Blood Sympathy - Reginald Hill 4 стр.


You still here? said DCI Woodbine, coming out of the house with Chivers in close attendance.

Thats right, said Joe mildly. But I would like to go soon if I can. Ive got a meeting tonight, also my cats getting a bit hungry.

Four people dead and all he can think about is his cat, sneered Chivers.

You got something against cats, Sergeant? said Woodbine sharply. Ive got four Persians and I tell you this, I wouldnt dare keep them waiting for their dinner. So you push off, Mr Sixsmith, whenever youre ready.

He thinks its all wrapped up, thought Joe. And so it probably is. Witnesses, motive, and a suspect with an Italian accent and a Mafia moustache driving round in a car whose number will be plastered across the nations telly screens tonight.

Woodbine ordered the vehicles blocking his exit out of the way and personally waved him out. Joe almost blew a kiss at Chivers but didnt quite have the nerve.

There you are, Whitey, he said as he drove home. Theres no accounting for tastes. Even cops can love cats.

But Whitey was unimpressed. A deepdown racist, he regarded Persians and all foreign breeds as illegal immigrants, sneaking over here to take English mice out of English mouths. So now he merely sneered and yelled even louder for his tea.

CHAPTER 3

Whenever Joe Sixsmith felt the sharp elbows of Anglo-Saxon attitudes digging in his ribs, he reminded himself that these people had invented the fried breakfast.

He liked the fried breakfast. He liked it so much he often had it for tea too. And sometimes for his dinner.

Hed been warned that addiction to the fried breakfast could kill him.

There are worse things to die of, said Joe.

Whitey enjoyed the fried breakfast too, which was just as well.

No fads and fancies here, man, Joe had warned him on first acquaintance. Youve joined the only true democratic household in Luton. We eat the same, drink the same. Which principle was sorely tested the first time Whitey caught a mouse and pushed it invitingly towards him.

They shared half a pound of streaky bacon, three eggs, two tomatoes and a handful of button mushrooms when they got back from Casa Mia. Then they split a pint of hot sweet tea sixty-forty and Joe settled before his twenty-six-inch telly to let the early evening news scrape the last traces of the days horror from his personal plate into the public trough.

In fact there wasnt all that much about it. The politician and pony scandal still got main billing, and a crash landing on the A 505 came second. It was only a light plane and there were no fatalities, but a woman trying out her new camcorder had caught the whole drama in wobbly close-up and the resultant images must have been irresistible to the picture-popping TV mind.

If thered been a camera to record what Joe Sixsmith had seen, he didnt doubt that the Casa Mia killings would have been top of the pops, but they had to make do with exteriors and a close-up of Willy Woodbine confidently anticipating an early arrest and inviting viewers to look out for, but steer clear of, Carlo Rocca, who could help the police with their inquiries.

There was a photo of Rocca which looked like a fuzzy enlargement from a wedding group. Joe doubted if it would be all that much use except to anyone with a grudge against some fellow with a prominent moustache.

Now, sport, said the presenter. Luton have made a late change in the team for their key league match tonight

Sixsmith sighed and felt his season ticket burning in his wallet. Trust the Major to call a residents meeting on a night when Luton were playing at home. Thats what came of being brought up on rugger and polo. Thoughts of truancy drifted through his mind, then drifted out. The Major he could avoid, but not Auntie Mirabelle.

Still he had time for forty winks before he needed to think about going

He relaxed in his chair, closed his eyes and was back in Andovers dream. At least he tried to make himself think of it as Andovers dream (which meant he knew he was dreaming), only it had his own little variation of the corpses raising their hands to their mouths and screaming no, not screaming this time they were making an insistent bell-ringing noise ah, now they were screaming

He awoke to find Whitey bellowing in his ear that the phone was ringing and wasnt he going to answer it?

He yawned and reached for the receiver.

Hello, he said.

Joe, that you? demanded the unmistakable voice of his Aunt Mirabelle.

No, Auntie, its a burglar, said Sixsmith.

It wouldnt surprise me. You play with pitch, you going to get defiled, doesnt the Good Book tell us so?

Yes, Auntie. And youve rung to tell me not to forget Im due at the Residents Action meeting, right?

You so clever, how come you cant get a proper job? she said briskly. The Major says, make sure that nephew of yours shows up on parade. People are starting to think they cant rely on you, Joe, and thats bad.

