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Then he had turned PI.
This to some cops was a provocation stronger even than youth.
And to make matters worse, Joe had the gift of the truly innocent of stumbling into situations which, like a bishop in a bathhouse, required some explanation.
Fortunately his matching serendipity had enabled him to come up with a couple of results which Detective Superintendent Woodbine had managed to transfer to his own record sheet. Therefore it was with reasonable equanimity that Joe accepted the beat boys’ kind invitation to come down to the station and help with enquiries.
Nor did his heart sink more than a couple of ribs when the interview-room door opened and Detective Sergeant Chivers came in. Chivers was not a fan.
He was not so far gone in his dislike that he’d frame Joe, but he didn’t bother to hide his pleasure at finding him already in the frame.
Joe said, ‘Hi, Sarge. Nice to see you.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Well, I know it can’t be all that serious,’ said Joe confidently. ‘Else Willie would be turning the handle himself.’
The familiar reference to Superintendent Woodbine was by way of reminder to the sergeant that he was handling delicate goods, but Chivers looked unfazed.
‘Super’s sunning himself in Morocco for a week, thought you’d have known that, being such chums,’ he sneered.
Joe’s heart dropped like an overripe plum and lay exposed, waiting to be trodden on.
‘And the DCI?’ he asked.
‘In bed with flu. And the DI’s got himself snowbound up a Cairngorm. So that leaves nobody in the place but you and me, Joe.’
‘I know the song. Maybe I should wait for my brief,’ said Joe.
‘You want to be banged up till morning that’s your privilege,’ said Chivers.
Shoot, thought Joe. One of the uniforms must’ve earwigged his conversation with Butcher; not hard, as Joe’s indignation had made him echo much of what the little lawyer had said.
‘Tomorrow morning!’ he yelled. ‘You can’t do anything till tomorrow morning? Butcher, we’re not talking car-insurance claims any more.’
‘I know, Joe, and I’m sorry. But there’s this dinner in Cambridge, and I’m the main speaker, and I’m planning to stay over …’
‘Oh well, if you’re planning to stay over, don’t you worry yourself about me!’ said Joe.
‘Hopefully, you haven’t done anything to worry about,’ said Butcher. ‘Just tell Woodbine the truth. He knows which side his bread’s buttered on. You’ll probably be in bed before I am.’
‘Not from what I hear about them dirty dons,’ said Joe.
‘Don’t get cheeky. I’ll call you soon as I can, OK?’
‘I get it. Don’t ring us, we’ll ring you. What happened to kill the other lawyers, then call us?’
Not the cleverest of things to say. And he’d already said it, or something like it, earlier this evening, as he was soon to be reminded.
‘Nose looks sore, Joe,’ said Chivers sympathetically. Joe didn’t like it. Cops were like hospital nurses. The more helpless you were, the sooner they started treating you like you were five and backward.
‘It’s fine,’ said Joe, though his nose was twingeing like it knew it was being talked about. ‘Listen, is it true Potter’s dead?’
‘Surprise you, does it? Well, these things happen, Joe. It’s not like on the movies. Fight starts. You go in there chopping and twisting, next thing someone’s seriously hurt. Or worse. Specially when you’ve had the training.’
‘Training? What the shoot does that mean?’
‘It means one of my boys going into the sports centre for Mr Takeushi’s advanced class saw you coming away from the beginners’ session.’
‘And that makes me a killer?’
‘Shows you’ve got the inclination maybe.’
‘Yeah? And what does the advance class show about your boy? That he wants to be a mass murderer? It’s self-defence, that’s all. The whole philosophy is nonviolent.’
Mr Takeushi would be pleased to know that his words if not his techniques had made some impression.
‘Nonviolent, eh? So why were you shooting your mouth off about killing lawyers, Joe?’
‘Figure of speech,’ said Joe. ‘It’s from Shakespeare.’
‘Shakespeare?’ said Chivers in mock admiration. ‘Didn’t know you had such classy tastes, Joe. Now which play would that be in? Macbeth where the king gets killed? Or Othello where the black guy kills his wife? Or Hamlet maybe where everybody kills everybody else? Lots of killing in Shakespeare. Turns you on, does it?’
‘When does this get official, Sarge?’ asked Joe. ‘I mean, I’ve come here voluntarily to make a statement and as it sounds like a serious matter, I thought you’d have been wanting to hear it while it’s still fresh.’
He waited to see if Chivers would suggest his presence wasn’t voluntary. He could see the man was tempted, but while he might be a fascist he wasn’t a fool and in the end all he said was, ‘We appreciate your cooperation, Mr Sixsmith. Let’s get the tape running, shall we?’
Joe told it like it had happened. Chivers probed his story for a bit then, with the unconcealed reluctance of a man leaving the warm pub where he wants to be for the cold night air which he doesn’t fancy, he began asking questions based on the possibility that Joe could be telling the truth.
‘Did you see anyone else in the building but Ms Iles and Mr Potter?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see or hear anything which might have suggested there was someone else in the building?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Come on, Sixsmith. A footstep, a creaking board, an open door. Anything.’
‘Like I say, I don’t recollect anything. But I’ll work on it.’
‘What about outside? When you arrived and when you left, did you see anyone hanging around? Or anyone at all?’
‘No. The Row was empty. No one walking. No cars parked. Except mine and Ms Iles’s. It was six o’clock in Christmas week. All them businesses would be shut for the duration.’
‘What about the park?’
Joe thought.
