Jack of All Trades Books 1-4

Jack of All Trades

DH Smith

Books 1-4

Copyright © DH Smith

Published by Earlham Books

Distributed by Smashwords

Published 2017 by Earlham Books

Book design & cover art by Lia at Free Your Words

Text copyright © 2015, 2016 DH Smith

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-909804-28-9

Contents

Title Page and Copyright

JACK OF ALL TRADES

Part One: The Cast & Setting

Part Two: The Murder

Part Three: The Arrest

Part Four: Confronting the Killer

JACK OF SPADES

Part One: The Cast & Setting

Part Two: The First Killing

Part Three: The Best Laid Plans

Part Four: In The Forest

JACK O’ LANTERN

Part One: The Cast & Setting

Part Two: The First Murder

Part Three: Working It All Out

Part Four: Picnic On The Island

JACK BY THE HEDGE

Part One: The Cast & Setting

Part Two: The Murder

Part Three: The Investigation

Part Four: The Big Day

Thank you!

About the Author

Formatting info

JACK OF ALL TRADES

Part One:

The Cast & Setting

Chapter 1

Planing made him feel like a real carpenter. All the curls of shiny wood, the whoosh and certainty of it. Sharp steel, a long run down the edge, the resin smell intermingled with his sweat. An eighth of an inch to take off. Too little to saw, a lot to plane. There was probably a better way, but at least planing was safer. He could have used a power plane, but there was no muscle in it. It made him feel part of a machine, whereas this had the freedom of a gymnast.

It’s all in the marking up, his dad used to say. That and sharp tools. Nothing about a sharp workman, though he wasn’t bad at carpentry. The problem with calling yourself a builder was that clients expected you to be good at everything. Mostly he could pull it off, though there had been one or two close shaves he’d rather not think about. We’ve all been there, said Bob, talking about their near misses. Thank you, Bob, he thought. But it shouldn’t be a question of what you can get away with.

Better than he was, though. Some of those earlier jobs he’d had to come back and redo, and still left a grudging customer. But wasn’t that the way with every builder? No one had all the skills. You come in as a carpenter and they want more and more of you. Plastering, plumbing, roofing. So you say yes to get the work. Learn on the job.

And hope you can get away with it.

Plane a bit, try it, plane some more. Getting even along the length, that was tricky. But the window mustn’t be wobbly in the frame. He looked again at the pencil mark, too up and down along the length. He glanced up, her indoors was looking at him. Trying to ignore her, he did a couple of long runs to get the bumps out. Then concentrated on one of the ups. He’d never liked teak, at least he thought it was teak. He should look at the label. Sound more of a carpenter. Teak this, teak that, shake his head and suck in a long breath with a pencil behind his ear.

Six of the bastards to get in.

A bigger job than he was used to. In Chigwell of all places. Less than ten miles from Forest Gate where he lived, but a universe away in lifestyle. Poshland for East End gangsters going legit, footballers with their wives and girlfriends, division two entertainers. This summerhouse. It was bigger than his flat. And talk about demanding. Jack could change a lock, fit a new door, put a fence up, concrete a path fairly confidently. Handyman stuff. You can do this one, insisted Bob, his old mucker, who’d come back off holiday from Egypt with an attack of enteric fever. Nearly died. And passed this job on to him. Up your street, mate. Just a small repair job. Oh sure. How it grew! They kept adding bits. New windows, then new roof, new floor. They kept piling stuff on. The small repair job ballooned. All it needed was new walls to make it a 100% renewal.

And he’d said, yes I can do it. Sure, no trouble. Getting way beyond his comfort zone into plumbing and electrics. And he was nodding like a dog in a car window. Sure, no trouble.

The sort of garden shelter he was used to was more like a shed without windows, a gazebo. Somewhere to sit out in fine weather, a sort of Wendy house for grown ups; a single space with benches, you could just about get a table and a couple of chairs in. This one made him think of rich Russians, their dachas, the whole family migrating in summer time. A Russian builder he’d worked with once had told him about them. This had a kitchen, toilet and shower, with two large rooms and a small one – it was out of his world. A summerhouse! He’d move in tomorrow.

He’d heard of writers writing in a shed, but you’d scarcely call this a shed. And why would you want a shower? For a steamy sex scene. And then a second room? A kitchen? She’s a writer not a cook, so he’d heard.

There was a sofa bed in one room. What was that used for? Guests, was the innocent thought, but the way she moved when she was here an hour ago, talking about the job, a hand on her hip, tight skirt and cavernous cleavage, and that sly grin gave him other thoughts. You don’t dress like that unless… you’re ready for it. He shook his head. Plane, saw, hammer. Head down, do the job. Drive back to Forest Gate without a stain on his character.

But you just never know. You think she’s got to be up for it, but then again… That teacher who’d slapped his face and yelled at him for a drunken fumble. But how do you know if you don’t try? Not that drink gives you the sharpest eye.

Tell me, tell me.

He rested for a breather, looking across the manicured lawn to the house. He couldn’t get over working in Chigwell. The size of the rooms in the house itself, like halls, a semicircle of cream leather sofas that could seat ten. What would this house be worth? Two, three million… How would he know? But it made you realise the difference, the space, the way these people lived. And of course, how they see the rest of us. Those who didn’t live on Manor Road, Chigwell. Their army of workers, to be employed when needed, and complained about.

She was still looking out of the window. Maybe she was thinking about the sofa bed. Or maybe that he should get a move on, as she wanted her summerhouse back.

He’d hoped Bob was recovered enough for the electrics. He didn’t want to use Joe again. More of a cowboy than he was himself. At least he knew his weaknesses, admitted them, whereas Joe was all bullshit. In my country we do it like this. Sure, sure. But in my country, Joe, it has to work.

For at least as long as it takes the cheque to clear.

Chapter 2

Not bad. Manly in his yellow vest. Powerful biceps glistening in the sun. His torn jeans were almost fashionable. A trim bum, when he turned away from her to pick up a tool. She almost whistled, and laughed at herself. Wasn’t it builders who whistled down from their scaffolding to women scurrying along the street? Come on up, darling! But then she had a touch of that vulgarity. She knew what she liked. And dared from time to time.

