Born Guilty Page 10

  ‘I can’t promise anything but I’ll ask. You’re obviously on a burn, Sixsmith. So how’re you doing with old Kiss-the-girls?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Georgie Porgie pudden ’n’ pie kissed the girls and made them cry. The Queen of Beacon Heights.’

  ‘You really don’t like that woman, do you?’ said Joe.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with her?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t found out anything against her either.’

  ‘Keep digging. I’m sure it’s there. Take care, Sixsmith.’

  Joe had been watching a shadow on the frosted door panel. As he replaced the phone it began to recede. He jumped up and hurried to open the door.

  He’d been right. It was Beryl Boddington’s sturdy/sexy back he saw receding towards the landing.

  ‘Lost your nerve?’ he called after her.

  She turned and smiled and said, ‘Hi, Joe. Just called to see you were OK. Mirabelle told me about the explosion up at Mr Woodbine’s. ’Nother fine mess you got yourself into.’

  Her attempt to be offhand didn’t stop Joe feeling touched and flattered.

  ‘Not my mess this time,’ he said. ‘Step inside and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  He made another pot of tea as he described the party. He kept the tone lightly comic but he didn’t get many laughs.

  Finally, exasperated, he said, ‘You got that disapproving look. Why is that? I wasn’t in any danger and none of this had anything to do with my job. I don’t much like this disapproval game you and Aunt Mirabelle play, but at least you could stick to your own rules!’

  With matching exasperation Beryl replied, ‘Joe, you were at a party where your hostess hey-boyed you and your host Uncle-Sammed you, and an explosion blew a buffet lunch all over you, and why were you there? Was it because of your good looks and natural charm? Or because you can hit a right note three times in five? No, it was because you’re a PI. You work in a sewer, you don’t end up smelling of roses.’

  ‘Yeah, but you always get a seat to yourself on the bus,’ said Joe. ‘And three out of five notes gets you a golden disc in hard rock. And finally, you are right, reason I was there had nothing to do with my looks or charm. It was entirely down to you.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘You hadn’t sent Butcher down to the station to bail me out that night, Willie would never have invited me. So just imagine how you’d feel if that oven had blown me up!’

  Beryl appeared to be imagining this without too much distress and Joe felt quite relieved when there was a knock at the door. The relief faded when in reply to his, ‘Come in!’ the door opened to reveal Willie Woodbine.

  ‘Just passing, Joe,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d look in and check you were OK. Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were busy.’

  ‘Just a social call,’ said Beryl sweetly. ‘Joe, I’ll let you know how I imagine I’d have felt when I’ve had time to think about it, OK? Bye now.’

  She was gone.

  ‘Nice girl,’ said Woodbine appreciatively.

  ‘I think so,’ said Joe. ‘Like a cup of tea, er, Willie?’ Might as well test whether they were on first name terms beyond the Sabbath.

  ‘Greatly appreciated,’ said Woodbine, sitting down. ‘You had us worried yesterday, Joe, did you know that? Taking off without a word like that. When we started doing a head count and found we were short, well, you know how easy it is to think the worst.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I mean, I thought someone would have seen …’

  ‘No sweat, Joe. Someone had seen you going off with Dora Calverley. Soon as I heard that, I said, no blame for Joe! Takes a stronger man than him to resist Dora when she gets a notion into her head.’

  It occurred to Joe that as he and Woodbine had exchanged words in the ruined kitchen, all this about imagining the worst was a load of crap. So what was he really talking about?

  Something to do with Dora Calverley, perhaps?

  He said, ‘Yeah, Mrs Calverley’s a real toughie. Just who is she that everyone jumps?’

  ‘It’s mainly down to her, the kind of woman she is,’ said Woodbine. ‘But the name helps. The Calverleys used to be big. Fifty years ago they owned half the county. Lord lieutenants, that sort of thing. Dickie Calverley, Dora’s husband, was just a distant cousin really, but when the mainstream of the family started drying up, they did a proper job. No money, no reputation, no kids. Dickie suddenly found himself heir to the only bit of the family estate which was entailed so that no one could touch it. He died out in Africa before he could enjoy it. It passed to Fred, his son, the last of the Calverleys, and he and his mother came back to live there a year ago. Word is that Dickie left nothing but a lot of debts back in Zimbabwe, so Dora’s not exactly the rich widow.’