‘Didn’t see anyone,’ he said. ‘But I wasn’t really looking.’
‘So there could have been someone in the park?’
‘Could have been King Kong up a tree, but I didn’t see him,’ said Joe.
‘What about lights? What lights were on in the building?’
‘When I arrived, none that I could see. But there wouldn’t be. Mr Potter’s room looks out on the back.’
‘How do you know that?’ demanded Chivers. ‘You told me you never got into his room, only as far as his secretary’s office.’
‘I didn’t. But I know which way I’m facing.’
‘Always?’
‘Usually.’
‘Not a Muslim, are you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Could be a useful talent for a Muslim.’
Joe glanced towards the tape and coughed gently.
‘Yeah, yeah. Well, thanks for your cooperation, Mr Sixsmith. We may need to talk to you again and meanwhile if anything comes to mind that you think might help us, please get in touch. Interview ends at 20.15 hours.’
He switched the recorder off and sat glowering at Joe.
‘You’re a waste of my time and everyone’s space, Sixsmith,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sod off out of here?’
‘Hey, if you’re going to get personal, let’s have the recorder back on,’ said Joe. ‘Making jokes about Muslims just gets you killed, but being rude to witnesses may get you sued. What’s your beef anyway, Sarge? I told you all I know. Don’t want me making stuff up, do you?’
‘No, don’t want that,’ said Chivers, relaxing a little. ‘Just wanted a bit of a pointer but I suppose that was too much to hope for.’
Suddenly Joe got it. When Woodbine had been made up to superintendent, his detective inspector had become acting DCI, but Chivers hadn’t moved up to acting inspector. Instead, a new young high flier had been appointed. But Scottish snow, African sun, and Asian flu had united to leave the sergeant temporarily in charge of the shop. A good quick result in a murder case would do him no harm at all and at the very least be a satisfying two fingers to his sceptical superiors.
He said, ‘I’m doing my best, Sarge. You know that.’
He saw the man tremble on the brink of another insult then pull himself back, maybe recalling that Willie Woodbine had done OK by giving Joe his head.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. ‘I meant it when I said, any little pointer.’
Happy to extend the phoney peace, Joe racked his brain for an idea.
‘There was the phone call,’ he said. ‘Someone called Felix. Listen, if you dialled 1471, you’d probably get his number …’
He saw from Chivers’s face this was mutton to the Falklands.
‘Felix Naysmith. One of the partners. Number was his holiday cottage in Lincolnshire. We rang back, but they must have gone out for the evening. No sweat. Unless Potter was actually attacked while he was on the phone, which doesn’t seem likely, there’s not much chance of Naysmith being able to help. It’s those who were on the spot I’m interested in.’
Grinding his teeth significantly, Joe said, ‘Like Ms Iles, you mean?’
‘Ms Iles has been very helpful,’ said Chivers, implying compared with some people. ‘First off, she told us she heard a din upstairs and went to her door in time to see you flouncing out, yelling about killing lawyers.’
‘I explained that.’
‘Yeah, like you explained about forcing your way into the building, scaring the pants off the poor woman.’
‘Come on, Sarge. Did she really say that?’
‘No,’ admitted Chivers reluctantly. ‘Just the opposite. What she did say was that after you left she went back into her own room, leaving the door open so she’d see Potter when he came down. Fifteen minutes later when he hadn’t shown and she was ready to leave, she rang his office. When he didn’t reply she got worried.’
‘Isn’t there some other way out of the building?’ interrupted Joe.
‘How do you know that?’ demanded Chivers, suspicion re-entering quick enough to show it hadn’t retreated far.
‘Because them houses were built for monied folk to live in with maids and cooks and backstairs and tradesmen’s entrances,’ said Joe.
‘That your deduction of the month, Sixsmith?’ sneered Chivers. ‘OK, there’s still a backstairs and a rear entrance from the back yard. Takes you out into Ligover Lane.’
‘So why was she worried when Potter could just have gone out the back way which, if his car wasn’t parked out front, seems the most likely explanation?’
‘She had a feeling something was wrong,’ said Chivers.
‘Sort of feminine intuition?’ offered Joe.
‘No. Sort of feeling anyone might get when an aggressive little black man bursts in, rushes upstairs, starts throwing furniture about, and storms out shouting stuff about killing people,’ said Chivers.
‘Yeah, well, we’ve been through all that, Sarge,’ said Joe. ‘So what’s she do now?’
‘She goes upstairs, goes into Potter’s room, and finds him lying by his desk, dead as a doornail.’
‘And how’d he die?’
‘Neck broken. No sign of a struggle. One quick professional twist. That’s what really got you off the hook, Sixsmith.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because I got my Black Belt boy to check with Mr Takeushi who told him, wrapped up in Oriental politeness, of course, that after six lessons you still couldn’t punch your way out of a paper bag, let alone inflict damage on a fully grown man with all his limbs and senses about him. So now, sod off, Sixsmith, and let me get on with some real detection!’
4 (#ulink_7a9fc0f5-4529-53e1-8523-c20802de54fb)
Joe woke up next morning knowing exactly who had killed Peter Potter.
Or at least having a vague idea who might possibly, all else being equal, have had something to do with his death.
It was hard experience had taught Joe to approach his certainties with this degree of caution. He’d seen so much solid ground dissolve beneath his feet he could have freelanced as an oil drill. But as he worked his way through the Full British Breakfast, which was his patriotic way of starting each new day, he could detect no flaws in his logic.