Wait and you could be dead.

She wished she could paint on the move. She’d be out and about, with her palette and easel, painting manual workers. Catch in oils the flow of that body, the plane in his hands, the ooze and sear as it whooshed along the side of the new window. She should get one of those things, what did they call them? That glass whatjacallit in Edinburgh. She snapped her fingers. Camera obscura. Then she could watch in secret, a circular view from above. Except she quite liked him knowing she was watching. Not like a schoolboy up in his bedroom furtively viewing porn. But blatantly at the window. It made him wonder what she was thinking. She wasn’t quite sure herself. Yes, she’d like to see more of him. But there were complications. She’d have to plan it. Make sure Leon was out for the day.

Out there in the sunshine, lying in the wood shavings… She was tired of paper pushers.

She might try a drawing; she wasn’t bad at that. Except he was too far off for detail. And she could hardly sit out on the lawn drawing him. Or could she?

The bell rang.

Joanna sighed. And sat down heavily in an armchair. Work always intrudes. She picked up the phone.

‘Do answer the door, Donna. And bring in the coffee and cakes.’

Chapter 3

‘Yes, Mrs Ward.’

She put down the phone and wiped her hands on a tea towel. Why couldn’t the lazy cow do it herself? Having sacked her secretary, she, the cook, was answering the door, bringing her coffee, like a jumped up maid. She’d known this would happen. It’d be weeks before she got round to getting another. What’s the hurry when you have a dogsbody in the kitchen? But if she talked back, dared suggest even… And she, the lady of the house, just a jumped up stripper, acting as if she were born in a palace. Poplar High Street. Donna knew where Lady Nose-In-The-Air came from.

She took off her apron, and threw it on the table. She’d been told off only the other day for going to the door wearing it. On, off, on, off. Cook, housemaid, doorstop.

She strolled out of the kitchen, into the passage that opened into the main vestibule before the front door. It was well lit through stained glass windows, one wall depicting George killing the Dragon. On the other wall were two large and colourful abstract paintings on either side of the door to the lounge. Above the marbled floor was the grand chandelier, hell to dust, twinkling in the sunlight. When the door opened, you got a jingle of glass.

The front door had matching stained glass, the rescued virgin gazing in adoration at the knight saint in the side window. The vestibule ended in the sweeping staircase, with its mock Georgian banisters. A modern house with a cacophony of borrowed ideas.

Donna opened the front door.

Three young women were standing there in bright summer dresses, each carrying a shoulder laptop bag. Behind them, the taxi driver gave her a nod. He’d picked them up from Grange Hill Underground station. Though why they couldn’t walk… Ten minutes, if you dawdle. And it wasn’t as if Manor Road was a motorway.

‘One moment, ladies. Let me pay for the cab.’

She gave him £20. He had the receipt ready, knowing the drill. This was a regular run. The three young women had to be picked up together at the station. Two had come together, he’d had to wait for the next train for the arrival of the third, all flustered and apologising. Better for him if they’d all come on the same train. Then he’d make twenty for a five minute run. Today, he’d had to wait another five or six minutes. It had to be done that way, Mrs Ward insisted. No wasting time waiting for the last one to get here, all to arrive in unison. She would not wait for anyone, he reckoned.

‘Do come in, ladies,’ said Donna. ‘Mrs Ward is expecting you.’

She led them into the lounge and left them there to be greeted by Mrs Ward, while she went back to her kitchen. She put on her apron again and went back to the second salmon she was wrapping in foil. She must get these ready today, and prepare the chicken legs. Put them in the fridge overnight. Tomorrow she’d do the baking, the salads. Strawberries and cream was simple enough. Then Janie was coming over with the canapés and a few young girls to waitress. Mr Ward had taken charge of the drinks, thank heavens. He’d make the punch and bring up assorted wines and spirits from the cellar. A barrel of beer and various bottles were due in the morning. Not her worry.

Just thirty-five people, he’d said. Don’t make a big fuss. She snorted as she recalled. And then get it in the neck from both of them if she didn’t make ‘a big fuss’ of it? She did wonder sometimes. Thirty-five had, of course, become fifty ‘or so’. How can you cater for fifty plus swells without making a fuss? You can’t give them peanuts and crisps with a couple of dips from Marks and Sparks.

She’d be here tomorrow until midnight, or even later. They did at least half a dozen of these soirées a year, all the hassle. He was OK, praising her afterwards for the delicious ham or whatever. But she’d pick up on something. Could the rolls be warm, Donna dear, and less pepper in the aubergine dip. And all she’d get for it was a paltry 50 quid on top. That was the rich for you. Button your lip and take home the leftovers. At least they didn’t mind that. Mrs Ward wouldn’t touch them anyway, though he was OK for next day’s lunch – but no more than that. Once she’d suggested sending it all to the Salvation Army but Mrs Ward dismissed the suggestion. It would only encourage them, she said. So dump what you can’t take home.

Bugger the starving millions.

Donna lived in the granny flat next door. Convenient and inconvenient. Especially with tomorrow night’s party.

But moaning gets nothing done. She’d better sort out that little lot in with Mrs Ward, then back to the salmon.

Chapter 4

She’d allowed them to call her Joanna. She wasn’t sure it was proper, but it couldn’t be called back. Make a note.

The three young women were seated on the long sofa with laptops on their knees. There was plenty of space between them; the seat could have accommodated six or more. They sat forward, its sinking leather plushness really too luxurious for work. The glass table before them had their coffee and biscuits. If this meeting was typical there would be little time to drink and nibble. Joanna liked to rush them forward and they were kept busy tapping out her ‘suggestions’.

Joanna was seated in an armchair to one side without a laptop. One of them would take minutes and send her a copy. She had a paper notebook and a silver fountain pen in her lap. She had written: Penny, Julie. What the hell was the name of the plump one? Never mind. It’d come. Or maybe it wouldn’t.

‘Where’s Helen?’ said Julie carefully.

