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Overview
Joe Sixsmith has lost his job as a lathe operator—and is in the process of losing his hair, too—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to sink into a midlife crisis. Instead he decides to start a new career as a private investigator, with his grumpy, pork rind–eating cat, Whitey, at his side.
To his surprise, there’s no shortage of work, and before he knows it he’s dealing with murder, drugs, and thugs—not to mention the meddlesome matchmaking attempts of his aunt Mirabelle.
“Its no wonder Hill has been dubbed one of today’s best British mystery writers. His knowledge of police procedure, his razor-edged wit, his right-on-target descriptions of life’s little ironies, and his fine characterizations make every one of his books a unique and outstanding read. . . . Although most detectives might rely on guns, tenacity, and toughness, Joe’s qualifications for the job are a kind heart, compassion, and plain good luck. Oddly enough, that’s exactly what he needs to solve the case. A wacky, witty story that’s warm, charming, and highly entertaining.” —Booklist
“Sumptuously plotted.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504059251 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 10/29/2019 |
| Series: | Joe Sixsmith Series , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 215 |
| Sales rank: | 373,897 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The man came in without knocking.
He was in his mid-thirties with gingerish hair and matching freckles. He wore a chain store suit that didn't quite fit and an agitated expression that did.
He said, 'I want to talk about killing my wife.'
Joe Sixsmith removed his feet from his desk. It wasn't a pose a man of his size found very comfortable and he only put them there when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Clients expected to find private eyes with their feet on their desks, and as a short, black, balding, redundant lathe-operator was likely to disappoint most of their other expectations, it seemed only fair to satisfy them in this.
On the other hand, customer satisfaction could be a liability when the customer was confessing murder.
If that was what he was doing. Could be he was merely looking for a hit-man. Time for the subtle questioning.
'Pardon?' said Sixsmith.
'And her sister, Maria. She's there too.'
'There? Where's there?'
'At the tea-table,' said the man impatiently.
'Dead?' said Sixsmith, who liked things spelled out.
'Of course. Aren't you listening? They're all dead.'
Sixsmith thought: All? and looked for a weapon. There was a Present-from-Paignton paperknife in the desk tidy. Casually he reached for it, felt the man's eyes burning into his hand, and plucked out a ballpoint instead.
He said, 'All?'
He could be really subtle when he wanted.
'Yes. My parents-in-law too. Mr and Mrs Tomassetti.'
'Could you spell that?' said Joe, feeling a need to justify the pen.
'Two s's, two t's. My sister-in-law is Maria Rocca. Two c's. Is all this necessary?'
'Bear with me,' said Joe, scribbling. The pen wasn't working so all he got were indentations, but at least it was activity which gave him space to think of something intelligent to say.
He said, 'Is that it? I mean, are there any more? Dead, I mean?'
'Are you trying to be funny.'
'No, not at all. Hey, man, I'm just doing my job. I need the details, Mr ...?'
The man slid his hand inside his jacket. Joe pushed his chair back till it hit the wall. The hand emerged with a card which he dropped on to the desk. Joe picked it up, then put it down again as it was easier to read out of his trembling fingers. It told him he was talking to Stephen Andover, Southern Area sales manager of Falcon Assurance with offices on Dartle Street.
Suddenly Joe's mental darkness was lit by suspicion.
He said, 'Mr Andover, you're not by any chance trying to sell me insurance?'
The light went out immediately as the man's freckles vanished in a flush of anger and he thundered. 'You're not taking me seriously, are you?'
'Oh yes, I surely am, believe me,' reassured Joe. 'I just had to be sure ... Listen, Mr Andover, you've been straight with me, so the least I can do ... The thing is, I'm in the business of solving crimes, not hearing confessions. You see there's no profit in it, not unless you're a priest, or a cop maybe, and I've got to make a living, you can see that ...'
But Andover wasn't listening.
'This was a stupid idea,' he said bitterly. 'I picked you specially, I thought being a primitive you might understand, but I'll know better next time. God, you people make me sick!'
He left the room as precipitately as he'd entered it.
