Not yet, said Joe. But theres a man called Bannerjee in a fair way to being screwed.
He explained. There was a long silence.
You fallen asleep? inquired Joe courteously.
Chance would be a fine thing. How do you know this Bannerjee guy isnt a pro dope-smuggler?
I dont, said Joe. But I dont think his wife is. And Im certain his kids arent. And the way the cops came bursting in here, theyre pushing this thing very hard, and thats the way innocent people get squashed against the wall.
God, youll be telling me next youve got a dream. These guys who turned you over, they had a search warrant, I take it?
I forgot to ask, admitted Joe.
Oh Jesus. The great PI! I expect it was all so sudden.
Well, it was.
More silence.
And you say they dropped a sledgehammer on to a police car?
From seven floors up, said Joe. It went clean through the roof.
All right. Ill do it. Not for your sake, not even for the Bannerjee kids sake, but for the sledgehammers sake. A story like that deserves some reward.
The phone went dead.
Whitey, said Joe, this has been a busy day. And nothing to show for it, except more mess than when you chased that blue-tit that came through the window.
Whitey gave his are-you-never-going-to-forget-that? mew, and disappeared behind the armchair. He emerged a moment later dragging little Amal Bannerjees toy bull which he deposited in front of Joe before climbing back on to the chair and going to sleep with the complacent look of one whose duty has been done.
The poor kid, said Joe, picking up the bull. He went on to the balcony and looked down. All the cars had gone including the one with the new non-sliding sunroof.
With a sigh, Joe placed the bull carefully among his begonias and started clearing up the mess.
CHAPTER 5
Next morning didnt begin too well.
Joe found hed run out of provisions for the fried breakfast and had to make do with plum jam on high bake water biscuits which Whitey loathed.
Also he felt very tired. After his third mug of tea, he recalled hed been woken at least twice in the night by the strident strains of the Casa Mia quartet.
Still, the way business was he didnt anticipate much difficulty catching up on sleep at the office.
As usual, he stopped to pick up his papers at Mr Nayyars shop on Canal Street which linked Rasselas and Hermsprong. Mr Nayyar claimed to run a speciality store, which meant he sold everything.
And Ive run out of food, said Joe after he collected the Sun and The Times, the former to keep him abreast of current events, the latter for his crossword ploy.
Mr Nayyars real speciality was knowing his customers requirements better than they did. As he busied himself assembling the rich and varied ingredients of the fried breakfast, Joe browsed through his tabloid, careful to avoid the page with the boobs as he knew these caused Mr Nayyar a problem. Banned from his shelves were any magazines which flaunted flesh, but this principle if extended to papers would drastically limit his trade. So regulars like Joe kept the curves at a low profile till well clear.
The front page headline and three lines of text were still concerned with the horse-loving politician, and the back page concentrated on the A505 plane crash. The pilot, Arthur Bragg, had been taken ill not long after leaving Luton Airport to ferry Mr Simon Verity, a business executive, and his secretary, Miss Gwendoline Baker, to a conference in Manchester. Hed managed to keep control just long enough to flop the plane down on the roadway. None of the three was seriously injured, but theyd all been kept in hospital for observation and the Press concentrated on the woman whod taken the video, Raven-haired beauty, Meg Merchison (29).
She said: I was trying out my new camcorder on a flock of rooks when I suddenly spotted this light plane diving out of the sky. It was terrifying. I thought at first it was going to hit me, but it levelled off, just missing some trees, and I was able to follow it all the way down on to the road. I never dreamt when I bought the camera it would give me a thrill like this. There was a photo of the raven-haired beauty astride a gate, caressing her camera sensuously and showing enough leg to give Mr Nayyar moral palpitations.
Lucky lass, thought Joe. Wonder how much she got for the video?
He turned to the inside pages and found that here the Casa Mia killings got a double-page splash. There was a lot of sensational speculation, but nothing new and they were still using the same blurred picture of Rocca that had been shown on telly. There was no mention of Joe. He didnt know whether to be disappointed at missing the publicity or glad at missing the Press.
The shop door opened and two teenagers came in. Dressed identically in T-shirts, jeans and trendy trainers, with hair razored to a crowning crest, they were sexually distinguished only by a faint smear of moustache on the larger ones lip and a bubbling of breast on the smaller ones chest.
