Singing the Sadness. Reginald Hill

had told them to take up their P45s and walk. Joe’s years of working at a lathe and on a much-loved, much-regretted Morris Oxford, had left him with a high degree of mechanical expertise, but Merv’s years of driving a fork-lift truck had never taken him beyond the bang-it-with-a-spanner school of repair.

      The spanner was in Merv’s hand now, the same outsize length of metal nicknamed Percy which he kept beneath his taxi seat for those situations which neither his cheerful manner nor broad smile could defuse.

      ‘Hang about, Merv,’ said Joe, seeing the spanner poised menacingly. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

      It didn’t take long and it wasn’t a rabbit but a dead donkey.

      ‘Oil pump’s gone,’ he said. ‘Merv, where’d you buy this heap of junk? At a Transport Museum boot sale?’

      ‘Hey, I’ve got all the safety certs and such, you seen them,’ said Merv, hurt.

      This was true. Joe had insisted on seeing them soon as he heard Merv had not only extended his personal transport service to include coach hire but had put in the lowest bid for the Boyling Corner expedition to Wales. It was Rev. Pot, pastor and choirmaster, who made the final choice, but many of the choristers, led by Joe’s Aunt Mirabelle, were convinced Joe had put in a fix.

      ‘Can you patch it up?’ asked Merv hopefully.

      His hope was mirrored on the faces of Rev. Pot and others who’d also congregated round the bonnet.

      ‘No way,’ said Joe dolefully. ‘Needs a new pump. At least. Which means it needs a garage.’

      All eyes turned to the empty road ahead. There were fewer signs of life there than in Westminster on a Friday, and they’d passed no human habitation for at least ten miles.

      Then Joe, with a politician’s timing, let a broad smile dawn on his face and said, ‘So, no problem. I’ll just call up help,’ and produced his mobile phone.

      The effect was slightly spoilt when he couldn’t get it to work till Beryl Boddington took it gently out of his hand and switched it on.

      Five minutes later he was able to announce that a mechanic was on the way with the necessary part.

      Aunt Mirabelle gave him a don’t-think-that’s-going-to-change-my-mind glower. She still regarded his post-lathe career in private investigation as a symptom of stress-induced brain fever which marriage to a good woman, plus regular attendance at chapel and the job centre, would soon cure. She’d reacted to the news that Joe had bought a mobile like a Sally Army captain catching a reformed drunk coming out of an off-licence with a brown paper parcel.

      ‘What you need that thing for?’ she’d demanded.

      ‘For my work,’ Joe explained.

      ‘For your work? For the devil’s work, you mean!’

      ‘No, Auntie,’ Joe had retorted with a rare flash of open rebellion. ‘So’s I can keep in touch with my clients. Not everyone in our family’s got such big ears they can hear other folks’ private business twenty miles off just by flapping them!’

      But now she confined herself to the glower, then set about distributing the sandwiches which she’d packed, on the grounds that when you visited a foreign country, there was no telling how long before you’d be able to find something a Christian soul could eat.

      It was a mild late-spring afternoon and soon the choristers were sprawled out along the rock-strewn banks of the fast-flowing stream which ran parallel to the road. Joe lay next to Beryl Boddington, who was high among the runners in his aunt’s nuptial stakes. But Joe had long since come to realize that Beryl ran under no colours but her own, and now it came into his mind how very much he was enjoying his present situation. Only way it could be improved was by beaming the rest of the choir out of sight somewhere. Or failing that, moving himself and Beryl somewhere a little more private.

      He sat upright and said casually, ‘Thought I might take a little stroll and stretch my legs. You fancy a bit of exercise?’

      She didn’t answer but lay there looking up at him and smiling broadly.

      ‘What?’ he said.

      ‘Joe Sixsmith,’ she said. ‘I recall you telling me you were a through and through city boy, couldn’t get on with country life. Now I see why.’

      ‘Yeah? Why?’

      ‘It’s all this fresh air, turns you into some kind of wild animal. Like a werewolf.’

      ‘Shoot, all I said was, let’s take a walk.’

      ‘And that’s all you want, Joe? A walk?’

      She pouted as if disappointed and, emboldened, he said, ‘That’ll do for starters. So, what you say?’

      ‘Well, I’m tempted, Joe. Only …’

      ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Hadn’t you better be around when the breakdown truck arrives to see Merv don’t get ripped off?’

      Joe followed her gaze. About a mile ahead along the road a van was approaching. Who’d have thought they’d be so quick out here in the sticks? Then he glanced at his watch and saw that more than an hour had passed since he rang. He’d never make a Don Juan. A real operator would have got to work at least forty-five minutes ago.

      On the other hand, a real operator probably wouldn’t have enjoyed simply lying alongside Beryl in the warm sunshine the way he did.

      He smiled at her and she smiled back.

      ‘We’ve got all this countryside for the next three days, Joe. Plenty of time to be stretching our muscles.’

      That sounded like a promise. Jauntily he made his way back to the coach.

      The van bore the single word BREAKDOWN like a command, and its engine coughed asthmatically as if eager to obey.

      Merv scowled and said, ‘Listen to that. And he’s coming to mend my machine.’

      ‘Not to worry,’ said Joe. ‘Best barbers always have the worst haircuts.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’ said Merv. ‘Well, if he draws in his breath sharply when he sees my engine, I’m going to hit him with Percy.’

      ‘You’ll need to aim low,’ said Joe as the van halted and the driver slid out.

      He was square-shaped, about five by five, with no visible neck, so that his head sat on his shoulders like a traitor’s displayed on a city wall. Joe was reminded of Starbright Jones, another Welshman he’d met on a recent case, who’d been carved out of the same rough granite. The memory made him smile – he’d grown quite fond of Starbright – and the smile won an indifferent nod, or maybe it was directed at Merv’s scowl, and without other greeting the man went straight to the bonnet.

      There was no sharp intake of breath but there was a note of incredulity as he said, ‘Just the oil pump you want me to sort out, is it?’ like the Good Samaritan told that half an aspirin and a Band-aid would do.

      Percy twitched and Joe said quickly, ‘What else you got in mind?’

      The man said, ‘In alphabetical order …’ and listed half a dozen areas of trouble or potential trouble. His alphabet was erratic but his diagnosis confirmed many of Joe’s own fears.

      ‘Better take a look then,’ he said, interposing his body between Merv and the Welshman. ‘Want a hand?’

      He got a pro sneer in reply, which might have annoyed a more self-regarding man, but Joe took it in his stride and after ten minutes, when his assistance had demonstrated he was no know-it-all amateur, the man thawed a little and let it be known his name was Nye.

      ‘Nye Garage they call me, from the job, see? Round here knowing what people do is important.’

      This might have been a lure but Joe ignored it. Professionally he’d spent a lot