Jack Fell Down: Jack of All Trades, #13

By DH Smith

Jack is jailed for being drunk and hitting a cop. On release, he forks out his last cash to get his van out of the pound. He must get work although he is hobbling on a badly sprained ankle. Willing to take anything, he accepts a job in a card business doing repairs, and as a sleuth, as the owner says her husband is out to kill her. Jack must find out which of her workers is in her husband's pay and so prevent his client's murder. There's romance from an unlikely source, and danger as Jack finds out too much for his own good.

 

Part of the Jack of All Trades series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Earlham Books
• Release date: Oct 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781909804616

DH Smith

I write as DH Smith and Derek Smith. DH Smith is my pen name for the Jack of All Trades crime series featuring builder, Jack Bell. The first is Jack of All Trades. Jack lives in the Eastend of London, where I live, and makes a precarious living. On each job there’s at least one murder. Jack is variously a sleuth, a suspect and gets too close to being a victim. He’s always short of cash, a failed marriage behind him, and hopefully his alcoholic days. In each book there’s a romantic element as Jack is ever hopeful. He has a daughter, Mia who is ten years old in the first book.I have been writing for over 30 years, beginning with plays. I had them performed on radio, TV and theatre. After working in a community bookshop I began to write children's books as Derek Smith. Hard Cash, a young adult novel, was read on BBC radio, Frances Fairweather Demon Striker! was shortlisted for the Children's Book Award, both published by Faber. The Good Wolf won the David Thomas Prize.These days, I am concentrating on my Jack of All Trades crime series.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The room was unfamiliar, the thumping in his head was not. Jack had sufficient sense to know the cause of his headache, welling stomach and intense weariness. The light was blue and dim, a toilet in the corner, and in the rear wall a small high window of frosted glass.

He was lying on a bench, no blanket but not cold, though feeling exposed as if he were a zoo animal and the public was pointing out this sluggish, grunting creature, every now and then vomiting into the toilet bowl. As if to help them see more clearly, the blue light went out and the fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered several times, then jumped into a full and painful bright light.

This was too recognisable. Three years ago, was it? A place like this. Then befuddled, this time round knowing too well the starkness, the harsh light, and his condition.

Jack had sworn it would not happen again. Well, swear how he liked, it had. Such promises weren’t worth a torn pigeon feather. He had proposed to June, stupid idea as he never coped well with rejection. And a client going bankrupt on top: all too much to cope with sober. With a jolt, his stomach erupted, mouth full, clamped tight, he hopped to the toilet bowl, pushing his head far down into the ceramic chamber.

A prisoner. Of his body, most surely, and his mind. Too much thinking, his mother said. Of the rejection, of the bankruptcy, of the point of anything. The futility of existence, working till you drop. The magic fluid had drowned the bleakness, for a little while.

The tight band round his head, his rebellious stomach, and a sprained ankle added shackles to the chain of unknowing. Half of where he’d been, he could vaguely recall. Drinking in the Goldengrove to mute his condemning brain, he recalled that. Some of it. The sprained ankle and the rest depended on what his jailers knew.

What time was it? Where was his phone? Full of contacts, some of which he hadn’t transferred. If he’d lost it, the hassle didn’t bear thinking about. Lost work, how much you could never know.

His wallet too, not that there could be much left in it, but a credit card and driving license. He hoped they had it, with his keys. Where was his van? His mobile tool shed, three drills, so many tools. He screwed his eyes up against the light, as if it would help with knowing. What could he do about anything, here and now? A bundle of pains. It didn’t still the mind, though.

The future waited.

The frosted glass window was white, so it must be at least 7 am. Maybe later. He should be working on Claremont Road, that garden gate and pillars. He’d have to phone, when he could, if he could. With what? The number was on his phone…

And with a sprained ankle, he wouldn’t be doing much work, even if his head and stomach allowed.

