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Joe said, ‘Hey, man, no need to get so heavy …’
‘Just go away,’ snarled Potter. ‘The days are past when you could wreck your old banger and get paid for a Jag XJ.’
Joe was out in the corridor now. He wasn’t a man to raise his voice but some things needed to be heard.
‘One thing to get straight,’ he said forcefully. ‘This ain’t no old banger we’re talking about. This is a vintage Oxford with an engine so sweet it could sing in the Philharmonic Choir.’
‘And pigs could fly!’ sneered Potter. ‘Good night!’
He closed the door. Joe turned away, paused, turned back, and flung it open again.
Potter re-entering his chamber, turned with a look of such fury that Joe almost fled. But some things are more precious than mere self-preservation.
‘I may not have a case,’ he said. ‘But I do have a coat, and you’re not having that off my back.’
So saying, he seized his donkey jacket and swept it down off the coat stand. Unfortunately for the gesture, the collar caught on the point of the hook and as he dragged it loose, the whole stand came toppling over.
Joe’s evasive backward leap took him out into the corridor once more as the stand hit the floor with a tremendous crash. It seemed like a good sound to exit on and pulling his coat round his shoulders he went down the stairs like Batman.
Black Belt was standing in the doorway of her office.
She said, ‘What the hell’s going on up there?’
Joe said, ‘Not much. Whoever said “Kill all the lawyers” just about got it right!’
It was a bold thing to say to someone whose earlier response to much smaller provocation was still jangling through his nerve ends. So he didn’t pause for an answer but headed straight out into the street where the sight of the Magic Mini brought his indignation back to boiling point.
‘Old banger!’ he yelled up at the blank-eyed building. ‘Now this is an old banger. You lawyers can’t 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 that’s so interesting, Merv?’ said Joe, slightly hurt to find he was boring his friend. ‘How’s the publicity campaign? I ain’t been swamped by enquiries yet.’
It was a pretty mild retaliatory gibe, but it seemed to hit the button. Merv’s face screwed up in a rictus of anticipated pain and he said, ‘Well, yeah, something to tell you there, Joe.’
‘Hey, Joe, how’re you doing? You look tired, doesn’t he look tired, guys?’
‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? All that hard work he’s been doing, but he loves his work, don’t you, Joe?’
‘Yeah, night and day he stays on the job. Night and day!’
The enigmatic greetings from a group of regulars who’d just come in set the whole bar laughing. Joe grinned too and waved his glass, though he couldn’t 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 Joe’s PI business, and as he was Joe’s oldest friend, and as he had sometimes been positively helpful and as he didn’t 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, it’s all this goodwill but that won’t last. Holiday over and it’s 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. ‘I’ll take a ten-minute spot in the middle of The Bill.’
‘Start small, build big,’ said Merv. ‘Printed hand-outs are the thing.’
‘Couldn’t 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. ‘You’ll be into grannies next.’
‘She was a child bride,’ retorted Merv. ‘Anyway, I’ve been checking out the cost of putting out fliers advertising the cab, and Molly says Dorrie – that’s the daughter – can get these hand-outs done real pro standard, cost next to nothing, materials only. And I got to thinking, sheet of paper’s 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, word’ll spread like smallpox. Let’s work out the wording. Direct message, that’s the name of the game.’
The direct message he’d come up with was:
IN TROUBLE? NEED HELP?
JOE SIXSMITH’S 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)
Couldn’t do any harm, thought Joe. Also, he was touched to see Merv so enthusiastic, motivated by nothing more than friendship. So he’d agreed.
Why was he suddenly wishing he hadn’t?
‘What’s wrong, Merv?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. Well, not much. In fact you’d hardly notice it.’
He dug in his pocket and produced a pale-pink hand-out. He’d 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 Dorrie’s fault, that’s Molly’s daughter,’ said Merv defensively. ‘She must have misread it from my script and it seems she’s 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 don’t you mean dyslexic?’
‘That too. And she should’ve 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 Merv’s 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, that’s the limit.’
‘Hey, Merv, watch him or he’ll be giving you that special touch,’ said Dick Hull, the Glit’s 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. Won’t be any left very soon, I promise you.’
He sounded so genuinely contrite, Joe found his anger ebbing. Confession’s all right for Catholics, said Aunt Mirabelle. It’s putting things right that saves your soul.
His mollification was completed when Merv offered to refund him the fifteen quid he’d contributed to expenses.
‘That’s OK, it was a good idea,’ he said. ‘But in future I’ll stick to word of mouth. And let’s 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 Mirabelle’s 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 Boddington’s 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. Beryl’s 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 hadn’t 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 woman’s 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, I’ll pass this way early tomorrow, look in just on the off chance. But before nine. If not, I’ll ring again. OK? By the way, the name’s 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t in the mood for joking. Her voice was urgent.
‘Listen, you went to see Peter Potter, did you?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, his sense of grievance welling up. ‘And he’s 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. I’d say he was an A1 dickhead with all the charm and good manners of a wire worm!’
‘You didn’t get on?’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘So what happened?’
‘What happened? He told me I’d 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 didn’t?’
‘No, I’m 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, didn’t 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 what’s going on?’
‘Listen, Joe, I’ve just had the police here. They came to ask if I’d 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. He’ll tell them I never laid a hand on him.’
‘They can’t do that, Joe. He’s dead. Pete Potter’s 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, I’m sorry, I had to give them your name. They’ll 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 (#ulink_994fb98d-57e9-5cd2-ad52-47739c6e940b)
The policemen of Luton have a tradition of liberal thought running back to the Middle Ages when the sheriff’s 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.
