Jack by the Hedge (Jack of All Trades Book 4) (19 page)

Lunch over, he walked over to the cottages to pick up Mr Swift. And found him ready for work, in his overalls and boots. He had a spirit level, a string line and a bricklayer’s trowel.

‘I see you’ve got the gear,’ he said, looking him up and down.

‘It’s been sitting around a while,’ said the old man. ‘Let’s see what I still remember.’

Liz waved to them from her kitchen window. Jack waved back. She blew him a kiss. And Jack wondered. Sometimes it was better not to talk.

‘How was your lunch?’ said Jack.

‘Liz made me up a salad with some very nice pie. I don’t know what was in it. Some vegetarian thing. Surprisingly good. Tasted almost like meat. And we talked about Ian. She’s more upset than she’ll admit.’ He shook his head. ‘Ian went to lunch there yesterday. They were getting close. And now…’ He flapped a hand weakly.

Ian for lunch and me for supper? Well, well, thought Jack. Either she’s very sociable – or what? It could have been just a working lunch. Why make anything of it? They were neighbours, they had a big event on. Did there have to be any more to it than that?

They were walking across the lawn, their footfalls squeezing water out of the short grass.

‘There’ll have to be a funeral,’ went on the old man. ‘I can’t face that. All the people to phone up and whatnot. And a cremation or burial. What do you think’s best?

‘It’s up to you,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘When you’re gone you’re gone. What do you prefer?’

‘If there’s heaven,’ said Mr Swift, ‘then, surely, you need a body to walk up all those steps? I always feel with cremation, all that heat would burn up the soul.’

‘Isn’t it supposed to float off when you die?’ said Jack. ‘The body being just a shell. Mind you, I’m a heathen. When I’m dead, you can put me in the dustbin. I won’t be around to gripe.’

‘I got some savings.’ The old man bit his lip. ‘I think a burial with a marble headstone… Maybe Liz could make a poem to go on it.’

‘The funeral won’t be a while yet,’ said Jack. ‘There has to be an autopsy when there’s an unexplained death. And then an inquest.’

The old man went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I was thinking of singing
Down by the Sally Gardens
at the funeral service… Do you think that would be suitable?’

‘I do,’ said Jack. ‘Well, I enjoyed it. It’s a song full of regret, for things that should have been done better.’

‘So say all of us,’ said the old man.

They were at the wall. Jack paced the gap.

‘Do you think you could set your line up this side?’ said Jack, ‘while I bring the bricks out and then make up the mortar.’

‘If I can get down to ground level, I can manage that.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ said Jack. ‘Do it at your own pace.’

‘You’ll never make a foreman.’

‘And never want to be.’

He went into the yard, and to the tool shed. The wheelbarrow was there, neatly against a wall, his tools still in it from yesterday. Jack wheeled it out and over to the pile of reclaimed bricks. He removed the tools and filled the barrow with bricks. Then laying the tools on top, set off back to the wall.

While dropping off the bricks, he noted that Mr Swift knew what he was doing, though he was a little creaky on hands and knees. The old man had set up a line, running from both sides of the old wall, across the gap, at one brick height.

‘The first course of bricks is the important one,’ said Mr Swift. ‘Get that right and you’ve got a good level to work from.’

Jack left him, and returned to the yard with the wheelbarrow, to make up the mortar. It made a change to have a mate to work with, though he’d have to take care the old boy didn’t push himself too hard. One death in the family was more than enough.

Chapter 38

They were seated round the mess hut table: Zar, Rose, Amy and Bill, with Liz at the head. She wasn’t sure how to begin, but she had to tell them the news. Her hands were below the table trembling. She would keep the meeting short and get them all out working. And busy herself too.

‘I’ve sad news,’ she said, deciding there was no easy way in. They were all looking at her, wondering. ‘Ian died this morning.’

‘Bloody hell,’ cried Bill.

‘He can’t have,’ exclaimed Amy. ‘He was right as rain when I left yesterday.’

Rose said, ‘Who’s been putting pins in him?’

‘He was younger than my dad,’ exclaimed Zar.

‘Forty-six years old,’ said Liz with a sigh. ‘Jack took Mr Swift to the hospital this morning and they gave them the news. Ian had been in intensive care all night, but it didn’t work. Sadly. Jack and Mr Swift were taken to the mortuary to view the body. So there’s no doubt.’