She was in the centre of the three, tall and slim, her very black hair cut in a cropped 20s style. All three had a nervousness as if they were there to be interviewed.

‘Helen is no longer with us,’ said Joanna sharply.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Julie said quietly, ‘Why’s that, Joanna?’

Joanna held her gaze until Julie self consciously turned away. She wondered about the uppity miss. Creative writing degree at some college in the sticks. Was she more trouble than she was worth?

She said, ‘Helen was two weeks behind in her deadline. And wanted more money.’

She sensed the tension as the three glanced at each other. There was something going on between them, she was sure. But she didn’t give a damn. She held all the cards. The full pack including the jokers. These girls were two a penny. But something was up. Those furtive looks. It was pathetic really. What on earth could they do?

‘Is there something that any of you want to add?’ she said looking at all three in turn.

Julie glanced to either side and both her companions nodded. She bit her lower lip.

‘We’ve been talking it over amongst ourselves,’ she began, barely audibly, ‘and we think…’ she halted as she steeled herself to the Olive Twist moment, ‘we should get fifty per cent royalty.’

‘Yes, fifty percent,’ agreed Penny.

‘Yes,’ managed the plump one in the tiniest mumble.

Joanna smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘That’s what Helen wanted too. And as I said, she’s no longer here.’

‘But we do all the work,’ exclaimed Julie. Her face was reddening. She was obviously a volcano inside.

Joanna gazed from one to the other, judging their firmness in their trembling pallor. Three little girls coming to the Head with a petition about school lunch. She had been here before. Every six months or so, it happened. Would these schoolgirls never understand it was a hard world out there? That she was doing them a favour. Giving them a leg up. And they too stupid to realise it. Who would stay in this group, who would leave?

She sighed, a most put upon sigh. ‘I am Bluebell Woods. As you know, I have authored 102 books of the Forest Fairies series. For the last fifty books I have used various ghost writers, like yourselves, to continue the brand. Without my brand, there would be no work for you.’

‘That’s true,’ said Julie, ‘and we are grateful but…’ another effort to say the unsayable. ‘But you don’t do that much.’

‘I edit your dreadful stuff.’

That was a bombshell and she shouldn’t have said it. Alright, it was dreadful stuff. But so was her own contribution. That’s why she’d stopped writing at 102. She couldn’t stand it anymore. But unaccountably the little books made money. Seven year old girls loved them.

No, she shouldn’t have said it. That was the game you played. The thing you kept to yourself. You had to pretend they were good, lovable tales. Or it was simply hack work. Which it was. But you had to pretend it was art. For your readers. And for yourself.

‘I take that back,’ she said. ‘You are three promising writers. But you have an apprenticeship to complete. Of course, that’s just my opinion. Anytime you wish, you may go your own way. There are plenty of others eager to take your place.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I have an hour. And we do have to finalise these plots… So if you want to, go. Go now. 35% is my last word on the matter.’

Go, stay. She didn’t care that much. It was a little tedious contacting agents, putting an ad out to creative writing degree courses and so forth. But she liked new faces. At the beginning, they were compliant, overjoyed to be here. As unrealistic in their excitement as in any love affair. How could it last?

Julie stood up, her seat sank and expired. ‘It isn’t right, Joanna.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘That’s your opinion, Julie.’ She looked to the others. ‘What do you two think?’

Both were looking down at their laptops as if there were a secret message on the screen.

‘Who’s going? Who’s staying? Let’s get this settled.’

Julie had gone too far. Stood up too quickly. There was no backing out now. She walked to the door and then turned back into the room.

‘Anyone else coming my way?’

The two sat like stone bookends, hunched and motionless; the gap of sofa had widened between them. Julie held the doorjamb.

‘I’m staying,’ said Penny quietly, her back to Julie.

‘Me too,’ whispered the plump one.

Joanna looked to Julie, her eyes welling in the doorway. She could have said something placatory and probably brought her back. But then there’d only be problems in a week or two. Best get rid of troublemakers as soon as they make trouble.

‘Goodbye, Julie,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your work with the Forest Fairies.’

‘What about my book at the printers?’

‘You’ll get paid for that,’ said Joanna. ‘As usual.’

‘And the one I’m halfway through?’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Write that off to experience.’

‘You bitch!’ exploded Julie. ‘You use us, you tight-fisted cow!’

And she turned on her heels and was away.

No one spoke as Julie’s heels clipped the marble floor in the hallway, halting for a few seconds as she reached the mat and fiddled with the latch. The front door slammed in finality.

‘How to get a bad reference,’ sighed Joanna.

One out of three wasn’t bad or even unexpected. Probably the best writer of this group – but who could tell really? Writing skill wasn’t high on the list. You had to keep the tone. Be a good team player. No room for stars.

‘It’s Julie’s choice,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m holding no one prisoner.’

The two young women at either end of the sofa nodded. Both felt a burn of shame. They’d come here to be writers. What were they now?

They are so weedy, thought Joanna. The only one that talks back has gone. There were a few promising girls on the books from the last round of interviews. She scribbled herself a note to send them the test scenario for them to continue. But in the meantime there was work to be done here.

She looked up from her jotting and smiled at the two young women who were waiting on her.

‘Penny, you had the idea that Raindrop gets kidnapped by Hunky the gnome. Can you elaborate?’

Chapter 5

He gave the window a push. It was firm. He pressed with both hands across the frame. No movement. He opened and shut the casement. A little stiff on the hinge but that was just oil. Bob had ordered the windows before his illness. He wondered how much they’d cost. Half a dozen, teak, double-glazed casements, made to measure. Not quite to measure. Bob had got them a little oversize so they could be fitted.

With the second he had a problem. The frame wasn’t square. Bastard. He’d spotted it when he’d taken the old window out. There was a slither of wood to make up for the deficit in one corner. He held on to it. The slither was still serviceable. He’d maybe use it again.

While he was marking up, his phone rang. He stuck his pencil behind his ear and took out the phone from his hip pocket. His ex. What did she want now? He thought of leaving it, but knew she’d keep trying – and her temper would grow the more he fobbed her off.

