The Golden Pig Read online

  She handed him a Martini, waiting to hear the additional cost of the complications.

  He took it carefully, but his hand was shaking so much that most of it was split down his trousers before it ever reached his mouth.

  “I’d be pushing up daisies if it wasn’t for…”

  She’d stopped listening to him and stood with her eyes transfixed on the shadowy figure emerging through the doorway.

  Framed against the skylight stood Janis, her automatic trained on Lucy Scarlatti and with a ruthless glint in her cold blue eyes.

  “Steffanie!”

  It was Lucy Scarlatti’s last word.

  Part Five

  A sadder but no wiser man, Hymie rose the morrow morn. His eyes flickered open. He was alive. Boy, did his head hurt, and he couldn’t see properly out of his left eye. Then he suddenly became aware of the hospital ward around him and started desperately trying to recall his recent past.

  Something was seriously wrong. Someone was dead. His client! He’d lost his client! Yet nothing quite seemed to fall into place, there was only the terrible pain in his head and eyes and odd snatches of a dreadful series of events.

  “Nurse! Help me!” he cried.

  “Calm down, Mr Goldman, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “How do you know my name?” he snapped, paranoia flooding into his brain.

  “It says it on your chart.”

  “Of course. How long have I been here?” he asked.

  “Two days. Now you really must rest, Mr Goldman.”

  “Two days!! But anything could have happened in two days!”

  “If you don’t calm down I’ll have to sedate you,” said the nurse.

  Hymie closed his eyes. Slowly the memories began to return.

  That ridiculous schoolgirl Janis, the one I thought looked twenty-five…she was twenty-five! What a bitch! She must have shot my client and left me for dead. Whoa, hang on, it all sounds totally absurd…why would she? No one would ever believe it, even if it were true.

  A man in a white coat approached the end of his bed, picked up his chart and frowned at the graph.

  “Will I live doctor?” asked Hymie.

  “According to this chart, you’re already dead, Mr…”

  “Goldman,” added Hymie, hesitantly. It took a while to adjust to being dead.

  “But there’s very probably a perfectly logical explanation,” he said, trying to be reassuring.

  “Sorry, doctor, they forgot to remove his chart after the last patient checked out,” remarked the nurse, sheepishly.

  “Checked out? You mean, the poor soul died in this bed?!” exclaimed Hymie, shocked.

  “Inevitably, with the best will in the world, patients do die, Mr Goldman and we can’t throw them out of their beds before it happens, to spare the feelings of those who replace them, now can we?” said the doctor, forgetting his basic bedside-manner in his irritation.

  “Sorry, you’re right, of course. Can you tell me what happened to me, doctor? I don’t seem to be able to remember the last two days.”

  “Ah, amnesia, it’s often a factor in cases of this sort,” remarked the doctor, staring absently into space.

  “Cases of what sort?” asked Hymie.

  “Eh?”

  “You mentioned amnesia, doctor”

  “Well, is it any wonder, man? Working around the clock without proper support, I’ve been twenty hours on the ward without a toilet break, I’m bursting for a…”

  “Tea, Mr Goldman?” asked the nurse.

  “Yes please, nurse.”

  “You’re a lucky man, Mr Goldberg,” resumed the eccentric medic. You seem to have received a glancing blow from a bullet. Half an inch lower and you wouldn’t be here now. I’m afraid it’s doubtful whether you’ll ever see properly out of your left eye again , but otherwise you should make a full recovery with plenty of rest.” He smiled at Hymie, stifling a yawn.

  “Thank you, doctor, but I’m working to a deadline.”

  “You will be, Mr Goldstein, if you don’t get some sleep right now. I understand the police will want to interview you in the morning, so get some rest, man.”

  Hymie closed his eyes and listened until he heard the doctor’s footsteps shuffling down the corridor. Gradually the ward became quiet as the light outside faded first into dusk and then into the sable mantle of night’s darkest bower. In his mind’s eye he could see nothing but corpses, mutilated rotten cadavers, stretching out in all directions. Ugh! A shiver ran down his spine. The only people Hymie had ever known go into hospital had left it in a box.

  He surveyed the ward around him. The next bed seemed to be ring-fenced with curtains. He couldn’t be sure who, or indeed if anyone, was in there, although there was a sign at the foot of the bed which said simply “MRS A”. Whoever she was, she was a deep sleeper.

  He tried to sit up, but every movement seemed to cause him pain. He felt like Mrs Timmins’ cat must have done on first hitting the pavement, except that he was still very much alive. The desire for revenge would keep him so, of that he was sure.

  Bandages covered most of his head and shoulders. He knew he must look like a refugee from The Rocky Horror Show, but perhaps the bandages could help conceal his identity. If only he could get out of the ward. His clothes were gone; all he had was the regulation issue nightgown with the defective ties at the back and a draft around his nether regions.

