addressing anyone black in Bantu, and his simplified view of life as a chain of command, he was a comic caricature of a dying species. After a lifetime spent pursuing wild beasts and women between Capricorn and Cancer till Britain ran out of Empire and he ran out of money, he’d headed home to die in poverty. Landing in Luton, he’d presented himself to the Housing Department saying he understood they had a statutory duty to provide accommodation for anyone in need. A council official, irritated at being addressed imperiously by his surname, thought to get simultaneous revenge and riddance by offering the Major a one-bed flat in the darkest Rasselas block which was scheduled for demolition as soon as there was enough money available to hire the bulldozers.
It was a monumental tactical error. Instead of curling up or crawling away somewhere else to die, the Major, after sampling the conditions, exploded into life. He mounted an assault on the council, at first on his own behalf, but rapidly on behalf of the whole estate. This was not, Joe surmised, because the man’s politics had been radicalized, but simply because as an old soldier he knew that a general was nothing without troops.
The council had been gingered into doing repairs, improving the lighting and providing this community room, and the residents had been inspired to united resistance against graffiti, vandalism and general criminality.
You couldn’t argue with the results. Sergeant Brightman was reciting statistics to show the continuing decline on Rasselas of break-ins, car thefts, drug-dealing, etcetera. Indeed, by comparison with Hermsprong, its twin estate across the canal, he made Rasselas sound like Utopia.
On the other hand, thought Joe cynically, by comparison with Hermsprong, Sodom and Gomorrah probably came across like Frinton-on-Sea. Nor did he much like the sound of the Major’s latest scheme to organize security patrols to deal with offences like wall-spraying and peeing on the stairs. Tweedie referred to ‘residents’ platoons’ but they still sounded like vigilantes to Sixsmith, and to Brightman too, who was trying to steer a delicate path between applauding the Major’s leadership and warning him that private armies were against the law.
‘A watching brief is all they’d have,’ Tweedie cut across the policeman’s diplomacy. ‘No harm in that, eh? Call the boys in blue first sign of trouble. Now here’s what I propose. Battalion HQ, for general surveillance and overall control, myself, Sally Firbright, Mr Holmes and Mirabelle Valentine …’
He then ran through a list of sub-groups (which he called ‘sections’), pausing for comment after each area of responsibility and list of names. No one offered either query or objection. He’s got them scared witless, thought Joe with cynical superiority till he heard the Major say, ‘South-Eastern Sector to take in Bog Lane underpass and the Lykers Yard lock-ups, section leader, Joe Sixsmith; assisted by Mr Poulson and Beryl Boddington …’
Joe started angrily in his seat but Auntie Mirabelle’s fingers were round his wrist and she murmured, ‘Congratulations, Joseph,’ as she gave him a smile and a squeeze which defied him to make a fuss.
‘Everyone happy?’ concluded the Major. ‘Good. Section leaders, there’ll be a bit of bumph coming your way. Watch out for it. Thank you, everyone. Dismiss.’
Sixsmith shot up like a man who is late for an urgent appointment, but Mirabelle’s wrist lock was still in place.
‘This your idea, Auntie?’ he said accusingly.
‘I put in a word,’ she admitted. ‘But no need to thank me. I thought, with you so keen to do the policemen’s work for them, this is a good way to get it out of your system. How’re you keeping anyway, Joseph? You look pretty peaky to me. Scruffy too. If your poor dead mother could see you now, the shock would probably kill her. You need someone to take care of you.’
Determined to head off this line of attack, Joe said, ‘Mr Poulson I know. Isn’t he waiting for his Zimmer? Some vigilante. But who’s this Beryl Boddleton?’
‘Boddington,’ said Mirabelle, with a broad smile which warned Joe too late of the trap that she had laid for him. ‘You want to meet her? Why, here she is. Beryl, this here’s my nephew Joseph I’ve told you about. Also your section leader. Joseph, meet your new neighbour and team colleague, Beryl Boddington. Just moved into my block. Beryl’s a nurse at the Infirmary. Good job, regular money, career prospects, more than can be said for some people who should know better!’
The woman held out her hand. Beneath her coat Joe could see a nurse’s uniform clinging to a sturdy but shapely body. She smiled as he shook her hand. Two smiles without saying a word; I bet she’s been coached to show off her teeth, thought Joe unkindly.
‘Pleased to meet you, Joseph,’ she said.
‘Joe,’ he said, instantly regretting this tiny invitation to intimacy.
‘Joe,’ she echoed, smiling again. She did have very nice teeth.
‘You two will need to talk about your team tactics,’ said Mirabelle.
Joe’s mind instantly started lumbering towards excuses for doing no such thing, but Beryl Boddington was ahead of him.
‘Sorry, not now,’ she said as if he were pressing her. ‘I’ve got to be on duty in twenty minutes.’
‘Joseph’s got a car, he can give you a lift, ain’t that right, Joseph?’
To Sixsmith’s jaundiced ear this sounded like a well-rehearsed exchange in a second-rate soap.
He said brusquely, ‘Sorry, but I got trouble with my carburettor. I’m just heading back to fix it.’
The nurse said indifferently, ‘That’s OK. I’ll get the bus. See you, Mirabelle.’
‘Don’t forget the choir practice,’ said Mirabelle. ‘Rev. Pot’s desperate for sopranos.’
‘I’ll see. But with shifts, it’s not easy. ’Bye now.’
The nurse turned and left.
Mirabelle said, ‘Joseph, why are you so rude?’
Sixsmith might have felt a little guilty if it hadn’t been for the revelation that his aunt was mounting a second front at the choir.
He said, ‘Don’t know what you mean, Auntie. Excuse me. I need to talk to Sergeant Brightman.’
The Sergeant greeted him accusingly.
‘Joe, that’s a real hornets’ nest you stirred up. You’ve got everyone running around like mad downtown.’
‘Hey, Sarge, I didn’t kill them,’ protested Sixsmith. ‘How’s it going? They got this Rocca yet?’
‘Give us time, Joe. It’s only you PIs in books that get instant results. Real police work takes a bit longer. Isn’t that right, Mirabelle?’
Joe realized his aunt hadn’t let herself be shaken off so easily. Fortunately the Major, whose keen military eye had quickly recognized good warrant officer material, seized her and said, ‘Belle, my dear woman, we must talk about disinfectant for the back stairs. I gather the council’s still dragging its feet.’
‘That’s right. And did you see the mess they left last time they emptied the bins?’
Sixsmith headed for the door. A man who didn’t grab his chance to escape deserved to stay locked up.
Outside he found the forecast rain coming down in earnest. His headlights picked out a figure leaning into the wind-driven downpour. It wasn’t till he was past that he realized it had been Beryl Boddington.
He hesitated, then said, ‘Oh shoot!’ and pressed on. She probably hadn’t spotted him and to stop now would be a tactical error of monumental proportions.
But he still felt guilty.
He parked his car in Lykers Lane and set off at a brisk trot for his block. There was a taxi outside the entrance. An Asian woman in a sari with a small child in her arms got out, followed by a boy of five or six carrying a large plastic bull with purple horns. The taxi-driver grabbed a suitcase from the