Money again? In the instant before answering he couldn’t think why the monthly payment hadn’t gone through. No big bills. But maybe it had…

‘Hello, Alison,’ he said carefully.

‘First time, that’s a wonder,’ she said.

He didn’t respond to the dig, just said, ‘I’m at work.’

‘Bodger and Floggit,’ she said. ‘Or what silly name is it?’

‘Jack of all Trades,’ he said wearily. And knew it was a silly name, but by then he’d had the business cards printed, the headed notepaper and the ad in Yellow Pages.

‘And master of none,’ she said without disguising the bitterness in her voice.

Jack had heard the rejoinder too many times.

‘I assume you haven’t phoned to help me with my marketing,’ he said, trying to avoid an argument.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ve a staff meeting this afternoon. I want you to pick up Mia.’

‘You want me to,’ he said, bridling at her tone.

‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.’

‘There are nicer ways of saying it,’ he said, pacing about, the phone pressed to his ear.

‘Don’t lecture me on good manners,’ she said. ‘After your drunken bumblings. Are you with anyone these days?’

‘No.’

‘That’s the way it goes,’ she said. ‘One out, one in.’

‘No one’s in,’ he said.

‘Just as well,’ she said. ‘They’d all learn about your smelly socks and happy hour pretty sharply.’

‘I’m on the wagon,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you enough times.’

‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘I mean that. You can be quite nice sober.’

‘Let’s quit while I’m getting a compliment. Yes, I’ll pick up Mia. OK?’

‘Drop her off at Moira’s. Don’t forget.’

‘Fine. I will and I won’t. Now I’d best get on. The missus is watching me.’

‘Any chance there, Jack?’

‘Out of my league, sweetheart. See you when I see you. Bye.’

And he shut off the phone. Oh, these calls, how they wound him up. Her quick flick insults. Not undeserved, but she knew his weak underbelly. And all one way, mostly. He rarely had a go at her. Just as well, because when he did he went in for the kill. Never a dig, but a Jack the Ripper slashing.

Which always got him in worse trouble.

He’d have to leave early to get over to Hackney by 3.30. Bugger. He’d be losing a couple of hours’ work, though he could combine it with a visit to the builder’s merchant in Stratford, depending on the traffic. She was always phoning, do this, do that. Expecting him to drop everything, and run across from wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, to pick up Mia. And ferry her to her next port of call.

He was still marking up, but paying it too little attention, rehashing the conversation with Alison. He’d marked a whole side without any memory of doing it. Not the way. And he went to his notebook to check. Just as well he had, as he found he’d been doing it from the wrong edge. Jack took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide in the sunshine, two more deep breaths to get rid of the bad air. He stretched back and forth, and then, aware he might be being watched, he looked up at the window of the house. She wasn’t there, the blind was down. Maybe he wasn’t her only one.

He looked up at the sky, clear, not a cloud. It’d be a good night to get out with his telescope. He’d have another go at the Andromeda Galaxy with his new eyepiece. Pictures of it looked so good in the mags. But all he’d seen so far was a smudgy cloud with a glow in the middle. He felt cheated, hundreds of billions of stars, a £600 scope – and that was all he could get.

Typical.

With the marking up re-done, he began planing. And in a few minutes, was completely in the work. The shaving of the wood, the fitting into a space, out here in the sunshine, that was all of it. He knew what he was doing, and there was a completion. The roof might give him grief. That was roofs for you. But this was his element. Smooth away the phone call, a relationship ground into the dust. Smooth away. Here, all he had to do was a good job. All the easier in wood. The forgiving material.

The shavings were piling in heaps all around him when Donna arrived.

‘Bacon sandwich and tea,’ she said, proffering her tray.

He took it from her and put it on the work bench.

‘You’re a queen, Donna.’

‘I do my best,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Would you like some smoked salmon for lunch?’

‘Bloody hell, Donna. Don’t spoil me.’

She shrugged. ‘There’s a mountain of it. I’ll make you up a plate.’

‘I’ve brought a cheese sandwich,’ he said. ‘But I’ll feed that to the birds.’ He took a bite of the bacon sandwich. The heat, juice and saltiness hit him. ‘Oh, that’s prime bacon.’

‘I know what builders like. My dad was a scaffolder.’

‘How long you been here?’ he managed to say, his mouth half full.

‘Five years nearly. I’ve got the granny flat next door.’

‘No problems, working and living here?’ he enquired, eager for a bit of gossip.

She shrugged. ‘He’s alright. Hardly ever here. She’s a bit of a lady muck.’

‘She’s been watching me,’ he said.

‘She likes a bit of rough,’ said Donna with a laugh.

‘Who you calling a bit of rough?’

‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘Shirt off, ripped jeans. Not exactly a gent.’

‘Oh, you got me to a T, Donna. I am not exactly a gent. Dead right.’

‘And if I was twenty years younger…’

‘You’d be in a pram,’ he joshed.

She blew a raspberry at him. ‘I wish.’ She had a plump hand on her hip, bunions pushing out of her well worn flats. ‘You remind me of my son Eric. Curly brown hair, both bite your nails.’

He looked at them half ashamed.

‘What’s he up to?’ he said.

She stiffened, a hand went to her forehead.

‘I don’t know why I brought him up. I haven’t heard from him in five years. Schizophrenia. He blames me for everything, and his social worker won’t give me his address, simply says he’s fine.’ She turned back to him, shaking her head. ‘Fine? With schizophrenia. And I’m his devil.’

‘I’m sorry, Donna.’

‘I didn’t mean to bring it up. I don’t normally.’

He put a hand gently on her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, love. We’ve all got problems.’

‘You just wonder,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think, how can I be to blame. Doing what? And sometimes I think maybe, how I treated him as a boy, what I wanted, how, you know, as a parent you nag.’

‘Yeh.’

He was out of his depth here. Fine at joshing middle-aged women. And then something serious comes out. What the hell do you say then? When all you’ve had is a bacon sandwich and one side of a story.

‘Social workers are bastards,’ he said, and knew it was two-faced as soon as it came out. Some were, some weren’t. It was an easy-life phrase.