  ‘Yeah, Hoot Hall looks pretty run down,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’ve been there?’ said Woodbine sharply.

  ‘Just for a sandwich,’ said Joe. ‘So if she’s so poor and the family’s skidded off the end of Skid Row, why’s anyone pay any heed to the name?’

  ‘Old habits die hard, Joe. There’s plenty in Luton would still sacrifice a virgin on New Year’s Eve if they could find one. And besides, as you so rightly observed, she’s a toughie, she’d make people jump even if her name was Smith. But not even old Tin Can, who can get money out of a stone, has much hope of getting anything there, though he keeps on trying. Me, I’d be very chary about doing any work for her and not getting cash upfront. They’ve got a cavalier attitude to debt, the upper classes, ’specially to tradesmen.’

  Joe thought uneasily of Mrs C.’s cheque for a hundred pounds still nestling in his back pocket. She wouldn’t dare bowl him a bouncer, would she?

  ‘You’re looking worried, Joe,’ said Woodbine. ‘Dora hasn’t offered you a job, has she?’

  His tone was vibrant with the warm sympathy of a concerned friend. But Joe knew as sure as taxes that this was what Willie Woodbine wanted to find out.

  In the movies, your hard-boiled PI would have let him or herself be worked over with rubber truncheons before they broke client confidentiality. But Joe knew he bruised easily. And besides, Mrs C. hadn’t exactly been reticent with Willie about her interest in the boy in the box.

  Also, he couldn’t get out of his mind the number scrawled on the boy’s thumb. A real detective would want to test the cop’s reaction.

  Still, no harm in being diplomatic.

  He said, ‘Mrs C. thinks the Force may be too overstretched working on serious crime to have much time left over for unidentified dossers, so she’s asked me to give a hand finding out who the kid at St Monkey’s was.’

  ‘I see,’ said Woodbine, his expression neutral. ‘And how do you propose doing that, Joe?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Joe, playing helpless. ‘Anyway, Willie, after what you said, don’t think I’ll be trying very hard till I see the colour of her money.’

  ‘That’s right, Joe,’ said the policeman heartily. ‘Don’t move out of your class. Woman like Dora Calverley will have the shirt off your back without you feeling a draught.’

  He finished the tea Joe had poured for him and stood up.

  Joe said, ‘Talking of shirts, I think I left my jacket in your garden.’

  ‘Oh yes? Lot of stuff lying around. Always is when people get panicky. It’ll all be stored safely. Just call round, Joe. My wife’s taken the morning off school to supervise the workmen.’

  This unsolicited opportunity of an encounter with Georgie Woodbine should have pleased Joe, but it didn’t. Perhaps it showed, for Woodbine eyed him thoughtfully and said, ‘I’ll give her a ring, say you’re coming, shall I?’

  Does he want me round there? wondered Joe. If so, why?

  He said, ‘Thanks, er, Willie.’

  ‘My pleasure, Joe. Private and public sectors should work hand in hand, isn’t that what the chief said? Which reminds me, anything you turn up on this dead boy, you won’t forget it’s police busi
ness, Joe? Whether Dora coughs up cash or not, it’s me you show it to first. You understand that?’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to,’ said Joe.

  13

  First things first.

  Soon as Woodbine had left Joe headed round to the building society and went up to Gallie Hacker’s window.

  ‘You got something?’ she asked hopefully.

  It was early days to be telling her about Dunk Docherty, Joe decided.

  ‘I’m working on it,’ he said. ‘Listen, Gallie, do me a favour. Cheque here I want to pay into my account but I’m not sure about it. Anyway, can you check it’s kosher without it bouncing?’

