Reginald Hill - Blood Sympathy

Joe grinned at the sad little straw Dildo was clutching at and said, ‘He didn’t strike you as suspicious, then?’

‘No, he bloody didn’t!’ exclaimed Doberley. ‘I was just walking back to my car when this blue Fiesta turns into the drive. It stopped and he wound down the window and asked if he could help me. I guessed he was one of the family—’

‘Why?’

‘Because he would hardly have asked otherwise,’ said Dildo in exasperation. ‘How do you earn a living, Joe? Also he spoke with a bit of an accent and he looked foreign with that shaggy moustache and slouch hat. I asked him who he was, naturally, and he told me, and I told him who I was, but I didn’t shoot him the crime prevention line.’

‘Why not?’ asked Joe.

‘I thought: He doesn’t look like he’d scare easy; so I asked about Andover, had he been acting funny recently? And that got him going, all this stuff about crazy dreams and so forth. And that was it.’

He laughed without humour.

‘Know what the last thing I said to him was, Joe? I said it would probably be better if he didn’t mention this to the ladies or the old folk, as there was no need to frighten them unnecessarily! Oh no, he said. He wouldn’t do anything to frighten ’em. Then he went in and did that!’

‘Like you say, Dildo, we can’t be absolutely sure,’ said Joe.

‘No? What do you want?’ said the DC, abandoning hope. ‘The angel of the Lord in triplicate? Here, you’d better disappear now, Joe, and let me get on.’

Immersed in their conversation, they had turned into the driveway nearest Casa Mia and were approaching a not dissimilar mock-Tudor villa, only this one was traditionally coloured and called The Pines. Sixsmith could see why Doberley wouldn’t want to have to explain his presence either to the householder or, worse, to Chivers. Unfortunately their approach must have been monitored, for now the door opened and a woman came to meet them.

She was in her fifties, tall and angular, with expensively coiffured grey hair and a horsey face that looked like it had been worked on by a good picture restorer.

‘Hello,’ she cried in the piercing voice of one who expects her own way but isn’t so absolutely certain of personal desert that she can be quiet about it. ‘Police, is it?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Detective-Constable Doberley, ma’am,’ said Dildo, making a chess knight’s move forward in an effort to conceal Joe. ‘Just a couple of questions, if you would, Mrs … er …?’

‘Rathbone. Julia Rathbone. Is it about next door?’

‘That’s right, ma’am.’

‘Ah. I thought it would be.’

Sixsmith, not wanting to embarrass his fellow chorister but feeling it would look suspicious if he just took off back down the drive, moved sideways towards a grey Volvo parked in front of the garage and started examining it with that air of suppressed shock policemen usually adopted when checking his Morris.

‘Why’d you think that, ma’am?’ asked Doberley.

‘Because I saw your cars arrive, naturally. But besides that, I’ve always said it would end in tears ever since they moved in.’

‘You mean the Andovers?’

‘No, of course not. He’s all right, not quite top drawer, of course, but at least he’s English and knows his manners. Can’t imagine how he got mixed up with his wife, Gina, isn’t it? If they’d met on holiday, perhaps … I mean she’s just so … colourful , like one of those ornaments that look so delightful in Andalucia but when you get them home, it’s straight into the attic. Can’t do that with a wife, of course, not unless you’re called Rochester. But it appears she was born over here, in Tring, I believe, and that’s where he met her, so it can’t be down to sunstroke and vino, can it?’

Dildo Doberley, with a single-mindedness Joe admired, kept hold of the original thread which had led him into this verbal tangle.

‘So why would it end in tears, Mrs Rathbone?’

‘When the other came. That Rocca. My dear man, one look at him and you knew here was trouble. Do you know, he once told me if ever I was thinking of changing my hi-fi, to let him know and he’d fix me up with the best bargain I’d get in Bedfordshire. Well, I knew what that meant, back of a lorry stuff. No, thanks, I said. And he’s still undischarged, you know, and likely to stay so from what I’ve seen.’

There was a great deal more of this. Doberley stuck to his guns manfully and what it boiled down to in his notebook, or would have done if Joe Sixsmith had been making the notes, was that the real money in the family derived from old Tomassetti. He’d built up a thriving business in the fur trade with outlets all over Beds, Bucks, and Herts, till seeing that public opinion was moving strongly against wearing dead animals, he’d sold up, retired, and bought Casa Mia, inviting his eldest daughter and her husband, Stephen Andover, to join them there with the understanding that the house would pass to them after his death.

‘The house was called Cherry Lodge when he bought it,’ said Mrs Rathbone. ‘He changed it to Casa Mia. Down at the bridge club we said that Cosa Nostra would have been more appropriate, especially once the Roccas turned up.’

Carlo Rocca had married Maria, the younger and wilder daughter. Even-handedly, the old man had pushed a large chunk of money their way at the same time as he went into the Casa Mia arrangement with the Andovers. Rocca, then a salesman in a hi-fi and television store, had used his expertise and the money to set up his own shop in Luton’s new shopping mall. For a while things had prospered. Then recession began to bite, interest rates went up, sales went down, and six months earlier Rocca had been declared bankrupt.

‘That was it. Everything had to go, the shop, the stock, his car, and of course they had to get out of their flat, I mean, even our crazy social services won’t pay for a luxury apartment, will they? So Maria came to see her father, I think for more money. But he said no, he wasn’t going to chuck good money after bad, but she was family—about family—and she could come to live with them in Casa Mia, and her husband too, if they wanted. So they did. Well, I knew it would lead to trouble. And it has, but what kind of trouble, Mr Doberley? Here am I telling you everything I know, and you’re not telling me anything!’

Her eyes were bright with expectation.

Doberley, perhaps hoping to shock her into brevity, said flatly, ‘I’m afraid there’s been a fatality, ma’am.’

Her eyes went into super-nova.

‘A fatality? You mean he’s killed one of them?’

‘We don’t have any more details, the investigation’s at an early stage …’

‘But it has to be him. Of course it’s him. I saw him!’

‘You saw … what did you see?’ demanded Doberley.

‘I saw Rocca come running out of the house. Earlier this afternoon. I was in my bedroom and you get a good view over the shrubbery to the front of Casa Mia. Rocca came running out of the front door, jumped in the car and took off like one of those joyriders, you know, wheels skidding, gravel flying everywhere. I remember thinking: That will ruin their lawn-mower if they’re not careful. Who’s dead?’

Ignoring the question, Doberley said, ‘You’re sure it was Rocca?’

‘Oh yes. He had his hand up to his face as if he felt he was being watched and was trying to hide, but that ghastly moustache and awful gangster’s hat are unmistakable. Which of them has he killed? His wife? They were always rowing. The poor old mother must be so distressed. Perhaps I ought to go across and see if there’s anything I can do …’

‘I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Mrs Rathbone,’ said Doberley.