Sorry, I didnt get your name, said Joe as the lift laboured up three storeys.
Baker, she said. Gwen Baker.
It sounded as if it meant something, or perhaps it was just the way she said it.
And have you known, er, Cherry long?
We were at school together.
Old friends, then.
You could say so. We were thrown together by linguistic affinity. Little girls like that sort of thing.
This was like one of those crossword clues, the ones which obliged him to invent his own answers. He worked at it and was delighted to have a sudden revelation as the lift shuddered to a halt.
Butcher and Baker! he said.
She looked at him sharply as if suspecting she was making a very large mistake. The doors opened to reveal Whitey yawning on the landing as if hed been waiting for ages.
Inside the office she did her audit act again. He felt like asking her what he was worth. But when he offered her a chair he noticed that she sat down rather stiffly and also that the bruising on the left hand side of her face was accentuated by the pallor of the right.
You OK? he asked in concern. Anything I can get you?
Like all the best private eyes, you have a bottle in your desk, I suppose, she said.
Well, no. I was thinking, more a cup of sweet tea, like.
She smiled for the first time.
Its kind of you, but no, thanks. Let me put you in the picture then we can decide if were wasting each others time.
It was, he had decided, a wife-battering case. His heart sank. A man who could batter a woman would probably have little qualms about battering a middle-aged balding PI.
But no harm in showing her he was no slouch, deduction-wise.
He said, Go ahead. You want to tell me about your husband, I presume.
He took her by surprise.
She said, Yes, but
Then he saw those sharp eyes backtracking his line of reasoning, and a twitch of the right-hand corner of her mouth told him hed got it wrong.
Perhaps I should begin by explaining I suffered my injuries in a plane crash
Of course! That was why her name was familiar.
He jumped in eagerly. Yes, Gwendoline Baker. The A505 crash yesterday. Youre the secretary.
The what?
The secretary. To Mr whats it. Verity. Mr Verity. He could see that he was still failing to impress. Thats what it said in the paper.
Her eyes touched the tabloid sticking out of his pocket.
I hope you dont base all your appreciation of objective reality on what you read in that rag. Let me see.
He handed it over, feeling like a small boy caught reading a comic under his desk.
A snarl of fury animated her features as she glanced at the back page.
So youre not Mr Veritys secretary? said Sixsmith tentatively.
No, I am not. Au contraire, as they say. He is my secretary. He was accompanying me to a business conference in Manchester. I should be giving a paper there at this very moment.
You could send it by special messenger, it wont get there too late, suggested Sixsmith.
She rolled her eyes upward and said, Im beginning to have serious doubts about this, Mr Sixsmith. One thing is certain. We will get on much more speedily if you refrain from further interruption.
Sixsmith, relieved that the spectre of the battering husband had receded, nodded agreement. Things were beginning to sound much more interesting. His second guess was that she was going to tell him the plane crash wasnt an accident, but had been arranged by some business rival to get rid of her or at the least keep her away from the Manchester conference.
She said, The first thing to understand is that the plane crash wasnt an accident. Im sorry?
Sixsmiths inner triumph and regret at letting himself be browbeaten out of a chance of showing her he wasnt an erk, had expressed itself in a plosive grunt. He turned it into a cough and smiled apologetically.
She went on.
The pilots illness was induced deliberately with the sole purpose of bringing the plane down and causing my death. Does that cat always stare like that?
Whitey hadnt followed his usual practice of opening the lowest desk drawer and climbing in, but was sitting upright as an Egyptian artefact, apparently rapt by Ms Bakers speech. Sixsmith felt the direct question entitled him to speak.
Im sorry. Is he bothering you? Whitey, get in your drawer. You can listen just as well there.
What do you mean, he can listen just as well there? demanded the woman in some agitation, her hand at her throat.
Just a manner of speaking, said Sixsmith. You know cats. Sometimes I get the feeling Whitey thinks he runs the business!
And you find that remarkable?
Not so remarkable as youd find it if I put him on your case, laughed Sixsmith.
