Killing the Lawyer by Reginald Hill
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE WOOD BEYOND
BORN GUILTY
ASKING FOR THE MOON
PICTURES OF PERFECTION
BLOOD SYMPATHY
RECALLED TO LIFE
BONES AND SILENCE
UNDERWORLD
THERE ARE NO GHOSTS IN THE SOVIET UNION
CHILD'S PLAY
EXIT LINES
DEAD HEADS
A KILLING KINDNESS
PASCOE'S GHOST
A PINCH OF SNUFF
ANOTHER DEATH IN VENICE
AN APRIL SHROUD A VERY GOOD HATER
RULING PASSION
A FAIRLY DANGEROUS THING
AN ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING
FELL OF DARK A CLUBBABLE WOMAN THE COLLABORATORS
NO MAN'S LAND
TRAITOR'S BLOOD
WHO GUARDS A PRINCE
THE SPY'S WIFE
RIME
KILLING THE LAWYERS
Reginald Hill
Collins Crime An imprint of HarperCollmsPublishers 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 8JB First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Collins Crime 13579 10 8642 Reginald Hill 1997 The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 0 00 232607 8 Set in Meridien and Bodoni Typeset by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk Printed Great Britain by Caledonian International Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
KILLING THE LAWYERS
One.
Christmas. Season of d.i.y. divorce and marital mayhem. Meaning that while cop cars and meat wagons are ding donging merrily down Luton High, a PI can get festive and know he's not missing much business. Especially a PI like Joe Sixsmith who doesn't have much business to miss. December 28th, Joe called in at his office. Didn't anticipate a queue of clients but what were the alternatives? More force-feeding at Auntie Mirabelle's, more unforced boozing down the Glit, or joining the other lost souls cruising the Palladian Shopping Mall in search of bargains they didn't want in sales that had opened in Advent. There were no turtle doves or partridges waiting for him, only a single typewritten envelope and a sodden cat-litter tray. Whitey must've taken a valedictory leak as Joe waited for him on the landing on Christmas Eve. Perhaps it was memory of this peccadillo which had kept the cat firmly pinned in front of Mirabelle's fire, but more likely it was just his insatiable appetite for cold turkey. Thanks a bundle,' said Joe as he emptied the clogged grit and damp tabloid into a plastic carrier and dumped it on the landing for later transfer to the bin below. Swilling the tray out in his tiny washroom, he noticed that the uric acid had produced a kind of stencil through the newspaper on to the beige plastic bottom. At various levels there must have been a colour photo of Prince Charles, a Page Three girl, and some guys firing guns in one of the world's chronic wars. The resultant blurred image, framed in broken sentences, lay there like a drunk's philosophy at closing time, and as difficult to get rid of. Cold water wouldn't budge it.
'Shoot,' said Joe. 'Could get done for lese majeste, I suppose, but long as Whitey don't mind, who else is going to notice?'
He gave the tray a good shake and balanced it to dry on the curtain rail over the window he'd opened to air the room.
