Born Guilty Read online

  REGINALD HILL

  * * *

  BORN GUILTY

  A Joe Sixsmith novel

  Copyright

  Harper

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Collins Crime

  © Reginald Hill 1995

  Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Source ISBN: 9780007334810

  Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2015 ISBN: 9780007391905

  Version: 2015-07-27

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  17

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  22

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  Keep Reading

  About Reginald Hill

  By Reginald Hill

  About the Publisher

  1

  This all started when Joe Sixsmith came sneaking out of a small side door at St Monkey’s.

  The reason he was in St Monkey’s was to rehearse Haydn’s Creation.

  The reason he was sneaking out was that on arrival his Aunt Mirabelle had seized his arm in a grip like a council bailiff’s and said, ‘What’s this I’ve been hearing, Joseph?’

  Only the impatient rattatooing of Mr Perfect’s baton saved him from immediate grilling.

  Joe had no problem guessing what it was Mirabelle had been hearing. Galina Hacker, that’s what. Normally his aunt, a firm believer that any bachelor butting forty and not an alto needed a wife, would have been delighted to hear her baritone nephew was keeping company. But in this case, as well as being an affront to her own preferred candidate, Beryl Boddington (who gave Joe a little wave from the sopranos as they took their place), rumours about Galina must have hit the Rasselas Estate like word of Mrs Simpson reaching Lambeth Palace.

  Joe, a reasonable though not always a rational man, could see how it might be a shock to the auntly system to learn he’d taken up with a spiky-haired seventeen-year-old with a stud in her nose, no bra, and a skirt like a pelmet. But he saw no reason to explain himself. On the other hand, he saw every reason to avoid interrogation.

  If the Boyling Corner Concert Choir had been on its home ground, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Mirabelle had the few exits from the square-built chapel more tightly covered than a nun’s nipples. But the choir’s growing reputation had led to an invitation to join with the South Bedfordshire Sinfonia and St Monkey’s Chorale in a performance of the oratorio to mark the five hundredth anniversary of the granting of Luton’s Royal Charter. After token resistance from some of the older members, Boyling Corner had agreed that it made sense for the performance to take place in St Monica’s (known to impious Lutonians everywhere as St Monkey’s). Its advantages were obvious. Better acoustics, central situation, more seating space. And, less obvious, but best of all to a desperate man, a much greater variety of escape routes.

  Joe waited for the final Amen. He glanced towards the contraltos. Mirabelle’s eyes were fixed firmly on Mr Perfect’s – that is to say, the conductor, Geoffrey Parfitt’s – raised baton. As it came down, he took a step backwards into the taller men behind him. His heel came down on someone’s toe and a voice shot up an anguished octave.

  ‘Sor-ry!’ sang Joe.

  Then he was off like a whippet. He’d spotted an outer door in a small side chapel. He’d no idea if it would be open, but if you couldn’t trust God in a place like this, what’s a heaven for? As he reached the door he heard the conductor saying, ‘Not bad, but still a way to go. Wrap up well. It’s a raw night and we don’t want any sore throats, do we?’

  He grasped the handle, turned it, felt resistance, said a prayer, and next moment he was safe in the darkness of the night.

  Mr Perfect was right. The air was cold and dank, but Joe sucked it in like draught Guinness. His first instinct was to turn left and head for the bright lights of St Monkey’s Square from which it was only a short step to the real Guinness at the Glit. But that could be a fatal error. For a woman of her age and bulk, Mirabelle was no slouch over fifty yards. Better safe than sorry. He turned right and headed into the gloomy hinterland of the churchyard.

  Though it had a Charter, Luton didn’t have a cathedral. The rich burghers of the last century had set about compensating for this oversight by commissioning the erection of the largest parish church in the country. The money ran out before it quite reached that stature, but it was big, and The Lost Traveller’s Guide, the famous series devoted to places you were unlikely to visit on purpose, described St Monkey’s as ‘a splendid example of the controlled exuberance of late Victorian Gothic’.

  Joe, like most Lutonian kids, had found its cypressed grounds and the dark nooks formed by its many buttresses very convenient for the controlled exuberance of early sexual adventure. But that had been a good twenty years ago, before the sand got in the social machine and civilization started grinding to a halt.