People?

Yes, people. The Rev. Pot just the same. He says: Is that Joe singing in my choir or is he not? This is no public house singalong were trying to do, this is Haydns Creation. That took the Lord seven days, how many days you think its going to take you?

Ill come to choir practice tomorrow, I promise, Auntie. And Ill be at the meeting tonight.

See that you are. I got someone I want you to meet.

Joe groaned inwardly, said, Goodbye, Auntie, put the phone down, and groaned outwardly. He loved his aunt dearly but her efforts to direct his life were a trial, particularly since shed decided that what he needed to get his head right and drop this detective nonsense was the responsibility of marriage. A steam of candidates had been channelled his way, most of them extremely homely and slightly middle-aged. Mirabelle would sing Joes praises to anyone, but even a loving aunt reckons a short, balding, unemployed nephew in his late thirties cant be choosey. The odd ones who were comparatively young and attractive always turned out to have some hidden disadvantage, like a string of kids or convictions for violence.

Whitey, you look after the place. Anyone tries to get in, you bark like a dog.

The cat looked suitably disgusted by the suggestion and snuggled into the cushion made warm by Joes behind.

Sixsmith envied him as he stepped out into the shadowy canyons of the estate, specially constructed so that whereer you walked, cool gales fanned your butt. With designs like this, who needed nuclear energy? The meeting was in the community room in one of the newer blocks about half a mile away. Normally he would have walked, but there was rain in the wind so he made for his car.

There were no purpose-built garages at this end of the estate. Back in the sixties you werent expected to own a car if you lived here. There were a dozen lock-ups available in Lykers Yard, a relict of the old nineteenth-century settlement, most of which had been demolished to make way for the high rises. But these were privately owned and let out at rates almost equalling what the council asked for its flats. Joe valued his old Morris, but not that much. It was not a model greatly in demand by joyriders, so, theorizing that crooks didnt like a dead end, he usually left it parked on Lykers Lane facing into the exitless yard. So far it had survived unscathed.

On arrival at the community room, he hung around outside till he heard the Majors unmistakable voice calling the meeting to order. Then he slipped in quietly, hoping thus to avoid the threat of Auntie Mirabelles latest introduction. But there was no escape. Seventy-five she might be, overweight and somewhat rheumatic, but she had an eye like a hawk, and she patted a vacant seat next to her with an authority that would have intimidated a cat.

On her other side was a woman Joe didnt recognize, presumably Mirabelles latest candidate. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. She looked to be in her late twenties and had a strong, handsome face, which meant she was either a single parent or a psychopath. Suddenly, as if attracted by his appraisal, she glanced towards him and smiled. Flushing, he turned away and concentrated his attention on the Major who was introducing Sergeant Brightman.

Joe had mixed feelings about Major Sholto Tweedie. In many ways, with his cavalry officers bark, his hacking jacket, cravat and shooting stick, his habit of addressing anyone black in Bantu, and his simplified view of life as a chain of command, he was a comic caricature of a dying species. After a lifetime spent pursuing wild beasts and women between Capricorn and Cancer till Britain ran out of Empire and he ran out of money, hed headed home to die in poverty. Landing in Luton, hed presented himself to the Housing Department saying he understood they had a statutory duty to provide accommodation for anyone in need. A council official, irritated at being addressed imperiously by his surname, thought to get simultaneous revenge and riddance by offering the Major a one-bed flat in the darkest Rasselas block which was scheduled for demolition as soon as there was enough money available to hire the bulldozers.

It was a monumental tactical error. Instead of curling up or crawling away somewhere else to die, the Major, after sampling the conditions, exploded into life. He mounted an assault on the council, at first on his own behalf, but rapidly on behalf of the whole estate. This was not, Joe surmised, because the mans politics had been radicalized, but simply because as an old soldier he knew that a general was nothing without troops.

The council had been gingered into doing repairs, improving the lighting and providing this community room, and the residents had been inspired to united resistance against graffiti, vandalism and general criminality.

You couldnt argue with the results. Sergeant Brightman was reciting statistics to show the continuing decline on Rasselas of break-ins, car thefts, drug-dealing, etcetera. Indeed, by comparison with Hermsprong, its twin estate across the canal, he made Rasselas sound like Utopia.

