joes heart dropped like an overripe plum and lay exposed, waiting to be trodden on.
And the DCI? he asked.
In bed with flu. And the DIs got himself snowbound up a Cairngorm. So that leaves nobody in the place but you and me, Joe.
I know the song. Maybe I should wait for my brief, said Joe.
You want to be banged up till morning thats your privilege, said Chivers.
Shoot, thought Joe. One of the uniforms mustve earwigged his conversation with Butcher; not hard, as Joes indignation had made him echo much of what the little lawyer had said.
Tomorrow morning! he yelled. You cant do anything till tomorrow morning? Butcher, were not talking car-insurance claims any more.
I know, Joe, and Im sorry. But theres this dinner in Cambridge, and Im the main speaker, and Im planning to stay over
Oh well, if youre planning to stay over, dont you worry yourself about me! said Joe.
Hopefully, you havent done anything to worry about, said Butcher. Just tell Woodbine the truth. He knows which side his breads buttered on. Youll probably be in bed before I am.
Not from what I hear about them dirty dons, said Joe.
Dont get cheeky. Ill call you soon as I can, OK?
I get it. Dont ring us, well ring you. What happened to kill the other lawyers, then call us?
Not the cleverest of things to say. And hed already said it, or something like it, earlier this evening, as he was soon to be reminded.
Nose looks sore, Joe, said Chivers sympathetically. Joe didnt like it. Cops were like hospital nurses. The more helpless you were, the sooner they started treating you like you were five and backward.
Its fine, said Joe, though his nose was twingeing like it knew it was being talked about. Listen, is it true Potters dead?