  Pushing the screens aside he walked down the central aisle. It was an experiment in mind over matter; if they didn’t mind and he didn’t matter, perhaps he could just walk straight out of there. Unfortunately, he had bargained without the ever watchful Inspector Ray Decca and his dedicated sergeant, Barry Terse. They weren’t about to lose the only witness they had to a murder, even if that witness was as unreliable as Hymie Goldman.

  “Is that ‘im, guv? the nutter with the bandaged head?” asked Terse.

  “Who else would it be, sergeant? The Queen Mum?”

  “Oi you, Goldman! This is Finchley Memorial Hospital, not a fashion parade,” added Terse, distractedly trying to recover his change from the coffee machine with a number ten boot.

  Hymie walked on unheeding. Perhaps if he could convince himself that they were just illusions, they would really disappear. Some chance.

  “Hold it right there Goldman.” said Inspector Decca.

  Part Six

  On the following morning, Hymie sat up in his hospital bed and prepared to give his statement to the police. He didn’t expect it to take long, as he couldn’t remember much. It hadn’t been a good day for him; he’d survived a trip to South Mimms, only to be shot in the Docklands. All very painful and humiliating.

  “My name is Decca, Mr Goldman…D.E.C.C.A, but Inspector Decca to you. Before you ask, no, I don’t own a record company and my first name isn’t Desmond. Some of the lads call me “Chief” or “Guv.”, rivals call me “Big Ears” on account of how I hear about things before they happen, and the criminal fraternity calls me “Cluedo”, because…”

  “You always assume the crime was committed by Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick?”

  “…I solve all my cases by a process of deductive reasoning. I shall put your last remark down to the blow to the head you received recently,” concluded Decca.

  He was about to remark that it would probably be the first of several Goldman would receive, if he didn’t co-operate with the police enquiry, but thought better of it. Times were changing and he couldn’t face the additional paperwork.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Hymie.

  “Don’t mention it. Now then, about a week ago I received a summons from my boss…”

  “Speeding ticket?” Hymie, as ever, couldn’t resist an easy quip.

  “…he handed me your file and told me to take matters in hand. I’d heard you were the sort of low-life scum that gave private investigators a bad name and a quick perusal of your file did nothing to change my mind. It came as no surprise that you were wanted for eig
hty-six road traffic violations.”

  “Thirty-five!”

  “That’s just this year’s. A joker like you shouldn’t be left in charge of a bicycle, let alone anything with a turbo-charged engine, but this was a matter my sergeant could have sorted in his sleep. As you can probably guess, I’m here about a far more serious matter; about a murder, in fact, and you are my chief suspect.”

  “Murder? Me? Look at me. Thirty-eight, short, fat and balding, covered in bandages and lucky to be alive. Hardly a dangerous killer am I? You’re barking…”

  “Watch it, Goldman!”

  “…up the wrong tree, Inspector.”

  “You really are as stupid as you look, aren’t you, Goldman? We were there when the ambulance took you away. We know all about the girl. We have you at the scene of the crime; you had the opportunity and the motive. We even have the murder weapon with your prints on.”

  “Not a candlestick, I suppose?” asked Hymie, impulsively, in the absence of anything sensible to say.

  “When you’re in a hole son, stop digging! Otherwise I don’t fancy your chances of avoiding a long prison stretch!”

  “Look, Inspector, you may know all these things, but frankly I don’t. The murdered woman was my client.”

  “What was her name?” asked Decca.

  “Lucy Scarlatti. She hired me to recover a family heirloom from her sister. I was getting nowhere; I couldn’t even find her sister,” he lied.

  “So you killed her, Goldman?”

  “Why would I, Inspector? You’d have to be stark raving mad to believe that.”

  “You found the heirloom, went to her flat, and offered to sell it to her for more money than she was willing or able to pay. She refused and you shot her dead.”

  “I repeat, Inspector, why? More to the point, there must have been someone else present to account for my injuries. Whoever shot me must have killed my client and stolen her property.”

  “So, who was with you, Goldman?” resumed Decca.

  “No-one,” he lied, inexplicably; even to himself. “I went to see Lucy Scarlatti alone, to tell her the case was proving too difficult for me and that I would reluctantly have to repay a part of the retainer. The next thing I remember is waking up here, with a terrible pain in my head, and being told that I’d been shot and my client killed. Now you’re trying to fit me up for a murder I didn’t commit. It’s been the worst day of my life.”

  “All very sad, I’m sure, but it doesn’t alter the fact that your former client is dead and you were the last person to see her alive. Okay Goldman, let’s play devil’s advocate, if it wasn’t you, then who?” The Inspector looked triumphant, as though he had a tricky suspect on the ropes.

  “Her sister, Steffanie,” replied Hymie, coolly. “It stands to reason. According to my client they hated each other and her sister had stolen this heirloom from her. Perhaps it was easier to kill her than to give it back.”

  “What was this heirloom, Goldman?”

  “A golden statuette of a pig.”

