Reginald Hill - Killing the Lawyers

And she was gone, clutching her tray like a championship trophy.

Joe looked down at the cat postcards she’d left on the desk.

‘Well, I guess I’m hired, Whitey,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know whether to be glad or not. This one could be a real problem.’

And the cat looked at him with an expression which said, the only real problem you’ve got is you’ve just given away my toilet tray, and what the shoot do you intend doing about that ?

Despite the fact that it was still only nine o’clock, breakfast felt a long way away.

Joe popped round the corner to Mr Palamides’s hardware shop where he bought a new litter tray in puce plastic. He foresaw trouble with the colour but it was all Mr P had.

‘OK, it does shout at you,’ he said to Whitey. ‘But have you seen the new gents at the Glit?’

The cat refused to be comforted so Joe left him sulking in the bottom drawer of his desk and went off in search of food.

A bacon sarnie and a mug of tea at MacFrys produced an association-of-ideas timeslip, reminding him of his conclusion, tested at breakfast, that Sandra Iles was Number One Suspect for the Potter killing.

It didn’t feel quite such an odds-on certainty now, but he didn’t doubt that Willie Woodbine on his return home would want to know if she’d been thoroughly checked out, and if Chivers wasn’t bright enough to do it, Joe had no inhibitions about doing himself a bit of good and the sergeant a bit of harm by demonstrating he at least had been on the ball.

The precise nature of this demonstration he had yet to work out. One thing was certain. Anything that came close to confrontation in a secluded spot was definitely out. Citizen’s arrest sounded easy when you said it fast, but it wasn’t a concept most Lutonians took kindly to, and he’d already had experience of getting on the wrong side of Ms Iles.

He doubted she’d be at work today. The chambers on Oldmaid Row would be crawling with cops and in any case, hadn’t she told Chivers she’d just called in to collect some case notes to study at home over the rest of the holiday? Probably a way of making some poor sod pay for her time even when she was lying around watching old movies on the box.

He drove to the post office, checked the telephone directory. There were three S. Iles, but one was a greengrocer and another lived on the Hermsprong Estate where rats hardly dared to go, let alone lawyers. The third address looked promising. 7 Coach Mews. This was all that remained to mark the site of one of Luton’s great coaching inns which had gone into rapid decline with the coming of the railway. The coming of the motor car had taken much longer to displace the horse totally in the town’s conservative affection and the stable complex had survived the demolition of the old inn by a good fifty years. Finally it too had become ruinous till a smart seventies developer had bought up the site, kept the old cobbled yard and as much of the facade as wasn’t on the point of collapse, and constructed eight town houses which had tripled in price by the height of the eighties boom. They had suffered the universal dip since then but were still only within reach of the town’s fattest cats, like accountants, pornographers, and lawyers.

He drove round there and smiled smugly when he saw the BMW parked in the cobbled yard. So far so good. But where next?

He recalled a story he’d heard read on the radio where some guy had gone around telling people in high places he knew their secret, then watched their reaction. It had been a pretty funny story, but maybe it had a serious side.

He guessed she was in the house, what with the car outside and the curtains still drawn. There was a phone box a little way down the street. He went into it and dialled the Iles number.

It rang a few times then an answer machine clicked in.

He put on the approximation of an Irish accent he used when singing ‘Danny Boy’ and said, ‘We know it was you that did it. See you soon.’

Then he returned to the car which he’d parked with a good view of the entrance to the mews. He was well out of the sightline of anyone in Number 7 but if she did emerge in the BMW, looking guilty, it was going to be a delicate task following her in this mobile wallpaper ad. Half an hour later he was starting to feel that this wasn’t a problem he was going to have to face. He went back to the phone box and rang again. Still the answer machine. He pressed the rest and redialled, repeating the process several times. Surely even a lawyer couldn’t be sleeping this soundly? He strolled to the mews entrance and glanced up at Number 7. The curtains were still drawn.

This is stupid, he thought. I mean, no one’s paying me to do this. Head back to the office, Sixsmith, and have a kip till it’s time to go see the lovely Zak down the Plezz and start earning some real money.

But even as his sensible mind hesitated, his traitor feet were carrying him to the door of Number 7 and his foolish finger was prodding the bell.

Nothing happened. He rang again, leaning his ear to the wood to check the bell was actually ringing. It was. And the door moved slightly under pressure from his ear.

He pushed it with his hand and it swung slowly open.

There was a noise to his right. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that an elderly gent of military mien had emerged from Number 6 and was regarding him with a curiosity this side of suspicion, but only just. Fixing his gaze firmly on the doorway, Joe let his mouth spread in a big smile and cried, ‘Well, hello there! Nice to see you again,’ and stepped inside.

Now why do I do these things? he asked himself helplessly. See a clever move and make it quick, is the way to lose at chequers, as Aunt Mirabelle always said after luring him forward with sacrifice, then triple-hopping his pieces.

But he’d done it anyway. Closing the door behind him so that Number 6 couldn’t peer in, he peeped through a small curtained window and saw the old soldier still standing there like he was on sentry duty. Best thing to do was wait a couple of minutes, then exit boldly, shouting, Thank you and goodbye ! If the sound of his entry hadn’t roused the drowsy Ms Iles, then he could afford to exit with a bang!

But his awkward mind was asking, why hadn’t the legal lady been roused? Phone ringing, door opening, strange voice downstairs … Maybe she’d been so affected by what happened to Potter she’d knocked herself out with a pint of gin? Maybe … He decided to abandon maybes, knowing from experience how soon you ran out of the comfortable zones and got down to the scarys.

It was simpler to try and wake her, then run like hell at the first sound of movement.

He advanced to the foot of the stairs and called, ‘Ms Iles? You up there?’

No reply. I am definitely not going up those stairs, thought Joe.

Not any more than two or three, anyway.

But four or five never seems much more than two or three, and in no time at all he found himself where he had no intention of being, on the landing.

‘Ms Iles?’ he called again, thinking that if she came out of the bathroom now stark naked, she probably knew enough law dating back to the Middle Ages to get him broiled on a gridiron.

He moved slowly forward towards an open door. It led into a bedroom. She was in there. He could see her. She was naked.

‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe.

Maybe she’d got so pie-eyed she couldn’t make it under the duvet. Maybe …

There he went with his maybes again when all the time he knew from the angle of her head to her body that maybes were right out of fashion.

To his long list of folk he’d got wrong he added Sandra Iles. Unless she’d been so ridden with guilt, she’d managed to break her own neck.