Sixsmith recognized the design on their T-shirts, a Union Jack with Maggie Thatchers face at the crux. This meant they belonged to the True Brits, the leading white gang on the Hermsprong Estate. Joe doubted if theyd enter a Pakistani-run shop looking for anything but trouble, so he kept a close eye on them as Mr Nayyar busied himself with the order.
As the shopkeeper turned his back to weigh some tomatoes, the girl thrust a handful of chocolate bars under her T-shirt. She felt Joes eyes on her, grinned at him and nudged the boy. He looked towards Joe, bared his teeth in an animal snarl, picked up a music cassette from a display rack and slipped it into his pocket. The girl meanwhile was pushing a couple of packs of panti-hose down the back of her jeans.
I think that is everything, Mr Sixsmith, said Mr Nayyar. Now let me see, how much will that come to?
Serve these young folk first, said Joe. Im in no hurry.
Nah, said the boy. Nothing here we want. Load of Pakky junk. Come on, Suzie.
They made for the door. Joe moved quickly and blocked their way.
Hey, man, he said. Arent you forgetting something? Even junk costs money.
What you on about, Sambo? said the boy. You best keep your black nose out, you dont want it even flatter.
The girl laughed shrilly and said, You tell im, Glen.
Mr Nayyar said, Please, Mr Sixsmith, it is all right. Let me deal with this.
Joe looked at him in surprise, then doubled up as the boy, seeing his chance, hit him in the belly and dived through the door. The girl went after him, Joe flung out an arm to grab her but all he managed was to push her shoulder. Unbalanced she staggered over the threshold and fell forward on to the pavement. The boy grabbed her hand and dragged her to her feet. Her forearm was badly grazed and there was a new tear in her jeans through which blood was oozing.
Come on, Suzie, screamed the boy, dragging her away. You black bastards, Ill get you for this!
A moment later they heard the roar of a motorcycle engine rapidly fading.
Mr Sixsmith, you OK? demanded Mr Nayyar.
A moment later they heard the roar of a motorcycle engine rapidly fading.
Mr Sixsmith, you OK? demanded Mr Nayyar.
I will be, gasped Joe. Hadnt you better ring the police?
Nayyar shrugged.
Why bother? he said. They have other things to do than trouble with petty pilfering from a shop like this.
Its still crime, said Joe. Then as his breath came easier, he looked sharply at the shopkeeper and said, You knew they were nicking stuff, didnt you?
Nayyar looked as if he was going to play at indignation for a moment, then he shrugged and said, Mr Sixsmith, people like you and me, we know there are pressures that other people, white people, do not know. Sometimes if we give a little with the little pressures which irritate us, we may hope to avoid the big pressures which can burst us.
You mean you dont want to antagonize these kids who come here thieving in case they gang up on you? said Joe. He shook his head and went on, Suit yourself, Mr Nayyar. Just give me my shopping. How much do I owe you?
Please, Mr Sixsmith, you have tried to be helpful. No charge today.
Joe took out his wallet and said firmly, Youve got me wrong, Mr Nayyar. Im not a pressure, Im just a customer. How much?
Back at the car, he gave Whitey a raw sausage and some radical ideas on the reform of the young to chew over. Then he said, Shant be long. Watch out for joyriders, now.
Five minutes walk took him into Bullpat Square. It was a market day and the traders vans and stalls made it quite impossible to park here. The market customers also tended to overspill into the Law Centre and when he opened the door and saw how crowded it was, he began to turn away. But a voice called, Sixsmith! I want you. And he turned back to see a small bird-like woman of about thirty ushering an elderly couple out of the inner office.
He went inside and said, Hi, Butcher. Youve gone blonde. What are you up to? Trying to get out of paying your husband alimony?
I was always blonde. Ive just gone back to my roots.
She was not much over five two, and skinny as a well-picked chicken wing. She had an initial, C, which presumably stood for something but Joe had never called her anything other than Butcher. She pushed work his way when she could, though there was rarely much money in it.