  “You’re having a laugh. A golden pig? If I find you’ve been pulling my plonker you may find yourself in here for longer than expected! Are you sure it wasn’t a platinum cow or a diamond-encrusted sheep?”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous,” said Hymie, testily.

  “Believe me, you’re the one looking ridiculous,” snapped Decca. “Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? Anyhow, when did you last see your client alive?”

  “Two nights ago, at her flat.”

  “You mean Thirty-five Riverside Drive?”

  “If you say so, Inspector, I’ve lost my address-book.”

  “You said you were alone together?”

  “How can you be alone together?” Hymie mocked, unwisely.

  “Alone with the client! Don’t try to be funny, Goldman. This is a murder investigation. Even these days, that means several years in prison with some real low-life scum. Then when you get out you’ll find your licence as an investigator has been revoked.”

  “I know, you’re right, Inspector, I’m not feeling myself at the moment.

  “I can see that. Tell me, where did you get the gun?”

  “I swear to God, I’ve never carried a gun. It’s not my scene. People who play with matches get burned,” added Hymie, obscurely.

  “Where did it come from then? Your client?” Decca was like a dog with a bone.

  “I don’t carry a gun, I don’t own one, and I didn’t shoot Lucy Scarlatti,” repeated Hymie, emphatically.

  “…but you know who did?”

  “Like I told you, Inspector, it must have been her sister.”

  “You saw her at the flat?”

  “Yes…no, well, someone came up behind me. One minute I was talking to Lucy Scarlatti, trying to get out of the assignment, when there was a gunshot from behind me. She fell down and I remember trying to turn around to see who it was…and that’s all I remember.”

  “…and you expect me to believe this, Goldman?”

  “Yes, because it’s the truth,” he replied, simply.

  Decca looked at his watch. “Okay, let’s leave it there for now. Sergeant Terse will be posted outside the ward until you’re able to leave and then I’d like you to come down to the station for a proper interview. I suggest you get your story straight by then. One last question, what were you really trying to recover for Lucy Scarlatti?”

  Hymie paused. “Her father’s diary,” he said. “It had some clue in it about where he buried a treasure.” He sensed that the inspector needed some other line of enquiry to pursue; to avoid jumping to conclusions about his guilt, but force of habit made him lie. Knowledge was power, even if you hardly had any.

  Decca stared intently at Goldman for a moment, weighing him up.

  “Thank you,” he said, and left.

  Part Seven

  Hymie lay in his hospital bed, planning his escape. He wasn’t exactly Harry Houdini, but then this wasn’t quite maximum security. Surely he could get past that dozy police sergeant waiting outside the ward? He just needed a plausible disguise. Had Hymie but known it, Sergeant Terse was busy trying to chat up the nurse on night duty down the corridor and, for once, not making his usual hash of it.

  “Can I have a look at your truncheon, Sergeant?” asked the nurse.

  “Any time, Love,” replied Terse, grinning inanely.

  “Ooh, isn’t it hard.”

  “Yeah, like the rest of me. If it could talk it could tell you a few stories and no mistake,” he said, with a winning smile.

  In the ward all was dark and quiet; still as the grave. Well, apart from a few hacking coughs and the persistent bleeping of a clapped-out NHS heart monitor.

  Hymie closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep. Sleeping was something he excelled at, although it was hardly a bankable skill. His eyelids flickered involuntarily as he began to dream. Fluffy white sheep were trampolining all over the bouncy castle of his brain. Somewhere in its deepest recesses he could hear a voice he recognized.

  “Wake up you lazy twit! There you go again, sleeping on the job.”

  “Wassermarrer?” spluttered Hymie.

  “Look son, don’t lie there like a great green vegetable, cases don’t solve themselves you know!”

  “What is this, a repeat of Randall and flipping Hopkirk? If so, you must be the dead one…Hopkirk.”

  “Less of your lip. Wake up this instant, do you hear?”

  So he did, or tried to. He opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. A short grizzled little man with white hair and side whiskers was standing at the foot of his bed.

  “Dad?! What are you doing here? Don’t you realize you’ve been dead for the last five years?”

  “Oh, dead is it! I’ve got more life in me than you, you quitter! I may be dead you young upstart, but at least I’m not farting about waiting for someone to dump on me from a great height, like you. You’re a disgrace to the name of Shaw.”

  “Ah, yes well…I was going to tell
you about that.”

  “About what?” asked his ghostly father, suspiciously.

  “Oh, it’ll keep. Look, Dad, it’s very kind of you to drop by like this, but…”

  Suddenly the absurdity of the situation hit Hymie like a brick between the eyes. He was arguing with a mirage…or a ghost…or a dream…or something that shouldn’t be there.”

  “Dad nothing. I didn’t say anything when you threw in your apprenticeship as an electrician, I tried to teach you the tricks of the investigations business…and failed, and I’d planned to sell the business and leave you with a nest egg…”