Emboldened by the sound of his steps clattering down the stairs, Sixsmith called, 'Hey, "us people" ain't no primitive, friend. "Us people" was born in Luton. And you can shut up too!'
This last injunction was to a black cat with a white eyepatch which had raised its head from a desk drawer to howl in sleepy protest at all this din. He clearly didn't care to be spoken to in this way, but as a huffy exit would take him away from his nice warm refuge, he decided not to take offence, washed his paws as if nothing had happened and went back to sleep.
It seemed a good example to follow but Joe Sixsmith suffered from a civil conscience and in the remote contingency that Andover really had chainsawed his family, someone ought to be told.
He picked up the phone and dialled.
He asked for Detective-Sergeant Chivers, but as usual they put him through to Sergeant Brightman. Brightman was the Community Relations Officer and Joe got on well enough with him, except that he didn't take his detective ambitions seriously. Worse, he'd met Joe's Auntie Mirabelle at a Rasselas Estate Residents' meeting and they'd formed an alliance to persuade Joe back into honest unemployment. Sixsmith suspected Mirabelle had persuaded Brightman to put an intercept on his phone.
'Joe, how're you doing? What can we do for you?'
'You can put me through to Chivers.'
'You sure? You're not the flavour of the month there, I gather.'
More like smell of the decade. Whenever their paths crossed, Chivers usually stubbed his toe on a boulder. But at least this meant he took Sixsmith seriously.
'Please,' said Joe.
'It's your funeral. See you at the meeting tonight?'
Joe's heart sank.
'You going to be there?'
'That's right. The Major asked me along to report on the latest statistics. Good news, Joe. You seem to be getting it right on Rasselas. Wish we could say the same for Hermsprong. But I think we'd need to torch it and start again. See you later. Hang on.'
A few moments later Joe heard the unenthusiastic grunt with which DS Chivers greeted criminals, his wife, and private eyes.
At least the story Sixsmith had to tell provoked a more positive response.
'You what?' said Chivers incredulously.
'That's what the man said,' replied Joe defensively. 'Look, OK, so it's probably fantasy island, but I've got to tell someone, right?'
'Haven't you got a pen pal you could write to?' said Chivers. 'All right, what's the address? You did get an address?'
'Of course,' said Joe with professional indignation and crossed fingers as he searched for Andover's card. He found it and saw with relief that it did give a private address in small print.
'Casa Mia,' he read carefully. '21 Coningsby Rise.'
'Coningsby Rise? Very posh. I got a feeling you're wasting my time, Sixsmith. As usual.'
'Hey, posh people commit crimes too,' protested Sixsmith.
But the phone was dead and with a sign of relief, Sixsmith returned his attention to the pressing problem he'd been dealing with when Andover arrived.
It was The Times Crossword.
He'd started doing it recently to impress the better class of customer, but he'd rapidly realized he had no talent for the task. Other people's clues baffled him. Reluctant to abandon what seemed like a clever ploy, he'd started filling in words of his own choice, then working out clues to fit them. This way he always looked close to completion, though actually finishing one had so far proved beyond his scope. The trouble was that in reverse of the normal process, his method meant the more you filled in the harder it got. He invariably ended up with at least one non-word. Today's was sbhahk. It could mean something to an Eskimo, he supposed, but to an underemployed PI it was just another small failure.
He glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. Too early to go home. There could be a late rush, though he doubted it. Things were very slow. In the last recession it had been the kind of people who hired lathe-operators who got hit. This time, it was the kind of people who hired private eyes.
Time for a cup of tea, he decided. He went into the small washroom which allowed the estate agent to charge him for 'a suite' and filled his electric kettle.
As he re-entered the office he saw the briefcase.
It was black leather with brass locks and it was leaning against the chair Andover had sat on.
'Oh shoot,' said Joe Sixsmith.
He stooped to pick it up, then hesitated.
Suppose it was a terrorist bomb?
'Why would anyone want to bomb me?' he asked the air. 'I don't tell Irish jokes and I try not to be rude about other folks's religions.'