‘I hate them.’

She shook herself and gave a harsh laugh with little mirth in it. ‘I shouldn’t burden you. It’s just, you know, you reminded me of him.’ She wiped an eye with the back of her hand. ‘Sometimes I’m fine for days, and then some little thing sets me off.’

‘It’s OK, Donna. We don’t have to pretend that everything is rosy all the time. What’s the good of that? Cry sometimes. Admit you’re not perfect.’

Alcoholic Halt had taught him that. Support, don’t judge. We’re all bloody sinners.

‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘You’ve got a wise head on your shoulders.’ She picked up the tray with its crockery. ‘Now we’ve both got work to do. I’ll bring you some lunch. Would you like a beer with it?’ She winked at him. ‘I’ll put it in a cup, so they don’t know.’

‘Er, no thanks, Donna. I don’t drink. Had a problem with it – and had to knock it on the head.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ she said. ‘And it’s sensible not to drink at lunchtime. I shouldn’t be encouraging you. Plenty else to drink.’

‘You’re so right there, Donna.’

‘I must be back to work, love.’

And she turned and walked across the lawn. A short, middle aged woman, a little stout (who’d trust a slim cook?), short greying hair. And he thought ‘wise head’ – no way, more like smarmy git.

He took up the plane and put his anguish into the to and fro, until he was part of the swing again.

Chapter 6

It was near the end of his lunch when it happened. True to her word, Donna had brought him out a plate. Not quite his usual midday meal. A Chigwell lunch. Half a grapefruit with a cherry in the middle, smoked salmon, a large slice of cured ham, hummus, pitta bread – and most unlikely for Jack, salad. With a jug of home made ginger beer ringing with ice cubes.

He settled himself down on the summerhouse patio in the sunshine, back against the wall. He was half reading his Daily Mirror as he ate, thinking what Bob would say if he saw this spread. Mind you, it was filling and tasty. And good for you, as his mum might say. He was aware he ate too much stodge. All those snacks in greasy spoons and ready meals at home. He must start buying fruit again.

He’d been thinking too about picking Mia up. He’d get there in half an hour from here, though he must leave early, before the traffic buildup. He could drive down to the North Circular, leave it after a mile or so, and go south onto the Woodford New Road, through the straggles of Epping Forest and onto Lea Bridge Road. He’d tell Donna to pass it on that he needed to go up the builders’ merchant for something or other. And then maybe he could get back here for another hour or so when he’d dropped Mia off if he didn’t crash into the rush hour, when all destinations were off. Though he’d like to spend longer with Mia, but you can’t just leave a job when you feel like it. Every other weekend was the agreement, and the odd night when Alison needed the night off.

Into the quiescence of noon, a half naked man flew out of the sliding door of the lounge. He had simply a towel round his waist, his feet and top bare, as he yelled incoherently, rushing onto the lawn. Close behind raced Mr Ward, fully suited, brandishing a briar walking stick.

‘I’ll teach you, you bastard!’

Ward was close enough to smack the man on the back with his stick like a retreating donkey. Welts were showing up across the shoulders. All of a sudden, caught in the towel, the man tripped and fell. Ward was at once on him, smashing with the stick, kicking his ribs and head.

The man was now naked, the towel had become unwrapped; he was curled up foetal fashion as Ward smashed at him.

‘Please, Mr Ward,’ he yelled. ‘You won’t see me again. Enough, you’re killing me!’

Ward was a frenzy, the man’s plea fanning his aggression. Over six feet tall and broad, he thrashed the prone figure with all his strength, circling round him, his tie flapping out of his jacket, walloping him with his stick, following through with vicious kicks.

Jack was unsure what to do. The assault was a shock, the scenario not hard to guess. Chasing him out of the bedroom no doubt, or with the towel, maybe the bathroom. And yes, the man’s hair was wet. He’d bet he and the missus had been having a shower together. The man had set himself up for a beating.

Though he thought the man somewhat meek, he himself would have fought back. Not easy when you’re naked, but at least try to grab the stick and fend off the blows.

With no sign of Ward easing up, it was the blood running down the man’s face that got Jack into action. He rushed in and grabbed Ward’s stick arm.

‘You’ll kill him, Mr Ward,’ he said as he clung on tight. The peacemaker.

Ward tried to shake free but Jack now had both hands on the stick.

‘Let go of me, you interfering bastard!’

Ward swung a blow with his free hand, smacking into Jack’s cheek and eye. Jack stumbled back, almost thrown off his feet, hardly knowing where he was for a second. Then he realised he had the stick and Ward was squaring up to him with both fists.

‘You meddling git!’

They were separated by a few paces, circling round each other. Jack held the stick firmly, watching for his opponent’s next move. How had he got into this? He’d just been eating his lunch…

‘You were killing him, Mr Ward.’

‘And I’ll finish the job!’

He whipped round to the man on the ground and kicked him, concentrating on the head which the man covered in his hands and arms.

‘I’ll teach you to poke my wife! You half-arsed ponce!’

Jack threw down the stick and strode in. He pushed Ward away. Ward swung at him. Jack parried his blow and the next, then swung Ward one on the jaw. Ward rocked back and Jack butted him in the chest, forcing him to the ground.

Ward thumped onto the turf, winded. And slowly pulled himself to the seated position, his face a torment of anger, blood seeping from the chin.

‘Enough, Mr Ward.’ Jack’s hands spread before him, placatory fashion. He was aching across the shoulders, one eye misty. ‘I had to intervene. You’d have killed him.’

Ward pointed at Jack, then swung his arm to the garden gate. ‘I want you out of here. Ten minutes. Clear off.’

‘You gave me no choice, Mr Ward.’

‘You are fired. You builder’s lowlife.’ A quiet, seething anger as he rose to his feet, brushing himself down. ‘Collect your tools and get off the premises.’

And with that, back hunched, he strode off the lawn and through the glass sliding door into the house.

Jack watched him go. It had happened so quickly. Ice cubes were still melting in the jug of ginger beer. His adrenaline seeping away, his head was throbbing. He’d been sacked. He’d think that out later but knew he’d be badly out of pocket. Tools to pack. Ten minutes. Out on his ear again. Can you believe it?

