Reginald Hill – Born Guilty (страница 3)

She said to Chivers, ‘Kindly don’t interrupt. Mr Sixsmith, after you left, it struck me the quickest way to summon help would be to use my car phone, therefore I made my way round to the Cloisters and phoned Emergency.’

This told Joe a lot.

First, it explained the speed of the police response.

Second, it confirmed the woman’s status. The Cloisters was a paved area at the back of the church. Folklore claimed it was all that remained of the original medieval abbey. Archaeology proved it was merely a pavement laid down by the Victorian contractors to stop their material and machines from sinking into the Lutonian bog. Now it provided space to park a few cars, a convenience in the gift of the Reverend Timothy Cannister and only doled out to top people. Joe didn’t anticipate being invited to park his Morris Oxford there.

Third, he recognized the explanation as apology. Perhaps her houseboys hadn’t been big on civic responsibility. Whatever, she’d doubted if he’d go near a phone and this was her way of saying sorry without admitting there was anything to be sorry about.

He said, ‘That was good thinking. Sometimes they need a couple of calls to get them out of the canteen.’

She rewarded him with a not unattractive smile, then overpaid him by turning to Chivers and saying, ‘Now, Constable, why don’t you trot off and fetch one of your superiors?’

Chivers went red as a radish, but before he could explode into real trouble, a voice cried, ‘Mrs Calverley, I thought it was you. I do hope you haven’t been inconvenienced.’

The Reverend Timothy Cannister had broken past the young Scots constable. Known to the compulsive punsters of Luton as Tin Can because of his fondness for rattling one in your face, his reaction to the woman confirmed she belonged to the cheque-in-the-post set rather than the coin-in-the-slot class.

Also the name meant something to Chivers whose indignant response withered on his lip.

‘No inconvenience, Tim,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m just helping this constable with his enquiries.’

‘It’s sergeant, ma’am, and at the moment I’m senior officer present. So if you could just spare a moment …?’

‘Why on earth didn’t you say so? Let me tell you all I know about this dreadful business.’

It took less than a minute of admirably terse narrative. Chivers didn’t interrupt or ask any questions, and then Mrs Calverley accepted Tin Can’s invitation to step into the vicarage for a warming potation, though she winced visibly at his preciosity.

‘All right for me to go and get one of them too?’ asked Joe.

‘Not before you answer a few questions, Sixsmith,’ snarled Chivers.

‘Nothing I can add to what the lady says.’

‘You’re supposed to be a detective, aren’t you? How about trying to give me a description of the perpetrator?’

‘What perpetrator?’ asked Joe. ‘Perpetrator of what?’

‘Don’t get clever with me, sunshine. There’s a body in that box, remember?’

‘I know. And I think you’ll find he’s been dead an hour or so.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I felt for a pulse and he was cold enough not to have died just that minute,’ said Joe.

‘So what was this guy you spotted doing then?’

‘Maybe the same as me, checking the kid’s pulse to see if he needed help.’

Chivers snarled a laugh and said, ‘Do you think Immigration knows about all these Good Samaritans flooding into the country? More likely he was one of those weirdos who get their kicks beating dossers up. So, a description.’

Joe gave him what he could. Finally Chivers said, ‘All right. Sod off. We’ll be in touch.’

‘And thank you too, Sergeant, for your courtesy. I’ll be sure to mention it to Mr Woodbine. I was real pleased to hear he’s been made up to superintendent.’

It was a low blow. Willie Woodbine disliked Chivers almost as much as Joe did, plus the new detective superintendent hadn’t been hindered in his elevation by the help Joe had somewhat fortuitously supplied in solving a recent big murder case.

Chivers was a nifty counter puncher and now he said, ‘You’ll be going to the celebration party at his house next Sunday then?’

He knows I’ve as much chance of being invited there as I have of being invited to stand for the Cheltenham Tories, thought Joe.

‘Hope I can make it,’ he said. ‘If I do, I’ll see you there, shall I?’

He saw the dart draw blood. Chivers and the CID girls might get a drink down the pub, but no way was Willie Woodbine going to take them home!

He took a last glance at the cardboard box before he walked away. No one should end up in a thing like that, especially not someone so young.