Whitey raised his head cautiously from his drawer, twitched his ears, then subsided.
Sixsmith got the message. Nuts left bombs without motives, and whichsoever way you looked at it, Andover was undoubtedly a nut.
So what to do? His mind ran through the possibilities.
Ring the police, who would clear the building and the block while they waited for the Bomb Squad. He imagined the scene. Dr Who type robots clanking across the floor. Stern-faced men in flak jackets talking into radios. Long queues of traffic, and anxious, curious, aroused faces peering from behind barriers to glimpse what was going on.
Then the anticlimax when an officer appeared with the briefcase in one hand and a bunch of insurance invoices in the other.
To hell with that!
Gingerly Joe reached out towards the case, paused, telling himself it was better to look stupid alive than stupid dead, reversed the proposition and reached out again, paused again with his hand almost touching the locking catch, drew in a deep breath ...
And shrieked as a voice said, 'Ah, you've found my case, then.'
In the doorway stood Andover. He looked neither like a terrorist nor a lunatic. In fact if anything he looked rather sheepish. But Joe was still taking no chances and retreated hurriedly behind his desk.
Andover came into the room and picked up the briefcase. It didn't explode.
'I thought I must have left it here,' he said. 'To tell the truth, Mr Sixsmith, I'm glad I had an excuse to come back ...'
The phone rang, postponing the possibly homicidal reasons for Andover's gladness.
'Hello!' said Joe.
'Chivers,' growled the phone.
'Sergeant Chivers. Well, hello, Sergeant. You got some news for me, Sergeant?'
'Look, I know what my rank is,' said Chivers. 'About that info you so kindly passed on?'
'Yes?'
'There's definitely been a crime committed.'
'You're sure?' said Joe, looking fearfully towards the patiently waiting Andover.
'Certain. And you know what crime it is, Sixsmith? It's called wasting police time! To wit, Detective-Constable Doberley's time. He's just got back from the Andover residence where he found Mrs Gina Andover and her sister, Mrs Maria Rocca, having tea with their parents, Mr and Mrs Tomassetti.'
'You mean they're alive?' said Joe, dropping his voice.
'Of course they're alive! I know that Doberley sings in the same church choir as you, Sixsmith, but that don't mean he's so far gone he can't distinguish the quick from the sodding dead. And here's something else. On his way out, Doberley met the brother-in-law, Carlo Rocca. They had a little chat. Your Mr Andover was mentioned. Doberley asked if he'd been acting funny lately.'
Sixsmith saw that Andover was opening his briefcase. He had a very strange look on his face. He certainly looked like a man who was acting funny now.
Chivers went on, 'Rocca was very forthcoming. Said that his brother-in-law had been talking a bit strange in the last few days, going on about dreams and slitting throats, all sorts of crazy stuff.'
Andover's hand was sliding into the case.
'That's what I told you, Sergeant,' hissed Joe urgently. 'That's why I rang ...'
'Yeah. Trouble is, you got the wrong number. So do me a favour. Next time you get a nut in your office, ring the psycho department at the Royal Infirmary!'
The phone went dead.
And Mr Andover slowly withdrew his hand from his case.
It held a tube of indigestion tablets.
He belched. His funny look disappeared. He popped a tablet into his mouth and smiled apologetically.
'Nervous dyspepsia,' he said. 'I've been suffering a lot lately. Look, Mr Sixsmith, I wanted to say I'm sorry for my behaviour earlier. I realized once I had time to think about it that I must have made quite the wrong impression. It's my job training, you see ...'
'You mean, you really were trying to sell me insurance?' Joe cut in.
'No, of course not. What I mean is, on the training courses, they teach you that the most important thing is, hit hard. Get the customer's attention. You follow me?'
'Not really,' said Joe.
'What I mean is, I wanted to talk to someone about ... this thing. And I got very anxious about it, so I just let my training take over and when I came in here, I may have been a bit over-dramatic ... Look, I know in my mind that Gina's safe at home, and Maria and Momma and Poppa Tomassetti too, but sometimes what you feel is realer than what you know, do you know what I mean?'
