Reginald Hill - Singing the Sadness

She’s taking the mickey, thought Joe. She knows exactly what’s going on and she’s taking the mickey.

Before he could decide how to respond there was a sound like the polite cough well-brought-up folk use when less well-brought-up folk would shout, ‘Oy!’

The girl dismounted like a pro jockey. Joe turned his head to see what had made the sound and rather to his surprise, because being right first time wasn’t something he was used to, he saw what looked like the very model of a well-brought-up polite cougher in the doorway.

It was the silver-haired man with the eagle’s beak he’d seen in the group by the ruined cottage.

‘Mr Sixsmith, I presume,’ he said, advancing. ‘I’m glad to see Bronwen’s looking after you. I’m Leon Lewis, High Master of Branddreth.’

He approached the bed with his hand outstretched. Joe, though already gratefully acknowledging the deflating effect of the interruption, was not yet in a position to do more than flap his hand out sideways.

‘Please,’ said the newcomer, brushing his fingers against Joe’s. ‘Don’t disturb yourself. I just wanted to check that all was well, and of course congratulate you on what from all accounts must have been a spectacular act of courage, worthy, I would say, of one of our country’s official awards for gallantry.’

His gaze moved from Joe to Bronwen.

What’s he thinking? thought Joe. Medal or maiden?

He took the chance to pull the bedspread over his bottom half, roll over, and sit up.

Lewis was smiling benevolently at the girl, who was looking at the same time resentful and embarrassed.

Good, thought Joe. Bit of embarrassment won’t harm you, my girl.

‘Best be off now,’ she said abruptly. ‘They’ll be wondering where I am.’

She left the room without a glance at Joe.

Story of my life, he thought. One minute they’re sitting on top of you, next they won’t give you the time of day.

‘So, Mr Sixsmith, well done, and welcome to Wales in general and Llanffugiol in particular.’

Lewis had a fine voice, musical and rich-timbred. Headmaster needed a good voice, thought Joe, remembering his own at Luton Comp. who in full throat could drown a departing jumbo.

But this guy hadn’t called himself a head.

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘Glad to be here. High Master same as headmaster, is it?’

He’d never discovered a better way of finding out things than asking, but Lewis viewed him narrowly for a second as though in search of satire.

Then he smiled and said, ‘Indeed. Such a variation of title is not unknown even beyond the border, I believe. May I ask what the medical prognosis is, Mr Sixsmith?’

Sounded to Joe like something that doctors shoved into you.

He said, ‘You mean, how’m I doing? Pretty well. In fact, very well.’

To demonstrate he slipped out of bed. The embarrassing effects of Bronwen’s massage had vanished, but happily the therapeutic effects remained. Though not feeling completely back to normal, normality now felt like a gainable goal.

‘Like you can hear, voice is no good, though,’ he said. ‘Won’t be able to sing.’

‘And does it hurt you to talk?’

‘Not as much as it probably hurts you to listen,’ said Joe.

‘On the contrary, it’s a very great pleasure,’ said Lewis. ‘In fact, I would be delighted to hear your own version of events. We’ve been given the official account of what happened, of course – the constabulary are very accommodating …’

‘Mr Ursell, you mean?’ said Joe, unable easily to fit the DI and accommodating into the same sentence.

‘Ah. You’ve met the inspector, have you? An excellent officer at his level, I do not doubt, but one who tends to be rather officiously silent on what he regards as police business. Protecting his position, I suppose. Fortunately my good friend Deputy Chief Constable Penty-Hooser who is O/C Crime takes a rather more open view and has put me fully in the picture. The only thing better, of course, would be to get the full story from the horse’s mouth, as ‘twere, especially when, as I gather, the horse in question can lay claim to the professional expertise of a private investigator. To which end my wife and I hope you might feel able to join us at the Lady House for dinner tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ echoed Joe, thinking this was the first time he’d ever heard anyone say as ‘twere and wondering how the High Master had caught on he was a PI. His mate the DCC most likely.

‘I know it’s short notice, especially in view of your ordeal. But there is another reason for pressing you. Fran and Franny Haggard, who own Copa Cottage, are staying with us and they would dearly like to meet you before they go back to London tomorrow. So if it were at all possible …’

‘Don’t know if I’m up to going out to some restaurant,’ said Joe, foolishly avoiding the refusal direct.

‘What? Ah, I see. No, the Lady House is in fact where I live. It’s only a step from the college, but of course I would be more than happy to pick you up in my car …’

‘Think I can manage a step,’ said Joe sturdily, before he realized this was as good as an acceptance.

‘Excellent. Shall we say seven for seven thirty? Informal, of course. Don’t dream of dressing. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Sixsmith. Now I’ll let you get back to your rest.’

He touched his silver-topped stick to his silver-topped head and left.

Don’t dream of dressing? thought Joe, looking down at his red and yellow striped pyjamas. He knew things were different in Wales, but surely not that different!

It was the kind of jokey remark he’d have addressed to Whitey if Whitey had been present. Unfortunately, Rev. Pot had declared choir transport a petless zone ever since the great M1 dogfight, in which two border terriers, a whippet and a labrador-cross had assaulted each other and anyone who came near, obliging the coach driver to veer off the road on to a police-only parking site which was already fully occupied by a police car.

Whitey had taken no part in the action, contenting himself with sitting on Joe’s lap, sneering at the idiocies of canine behaviour and the inadequacies of human control. Nevertheless, he had been included in the general ban and was presently in police custody, meaning he was being looked after by Detective Constable Dylan Doberley.

Doberley, nicknamed Dildo by the wits of Luton CID, was a member of the choir. He had first come to Boyling Corner in lustful pursuit of a young mezzo and would have been indignantly ejected by Rev. Pot if he hadn’t turned out to have a genuine basso profundo voice. ‘Does not the Good Book teach us tolerance?’ proclaimed the Rev. But it was lesson he’d been hard put to remember when Doberley announced he couldn’t make the Welsh trip.

He’d backed up his own anger with the wrath of God, but Doberley had been unmoved.

‘Sorry to be letting down you and God both,’ he’d said. ‘But with Sergeant Chivers it’s more, like, personal.’

Joe knew what he meant. Having Rev. Pot and God on your back would be burdensome, but couldn’t come close to the personal pressure Chivers was capable of exerting. Joe knew all about this. The sergeant took his presence on the mean streets of Luton masquerading as a PI very personally.

It wasn’t all bad news on the Doberley front, however. The DC was between accommodations, having left the police Section House because it inhibited his private life and having been let down about a bedsit he hoped to rent. So he’d jumped at the offer of a bed in Joe’s flat in return for seeing to all the needs and comforts of Whitey.

This was an arrangement which caused Joe no little unease, mistrusting as he did both parties.

Better ring and check how things are working out, he thought.