Born Guilty

But he had no difficulty in believing after that first all too public encounter in the Sugar ’n’ Tongs that, as sure as the fall of a sparrow is known to the living God, not even the protective cover of the Glit could hide their further meetings from Mirabelle.

‘So how are things going?’ she now breathed in his ear. ‘Any progress?’

He said, ‘I’ve got one of my operatives working on a lead in London. I’m expecting a report any time. Can you call round my office lunchtime tomorrow and I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’

Anyone who dared go out dressed like Gallie had nothing to fear from his mean street, and it was as far out of the public eye as he could hope to get.

‘OK,’ she said.

She leaned away from him, tipped her head back, stuck the bottle in her mouth and drank. It was the kind of shot TV advertisers sold their souls for.

Won’t wean me off Guinness, thought Joe, but I get the subliminal!

On the other hand, by the time he left the pub an hour later, he’d completely forgotten the name of the drink.

4 (#ulink_301c7d64-e6b4-5c5e-b3ba-5ac39566cf3a)

The following morning as Joe pushed open the door of the Bullpat Square Law Centre, he recalled his phrase ‘one of my operatives’ with a certain unease.

Truth was, Joe had operatives like politicians have principles – he latched on to whatever was free, useful, and handy. It wasn’t guilt that caused the unease, just fear that somehow the woman he was going to see might discover how she’d been categorized.

It was only eight o’clock but the Centre didn’t keep social hours.

‘Morning, Joe,’ said the young man at the reception counter.

‘Morning, Harry,’ said Joe cautiously. He had difficulty differentiating the tribe of young helpers.

This one seemed happy with ‘Harry’ so Joe went on, ‘Butcher in?’

‘Here when I arrived,’ said Harry proudly. ‘Got her first punter too.’ The helpers, drawn in roughly equal numbers from idealistic law students and the unemployed, adored Butcher. The Centre’s motto was: Law helps not hurts which drew the odd wry grimace from those who’d had their legs chopped off by Butcher in full flight, but she didn’t draw blood except when necessary. A Social Security snoop who’d been foolish enough to hack into the Centre’s accounts in an effort to prove ‘unemployed’ helpers were getting paid more than out-of-pocket expenses had found himself teetering on the edge of a career-ending court case. The cheers as his head dropped into the basket would have been heard in Hertfordshire. But Butcher had held back, and now the man came in on his day off to give advice on knotty benefit cases.

It was this capacity for making friends in unlikely places that had got her elected as ‘one of Joe’s operatives’. Casting around for ways of discovering whether in fact there was any official interest in Galina Hacker’s granddad, he’d recalled Butcher’s wet Wykehamist. This was a Tory MP who’d been damp enough to be sacked from a junior ministerial post under Thatcher and too intelligent to be offered another under Major. Even with these pluses, it was still difficult to see the common ground on which he and Butcher (who dated the new Dark Ages from 1979) might meet. But meet they did from time to time, and out of Government didn’t mean that Piers (Piers!) was out of touch.

Joe had mentioned his problem. Butcher had said she would be going to town in a couple of days and might bump into Piers and if so she might mention Joe’s problem too. For a consideration.

‘What consideration?’ Joe had asked.

‘We’ll consider that when we see what I get from Piers,’ Butcher had replied.

Now Joe sat down to wait till Butcher was free, but the door to her office opened almost immediately.

‘Thought I recognized that grainy grunt,’ said the woman who appeared in the doorway. ‘For once your timing’s perfect. Step inside. Someone I want you to meet.’

‘Oh yes. Who’s that?’

‘Your consideration,’ said Butcher with a wicked grin.

Joe didn’t like the sound of this. He’d been hoping Piers would have drawn a blank, which would have been good news for Gallie and also kept him out of Butcher’s debt. Nevertheless he rose, trying to look like a man without a care in the world. One good thing (one of many good things) about Butcher was she was small enough for even a short man to loom over, a rare pleasure in a country which free antenatal care seemed to have peopled with giantesses. Perhaps this was the secret agenda of the Tories’ anti-health service policies – no woman allowed to be taller than Queen Victoria. It would certainly get the short PI vote!

In the office, piled high with the files which resulted from working a twenty-hour day and brumous from the strong cheroots Butcher used as a substitute for sleep, sat a girl, fourteen or fifteen, shoulder-length dark brown hair, tall (another giantess in the making!) with a sallow complexion and dark suspicious eyes. She was wearing the combination of grey skirt and blue blouse which was as close as they got to uniform at Grandison Comp, and a book-stuffed sports bag at her feet suggested she was on her way there now. Or rather out of her way, as Grandison lay on the far side of town.

‘Mavis, this is Joe Sixsmith I was telling you about,’ said Butcher.

‘Hello,’ said Joe.

The girl didn’t reply but looked him up and down dubiously.

‘Doesn’t look much like a private detective to me,’ she said.

‘Would he be much good if he did?’ wondered Butcher.

The girl considered Butcher’s logic then said, ‘Sorry. I’m dead stupid till morning break.’

‘So what do you reckon?’

‘What?’

‘Do you think he’ll do?’

‘Well, if you recommend him and there’s nothing else on offer …’

Joe said, ‘Hey, wasn’t there some guy you told me about called Wilberforce or something got slavery off the statutes a few years back?’

‘Sorry, Joe, but you put yourself in the marketplace, you’ve got to expect punters want to handle the goods. OK, Mavis, why don’t you tell Mr Sixsmith your problem?’

Joe looked expectantly at the girl who said, ‘Well, it’s not really my problem, it’s this friend of mine, well, she was a friend, Sally Eaglesfield … look, this is really embarrassing.’

‘I’m not embarrassed,’ said Butcher kindly. ‘You embarrassed, Joe?’

‘Not yet,’ he said.

‘Well, I am,’ said the girl spiritedly. ‘Can’t you tell him? He’ll probably pay more attention to you. Besides, I’ve got to scoot else I’ll miss assembly. See you.’

She was gone, moving with the awkward grace of a young deer.

‘So what is her problem?’ asked Joe.

‘You heard her. Not her’s. Her best friend’s.’

‘In my experience, when folk come to me weighed down with their friends’ problems, it’s usually just a way of telling me their own.’

‘That’s quite sharp for you, Sixsmith,’ said Butcher. ‘But in this case, you’re wrong. Only problem Mavis has got is she’s fallen out with her best friend.’

‘Happens all the time, tell her to get a new best friend.’

‘Suddenly you’re an expert on adolescence too,’ mocked Butcher.

‘When I was a kid, we were too poor to have adolescence,’ retorted Joe who found Butcher’s company provoked him to PI wise-crackery. ‘So who’s she blaming?’