Then he recalled the man on the ground. He’d quite forgotten him in the melee.

Jack went down to the prone man. He was unconscious, bleeding from the head and back. Was he alive? Jack felt the man’s back. It was warm and he could feel the soft vibration of breathing through the flesh. And then Donna was standing over them.

‘Is he alive?’ she said warily.

‘Just.’

‘I’ll get something to cover him,’ she said and scurried back to the house.

He took his phone out and dialled 999.

Donna returned a little later with a throw and a cushion. They covered the man to his chin and put the cushion under his head. A top window opened, and there was Ward throwing clothing and shoes out. He caught Jack’s eye, even this far away Jack could feel the unburnt ferocity.

‘Get your tools, you tosser. Off my premises.’

Jack said nothing. What was there to say?

‘Do you want a coffee?’ said Donna.

Jack half smiled. ‘He might sack you too.’

She shook her head. ‘He won’t. I’ve been here five years, and I know him. He’s fussy about his food. I know what he likes and doesn’t like. It’d take more than a cup of coffee to get rid of me.’

‘Coffee’d be great,’ he said.

She went back to the kitchen. And he went to the summerhouse and began pulling his tools together. He’d brought quite a few with him, as this was to be a job over a few weeks. The plan had been to keep them in the summerhouse overnight. Some plan! It had seemed so rosy, clearing his overdraft, giving him cash in the bank.

He put his shirt on, weary as if he’d just done a cross country run. He picked up the jug of ginger beer and drank it straight from the jug. Then put his hand in for the remnant of ice cubes, and wiped them over his forehead, eye and cheek.

Donna came with his coffee.

They crossed to the man lying on the lawn. He was moaning and semi conscious. Donna adjusted the throw and the pillow under his head.

‘I must get back in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve things in the oven.’ She held his arm. ‘I’m sorry he’s sacked you.’

‘What else could I have done?’

‘You did the right thing,’ she said. ‘Insist he pays you off.’

He nodded.

A bell rang from the house.

‘The door!’ Donna rushed into the house.

It was the paramedics.

Jack left them to it. And began packing his tools. One of the crew went off to get a stretcher but it wasn’t needed. The man was groggy but conscious, and able to walk with them through the house to the waiting ambulance.

Jack had two boxes of tools. One lot he loaded in his van, going out the side gate, as the paramedics on the lawn were doing their first aid. He’d just come back to the summerhouse for the other when Donna approached.

‘Mr Ward wants to see you,’ she said. ‘Oh, your poor eye!’ She touched it gingerly with her fingers. ‘It’s half shut. All swollen and going yellow.’

‘It hurts like hell,’ he said. ‘What’s he want me for?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He just said for you to come up.’

‘Pay me off maybe,’ said Jack. ‘And I can certainly do with the money.’

‘Sorry, Jack.’

‘I thought I had a month’s work here. Sod it. Anyway, I’ll get what I can out of him.’

She led him into the house through the large kitchen, out into the hall and up the wide main staircase. A tradesman going up the front way. He felt intimidated, seeing the large painting on the stairs as they curved up and round to the landing. She led him along the wide passage, and left him outside a door. He knocked.

‘Come in.’

He entered a large room. Across a long area of carpet, under a high window, Mr Ward was seated at a desk. Around the room were shelves. There was a sofa and an armchair. More of a sitting room than an office. Ward had tidied himself up and had a plaster on his chin.

Jack approached the desk.

‘Sit down,’ said Ward indicating a chair.

Jack did so.

‘How’s the prick?’

For a second Jack was unsure what he meant, then realised.

‘He was able to walk to the ambulance,’ he said.

Ward sniffed. ‘I see I gave you quite a shiner.’ He fingered his own plaster as if comparing war wounds.

‘You did,’ said Jack, but he wasn’t here to talk about his black eye. ‘I had to give up a job in East Ham to do this one,’ he lied. ‘So I am entitled to a pay off.’

‘I would have killed him, you know,’ mused Ward, ‘if you hadn’t intervened.’

‘You were at him like a pack of hounds on a fox.’

‘I caught him in the shower with my wife.’

‘I understand your temper,’ said Jack, ‘but there are limits.’

‘Under my own roof, can you believe that? Under my own roof!’

Jack said nothing to this. Who was doing what to whom was not his affair. His money was.

‘Five hundred pounds,’ he tried on, ‘for loss of work and in lieu of notice. Or I see my solicitor.’

He hadn’t got a solicitor. And the paperwork for this job was somewhat rough. Bob had it, and how much could he rely on Bob when it came to it? But worth a try.

Ward shook his head. ‘I want you back on the job.’

This threw Jack.

‘What?’

‘I’d have killed him,’ said Ward. ‘In front of witnesses. And got ten years. As it is, he’ll recover. Won’t he?’

‘I think so. Badly bruised. Maybe the odd bone broken. But he’s alive.’

‘And he won’t press charges,’ said Ward.

‘Can’t see that,’ said Jack.

‘So I want to thank you for stopping me.’ He opened a drawer and brought out two packs of banknotes, each bound with an elastic band. ‘Here’s two hundred to show my appreciation.’

Jack took them, surprised at the turn of events. And pocketed them quickly.

‘And you’ll go back to work?’ said Ward.

‘I want the rest of the day off.’ He was feeling confident. ‘My head’s throbbing like a washing machine.’

‘Of course,’ said Ward. ‘I’m sorry about that. But I was so incensed. In my own house. I might very well have killed him but for you. So go home, rest up. I’m grateful. Killing that bastard would have sent me down for a long stretch. Quite stupid, the berk’s not worth it. And if there’s anything I can do for you…’ He stopped and snapped his fingers, ‘There is something. I’ve got a party tomorrow night. You’re invited.’

‘I might be a bit out of my depth,’ said Jack, ‘among your friends.’

Ward tapped the side of his nose. ‘Business,’ he said, ‘is all about contacts. There’ll be over a billion pounds in that room. And if we show them over the summerhouse, with you, the builder, present… Got a decent suit?’