She smiled thinly, but the answer seemed to reassure her and she let go of the pink brooch which shed been clutching like a talisman and took a thin gold cigarette case out of her purse.
Do you mind? she said, lighting up.
No, but the cat does, thought Sixsmith. He nudged the drawer shut with his knee. Whitey would have to suffer a little discomfort in the interests of business. A potential paying customer was entitled to a bit of atmospheric pollution.
Talking of paying, he speculated how high he dared pitch his fee. Depended what her line of business was. She dressed expensive. Maybe she was in ladies fashions, nice little earner at the class end of the market, he guessed. One way to find outthe subtle questioning.
He said brightly, Why dont you tell me about your business, Ms Baker?
She said, What on earth for? I run an automotive electronics firm, if you must know. But that has nothing to do with the case.
Its why you were in the plane, isnt it? said Joe defensively.
Yes, of course. But she didnt need access to my company records to know my schedule, did she? No, Ive no doubt Gerald told her.
Gerald?
My husband, Gerald Collister-Cook.
Sixsmith sighed. He knew he was delaying the dénouement, but he also knew that if he didnt get things straight as he went along, you could dénoue all you liked and it would still be French to him.
So Baker is your maiden name?
And my professional name. I saw no reason to lumber myself with that double barrelled monstrosity in business. Ive just about got the bastards conditioned to dealing with Gwen Baker on level terms. Theyd need another decade to come to terms with Gwendoline Collister-Cook, and I cant say I blame them. Can we get on, Mr Sixsmith?
Id like that, said Joe sincerely. You were saying that Gerald probably told her. Who is her, Ms Baker?
Who is her? Ill tell you who her is, Mr Sixsmith.
Eyes flashing, mouth stretched taut in a rictus of hate, Gwen Baker grabbed the Present-from-Paignton paperknife out of Sixsmiths desk tidy and swung it high. His arms shot up to ward off the blow. But he wasnt the target. The knife plunged down with such force it passed clean through the tabloid spread out on the desk and dug deep into the woodwork.
Thats her! spat Ms Baker. Thats the bitch whos trying to kill me.
Joes gaze slid down the still quivering knife and saw that its point had neatly sliced through the cleavage of raven-haired beauty Meg Merchison (29).
CHAPTER 6
It got worse.
Ms Baker quickly regained control, but the return to her cool, rational manner only heightened the craziness of what was to come.
Shes been having an affair with Gerald. Affair! For him, it was a one-night stand, nothing more. Meaningless. We accept such things in our marriage. We dont exchange notes, nothing so louche as that. But were two adult people, leading lives which often set us far apart, and we both have strong needs. But that bitch wanted more. In fact she wanted everything. But it soon dawned on her that she wasnt going to get it without a fight. Well, I was a match for her there, I tell you. I was well ahead on points. But I didnt realize just how far shed go, if pushed.
The plane crash, you mean? said Joe, who was beginning to wonder what Butchers resentment would do if this was what her gratitude sent him. She arranged for the pilot to be taken ill?
Of course. How the hell else did she happen to be sitting out there with a video camera ready to record it all for her scrap book?
Youve told the police this, have you? said Joe hopefully.
Dont be stupid! How much notice do you imagine theyd take?
Well, I mean, they could find evidence, things I cant begin to do. Presumably you suspect the pilot was poisoned and they can get a full medical examination, analyse samples
Poison? Who said anything about poison? Shed probably used a poppet.
A poppet? Like a lathe-head?
A lathe-head? What the hells that?
Its something to do with a lathe, said Joe cautiously. He usually felt it best to keep details of his past employment away from potential clients, though why he should be worried about alienating Ms Baker he didnt know. He felt a strong pang of nostalgia for the tumult of the tool room, the smell of oil and hot metal, the shouted jokes and laughter of his workmates.
Is it? Very interesting, Im sure. But this poppet Im talking about, Mr Sixsmith, would be a small doll, made out of clay or wax or even rags, looking as much like the pilot, Arthur Bragg, as possible, and incorporating some of his hair or nail clippings or excreta, or something very closely connected with him. And when she saw the plane coming over shed stick a needle into its belly and waggle it around. Normally that would kill, in which case I would certainly have died also. Only with her hate being directed at me, she couldnt get a big enough surge for that, so she only made the poor man feel rather ill.