  ‘Hold on,’ she said, noting the details. She vanished into a rear office and returned a few moments later smiling. ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll pay it in then. Hey, I enjoyed Saturday night. Sorry, I know it was work, what I mean is, I liked your mum and dad. And your granddad too. Nice people.’

  Silly, he told himself as he left. Don’t get too reassuring, Joe, not till you see how this thing’s going to work out.

  Slowly he drove up to Beacon Heights. Man whose life was full of problems didn’t move too fast from one to another.

  Being a top cop obviously got you service. All over Luton that morning there were probably householders scanning the empty streets anxiously for the sight of their promised glazier, painter, plasterer, joiner, or gas man. Vain were their hopes if the number of vans parked outside the Woodbine residence was anything to go on.

  The front door was open and Joe followed a man with a large sheet of glass into the house. Here he found the craftsmen from the vans labouring like the slaves on Cheops pyramid under the pharaonic eye of Georgina Woodbine.

  When she spotted Joe, the ill temper on her face heated up another ten degrees, then was almost instantaneously switched off.

  ‘Mr Sixsmith,’ she said. ‘You’ve come for your jacket.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Joe. ‘Did someone find it?’

  ‘There was something, I think. It’ll be in the utility room.’

  She led him through the kitchen where activity increased a hundredfold on her appearance.

  ‘Any structural damage?’ enquired Joe.

  ‘My father built to last,’ she said as proudly as any stately home owner. ‘You’re in the Boyling Corner Choir, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Joe.

  ‘A first-rate ensemble.’

  The compliment was both marred and magnified by the faint note of surprise that underpinned it.

  ‘You play in the Sinfonia, don’t you?’ said Joe. ‘I’d not noticed … I mean, I don’t pay much heed except to the conductor …’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ she said with a smile, as faint and as surprising as sunshine in a rainforest. ‘I’m only a humble fiddler, easily missed.’

  ‘I know what you mean, being in the chorus … but there’d not be a choir or an orchestra without us,’ said Joe.

  She didn’t look too thrilled at this bit of unifying democracy. They had reached the unscathed utility room where a variety of articles were laid out across a dishwasher. Joe’s jacket, folded so the lining showed, hit the gaze like a ripe tomato.

  ‘There it is,’ he said.

  ‘And you really want it back?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He picked it up and they retraced their steps. As they reached the entrance hall, Georgie Woodbine said, ‘Would you care for a drink, Mr Sixsmith? Coffee is difficult till they sort out the kitchen but I can offer you a Scotch? Or a gin?’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Scotch’ud be fine,’ he said insincerely. He wasn’t a spirits man, especially not at this time in the morning, but only a fool would miss a chance like this.

  Or perhaps when it was so readily given, only a fool would accept it?

  She led him into a spacious and elegantly furnished sitting room. As she poured the drinks she said, ‘I do hope you and Dora got some lunch yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We went to Hoot Hall.’

  ‘Hoot Hall. My my. It’s years since I was there. I don’t doubt one of Dora’s kitchen staff managed to rustle you up something far superior to anything you’d have found in my little buffet.’

  Like with the flowers yesterday, she was still playing her little games, thought Joe. She knew exactly the state of things up at Hoot Hall and was testing to see whether he’d contradict or go along with her.

  ‘You haven’t got some ginger ale I could put in this?’ he said.

  ‘Soda,’ she said with distaste.

  ‘That’ll do,’ he said. There was a delicate glass dish full of sugared almonds on the table in front of him. He slipped a couple into his mouth as she was squirting some soda into his whisky and was helping himself to another handful as she turned.

  ‘I see you’re not worried about heart attacks,’ she observed.

  Joe shrugged and said, ‘Life’s too short.’

  She found this very funny, letting out a peal of spontaneous laughter, rising from some hitherto concealed warm centre which for the first time made Joe aware of her as a woman in the sexual as well as the social sense. She sat down on the sofa next to his armchair and curled her legs up under her.

  Hello, thought Joe. It’s buddy buddy time.

  She said, ‘Forgive my feminine curiosity, but I was wondering … no offence meant … what on earth it could be you and Dora Calverley had in common?’

