REGINALD HILL
BLOOD SYMPATHY
A Joe Sixsmith novel
COPYRIGHT
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublisher 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1993
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1993
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007334865
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780007389155
Version: 2015-07-27
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Authors Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Keep Reading
About Reginald Hill
By Reginald Hill
About the Publisher
AUTHORS NOTE
This book is set in a town called Luton in Bedfordshire. This should not be confused with the town called Luton in Bedfordshire, which the author has never been nearer to than the airport. Therefore any coincidence of layout, nomenclature, or character, is simply that a coincidence.
CHAPTER 1
The man came in without knocking.
He was in his mid-thirties with gingerish hair and matching freckles. He wore a chain store suit that didnt quite fit and an agitated expression that did.
He said, I want to talk about killing my wife.
Joe Sixsmith removed his feet from his desk. It wasnt a pose a man of his size found very comfortable and he only put them there when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Clients expected to find private eyes with their feet on their desks, and as a short, black, balding, redundant lathe-operator was likely to disappoint most of their other expectations, it seemed only fair to satisfy them in this.
On the other hand, customer satisfaction could be a liability when the customer was confessing murder.
If that was what he was doing. Could be he was merely looking for a hit-man. Time for the subtle questioning.
Pardon? said Sixsmith.
And her sister, Maria. Shes there too.
There? Wheres there?
At the tea-table, said the man impatiently.
Dead? said Sixsmith, who liked things spelled out.
Of course. Arent you listening? Theyre all dead.
Sixsmith thought: All? and looked for a weapon. There was a Present-from-Paignton paperknife in the desk tidy. Casually he reached for it, felt the mans eyes burning into his hand, and plucked out a ballpoint instead.
He said, All?
He could be really subtle when he wanted.
Yes. My parents-in-law too. Mr and Mrs Tomassetti.
Could you spell that? said Joe, feeling a need to justify the pen.
Two ss, two ts. My sister-in-law is Maria Rocca. Two cs. Is all this necessary?
Bear with me, said Joe, scribbling. The pen wasnt working so all he got were indentations, but at least it was activity which gave him space to think of something intelligent to say.
He said, Is that it? I mean, are there any more? Dead, I mean?
Are you trying to be funny.
No, not at all. Hey, man, Im just doing my job. I need the details, Mr ?
The man slid his hand inside his jacket. Joe pushed his chair back till it hit the wall. The hand emerged with a card which he dropped on to the desk. Joe picked it up, then put it down again as it was easier to read out of his trembling fingers. It told him he was talking to Stephen Andover, Southern Area sales manager of Falcon Assurance with offices on Dartle Street.
Suddenly Joes mental darkness was lit by suspicion.
He said, Mr Andover, youre not by any chance trying to sell me insurance?
The light went out immediately as the mans freckles vanished in a flush of anger and he thundered. Youre not taking me seriously, are you?
Oh yes, I surely am, believe me, reassured Joe. I just had to be sure Listen, Mr Andover, youve been straight with me, so the least I can do The thing is, Im in the business of solving crimes, not hearing confessions. You see theres no profit in it, not unless youre a priest, or a cop maybe, and Ive got to make a living, you can see that
But Andover wasnt listening.
This was a stupid idea, he said bitterly. I picked you specially, I thought being a primitive you might understand, but Ill know better next time. God, you people make me sick!
He left the room as precipitately as hed entered it.
Emboldened by the sound of his steps clattering down the stairs, Sixsmith called, Hey, us people aint no primitive, friend. Us people was born in Luton. And you can shut up too!
This last injunction was to a black cat with a white eyepatch which had raised its head from a desk drawer to howl in sleepy protest at all this din. He clearly didnt care to be spoken to in this way, but as a huffy exit would take him away from his nice warm refuge, he decided not to take offence, washed his paws as if nothing had happened and went back to sleep.
It seemed a good example to follow but Joe Sixsmith suffered from a civil conscience and in the remote contingency that Andover really had chainsawed his family, someone ought to be told.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
He asked for Detective-Sergeant Chivers, but as usual they put him through to Sergeant Brightman. Brightman was the Community Relations Officer and Joe got on well enough with him, except that he didnt take his detective ambitions seriously. Worse, hed met Joes Auntie Mirabelle at a Rasselas Estate Residents meeting and theyd formed an alliance to persuade Joe back into honest unemployment. Sixsmith suspected Mirabelle had persuaded Brightman to put an intercept on his phone.
