Killing the Lawyers

Chivers said, ‘Just tell me again what you were doing at Number 7, Coach Mews.’

Joe told him again, or rather told him the revised version which was that, being keen to assure Ms Iles of his innocence in the matter of Potter’s death, and not trusting the police to set the record straight (a good authenticating point this) he had decided to call on her personally.

‘Mr Dorken said you spoke to someone before you went in.’

Mr Dorken, the ‘military gent’, had turned out to be a retired fashion designer. Just showed how wrong you could be.

‘That was a bit of play-acting,’ admitted Joe, who knew the value of a plum of truth in a pudding of lies. ‘The door opened by itself and I got worried ’cos Mr Dorken was watching me suspiciously. Sorry.’

‘It’s stupid enough to be true,’ admitted Chivers reluctantly.

DC Doberley called him out of the room for a moment. When he returned he said, ‘Come across any Welshmen recently, Sixsmith?’

Joe thought of Starbright Jones, decided against mentioning him, and said, ‘Can’t think of any. Why?’

‘There’s an odd message on Ms Iles’s answerphone. Funny accent, could be Welsh.’

Pride almost made Joe protest, but sense prevailed.

He said, ‘Everybody sounds funny on tape. Can I go now, Sarge? I’ve got an appointment. For a job. In sport.’

‘Oh yes? Who with? Head scout down the football club?’ Chivers sneered.

And Joe couldn’t resist replying, ‘No. It’s Zak Oto down the Plezz. Got your ticket for the opening, have you, Sarge?’

To the faithful, the Plezz with its great silver sports dome from which radiated all the other support and activity buildings in broad and tree-flanked avenues, was Luton’s Taj Mahal. Literally, according to some who claimed that every local mobster who’d gone missing in the past decade had been consigned to the depths of its concrete foundations. Metaphorically there was certainly blood on its bricks. Since the idea first got floated in the overreaching eighties, fortunes had been made and lost, reputations inflated and burst, both locally and nationally. At times the government had pointed to it proudly as the very model of partnership between public money and private enterprise, at others it had provided a gleeful opposition with yet more ammo to hurl across the floor of the House. But once under way, like a juggernaut it had rolled on: and though the complexion of the local council had fluctuated in tune with the times, and work had sometimes slowed almost to a standstill, no one had had the nerve to pull the plug altogether and make Luton and its folly the mockery of the civilized world.

So now, ten years on, it was finished, and though Joe had generally been of the party who thought the whole idea was crazy, now as he drove along the main avenue, with that phlegmatic pragmatism which makes Lutonians such great survivors, he felt a glow of proprietorial pride.

He was a bit late, partly Chivers’s fault, partly Whitey’s. He’d rushed back to rescue the cat from the office and found him full of indignation at having been left so long. Also of pee because he was clearly going to have nothing to do with his new puce tray, so they’d had to stop at the first flowerbed as they reached the Plezz complex and despite the evident urgency, it had taken the cat the usual ten minutes of careful exploration with many false starts to find the piece of earth precisely suited to his purpose.

Being late didn’t matter, however, as he clearly wasn’t expected.

‘I’m here to see Zak Oto,’ said Joe to the armed guard. In fact he wasn’t armed, but he looked as if this was just because he’d left his Kalashnikov in his ARV as he felt like tearing intruders limb from limb today.

‘You and a thousand others,’ he said. ‘Piss off.’

‘She’s expecting me,’ said Joe.

‘She’d be wise to have an abortion then,’ said the guard.

‘Hey, man, why so rude?’ asked Joe. ‘OK, you’ve got a job to do, but maybe you should remember who’s paying you and do it politely.’

‘Sorry,’ said the guard. ‘Piss off, sir!’

Joe regarded him almost admiringly. Dick Hull, manager of the Glit where they liked their humour subtle, should book this guy for Show Nite.

Meanwhile he stood there, like the big dog they’d told him about at school, guarding the entrance to hell, though why anyone should have wanted to get into hell Joe had never quite grasped. But the way to get round him was toss him something to eat.

Trouble was, Joe couldn’t think of anything this guy might have an appetite for except maybe his head.

‘Joe Sixsmith? Is that you?’

A burly balding man in a tracksuit had come out of the door leading into the depths of the Dome. He was smiling at Joe.

‘Yeah, this is me,’ admitted Joe.

‘Thought it was. Don’t recognize me, do you?’

In fact the man’s creased and weather-beaten face did look familiar. But there was a sense of a thinner, younger face peering out of fortyish flesh which was more, though differently, familiar.

‘Jim Hardiman,’ said the man. ‘We were at school together.’

It was the nose that finally did it.

‘You mean Hooter Hardiman?’ said Joe.

A shadow touched the smile like a crow floating across the sun.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Long time no see, eh?’

But in fact Joe had seen Hardiman several times both in the local paper and on the telly since he had come to prominence, first as Zak’s trainer, then as sports director of the Plezz. He felt ashamed as a PI that he’d never made the connection between the grown man, Jim, and the schoolboy, Hooter. His excuse was that the nose which had stood out like a chilli on a cheesecake at fifteen had been absorbed and assimilated by forty. Also the boy had been a class above him and they’d never had much more contact than the usual ritual bullying a schoolboy heavy feels it necessary to dish out to whoever gets in his way in order to encourage the others.

But now it was best-years-of-our-lives time.

‘Heard a lot about you recently, Joe, and often meant to look you up. Have a chat about the good old times we had together.’

Would take all of ten seconds, thought Joe.

He said, ‘That would be great, Hoo … er, Jim. But I’m here to see Zak just now. Any idea where she is?’

‘Zak? She expecting you?’

‘That’s right, Mr Hardiman. Ms Oto told me to look out for him.’

This was the gung-ho guard unexpectedly coming to his support.

Joe said, ‘You knew that, why all this guard-dog crud?’

‘Thought you were just a pushy fan, didn’t I? Ms Oto didn’t tell me you’d look like … how you look.’

A diplomat already, thought Joe.

Hardiman said, Thanks, Dave. Come on, Joe. Let me show you the way.’

He set off into the Dome with Joe following. The place was full of workmen.

‘You going to be ready on time?’ said Joe, gingerly edging past WET PAINT signs.