'You're losing me again,' said Joe. 'Why don't we go somewhere and have a coffee ...'
While reassured that he wasn't facing a multi-murderer, he still liked the idea of having more company than Whitey, who with a look of great resignation had re-entered his drawer.
Andover glanced at his watch.
'I don't think I've got time,' he said. 'My brother-in-law's picking me up at half past. He borrowed the car today to go for an interview in Biggleswade and we arranged to meet at my office, but when I realized I had to come back here for my case, I left a message for him to come on here, I hope you don't mind.'
'Be my guest,' said Joe. 'At least sit down while we're talking.'
A man in a chair is less of a threat than a man on his feet.
Andover sat down and resumed talking.
'The thing is, I've been having these dreams. At first they were vague, undetailed. I just used to wake up with a general sense of something being very wrong, and this stayed with me al l day. A sense of something unpleasant somewhere over the horizon. Then they started getting clearer. And clearer. And ... well, what it boils down to is this. I arrive home. I go in the house. No one answers my call. And there they all are. Gina and Maria and Momma and Poppa ... sitting round the coffee table ... and there are cups and saucers and a half-eaten Victoria sponge cake ... and they're all dead, Mr Sixsmith ... they're all dead!'
His voice which had almost faltered to a halt suddenly rose to a shout.
'Ah,' said Joe with a briskness born of a determination not to do anything which might suggest he wasn't taking Andover seriously. 'So what you came to report to me was not a murder but a dream of a murder.'
'Yes, that's right,' said the man, back to normal level. 'But more than a dream, I'm sure. Such vividness, such detail, has got to be more than just a dream. I'm convinced it's a warning, Mr Sixsmith. I believe unless I do something, it will happen. And if it happens, it will be my fault. A sin of omission, or even God help me, of commission.'
'Pardon?' said Joe.
Andover leaned across the desk and fixed him with a gaze which would have sold freezer insurance to Eskimos. Perhaps that's what sbhahk meant.
'This is the worst of my dream,' he said. 'I'm not sure when I wake up if I feel like I do simply because I've found the bodies or whether it's because I'm the one who killed them!'
Joe glanced at his watch.
'Will your brother-in-law come up for you or will he be looking for you outside the building?' he asked.
'He'll wait outside. I'll see if he's there, shall I?'
Andover came round the desk to look out of the window.
Joe, who didn't fancy being outflanked, stood up too and sauntered to his filing cabinet.
'Can't see him,' said Andover. 'I hope he hasn't got held up at Biggleswade.'
It was on the tip of Joe's tongue to say, no, Mr Rocca had arrived home about half an hour ago. But on second thoughts it didn't seem a good idea to let on he'd brought the police into it.
He pulled open a drawer of the cabinet in the interests of verisimilitude and said as he examined its contents (two tins of cat food and a tennis ball), 'Why'd you come to me, Mr Andover? Why not go to the cops?'
'You're joking. They'd just laugh at me,' said Andover.
Joe thought of DS Chivers and couldn't disagree.
'But I had to talk to someone professionally,' Andover went on. 'I don't mean a shrink. Someone who'd take what I said seriously, and maybe investigate, not just prescribe a lot of pills ... but it had to be someone truly sympathetic ...'
'Like a primitive, you mean?' said Joe, recalling their first exchange.
'Look, I didn't mean anything. I'm not racist. I married into an Italian family, for God's sake! It's just you once did some work for our Claims people and I remembered what they said about you ...'
It had been a last-minute job. A negligence case against a private clinic by a man who'd ended up in a wheelchair after a simple cosmetic operation had left Falcon facing a million pound payout. Suspecting, or at least hoping for fraud, they had decided to keep a close watch on the patient. Then the claims investigator concerned had fallen off a ladder and, needing a replacement in a hurry, Falcon had hired Joe. He, however, between the briefing and his office, had contrived to lose the file.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Blood Sympathy"
by .
Copyright © 1993 Estate of Reginald Hill.
Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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