  First the druggies had taken over till nightly sweeps by the police had driven them to further, fouler venues, like the infamous Scratchings. Then the new homeless, expelled by commercial indignation from the comparatively warm doorways of the shopping centres, had moved their boxes here. The police had started their sweeps again, leaving the Reverend Timothy Cannister teetering uneasily between his duty of Christian charity and the demands of the uncharitable Christians who made up most of his congregation. Vincent, his Visigothic verger, had no such doubts. Set your cardboard box up in St Monkey’s and you could be rudely awoken by a bucket of dirty water.

  But still they came. Create a society which didn’t offer help to the helpless or hope to the hopeless, and where did you expect them to go?

  So mused Joe as he made his way cautiously along the dark flagstones between the church wall and the graveyard. A gust of wind tore a hole in the seething clouds to permit a welcome glimpse of the moon. In its chill bone-light he glimpsed a little way ahead, in the angle of the great corner buttress which marked the far end of the building, one of these pathetic boxes. Over it stooped a figure.

  Joe hesitated, unwilling to risk disturbing the poor devil. Anyone desperate enough to brave the verger’s wrath deserved as much peace as he could find. Except that this figure didn’t look like it was preparing to kip down. More like it was leaning into the box to …

  Suddenly light stabbed into his ey
es, cutting off further speculation. And a woman’s voice cried, ‘You there! What do you think you’re doing?’

  Joe threw up his hand to catch the glare. The torch beam swung away to the box just in time to catch the figure taking off, dodging away between the headstones to the high boundary wall and going over it with the ease of fear.

  Then the light came drilling back into his eyes.

  ‘All right. Who are you? What are you doing here?’ demanded the woman. But there was a note of uncertainty there too. She sounded like what Aunt Mirabelle designated a real lady, and Joe guessed that the first thing real ladies learnt at their real ladies’ seminaries was, you meet a black man in a black churchyard, you run like hell!

  ‘My name’s Joe Sixsmith,’ he said, pulling a battered business card out of his pocket and holding it up in the beam.

  ‘Good Lord. A detective. You here on business?’

  ‘No, ma’am. I’ve been in the church rehearsing, and I was just taking a short cut …’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Listening, I mean, not singing. I just crept in and sat quietly. Lovely music, isn’t it?’

  ‘It surely is,’ said Joe, a long admirer of the English upper-class ability to indulge in small talk in any circumstances. ‘Listen, that guy who ran off …’

  ‘Yes. Who was he, do you think? Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Not really. Could be he’s one of those derelicts who sleep in cardboard boxes …’

  ‘Ah yes. Dreadful, isn’t it?’

  He couldn’t make out from her tone what precisely she found dreadful. He went on, ‘Only he moved a bit nimble for a down-and-out. And he looked more like he was looking into the box than getting into it.’

  ‘You think so? Perhaps we’d better take a look.’

  She began to move forward, the torch beam running over the flags and up the side of the box. It had once contained an Alfredo fridge freezer. Joe wondered about warning her that if there was anything in it now, it was unlikely to be white goods. But he didn’t fancy trying to take a torch off a real lady so he could have first look.

  She reached the box and peered in.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ she said.

  And Joe, coming to stand beside her, saw that it had been white goods after all.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ said Joe.

  It was a redundant question but at least it showed you didn’t need to attend a seminary to pick up the vernacular. If a Brit tourist had stumbled on the Crucifixion, first thing he’d probably have said was, ‘You all right, mate?’

  There was no reply. He didn’t expect one. The figure curled at the bottom of the box was male, blond, hazel-eyed, young – fifteen to twenty maybe – and not going to get any older.

  Gingerly he reached in to confirm his diagnosis. The boy’s left hand was folded palm up against his shoulder, as though in greeting. Or farewell. Something was written on the ball of his thumb … a long number faded almost to invisibility except for the central three digits … 292 … at least it wasn’t tattooed like in the death camps … The association of ideas made Joe shudder.

  ‘Is he dead?’ demanded the woman impatiently.