Joe, howre you doing? What can we do for you?
You can put me through to Chivers.
You sure? Youre not the flavour of the month there, I gather.
More like smell of the decade. Whenever their paths crossed, Chivers usually stubbed his toe on a boulder. But at least this meant he took Sixsmith seriously.
Please, said Joe.
Its your funeral. See you at the meeting tonight?
Joes heart sank.
You going to be there?
Thats right. The Major asked me along to report on the latest statistics. Good news, Joe. You seem to be getting it right on Rasselas. Wish we could say the same for Hermsprong. But I think wed need to torch it and start again. See you later. Hang on.
A few moments later Joe heard the unenthusiastic grunt with which DS Chivers greeted criminals, his wife, and private eyes.
At least the story Sixsmith had to tell provoked a more positive response.
You what? said Chivers incredulously.
Thats what the man said, replied Joe defensively. Look, OK, so its probably fantasy island, but Ive got to tell someone, right?
Havent you got a pen pal you could write to? said Chivers. All right, whats the address? You did get an address?
Of course, said Joe with professional indignation and crossed fingers as he searched for Andovers card. He found it and saw with relief that it did give a private address in small print.
Casa Mia, he read carefully. 21 Coningsby Rise.
Coningsby Rise? Very posh. I got a feeling youre wasting my time, Sixsmith. As usual.
Hey, posh people commit crimes too, protested Sixsmith.
But the phone was dead and with a sign of relief, Sixsmith returned his attention to the pressing problem hed been dealing with when Andover arrived.
It was The Times Crossword.
Hed started doing it recently to impress the better class of customer, but hed rapidly realized he had no talent for the task. Other peoples clues baffled him. Reluctant to abandon what seemed like a clever ploy, hed started filling in words of his own choice, then working out clues to fit them. This way he always looked close to completion, though actually finishing one had so far proved beyond his scope. The trouble was that in reverse of the normal process, his method meant the more you filled in the harder it got. He invariably ended up with at least one non-word. Todays was sbhahk. It could mean something to an Eskimo, he supposed, but to an underemployed PI it was just another small failure.
He glanced at his watch. Four oclock. Too early to go home. There could be a late rush, though he doubted it. Things were very slow. In the last recession it had been the kind of people who hired lathe-operators who got hit. This time, it was the kind of people who hired private eyes.
Time for a cup of tea, he decided. He went into the small washroom which allowed the estate agent to charge him for a suite and filled his electric kettle.
As he re-entered the office he saw the briefcase.
It was black leather with brass locks and it was leaning against the chair Andover had sat on.
Oh shoot, said Joe Sixsmith.
He stooped to pick it up, then hesitated.
Suppose it was a terrorist bomb?
Why would anyone want to bomb me? he asked the air. I dont tell Irish jokes and I try not to be rude about other folkss religions.
Whitey raised his head cautiously from his drawer, twitched his ears, then subsided.
Sixsmith got the message. Nuts left bombs without motives, and whichsoever way you looked at it, Andover was undoubtedly a nut.
So what to do? His mind ran through the possibilities.
Ring the police, who would clear the building and the block while they waited for the Bomb Squad. He imagined the scene. Dr Who type robots clanking across the floor. Stern-faced men in flak jackets talking into radios. Long queues of traffic, and anxious, curious, aroused faces peering from behind barriers to glimpse what was going on.
Then the anticlimax when an officer appeared with the briefcase in one hand and a bunch of insurance invoices in the other.
To hell with that!
Gingerly Joe reached out towards the case, paused, telling himself it was better to look stupid alive than stupid dead, reversed the proposition and reached out again, paused again with his hand almost touching the locking catch, drew in a deep breath
And shrieked as a voice said, Ah, youve found my case, then.
In the doorway stood Andover. He looked neither like a terrorist nor a lunatic. In fact if anything he looked rather sheepish. But Joe was still taking no chances and retreated hurriedly behind his desk.