On the other hand, thought Joe cynically, by comparison with Hermsprong, Sodom and Gomorrah probably came across like Frinton-on-Sea. Nor did he much like the sound of the Majors latest scheme to organize security patrols to deal with offences like wall-spraying and peeing on the stairs. Tweedie referred to residents platoons but they still sounded like vigilantes to Sixsmith, and to Brightman too, who was trying to steer a delicate path between applauding the Majors leadership and warning him that private armies were against the law.

A watching brief is all theyd have, Tweedie cut across the policemans diplomacy. No harm in that, eh? Call the boys in blue first sign of trouble. Now heres what I propose. Battalion HQ, for general surveillance and overall control, myself, Sally Firbright, Mr Holmes and Mirabelle Valentine

He then ran through a list of sub-groups (which he called sections), pausing for comment after each area of responsibility and list of names. No one offered either query or objection. Hes got them scared witless, thought Joe with cynical superiority till he heard the Major say, South-Eastern Sector to take in Bog Lane underpass and the Lykers Yard lock-ups, section leader, Joe Sixsmith; assisted by Mr Poulson and Beryl Boddington

Joe started angrily in his seat but Auntie Mirabelles fingers were round his wrist and she murmured, Congratulations, Joseph, as she gave him a smile and a squeeze which defied him to make a fuss.

Everyone happy? concluded the Major. Good. Section leaders, therell be a bit of bumph coming your way. Watch out for it. Thank you, everyone. Dismiss.

Sixsmith shot up like a man who is late for an urgent appointment, but Mirabelles wrist lock was still in place.

This your idea, Auntie? he said accusingly.

I put in a word, she admitted. But no need to thank me. I thought, with you so keen to do the policemens work for them, this is a good way to get it out of your system. Howre you keeping anyway, Joseph? You look pretty peaky to me. Scruffy too. If your poor dead mother could see you now, the shock would probably kill her. You need someone to take care of you.

Determined to head off this line of attack, Joe said, Mr Poulson I know. Isnt he waiting for his Zimmer? Some vigilante. But whos this Beryl Boddleton?

Boddington, said Mirabelle, with a broad smile which warned Joe too late of the trap that she had laid for him. You want to meet her? Why, here she is. Beryl, this heres my nephew Joseph Ive told you about. Also your section leader. Joseph, meet your new neighbour and team colleague, Beryl Boddington. Just moved into my block. Beryls a nurse at the Infirmary. Good job, regular money, career prospects, more than can be said for some people who should know better!

The woman held out her hand. Beneath her coat Joe could see a nurses uniform clinging to a sturdy but shapely body. She smiled as he shook her hand. Two smiles without saying a word; I bet shes been coached to show off her teeth, thought Joe unkindly.

Pleased to meet you, Joseph, she said.

Joe, he said, instantly regretting this tiny invitation to intimacy.

Joe, she echoed, smiling again. She did have very nice teeth.

You two will need to talk about your team tactics, said Mirabelle.

Joes mind instantly started lumbering towards excuses for doing no such thing, but Beryl Boddington was ahead of him.

Sorry, not now, she said as if he were pressing her. Ive got to be on duty in twenty minutes.

Josephs got a car, he can give you a lift, aint that right, Joseph?

To Sixsmiths jaundiced ear this sounded like a well-rehearsed exchange in a second-rate soap.

He said brusquely, Sorry, but I got trouble with my carburettor. Im just heading back to fix it.

The nurse said indifferently, Thats OK. Ill get the bus. See you, Mirabelle.

Dont forget the choir practice, said Mirabelle. Rev. Pots desperate for sopranos.

Ill see. But with shifts, its not easy. Bye now.

The nurse turned and left.

Mirabelle said, Joseph, why are you so rude?

Sixsmith might have felt a little guilty if it hadnt been for the revelation that his aunt was mounting a second front at the choir.

He said, Dont know what you mean, Auntie. Excuse me. I need to talk to Sergeant Brightman.

The Sergeant greeted him accusingly.

Joe, thats a real hornets nest you stirred up. Youve got everyone running around like mad downtown.

Hey, Sarge, I didnt kill them, protested Sixsmith. Hows it going? They got this Rocca yet?

Give us time, Joe. Its only you PIs in books that get instant results. Real police work takes a bit longer. Isnt that right, Mirabelle?

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