Theyd met when Joe went to the Centre looking for help in the aftermath of his redundancy. Thered been none forthcoming. Robco had done everything according to law and what Joe got was what he had coming, no more, no less. It was when Butcher asked, So what will you do now? and Joe replied, How do you go about setting up as a private detective? that she had started looking at him with more than professional interest.
First thing is, youve got to be able to wisecrack and to whistle. You know how to whistle, do you, Sixsmith?
Pardon? said Joe, bewildered.
Theres a lot of work to do, said Butcher and had started the crash course in how to wisecrack like a real Private Eye which was still going on.
Now she said, Dont sit down, youre not staying.
Look, I was going anyway when I saw how busy things were, said Joe slightly offended.
Highty-tighty, said Butcher. I meant youve got business.
Sorry?
That Bannerjee you put me on to last night, I was able to help. At least I sat with him till they got it into their thick heads he wasnt going to say any more. Then I got his wife and kids into an hotel.
Joe looked at her with admiration. She must have been up half the night and still managed to look bright as a glass of lager, while a couple of bad dreams left his mind cloudy as homemade ale.
Did he do it, then?
Do what? Theyre not saying he did anything. The game theyre playing now is that this is an immigration case, his papers arent in order. This is clearly bollocks. Hes been living here for nearly fifteen years. Hes the sales manager for Herringshaws, a Midlands rag trade firm. All theyre trying to do is put the squeeze on him so that if he does know anything, hell get so scared about possible deportation hell cough.
And what do you think? asked Joe. Is he straight?
Id say so, she said. Hes certainly won golden opinions from his employers. At his request I rang Herringshaws and his boss, Charles Herringshaw no less, got very indignant and said hed come down himself to see what he could do. He told me to stay on the case, hed pick up all the tabs, so Im in gainful employment at last. I owe you, Sixsmith.
My pleasure, said Joe, who knew that Butcher was forever jammed in a cleft stick of needing well-paid private work to subsidize the Centre without having the time to go out and find it.
She glanced at her watch and said, Christ, look at the time. Youre late.
Me? I wish I had something to be late for. Or is this a not so subtle hint you want shot of me?
No, its tit for tat. Thats why I wanted a word with you. Ive sent you a client. She wants a good PI so I told her to be at your office at ten-thirty. I meant to ring, but things got hectic, and I didnt realize you kept upper-class hours.
Cant afford to keep anything else, said Joe. Whats her name? Whats she want? Can she afford me? Can I afford her?
But Butcher only cried, Go, go, go! and opened the door to admit what looked like a tribe of gypsies.
Joe fought his way through them, checked his watch and wallet (the first step to integration is a shared prejudice) and headed back to the car where he found Whitey had unwrapped and eaten the rest of the sausages.
It was dead on ten-thirty as he parked the car outside the office. There was a BMW in front of him. A woman got out. She was elegantly dressed in black culottes and a jacket of pearly grey silk, a severe white blouse relieved by a large pink brooch at the neck. Her short bronze hair looked as if it had been sculpted, an effect heightened by the classic regularity of her face, which however bore a badge of mortality in the shape of a black eye beyond the scope of cosmetic disguise.
Mr Sixsmith, I presume? she said.
Well, Im not Dr Livingstone, said Joe, still under Butchers cinematic influence.
Yes, thats right, he hastily added, seeing from her face that this lady was not for joking with.
Her eyes were running over his clothes, his car and his cat like a VAT mans over a ledger. They then turned to the building which belonged to the nineteen-sixties Prince-Charles-hates-it school of architecture.
Cherry said I shouldnt judge by appearances, she murmured half to herself, but only half.
Cherry? said Joe.
Cheryl Butcher, she said.
Oh, that Cherry. Would you like to come inside? said Joe.
In the tiny dark foyer, he automatically checked his mailbox. As he opened it he felt those assessing eyes watching him and prayed it wouldnt be revealingly empty. He was in luck. There was a Security Trade Fair opening at the National Exhibition Centre the following week and various electronic firms were bombarding him with invitations to come along and check out their bugs.
Clutching the sheaf of envelopes ostentatiously, he ushered the woman into the lift. Whitey howled. He didnt trust the lift and usually they walked up the stairs together. When he realized that good client relations were going to be put before good cat relations he jumped down from Joes shoulder and set off up the stairs with his tail at a disgusted angle.