Another trip to the toilet bowl, painfully retching, not much left in his guts. Jack flushed it away and hopped to the bench. He sat, head in his hands. It didn’t matter where he was in this state, unfit for anything, least of all human existence. Certainly not working. And he couldn’t phone anyone for anything. How convenient. If only he could sleep, and wake up like Rip Van Winkle with June gone and a beard down to his knees. All problems way in the past. Instead they were piling up, waiting for him, shaking their fists in anger.

The door opened.

A uniformed policewoman stood at the entrance. White shirt, navy blue trousers, shiny flat shoes, blonde hair tied back. Possibly attractive, but such thoughts were lost in his bodily preoccupation. She had a clipboard under her arm.

‘Feeling better, Mr Bell?’

‘Not much.’

She half smiled. Her face shone, she smelt of shower gel. Although quite short, she was stocky. All into sports, these cops. What was it for her, martial arts or rugby?

‘There’s some paperwork to fill out,’ she said indicating the clipboard. ‘I think we’d best do it here as your stomach,’ she screwed up her nose, ‘is still unsettled.’

‘There’s nothing left in it,’ he said.

Above her head, a foot or so above the door, was a camera. That’s how she knew his condition. Watching him hobbling to vomit. It must stink in here, he realised. No way to meet a lady.

The policewoman put her head out to the corridor and called, ‘Could you bring me a chair, Joe?’ She turned to Jack. ‘Stay there on the bench.’ She leaned against the wall, one foot pressing on it. ‘Let’s start with the basics. Name and address, date of birth?’

Jack gave them.

‘That checks with your wallet. So we won’t do you for stealing it,’ she said with a smile.

‘Have you got my phone?’

She nodded. ‘We have.’

‘Thank God for that.’

He looked at her, pen poised, and tried a smile. Too difficult.

‘Marital status and occupation?’

‘Divorced. I’m a builder.’

Hadn’t he set off in his van? Where had he left it?

‘Other members in your household?’

‘I live on my own but my daughter, Mia, she’s 16, stays some weekends and some weekdays.’ The words were strained, filtered though his stomach, banging on his head cage as he re-invented himself. ‘She’s at Sarah Bonnell school.’ He winced as his stomach jolted, hoping he wouldn’t vomit now that he had company.

‘That’s where I went,’ said the policewoman. ‘Had a couple of the girls in here the other day, shoplifting in Tesco.’

A tall policeman brought in a plastic chair. Also in white shirt and navy blue trousers, with curly black hair. A high jumper perhaps?

‘How’s the pugilist, Nova?’ he said to the woman with a grin. ‘You should see Frank’s shiner!’

Jack had no memory of a fight, if that was the accusation. No memory of much at all beyond drinking. Was he joking?

‘DS Kamani asked how you were,’ said the newcomer.

‘Fayyad?’ said Jack with surprise, realising he must be at Forest Gate police station, if his policeman friend was asking about him. ‘Tell him I’m alive, just about. And thank him for asking.’

‘At least you’ve someone to speak up for you. Detective sergeant, even. And you’re going to need it. Best be off, Nova. Things to do, thieves to nick.’

He left, with Jack pondering on ‘at least someone to speak up for you’. What trouble was he in?

Nova sat down on the chair, the clipboard on her knees.

‘Did I hit a copper?’ Jack asked cautiously.

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Stupid bugger.’

She looked at him, mouth agape.

‘Me,’ he said, ‘not the copper. I was well out of it, just a dumb drunk.’ He hesitated to ask what he had to ask. ‘Does that mean a fine or what?’

‘Three months inside, I’d guess. It’s a serious offence striking a police officer.’

‘You are joking. Please say you are. Three months!’

‘Wish I was, Mr Bell. Though you’ll only do half the time, that’s if you don’t hit a screw.’

Nova smiled, but Jack didn’t share her humour. Three months! No work, no money, a prison record. This was disastrous.

‘I don’t remember a thing,’ he said. ‘Drinking in the Goldengrove, OK. Then nothing else. Are they sure it was me?’

‘One black eye, exhibit number one, statements from PC Frank Simmons and his partner, exhibits two and three.’