  I’m just putting off touching him, thought Joe. Boldly, he grasped the wrist. Temperature alone told him what he’d already known. Waste of time looking for a pulse. His time, not the boy’s. He had no more to waste.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said.

  The torch beam jerked out of the box and she cradled it against her chest, letting him glimpse her face for the first time. Fortyish, fine boned, slightly hook nosed, with her skin more weather-beaten than an English sun was likely to cause. Lit from beneath, the face looked rather more cadaverous than the boy’s in the box, except that her narrow blue eyes had the bright light of intelligence in them.

  ‘Listen, we ought to get help, the police, an ambulance …’

  ‘Yes. You go. You know the ropes and you’ll move faster …’

  ‘We’ll both go.’

  ‘No. You’ll move faster without me. To tell the truth, I feel a bit wobbly. It’s just beginning to hit home … that boy in there … he is no more than a boy, is he? … I’ve a son of my own … What is the world coming to?’

  ‘An end, maybe,’ said Joe. ‘OK, I’ll go. You sit down over here. I won’t be a minute.’

  Leaving her perched on a plinth of monumental masonry under a weeping angel, he hurried away.

  Naturally, because even in a churchyard, God’s Law and Sod’s Law are only a letter apart, he was just in time to meet Mirabelle coming out of the main entrance arm in arm with Rev. Pot of Boyling Corner Chapel, and the Reverend Timothy Cannister of St Monica’s.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Joe?’ she cried, hurling aside the pastoral pair and seizing him with both hands. ‘I said I wanted a word with you.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What’s so urgent you can’t talk to your old auntie?’ she demanded with the indignation of one who knows there is no possible answer.

  Except one.

  ‘Death,’ said Joe. ‘Excuse me, Vicar. You got a phone in the vicarage I could use?’

  2

  It must have been a quiet night on the mean streets of Luton because by the time Joe finished his phoning and came out of the vicarage, a police car was already belling its way into the square.

  Out of it leapt a fresh-faced young constable he didn’t know followed by a fat-faced one he did.

  His name was Dean Forton and he rated the Sixsmith Detective Agency lower than Wimbledon FC.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said ungraciously as Joe approached.

  ‘I found the body.’

  ‘Must have tripped over it then,’ said Forton. ‘OK, let’s take a look at it.’

  He seemed quite pleased at the prospect. First on the murder scene can get a chance to shine. But when he realized it was just a dosser, his enthusiasm faded.

  ‘More bother than they’re worth,’ he said to his younger colleague. ‘Here, Sandy, seeing we’ve got him in a box in a boneyard, why don’t you whip back to the car, get a shovel, and we’ll save everyone a bit of time and trouble.’

  ‘You’re a real riot, Dean,’ said the youngster, his Scottish roll of the r’s exaggerated by a slight tremor as he looked down at what Joe guessed was his first corpse.

  ‘All right then,’ said Forton. ‘At least keep the ghouls off till the girls get here.’

  The ghouls were a growing group of spectators led by Mirabelle. The girls, Joe guessed, were CID. Forton hung his emergency lantern on the outstretched arm of the weeping angel under which the real lady was no longer sitting. In fact, she was nowhere in sight. Joe wasn’t too surprised. Not getting involved was a kneejerk reaction of the English upper classes, particularly when what you weren’t getting involved with was a dead dosser, a black PI and Luton’s finest in a cold and gloomy churchyard.

  The girls arrived led by DS Chivers, another old acquaintance and even less of a fan than Forton. Joe gave him a bare outline of his discovery of the body, not bothering at this juncture to complicate matters with reference to the woman. He was immediately punished for this economy by her reappearance.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, cutting across Chivers’s questioning. ‘You came back then.’

  Joe felt she was stealing his lines. Chivers felt she was undermining his authority.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked irritably.

  She gave him a look which would have stopped an assegai in full flight. The image popped into Joe’s mind fully formed and he realized it came from a certainty that this was a good old-fashioned English colonial lady. Her dun-coloured skirt and shirt derived from the practical rather than the fashionable side of safari, but it was her complexion which was the real giveaway. That could only come from long exposure to the sun which used never to set.

  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.’