His musing on death’s indignities made him forget life’s perils.

‘There you are, Joseph Sixsmith. Now what you been up to?’

It was Aunt Mirabelle, lurking in the portico. At least her eagerness to be brought up to date made her forget Galina. But she showed more pertinacity than Chivers by suddenly asking, ‘What you doing sneaking out of that side door anyway?’

Time to go. He glanced at his watch which had stopped and said, ‘Auntie, we’ll talk tomorrow, OK? I got an appointment. Business.’

‘At this time of night.’

‘Crime doesn’t keep office hours,’ he tossed over his shoulder.

He’d seen that on the letterhead of a security firm he’d failed to do business with. He’d thought at the time it was a pretty crappy slogan. Now he got Mirabelle’s vote.

‘Don’t give me that clever dick crossword stuff,’ she yelled after him. ‘You never went to no college. Joseph Sixsmith, you get yourself back here!’

Joe had made it to the square. Freedom was at hand but old habits die hard and he’d been obeying Aunt Mirabelle’s commands as long as he could remember. He hesitated on the edge of the pavement. He who hesitates is sometimes saved. A dusty blue Range Rover came shooting out of the narrow lane that led to the Cloisters car park and swept by him at a speed that would probably have exploded his vital organs if he’d taken another step.

He glimpsed Mrs Calverley’s angular profile above the wheel. She gave no sign that she’d noticed him. Well, he supposed she’d had a nasty shock. And so had he.

There were two ways of taking this near miss. One was that God had used Aunt Mirabelle’s voice to save his life. The other was, a man who’s just been so close to death needs a drink.

He weighed the alternatives judiciously. On the whole, he reckoned that after all the eighteenth-century praise and thanksgiving God had been getting tonight, He wouldn’t be averse to a bit of modern secular music for a change.

Deafening his ears to Mirabelle’s unceasing commands, he set off for the Glit.

3

From time to time, Dick Hull, who runs the Gary Glitter public house in Luton, gets an acute attack of conscience. It seems to him that despite all he has done by way of decor, music and memorabilia, he is failing in his priestlike task of celebrating the one and only supernova of the British pop firmament.

Whenever this black mood comes upon him, he seeks solace in The Tape.

This is a recording he made at one of Gary’s legendary Gangshows by hurling a cassette recorder on to the stage and reclaiming it later under a savage assault by three stewards. Miraculously, the tape had kept on recording. The resulting sound in Hull’s ears was more than hi-fidelity. It was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Played full belt on the Glit’s PA system, it took him back to that glorious night in Glasgow, and all his self-doubt faded away.

It was playing tonight. Joe heard it several streets away. Legend had it that when fog blanketed Britain so bad that most airports were packing up and going home, at Luton planes still landed, homing in on the Glit.

Joe didn’t altogether believe this. But he did wonder how a God accustomed to the gentle murmurings of Hallelujah choruses might feel about this level of decibels.

Happily, he was able from long experience to detect that it was approaching its climax. This was not, great though it was, Gary’s valedictory rendition of ‘I’m the Leader of the Gang (I am)’ but the voice of a steward shouting ‘Awafokyerselyerweedickheed!’ and Hull’s respondent scream as a size eleven army surplus boot came down on his hand.

The scream peaked as Joe entered. No one was talking. Even the new generation of kids brought up in a sound environment which made the machine room Joe had worked in most of his adult life seem like a forest glade, couldn’t compete with this combination of frantic fans, stroppy stewards, and personal pain.

Then it was over. For a second there was a fragment of that rarest of things at the Glit, perfect silence.

In that moment Joe’s gaze met Galina Hacker’s across the crowded bar, and his heart sank. She’d been at the Oxfam shop again. At least the seventies flared trousersuit she wore covered those provocative legs (how could anything so skinny be so sexy?) but she’d given the tunic a bit of pazazz by cutting off the sleeves, and even from this distance Joe could see she was wearing nothing beneath it. The flesh missing off her legs had been redistributed up there with equally disturbing results.

First things first. He gestured to the bar and shouldered his way through, giving and returning greetings. Next best thing to anonymity for a PI was a place where everyone knew you, especially when it meant your pint of Guinness was already waiting, neat and welcoming as a vicar at a wedding.