air was warm it still had a clammy feel that made your skin crawl.
Ahead behind the fence he could see what remained of the l ock-keeper's cottage. There was no history of any dreadful event having taken place here, nothing to hang a ghost story on, but Joe recalled that according to Aunt Mirabelle, who had a great store of spine-chilling bedtime tales, some places could be haunted by their futures as well as their pasts. 'Like Mrs. Orlando's bungalow in Brook Street. Even when she was cutting me a slice of her cherry cake and chattering away merrily about that doctor brother of hers in Freetown, I could feel she was haunting her own life, and that was five years or more before that psycho on early release broke in and slit her throat with the cake knife.'
On the fence was a sign, Fly Tippers Will Be Prosecuted. The good people of Luton like the good people of most other towns in England cannot see a hollow of any size from a ditch to a canyon without wanting to chuck their unwanted household rubbish into it. Joe sometimes felt that if ever he reached the end of the world and looked over, the first thing he'd see would be an old fridge. A few years ago, tipping at Leck's Bottom had become such a health hazard that the Council had moved in, cleared all the rubbish out and erected the fence and the warning sign. But there is nothing your true- Brit fly-tipper likes more than a challenge, and despite the fact that the Council had its own efficient bulk-waste collection service and easily accessible landfill site, and though the fence was kept in good repair, hardly a week passed without some devotee of the sport hacking his way through with a pair of wire cutters, then dragging his defunct TV or washing machine twenty yards or so across rough boggy ground in order to drop it into the old lock basin.
Joe found such a hole now and made his way through it.
As well as being a great dumper, your true-Brit is a great scavenger, which explains the Empire, both what got taken out and what got left behind. Everything removable from the lock machinery had long since vanished, leaving only the huge basin that Nature herself had filled with murky water of a consistency somewhere between gumbo and grits, with none of the nutritional values of either.
Joe stood on the crumbling concrete edge and looked down. The surface was black and gave no reflection. He knew what he was looking for but didn't have much hope of finding it. The Audi had come down here, of that he was almost certain. And when it reached the Hoo car park, nothing remained in its boot. Except a patch of oil, which suggested to Joe that before going to collect Steve Waring's belongings, Colin Rowe and his companion had already picked up the foldaway scooter.
Something as heavy as that would probably have been sucked into these dismal depths within minutes. But a bin bag with its fairly broad surface area, containing what Joe guessed would be the relatively lightweight contents of Waring's wardrobe and drawers, might stay close to the surface for some time.
He almost didn't spot it because the black plastic so closely matched the color of the water. But there it was. At least he guessed that there it was. The only way of confirming the contents was to fish it out and there was no way he was going to attempt that. The sides of the basin were vertical and slimy. Man on his own who fell in there might as well sing 'Goodnight Vienna!,' exhale his last breath and dive deep to get it over with quickly.
But it wouldn't be much of a problem to return with some kind of grappling iron and haul it out, then take its contents along to Mrs. Tremayne and get that formidable lady to confirm they belonged to her errant lodger.
On second thoughts, that might not be so easy without official backing. Mrs. Tremayne didn't strike him as a natural-born witness.
In any case, a witness to what? Suppose he even managed to get her to identify Colin Rowe, what did that prove? With King Rat in the background, and that ingenious lawyer, Arthur Surtees at his side, Rowe would probably be able to come up with some tale to explain his behavior.
Whereas he, Joe Sixsmith, the People's gumshoe, couldn't come up with anything to positively link Waring doing a bunk to the case against Chris Porphyry. Should have spent more time trying to trace Waring, he told himself. Station, airport. But you needed more clout than he had to do that kind of thing properly. Besides, he'd only been on the case since yesterday!
And you spent most of that time reckoning it was going to take a miracle to rescue the YFG! he accused himself.
Well, way things stood, that seemed about right. With the Rules Committee meeting only hours away, things were as bad as they could get. A noise behind him made him turn, and he saw that yet again he'd been wrong. Things had just got worse. Coming through the hole in the wire fence was Stephen Hardman. 'Afternoon, Joe,' said the man. 'All alone? What happened to your pet gorilla?' 'He's around, never you mind,' said Joe. Then he called out, even to his own ears not very convincingly, 'George, my man! You there?' Hardman laughed. 'Good try. But he's not coming. I followed him down to Sullivan's Gym and saw him start on a training session that looked likely to keep him occupied for a good few hours. Nice mover for a big guy.' He sounded laid back, but Joe registered that Jurassic had scared him enough to make him want to be sure he was out of the picture before coming after his prey once more. But how did he know where I'd be? Joe wondered. One way to find out. 'How'd you know where I'd be?' he asked. 'Sat at the top of Lock-keeper's Lane till I saw you drive by,' said Hardman. That signified… something. Man should be able to work out what if he had time to sit and have a good ponder. But pondering was for a comfy chair with a pint of Guinness in your hand. Standing here in Leck's Bottom with the lock basin behind you and in front of you a guy who'd tried to pull your goolies off last time you met, pondering anything but how the shoot you were going to get out of here wasn't on the agenda. Hardman, who'd been slowly approaching, had halted only a few feet away. One leap forward, one hard push, and Joe could feel himself toppling over backward into the foul depths of the basin.
Except all the guy wants to do is put me on my back for a few days, he reminded himself. Didn't push me over the balcony rail when he had the chance but pulled me back to safety. OK, he did it by grabbing my goo- lies, but as Aunt Mirabelle always says, it's the thought that counts.
Then he recalled his own subsequent analysis along the lines: PI getting a kicking, no one's fussed; PI's brains splattering over the pavement, even DS Chivers would take notice.
But PI vanishing without a trace…
He knew from experience that when someone goes missing without any immediate evidence of foul play, it takes the cops forever to take an interest.
But what was there in this affair that would make offing Joseph Gaylord Sixsmith Esquire a possible option?
'So what are you doing here, Joe?' the man asked, sounding almost friendly.
How to answer? Lying wasn't his strong suit. He didn't have the O-levels. To sound really convincing he had to tell the truth, which in this case, he concluded hopefully, might just set him free.
'Don't rightly know,' he said. 'Got this idea this is where you and Mr. Rowe must have come this morning after you drove off from Mrs. Tremayne's.'
'And why should we do that?'
'Thought maybe it was to get rid of Steve Waring's things you'd just picked up.'
'Yeah? And why would we want to pick his things up? And if we did, why would we want to get rid of them?'
What was it with all the questions? wondered Joe. Hardman didn't strike him as the conversational type. Action first, ask questions later, if at all, that was more his line. Which meant maybe the questions were someone else's line.
No prizes for guessing whose.
And if King Rat was asking the questions, Joe had an uneasy feeling that his future well-being might depend on the kind of answers he gave.
He couldn't think of a lie better than the truth, so he stuck with it.
He said, 'I reckoned, maybe you paid him off or frightened him off and you didn't want anything left lying around to make people start asking, where's he gone then? So you paid him up to date at Mrs. Tremayne's and put his gear in a bag and came down here to dump it.'
It was funny. It was the truth he was speaking, but somehow hearing himself say it out loud made him see how feeble it was.
Other possibilities began to swirl around in his mind. Like, what if Waring was a loose end they'd thought they'd got tied up till he'd come bumbling along? And when it looked like he was taking an interest, they wouldn't know it was only because he couldn't see anything else to take an interest in. No, they'd think he must have a reason, and suddenly they started thinking maybe they'd better tie up their loose end a bit tighter.