‘One,’ he said.

‘That’s all you need. Pity about the eye…’

‘I’ll say a bit of four by four came off a lorry.’

Ward laughed. ‘Good for you, young man. No hard feelings?’

‘None.’

Ward put his hand out over the desk. Jack took it. They shook.

‘Then there’s something you can do for me,’ said Ward. ‘My wife. She has what one might call a roving eye. She likes to play away from time to time.’

‘And at home,’ added Jack.

He could see Ward didn’t appreciate the joke. Understandable, all considered.

‘I want you to keep an eye on her,’ said Ward, his tongue lolling in his cheek. ‘Not follow her, you understand. No, no. You’re not a private eye. Just here all day. See who she has in. That sort of thing.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ said Jack. He was thinking of the battering the poor man had taken, and didn’t want to be a party to that.

‘I’ll pay you for it.’ He took another couple of bundles out of the drawer and passed them over. ‘Two hundred a week. In cash. On top of the work, of course. Strictly between ourselves. You’re here for a month. Nothing may happen. If so, all well and good, but on the other hand…’

Jack thought for a few seconds. Then pocketed the cash.

Chapter 7

He drove straight home, down the Chigwell Road and through Wanstead. It was early afternoon, fairly busy. The only trouble he had was at the South Woodford roundabout, where the North Circular meets the M11 and the Chigwell Road, a tangled sprawl, with traffic flying in from all sides. A mess of concrete and selfish driving, yet so close to the millionaire residences of Chigwell. He was cut up by an articulated lorry, the driver giving him two fingers, or maybe it was Jack chancing it, scuttling back to his squalor in Forest Gate.

He went straight into his bathroom and bathed his eye. It was a sight. Yellow and black, tender to his touch. And he knew there was not much you could do. It would fade away over a week or so.

In his kitchen, he made himself a mug of tea and took a couple of paracetamol for his throbbing head. He probably could have worked the afternoon, but Ward owed him this at least. In fact he’d done quite well. Four hundred pounds in his pocket. That’d clear the overdraft and leave him with a few hundred odd. He needed to make an invoice out to Ward for the first payment. Do that this evening, after Alcohol Halt.

He could pay his rent. Even get ahead. It was so important keeping a roof over his head. Just the other day as he’d been leaving in the morning, he’d seen a gang of bailiffs carting furniture out of a house, a Sikh man and his wife forlornly watching them park it on the pavement. This street, Earlham Grove, was such a mixture. Well-off owner occupiers, just a couple with a child, and beside them flats, some of them so overcrowded to cover the inflated price of rent these days. There were even large sheds in back gardens he could see from his bedroom, that he suspected were occupied.

So hard to get by, so much competition everywhere. But today he was alright. Money in his pocket. He was ahead of the game. It would be good to go out with his telescope tonight. But the instrument was such a humping weight, and he had to drive twenty miles out to Epping Forest to get away from light pollution. And with this head and eye, he reflected.

At least he’d made some money. Damages.

Tomorrow’s party. ‘Risk assess,’ said Alcohol Halt. If he’d judged Ward right the place would be sloshing in booze. It was only when you’d tried giving it up, you realised how much there is about. Everyone has got the stuff, every little corner shop. Any social occasion has to be floated on alcohol. Weddings, funerals, christenings – all danger zones. The state sanctified drug pressed into trembling hands.

He didn’t have to go. Ward had only invited him as an afterthought. He didn’t even know the occasion of the party. He’d ask Donna tomorrow.

He came out of the bathroom. He’d have quite liked a lay down. But he had to pick up Mia in an hour. Oh, why not? He set his phone alarm for an hour, took his shoes off and laid out on the sofa.

Jack didn’t sleep, but kept thinking of the fight out of nowhere. Hardly a fight, attempted murder more like. A couple of minutes, no more, and a man was unconscious and he’d been sacked. Fifteen minutes later, he’s reinstated, got four hundred pounds in his pocket, and is invited to a millionaire’s soiree.

And that woman had been watching him. She’s trouble alright. He hadn’t seen her while her boyfriend was getting smashed to bits. Keep well away. Two hundred pounds to watch her, but that was it. Watch only. Mr Ward had too much of a temper for him to mess with his missus.

The alarm went off but he was wide awake. And he drove off to Mia’s school in Homerton.

There was a crowd of mostly mothers outside the school gates. A few dads, grandparents, carers. A mixture of languages. A woman in a burqa, deep black down to her feet. He avoided catching her eye, the signal too clear. A grubby child in a double pushchair started wailing, starting the other one off. The mother was ignoring them, chatting to her mates. Waiting here embarrassed Jack, though he knew it shouldn’t. Women’s work. Men killed bears.

Already he was having to joke about his eye. Getting in first, before they did. It was going to get very boring. Another reason for not going to the party tomorrow evening. Builders touting for work amongst millionaires shouldn’t have black eyes.

And then came the first trickle of children, a few more. And then Mia. Like all the others she had a red jumper. The colour almost hurt, like a blaze of the redcoats running into American muskets. She’d gone for black trousers rather than a skirt. More sensible, her mother said. Her long brown hair was tousled and rested on her shoulders as if tired after a day at school. She carried a pink lunchbox and had a blue backpack.

‘What d’you do to your eye, Dad?’

She was looking at it quizzically, as if it were a specimen in a lab.

He didn’t want to lie to her, so said, ‘I got into a fight. A man was getting beaten up and I went in to try to stop it.’

‘And did you?’

‘I did. But I got this.’

She sucked her cheek thoughtfully. ‘Why was the man getting beaten up?’

Oh dear, he thought. A lie might have been easier.

‘He stole something belonging to the other man.’

‘What?’

‘His wallet.’

That seemed to satisfy her. They were making their way to the van.

Then she said, ‘He deserved to get beaten up. You shouldn’t have interfered.’

That made him laugh.

‘I shouldn’t have done,’ he said, ‘but I thought the other guy was overdoing it, so I went in to try to stop the fight – and…’ He pointed out his shiner.

‘Serves you right.’