‘Do they know what killed him?’ asked Amy.

‘No,’ said Liz. She would not mention poison, not with Zar here. Let it come out later, when she was more capable, when events were fuzzier, some time ahead, not now. ‘There will be an autopsy,’ she went on, ‘and an inquest. But for now, it’s an unexplained death.’

‘Heart,’ said Bill knowledgably. ‘These things. Usually the heart. They find a weakness no one knew about. Living on borrowed time, I bet you.’

She might have stopped him, but he was offering other possibilities. Clouding the issue.

Amy said, ‘Five o’clock yesterday, I was talking to him in the playground. I’ve never seen him so cheerful. So full of energy.’

‘He was grinning all afternoon,’ agreed Rose. ‘I wondered what he was on.’

‘Yes,’ said Zar, ‘he came in here when we were eating cakes. Remember? And for once, he wasn’t looking at his watch all the time.’

‘He made a little speech,’ said Amy. ‘Something about us all being like a family.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘It’s so sudden. I can’t believe it. Dead.’

‘We’ll make up a floral tribute,’ said Liz. ‘It’s the least we can do. Close the park for the day of the funeral.’

They were watching her; she wished they weren’t. As if she had answers. And maybe she had, but none she wanted to give them. Amy was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Bill was Bill, no different it seemed. He’d been Ian’s confidant. But then Bill always expected the worst, so perhaps was the least surprised of them all.

She said, ‘We’re a bit pushed today. We’ve lost a morning with the rain. I’m leaving the tennis courts shut. There’s puddles in there anyway, and it’s too much trouble to clear them. Let them dry out over the afternoon. Bill and Zar, you two carry on with the flowerbeds. Get them cleared and dug over this afternoon. I’ll give you some overtime if needs be. Hopefully, we can get at least some of the flowers put in tomorrow morning before the Mayor and his party arrive. In fact, it will look good with the two of you working on the beds when everyone comes. Boxes of colourful primulas and all that. I’m going to be watering the plants in the greenhouses, and I have to test out the hose and connections for the cascade. Rose – you can go in the playground…’

Amy interrupted. ‘That’s my job, Liz.’

‘Rose, you can go in the playground,’ repeated Liz.

‘That’s mine, I always do that,’ insisted Amy.

‘Be fair,’ said Rose, smiling at Amy. ‘Share and share alike.’

‘I’m the playground worker,’ went on Amy. ‘Ian
always
has me there. It has to be me.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Liz, angered by Amy’s tirade. ‘You can leaf vac this afternoon for once.’

Amy stood up and pointed at Rose. ‘It’s a family thing!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not even in his coffin and you’re playing favourites.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that!’ exploded Liz. She stood up. ‘You are an assistant gardener, the same as Rose. You do not tell me where you are working.’

‘I always do the playground, Liz,’ she said, visibly weakening.

‘You do not always do the playground, Amy.’

Liz was determined not to lose this face off. She was either the manager in the park or not.

‘I know where everything is,’ insisted Amy, ‘I know all the mums, they trust me.’

Liz stood her ground. She was boiling inside, but could see Amy was beaten.

‘Amy, are you the manager of this park?’

‘No. I’m not. But, Liz, it’s my right.’

‘I don’t know what right you are talking about, Amy. Your contract of employment says you will work anywhere in the park as requested by your manager. That being so, it’s Rose in the playground this afternoon. And you, Amy, on the leaf vac. And that is an end to it.’ She gazed round at them all; they’d stayed like kids watching a fight. ‘You all know what you have to do. Let’s go.’

Bill and Zar left. Rose too, working to hide a grin. Amy stayed.

‘Please, Liz,’ she wheedled. ‘I need to be in the playground.’

‘You do not.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘I have been telling you for the last few minutes, that this afternoon it is not. Maybe tomorrow, but not this afternoon. It’s not for one person to assume they have a permanent position.’

‘You have in the greenhouses.’

‘I am qualified,’ she said, knowing that wasn’t quite true. At least not on paper. ‘You are not.’

‘Please, Liz. I beg of you.’

‘I don’t want to sack you, Amy, but you are pushing me to the limit. I have told you what to do. Leaf vaccing. Are you refusing to do it?’ She waved a finger at her face. ‘If so, I will dismiss you.’

Amy sagged like a pierced cushion.

‘I’ll do the bloody vaccing.’ And she left.

