Killing the Lawyers. Reginald Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ on fiery breath,

      E’er raised the hearts of all who heard,

      Can such as thou plunge down to death?

      As he mused, a BMW pulled up behind the Mini. A woman got out, looked at the poppied paintwork in horror, then advanced to the door and punched in a code which opened it.

      As the door closed behind her, Joe jumped forward and blocked it with his foot.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he said, though in fact he only got as far as ‘Exc …’ before the woman whirled round, jabbed her fingers in his throat, seized his right wrist in both hands, pulled him towards her, then stepped aside and swept his legs from beneath him so that his own momentum sent him crashing to the ground. A knee then rammed between his shoulder blades and his head was dragged back by the hair just high enough for her forearm to slide beneath his chin and crush up against his Adam’s apple.

      ‘Try to move and I snap your windpipe,’ she said.

      Joe tried to croak his understanding, found nothing came out, so tried to telepath it instead.

      ‘OK, let’s get the police,’ she said.

      The hand holding his hair let go, then the arm beneath his chin moved away. He risked a glance round and saw it was no relenting on her part which had brought this relief but the need of both hands to use a mobile phone.

      At sight of his head movement she stopped dialling and raised the instrument like a club.

      ‘I told you, don’t move!’ she yelled. ‘You want your head ripped off?’

      She could do it too, Joe guessed. He’d recently started on a martial arts evening class and if he’d learned nothing else after four lessons, he knew that Mr Takeushi, his elderly Japanese instructor, could fillet him and lay him out to dry without breaking sweat. This woman was clearly Black Belt or beyond.

      He tried the croak again, this time managed, ‘… Potter …’

      She’d resumed dialling. Now she paused once more.

      Encouraged, he gasped, ‘… Mr Potter … appointment …’

      ‘You’re here to see Peter?’ She didn’t sound persuaded. Balding black PIs wearing ex-Luton-works-department donkey jackets and driving antediluvian Minis clearly didn’t figure large among Potter’s clients.

      ‘… Butcher sent … Bullpat Square …’

      ‘Butcher? You’re one of Butcher’s?’

      A look of distaste touched her face, but at least it was edging out the look of incredulity. Butcher might be to Luton legal circles what Cerberus was to Crufts, but you couldn’t ignore her.

      Joe nodded vigorously. The movement eased the pain in his neck and he repeated it.

      ‘Go on like that,’ she said, ‘and you’ll end up on the back sill of a car.’

      But at least she removed her knee from his spine. He pushed himself upright, trying to look as if only old-fashioned courtesy had prevented him from defending himself, but a certain weakness round the knees which sent him swaying for support from the reception counter undermined the act.

      The woman, who was youngish, good-looking in a glossy-mag kind of way and wearing a short fur coat which he hoped was imitation but wouldn’t have bet on it, was regarding him assessingly rather than anxiously as she enquired, ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘I think so,’ he said.

      ‘Good. You could have caused a serious misunderstanding, forcing your way in like that. Perhaps next time you’ll ring the bell and wait till someone admits you.’

      She had to be a lawyer, thought Sixsmith, admiring the way she was already rehearsing her defence against a possible assault charge. He looked around for the file he’d been carrying. The woman spotted it first and scooped it up, allowing the cardboard cover to fall open and give her a glimpse of the contents. The sight of his motor policy seemed to convince her finally of his bona fides.

      ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘You’ll find Mr Potter’s office on the second floor. You are sure he’s here, are you?’

      ‘Yes. Butcher rang him,’ said Joe.

      She frowned as if puzzled by her colleague’s presence, or maybe just his accessibility.

      Joe headed for the staircase he could see at the end of the foyer. The woman unlocking a door marked Sandra Iles, called after him, ‘There’s a lift.’

      ‘It’s OK,’ said Joe nonchalantly. If he couldn’t sue her for a million, he could at least demonstrate that her assault had been a gnat bite.

      He ran lightly up the first flight, but as soon as he turned out of sight on a half landing, he halted and drew in great gasps of air which did nothing for his bruised ribs. Also his nose felt like it might be broken from when it had hit the floor. He touched it gingerly but it didn’t fall off.

      Recovered slightly, he made his way sedately up the remaining stairs.

      The second floor was unlit but enough light filtered up from below to let him see the names on the doors. Victor Montaigne … Felix Naysmith … Darby Pollinger … Peter Potter … all the male partners up at the top with the sole female down below … Legal machismo? Or maybe Iles specialized in assault cases and her clients had access problems.

      Such idle thoughts occupied his mind as he raised his hand to knock at Potter’s door, but before his fist could make contact the door was wrenched open by a huge muscular man whose face registered such anger that Joe leapt back, fearful of provoking yet another attack from yet another pugnacious lawyer.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded this fearsome figure.

      ‘Mr Potter, I’m Joe Sixsmith, Butcher rang you, it’s about my car claim, I’m sorry I’m late but I had to go home to get my documentation, and then I got talking with Miss Iles downstairs and the time just flew …’

      It came out in a defensive torrent, reinforced by the file which he thrust in front of him.

      The man who, on closer examination and as the anger faded from his face, proved to be only about six-one and not much broader than an orang-outang, said, ‘Sixsmith, you say? From Butcher? And you’ve been downstairs with Miss Iles?’

      ‘That’s right. Look, I know you said I should be here by quarter to six but it’s only …’

      He glanced at his watch and saw that the interlude with old Black Belt down below had shrunk his couple of minutes to a couple of seconds.

      ‘… well, anyway I’d be very grateful if you could just take a quick look …’

      He put on what Beryl Boddington called his baby-seal look which she averred might make him irresistible to mummy seals but did nothing for staff nurses who had to be up for the early shift.

      Happily, large lawyers didn’t seem to be so adamant.

      ‘All right,’ said Potter. ‘A quick look then I’m off.’

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