  Here we go again, thought Joe.

  He said, ‘I suppose it was music brought us together.’

  ‘Really? I always thought she had a tin ear.’

  This was how polite folk called you a liar.

  Joe said, ‘Maybe it was nostalgia then. All that time in Africa, maybe she just got homesick for a black face.’

  Again the spontaneous laugh. Joe could feel himself being reassessed. Am I playing this wrong? he wondered. Often you got more out of folk when they rated you a dumbo.

  Too late now. He said. ‘When I was talking to, er, Edgar earlier, he was interested in me and Mrs C. too.’

  ‘Really? Was he now?’ she said thoughtfully. It came across as genuine, confirming what Joe had suspected. The Woodbines weren’t working as a team. In fact, while he couldn’t cite any objective evidence, it wouldn’t surprise him if their marriage was a bit rocky.

  So was she interested in his relations with Mrs C. on her own behalf or because Willie was interested?

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, ‘Forgive me, Mr Sixsmith. All these prying questions. I’ve been a school-teacher too long.’

  ‘Ready for a change then?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To grown-ups,’ he suggested.

  This set her laughing again. Thinks I’m a real comic turn, thought Joe. But at the same time he felt flattered at being able to provoke that rich deep laugh which registered on senses deeper than the ear …

  Hey, watch it, man! This is Willie Woodbine’s wife you’re getting horny about, and could be she is a les anyway, so haul back!

  She said, ‘Yes, grown-ups would make a nice change, Mr Sixsmith. Perhaps you and I could be grown up together?’

  The innuendo was unmistakable even if the tone was mocking. Any self-respecting hard-boiled gumshoe would have been on her like a flash, satisfying at a stroke his appetites and also his curiosity whether she was AC or DC.

  Time to make an excuse and leave, thought Joe.

  His mind seemed right out of excuses so he decided the simplest way was to be chucked out.

  He said, ‘Seems to me Mrs Calverley gets right up your nose. Like to tell me why?’

  For a moment it looked like he’d succeeded. The body language changed, the back stiffened and the feet popped out from under the thighs and hit the carpeted floor with a thud.

  Then she smiled and said, ‘All right, Mr Sixsmith. We’re both professional and maybe personal nosey parkers. Let’s trade confidences. Deal?’


  He said, ‘Well, I’m not sure …’

  ‘Don’t play hard to get,’ she said kindly. ‘Not unless you don’t want to be got. I’ll start. Yes, you’re quite right, I’m not overly fond of dear Dora, though it hasn’t always been like that. Once we were very close. We were at school together, in fact. At Meegrims.’

  Meegrims was Bedfordshire’s poshest girls’ boarding school, the kind of place that figured in the tabloids when minor league royalty went there, or pregnant pupils left.

  Joe said, ‘I’d have thought Mrs C. was a good bit older than you.’

  She said, ‘I see I’ll need to watch you. In fact, there are only three years between us though since she let her skin dry up like an old Barbour, it looks more like ten.’

  ‘But the age difference didn’t stop you becoming friends?’

  ‘Helped it, in a way. She was my House Fiend.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ laughed the woman. ‘Every new girl at Meegrims has an older girl appointed to look after her. She’s called a House Friend.’

  ‘Like what do you call it? Fagging?’

  ‘In theory quite the reverse. The older girl is supposed to help the younger. But in practice, of course, it frequently descended to that level, which is why the “r” quickly disappeared.’

  ‘And Mrs C. was fiendish, was she?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Georgie. ‘Far from it. In fact, she helped me a great deal. I needed help too. I wasn’t just a new girl, I was new money which made me particularly vulnerable.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Joe. ‘New money …?’

  She laughed again and said with an edge of malice, ‘I’m glad to see that indifference to other people’s problems isn’t just the prerogative of the well to do. My grandfather established the family business and my father made it boom after the war. My brother and I were educated in the class to which the family could now afford to belong. Purchasing advantages, your red friends might call it. True, so long as you remember that advantages are often paid for with more than money. Parents dump a lot of lumber on their kids, don’t they?’