Liz sank onto the bench. She was exhausted. She hated herself for going through that, but simply was being fair. Rose, sister or not, had been leaf vaccing too long. Jobs were to be shared. She could not let Amy take ownership of the playground.

Though her lie about qualifications made her realise her own weakness. She had to take the exam and pass it. Pass well. And hope no one else looked through her job application of three years ago.

She left the mess hut, as Amy was leaving the yard pushing the leaf vac.

Part Three:

The Investigation

Chapter 39

The man had come in the rear entrance from Balaam Street, and done a tour of the park, avoiding the grass as it was too wet for his almost new, brown leather shoes. He noted the layout with the two cottages side by side, the playground, the tennis courts, the bowling green, the lawn with the marquee in the middle, a couple of greenhouses, a yard. Two workers were on a flower bed digging it over, another two doing some bricklaying, one surely too old. A couple of people were walking dogs. A woman in the playground was wiping the seats of the swings with a large sponge.

He was black, tall, broad shouldered, late twenties perhaps. Someone who plainly took care of his appearance. His grey trousers had a sharp crease, his navy jacket was spruce, and under it a white shirt with a red tie.

Zar came near with a wheelbarrow of compost.

The man said, ‘Excuse me. May I ask you something?’

Zar put down the barrow. ‘Sure. What do you want to know?’

‘Lots,’ said the man.

They gazed at each other. Zar felt he should be looking away.

‘Do I detect one of the chosen people?’ said the man, his eyes widening.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Zar.

‘Do you want to go to the Promised Land?’

Zar shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m a Muslim.’

The man laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a holy roller.’ He paused for a second, his gaze not leaving Zar’s eyes. ‘Let’s be direct, young man. Are you gay?’

Zar hesitated. ‘A bit,’ he stammered.

‘Can I take that as a yes?’ said the man with a smile.

‘I don’t know you,’ said Zar.

‘But do you want to know me?’

Zar was electric. It was clear what was happening. They had recognised each other. And it was in his court. He could say yes, he could say no.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

‘It pays to be careful,’ said the man with a nod. ‘We could meet after work. Have a chat. And see where it goes.’

‘We could,’ said Zar. His neck was prickly. He was shivering; he knew the man knew. Was it so obvious?

The man had his phone out. ‘Give me your phone number. If I’m bothering you, just give me a dud.’

Zar gave his correct number and name. The man tapped it in his phone.

‘I’d better let you get back to work, Zar. That old geezer is watching us.’ He indicated Bill who was standing on a garden fork looking their way. ‘I’m looking for a Jack Bell. Do you know him?’

‘That’s Jack over there.’ He pointed to the wall by the bowling green where Jack was working. ‘Why do you want him?’

The man took out a card and gave it to Zar.

Zar read. ‘Detective Constable Edward Thomas.’

‘Eddie,’ said the man. ‘I’m not a poet.’

‘You’re a cop.’

‘And we’re meeting later on.’ He put out his hand. Zar took it. The shake was longer than formal. ‘Thank you for your assistance. Tell the old fella, I’m a cop investigating a crime in the park. And I didn’t say what.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Then you won’t have to lie. Never a good idea.’ DC Thomas smiled. ‘And now a word with Mr Bell. Hope to see you later, Zar.’

Zar watched him walking away. He was scared stiff, he was excited. But he was at work, later was later. He picked up the barrow and wheeled it in to Bill.

‘Jack Bell?’ said DC Thomas.

Jack put down his trowel. ‘That’s me. And who, may I ask, are you?’

DC Thomas flashed his ID.

‘A bit slower,’ said Jack. The man showed it again and allowed Jack to read it. ‘You’re a policeman.’

‘I am. A detective constable to be accurate.’ He looked about him and said in a low voice, ‘Can we talk a little more privately?’ He drew Jack along the drive, out of earshot from Mr Swift. ‘I am investigating some suspicious circumstances concerning the death of Ian Swift who was the manager of this park.’

‘Right,’ said Jack. ‘Now it’s making sense.’

‘And correct me if I am wrong, but you found him last night about 9 o’clock and took him to the hospital.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Jack.

Thomas took out a notebook. ‘How long had you known him?’

‘All of…’ he calculated, ‘Fourteen hours.’ The man jotted as Jack spoke. ‘I met him when he opened the park first thing yesterday. Never seen him before then. Bit of a bully actually. He was having a go at me before I’d said a word.’