Killing the Lawyers

‘Thought you were supposed to be a detective,’ sneered Starbright in his high-pitched voice. ‘Saw you arrive. Didn’t report straight to Miss Oto though, did you? Had a long chat with Hardiman first.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Joe, for some reason feeling as defensive as a preacher spotted going into a cathouse. ‘Turns out he’s an old schoolfriend.’

‘Very cosy,’ said the Welshman. ‘Share a cell, did you?’

Joe was getting a bit tired of this.

‘I’m a PI,’ he said. ‘I do my job by talking to people. Thought you did yours by sticking close to whoever you’re being paid to look after. What if there’d been a mad axeman in the locker room?’

‘Had you to look after her in there, didn’t she?’ said Starbright. ‘It’s a mad axeman you’re expecting then?’

How much does he know about what’s going on? wondered Joe. Maybe as official minder he should be brought up to speed, but that was Zak’s call.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘What she tells you is her business, OK? But believe me, my business has got nothing to do with your business. Breaking bones, I mean.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Starbright.

Zak had come out of the locker room and was walking away from them down the corridor. Even from the back she looked beautiful. Starbright went after her. Even in retreat he looked menacing.

Funny the way the Lord doled out his gifts, thought Joe Sixsmith a touch enviously.

But not enough for it to touch his tranquillity more than the moment it took to turn and start towards the car park, which, though he did not know he’d got it, was perhaps a greater gift than either menace or beauty.

7 (#ulink_e86f07c1-9d6e-5038-a09e-114ba85fb159)

Back in the car, Whitey was still in a deep sulk, manifested by lying on his back on the passenger seat, breathing shallowly and twitching intermittently in the hope of persuading some bleeding-heart passer-by to ring the RSPCA. Joe’s return signalled failure, so he opted for deep sleep. But when the car stopped and Joe got out, the cat leapt to full awakeness, a single sniff telling him they were at Ram Ray’s Garage, and Ram was always good for certain little Indian sweetmeats Whitey was very partial to.

‘Good morning, Joe. Car still running well, I see. That engine sounds sweet as a temple bell. Make me a fair offer and it’s yours for keeps.’

Ram Ray was six foot tall, with silky black moustaches, melting brown eyes, and a sales patter which could sell veal-burgers to a vegan. Particularly a female vegan.

‘Fair offer would be you giving me the car plus a monkey for the work I’ve done on it,’ said Joe.

‘Always the merry quip,’ said Ram, leading the way into the office where Eloise, his nubile secretary, switched her radio off and the kettle on. Whitey, recognizing the source of good things, rubbed himself against her legs, purring like a Daimler. Not a bad life being a cat, thought Joe. Zak’s bosom, Eloise’s legs – he’d be purring too. Or more likely, have a heart attack.

‘So, Joe, what’s new?’ asked Ram. ‘Heard from Penthouse yet?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ said Joe. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He’d been tempted to let the bad news keep till the New Year, but whatever he felt about the Magic Mini, letting him have it on extended rent-free loan had been an act of kindness which deserved honest dealing.

He showed Ram the letter.

‘I’m going to fight,’ he said. ‘But it means no money for the Morris for a long time, maybe never.’

‘Don’t let it worry you, Joe,’ said Ram. ‘You have a good lawyer, I hope? You need a specialist to deal with these bastards.’

Joe thought of Peter Potter.

‘It’s in hand,’ he said. ‘So it’s OK to hang on to the Mini?’

‘My pleasure,’ said Ram.

‘And what about a respray …?’

‘Please, Joe. Not again. It has a value over and above its trade price. Those are original stencils. It is a piece of genuine sixties memorabilia. One of the exhibitions they are planning for the new gallery at the Plezz is concerned with the psychedelic era and already I am getting some interested enquiries.’

‘I get interested enquiries all the time,’ said Joe. ‘Like where did I get such a big box of chocolates? Or can I have three iced lollies, please?’

‘You see?’ said Ram, pleased. ‘People notice. A Ram Ray loan car. Excellent for business.’

This was the fatal flaw in Ram Ray’s otherwise amiable character. If it was excellent for business, he would have tattoed his name on his own grandmother.

Joe didn’t bother repeating his old plea that being the cynosure of attention in motion or at rest was far from excellent for his business, but turned to accept a cup of tea from Eloise, who, with a herald’s instinct for precedence, had seen to Whitey’s needs first.

Like the Mini, the tea was rather too flowery for Joe’s taste and he was ready for an antidote mugful of basic Luton leaf by the time he got back to his office.

He hefted the kettle to make sure there was water in it then kick-started the skirting-board switch with his toe.

Next moment he found himself sitting against the wall at the far side of the room. He had no idea how he’d got there, though from the ache in his back it must have been at sufficient speed to cause a substantial collision. His right hand was still clutching the Bakelite handle of his electric kettle, though the kettle itself was no longer attached. Through the blanket ache covering his back, a small pinpoint of sharper more localized pain was shining which he finally traced to his little finger. With difficulty he opened his hand to release the handle and saw that the end of his little finger was burned.

‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe.

Reassured by the sound, Whitey emerged, saucer-eyed, from the refuge of his drawer.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Joe. ‘Help me up.’

After plunging his finger into cold water then plastering it with ointment from his biscuit-tin first-aid kit and devising a makeshift finger stall with some insulation tape, he opened a can of medicinal Guinness. Then he set to work. In the mechanical field his detective skills were excellent and it didn’t take him long to track the trouble to the switch in the ruined kettle. The internal connections had worked loose so that when he switched the power on the whole of the kettle became live. If it hadn’t had a Bakelite handle … if more than the tip of his little finger had been touching the metal … if he hadn’t been wearing thick-soled trainers …

If, if, if … word was only good for testing things that could happen, not frightening your mind with things that might have happened. He fixed the blown fuses, dumped the ruined kettle and made a note to buy himself another. A detective could get by without most things, but not the wherewithal to brew tea.

The phone rang.

He picked it up gingerly as though afraid it too might hurl him across the room.

‘Sixsmith? Is that you? What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Butcher, how was Cambridge? You get to stroke the college eight?’

It was a joke which had had to be explained to him when he first heard it in a speech made by the Labour candidate at the last election, as had the subsequent debate as to whether the fact that the Labour candidate was a woman and the Tory opponent she’d been mocking was a homophobic father of six made it politically correct.

‘Shut up, Sixsmith. Is it true? I get back to hear that not only is Peter Potter dead, but Sandra Iles too.’

‘That’s right,’ said Joe. ‘But it’s nothing to do …’

‘Nothing ever is,’ she said with a hurtful sarcasm. ‘Look, you get yourself round here right away and bring me up to date with what’s going on, OK?’

Joe glanced at his watch. He should be on his way to the Plezz to pick up Zak. He still felt a bit groggy, but a man couldn’t let a little thing like near electrocution get between him and his only paying customer.