‘Serves me right.’

Agreeing with her seemed to have stopped the questioning. Somewhat like her mother. They were now in the van.

‘I’m supposed to take you to Moira’s. But we can have a little time, if I give her a buzz. Anything you’d like to do?’

‘I’d like to feed the ducks.’

‘Aren’t you a bit old for feeding ducks?’

‘No.’

‘I suppose there isn’t an age limit. But we haven’t got any bread.’

‘I have.’

And she shook her lunch box. He knew this was the cue to tell her off for not eating all her lunch. But she looked fine – and he’d get her something now.

They drove to Victoria Park and he bought her an ice cream from the van outside St Mark’s gate. And then they went to the pond.

Chapter 8

Donna was chopping vegetables. Some were for tonight, most for tomorrow’s party. She was in full operation, hacking tops and chopping with a long sharp knife on one of her wooden vegetable boards. And thinking mid onion tears of Eric, even onion tears could bring on the feeling of loss, except he wasn’t lost. He hated her and didn’t want to have any contact. If only she could see him and explain, if she could be sure where he was, if his social worker… Tears, real or otherwise, flowed as the acrid juice reddened her hands.

Is it better to be the hated or the hater? she thought. Either way it takes you over, controls your thoughts, comes without notice. And what on earth can you do about it? Never mind the truth or falsity, it was belief that was the demon. He believed she had abused him in his childhood. And how could she prove she hadn’t? All she had were words.

And onions.

Joanna entered. Her hair was tied back in a tidy ponytail. She wore a simple blue dress with a pattern of flying birds, and no make up, as if she were doing penance. When Donna had first been interviewed, she’d thought her beautiful. Her blonde hair (dyed), her symmetrical face and skin like a child’s. It hadn’t taken her long to lose thoughts of beauty. In a photo, like a film star publicity shot, yes she was beautiful. Face to face, telling you off for a runny egg – no competition for a cow’s backside.

At the kitchen door was a young woman she hadn’t seen before. From her appearance, lightly made up in a dress suit, professional, sharp, attractive – Joanna wouldn’t have anyone who wasn’t, Donna thought: I bet she’s done it. The next, for however long she can take Joanna’s whims.

‘Ooh, those onions.’ Joanna flapped her hands to dispel the odour.

‘For tonight and tomorrow,’ said Donna. ‘I’ve got to do as much as I can today.’

‘Yes, I appreciate that,’ said Joanna. She turned to the woman at the door. ‘Donna, this is Carol, my new assistant. Temporary – we’ll see how it goes.’

Donna gave Carol a half smile, as much as she could manage. ‘Hello, Carol.’

‘Hello, Donna,’ said Carol. And came over with her hand outstretched.

Donna held her hands up to fend her off. ‘Oh, you don’t want to shake my hand. Not reeking of onion.’

Carol backed off with a light smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.’

Donna wondered about her. She was not good at first impressions, often got them wrong. Here was another assistant to join the list. She might be meek as a spring lamb; if so Joanna would crush her. Or she may have some guts – and so wouldn’t last long.

Which made her wonder why she herself stayed on. Why they hadn’t sacked her. Habit on her side. She didn’t want to work in a restaurant again. But she had to work. Without it she’d fall to pieces. And the granny flat next door. Tied housing they called it. And it certainly was. What a trauma it would be, getting a new job and finding somewhere to live at the same time.

‘Would you make us a coffee when you’ve time?’ said Joanna. ‘And do you know where the builder is? I want to talk to him about tiles. It’s awfully quiet out there.’

‘He’s gone home,’ said Donna.

‘Gone home!’ said Joanna aghast. ‘At this time?’

She looked out of the window just in case Donna was mistaken.

‘Mr Ward gave him a nasty black eye,’ she said.

Joanna gripped the kitchen table. ‘Gave whom a black eye?’

‘The builder.’

‘Whatever for? And will you please stop chopping those onions. The acid is hurting my eyes.’

Donna put down her knife and wiped her eyes with her apron. She was unsure whether to say any more, and indicated Carol with her eyes.

Joanna gave a short nod to indicate she understood, and turned to Carol. ‘If you’ll go back to my office, Carol. Read the brief for Forest Fairies authors which is on my desk. I’ll be up shortly.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Ward.’ She gave a half wave to Donna and left the room.

‘Seems very nice,’ said Donna for something to say.

‘Very nice,’ said Joanna curtly before getting back to the main business. ‘Why did my husband give the builder a black eye? That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

Donna was unsure how to put this. There were things she wasn’t supposed to know, though how could she not, except there was a game she had to play.

She made an attempt. ‘Your husband was beating…’ she couldn’t think what to call the man. Not lover, friend?

Joanna helped out. ‘My visitor.’

‘Yes, your visitor. Your husband was close to killing him. And Jack…’

‘Who’s Jack?’

‘The builder.’

‘You shouldn’t get friendly with tradesmen, Donna.’

Donna said with an intense effort of self control, ‘Mrs Ward, please, I try to get on with everyone. I don’t use your first name or Mr Ward’s. But a builder who is going to be here for a month…’

‘Are you making tea for him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why can’t he make his own? He has the summerhouse kitchen.’

‘I’ve always made tea for builders,’ she said weakly.

‘You don’t here. You have plenty to do in the house without making tea for workmen.’

‘It pays to keep on good terms with builders, Mrs Ward.’

‘He is getting paid. Well paid, Donna. That will keep us on the best of terms.’ She stopped, losing her own thread. ‘Where were we? My husband nearly killed my visitor and the builder… what did he do?’

‘Stopped him,’ said Donna. ‘And got a black eye for his pains. And then the sack. Temporarily, as then Mr Ward reinstated him and thanked him for stopping him murdering your visitor.’

‘How do you know all this?’

A little anxiously, she said, ‘The builder told me.’ Expecting an attack for her familiarity, but she could see at once that Mrs Ward was struggling with her own contradiction. For she’d come to the kitchen to find out what was going on. And if Donna had not talked to Jack, made him tea and so forth, then she would have nothing to tell Mrs Ward.

Joanna was