She said all this in the kind of tone suited for delivery of a detailed analysis of automotive electronic statistics.
Joe got up and switched on his electric kettle. He needed a mug of hot sweet tea.
He said, Youre saying this Meg Merchison is a witch, is that it?
Not a term I care for, but use it by all means if it will tighten your grasp of the situation, said Ms Baker wearily.
And the reason she didnt manage to kill Mr Bragg was that she was really aiming at you?
Thats right. The poppet works by providing a focus for deep passionate hatred. But like I said, its me she hates, not Bragg, so she couldnt generate a big enough charge to really knock him out.
Joe put two tea-bags in his ChasnDi wedding mug and held it up invitingly to the woman. She shook her head.
If thats the case, said Joe, why bother with the pilot at all? Why not simply do a poppet of you and bite its head off?
He looked at her triumphantly and for the first time she didnt mock his triumph.
At last, an intelligent question, she said. She knew it was no use trying to get at me direct. Dont imagine she hasnt tried. But Im her match there. Im well protected.
She unclipped the pink brooch from her blouse and twisted the stone out of its setting to reveal that it was hollow. Inside Sixsmith saw a small wodge of grey stuff, like putty, into which had been pressed scraps and shards of God knows what, and Joe Sixsmith had no desire to share the knowledge.
You mean, youre a one of them too? he said.
I have some knowledge, she said, replacing the brooch. Enough to deal with her kind in the normal course of events. But fighting over a man has never been my scene.
So whats all the fuss about? asked Joe, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to the four already in his tea. He needed the energy.
You mean, why dont I just let her get on with it? Ill tell you why. Because Geralds my husband and I dont care to give him up, certainly not to a common little bitch like that. Also, in business matters we have a fiduciary relationship which makes it inconvenient to part company at the moment.
Joe, who loved clarity above all things except Luton Town, studied this carefully before saying, You mean, shed not only get him, shed get some of your cash?
You could put it like that.
He smiled his relief at getting back to something like firm ground.
So what do you want me to do, Ms Baker? he asked. Get evidence that Meg Merchisons trying to kill you by witchcraft?
Dont be stupid, she snapped. I need no evidence, and what evidence do you imagine you could get which would satisfy the police? I have problems enough holding my own with my chauvinist colleagues without giving them a field day by letting my name be linked publicly with a witchcraft scandal!
So what do you want? asked Sixsmith.
She said, Shes got power over Gerald, theres no other way hed get entangled with a creature like that.
Blackmail, you mean? he said without much hope.
Ms Baker sighed and said, Mr Sixsmith, you cannot blackmail a man into screwing you. No. She has a locket. It belonged to Geralds mother and thats a very strong link to start with. Look, you can see it dangling between those gross paps in the picture.
She had to withdraw the paperknife to reveal the heart-shaped locket nestling in Merchisons cleavage.
It has a ruby cameo design, a cinquefoil, a very strong magical number and image. Inside there will be various items, we neednt go into the details, suffice to say that with the right words spoken over them, they have real power.
A love charm, you mean? said Sixsmith.
Love! But yes, a love charm, if that helps you grasp what this is all about, she snapped. What I want you to do, Mr Sixsmith, is get hold of that locket for me, and fast. This creature is quite mad. What happened yesterday was an open declaration of war. Why do you think she told the media about the video?
Sos she could make a bit of money, I suppose, said Sixsmith wistfully.
No! So that I would know shed caused the crash. All right, so she didnt kill me, but she hopes that she can frighten me into submission by showing me how far she will go. Well, I wont be frightened off, but if she escalates this thing into a full-scale psychic war, it could take all my time and energy to resist and I cant afford to neglect my business like that. So the simplest thing for me to do is get Gerald back to his right senses for long enough to regain full control of all my finances. Once she sees hes only worth the clothes hes wearingand I bought most of thoseshell soon lose interest.