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.
‘Why not? Look, I’m not just being nosey, I really like the old lady …’
‘I’m sure. Only she doesn’t need comforting.’
Something in the policeman’s tone got through.
‘You don’t mean … not her too … oh God.’
She had gone quite pale beneath the make-up. Sixsmith waited to see how far Doberley would go with his revelations, but the DC clearly felt he had gone too far already.
He said, ‘I think my superiors would like to talk to you, Mrs Rathbone. Perhaps we could go inside and I’ll contact them on your phone if I may.’
He ushered the woman into the house in front of him, turned to close the door and mouthed, ‘Get lost!’ at Joe.
It seemed like good advice.
Back at the Casa Mia everyone was busy, or looking busy. He looked for Chivers in the hope of getting leave to leave but the Sergeant was nowhere to be seen. In any case, the Morris Oxford was completely boxed in by a fleet of official police vehicles. Untroubled by all this activity, Whitey was fast asleep. It seemed a good idea. Joe slid quietly into the back, closed the door and curled up on the old travelling rug he kept there for warmth on all-night stake-outs.
It was impossible not to think about the killings. From what the nosey neighbour said, it sounded pretty open-and-shut. A house full of tensions, Rocca the wide boy chafing at having to toe the line to get the old man’s charity, his wife perhaps reckoning her sister was getting the better deal from their dad; the old man, dominant, patriarchal; explosive Latin temperaments; exploding Latin rows … no wonder poor old Anglo-Saxon-repressive Andover started having weird dreams!
One thing was sure; there was no case fee in it for J. Sixsmith PI, Inc. And he was glad there wasn’t. Tracking unfaithful wives and credit defaulters might be dull but at least it let you sleep easy.
A wink was as good as a … His eyelids closed … He drifted into a deep dark untroubled sleep …
But there was something in that darkness. Figures seated around a table, mere silhouettes at first, but gradually sharpening, and then their features emerging like a landscape at dawn …
‘Oh shoot!’ said Joe Sixsmith in his sleep. Once more he was looking at the slaughtered quartet, and they were looking back at him, their sightless eyes locking on his, as each in turn raised a lifeless hand first to their bleeding throats as if in hope of staunching the wounds, then higher to cover their mouths as if to hold back their screams of terror and agony.
But there was no holding them back. Out they came, high, piercing, unearthly, and Sixsmith felt a weight pressing on his chest and the scream was so close it seemed to be inside his own head …
He awoke. Whitey was sitting on his chest bellowing into his ear that it was long past his tea-time and what was he going to do about it?
‘Don’t do that!’ snapped Joe, sitting up and precipitating the cat to the floor. But when he looked at his watch he had to admit the beast had the right of it. He got out of the car and stretched.
‘You still here?’ said DCI Woodbine, coming out of the house with Chivers in close attendance.
‘That’s right,’ said Joe mildly. ‘But I would like to go soon if I can. I’ve got a meeting tonight, also my cat’s getting a bit hungry.’
‘Four people dead and all he can think about is his cat,’ sneered Chivers.
‘You got something against cats, Sergeant?’ said Woodbine sharply. ‘I’ve