Way she said Jones had a bit of a giggle in it. Could this be a wind-up by one of the Glit jokers? He played it again, listened carefully. No, definitely Sixsmith not Sexwith. So where was the joke? Get him into the office before nine? Ha ha, really funny.
The phone rang. He grabbed it but didn’t say anything. If this was some joker, let them make the first move.
‘Sixsmith, is that you?’
The voice was female but this time he recognized it.
‘Butcher, is that you?’ he echoed.
She wasn’t in the mood for joking. Her voice was urgent.
‘Listen, you went to see Peter Potter, did you?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, his sense of grievance welling up. ‘And he’s a lot further gone than you imagine.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sounded alarmed.
‘You just got him down as a self-seeking fascist, if I remember you right. I’d say he was an A1 dickhead with all the charm and good manners of a wire worm!’
‘You didn’t get on?’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘So what happened?’
‘What happened? He told me I’d got no case and should think myself lucky to be getting one twenty-five. I told him he should think himself lucky still to be chewing on a full set of teeth.’
‘Sixsmith, you didn’t?’
‘No, I’m just being macho after the event,’ he confessed. ‘Why? Has he been complaining? What does he say I said?’
‘Nothing. What happened then?’
‘Well, I left, didn’t I? Nothing more to be said and he looked the type who was capable of billing me by the millisec.’
‘And he was all right when you left?’
‘Yes, of course, he was fine … Butcher what’s going on?’
‘Listen, Joe, I’ve just had the police here. They came to ask if I’d sent a small balding black man round to see Potter. I said I needed to know why they were asking before I answered. They said that Potter had been attacked in his office and they needed the said small balding black man to help with enquiries.’
‘What? Shoot, Butcher, this is crazy. All they got to do is ask Potter. He’ll tell them I never laid a hand on him.’
‘They can’t do that, Joe. He’s dead. Pete Potter’s dead.’
Joe sat and looked at the phone as if hoping it would burst into laughter and tell him it was OK, this was just the new British Telecom dial-a-joke service.
He could hear footsteps running up the stairs.
‘Joe, I’m sorry, I had to give them your name. They’ll be round to see you any minute …’
The door burst open and three uniformed policemen spilled into the room.
‘With you in a moment, gents,’ said Joe Sixsmith. ‘Butcher, I think I need a lawyer.’
The policemen of Luton have a tradition of liberal thought running back to the Middle Ages when the sheriff’s charge to the constables of the watch contained the clause, ‘Nor shall it be taken as mitigation of rudely laying thy hands on a citizen and breaking his head, to say that thou mistook him for a Son of Harpenden. But against such as are known by certain signs to be Sons of Harpenden, whose depravations and depredations are notorious amongst sober Christian folk, then lay on amain!’
Joe in his teens had got himself classed as a Son of Harpenden by wilfully provoking the police in three respects: one, by being young; two, by being black; three, by being working class.
As the passing years gradually diluted the first of these provocations, Joe found the police magnanimously tolerant of his steadfast refusal to do anything about the other two, and eventually, safely pinned down as an industrial wage-slave, he looked set to pass the remainder of his life in that state of armed truce which a Martian on a day trip to England could mistake for integration.
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,