‘I haven’t done anything like it before. Does that help?’ He might have been flirting, if he didn’t feel so bad.

‘Three months is for a first offence. To teach you not to hit cops, Mr Bell.’

‘I’ll lose my flat if I go inside. Help! I’m already behind on the mortgage...’

‘Try that on the magistrate,’ she said. ‘I’m in no position to help you.’

‘I proposed to my girlfriend,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘ex-girlfriend. She turned me down flat. Said I was unreliable and too miserable, and no wonder. A client had gone bankrupt on me, so no payment...’

‘And your van has been impounded,’ she said. ‘All good grounds for misery.’

‘Impounded! What’s that going to cost me?’ He clutched his head. ‘I’m sick as a dog, I’ve got a sprained ankle… And looking at three months inside.’

‘Look, Mr Bell, you seem a nice guy. I’d let you off with a fine, if it was down to me, but these magistrates have heard every sob story ever written. And like Pharaoh, they harden their hearts. That’s if they ever had one in the first place.’

‘This is awful.’

He pressed his hands into his eyes, as if to black out the new reality. He would lose his flat. No money coming in, he couldn’t pay the mortgage. He’d be out on the streets when he came out of jail. Hell, horror. He’d be unable to get his van out of the pound, the charge increasing by the day. How long before they sell it off?

What had he done to himself?

‘Just a few more questions, Mr Bell. And then I can leave you to contemplate your sins.’

Two men entered. One was in the standard white shirt and navy blue trousers. He was tall and broad shouldered, and had a black eye. The other was medium height, a well dressed Asian man in a smart, dark grey suit, a red tie and highly polished leather shoes.

‘Fayyad!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘I am so pleased to see you.’

Was this his fairy godmother or the devil’s apprentice? Fayyad had to have a reason for coming. Surely?

‘Can’t leave you for five minutes, Jack,’ said DS Fayyad Kamani, ‘and you’re in trouble.’

There was no gainsaying that. Drunk and hitting a cop. This guy here? The black eye fitted the bill.

‘Are you the bloke I hit?’ he said.

‘I am. PC Frank Simmons. This black eye,’ he indicated with a finger, ‘is down to you. And I’ve heard no end of wisecracks since I came in.’

‘I can’t say how sorry I am,’ exclaimed Jack. ‘I don’t even remember it. It was the drink. I just don’t do that sort of thing. I apologise absolutely. I was in the wrong, a stupid fool. Please accept my apology.’

‘You were in your van, slumped out, parked on double yellow lines. I tried to wake you up, and you swung one at me.’

‘Sorry, sorry. I never do that sort of thing.’ He had no idea whether this was having any effect. Nova said sentencing was down to the magistrate. Maybe Frank would speak up for him? Grasping at any straws. Although it sounded calculating, he meant what he was saying. ‘Totally out of character,’ he went on. ‘Tell him, Fayyad. I’m not a criminal. I don’t go around hitting coppers. What else can I say?’

Simmons turned to Fayyad. ‘You’d better talk to him, sir. He’s on automatic pilot. Apology program.’

‘OK, Frank.’ Fayyad sucked his lip, giving himself a stern face, arms behind his back. Rather headmasterly. ‘This drinking isn’t good, Jack. See where you’ve ended up.’

‘I know, I know.’ Jack hardly needed telling.

‘Got to stop.’

He nodded contritely. All true, he was a fool, the idiot of the age. His head, stomach and ankle were in agreement.

‘When I saw your name on the charge sheet,’ went on Fayyad, ‘I contacted the boss. I told her Jack Bell had been arrested for hitting PC Simmons. I reminded her that you had helped out in a few cases. And she said, we could drop the charge if PC Simmons is agreeable.’

‘Are you?’ said Jack, half hopefully.

‘Do you know what restorative justice is, Jack?’ said Simmons.

‘Sort of. Victim and criminal getting together. Like we are now.’

‘Stand up.’

Jack hesitated, looking to Nova and Fayyad, wondering why, and then slowly standing up, beginning to get it. Not the time to argue when you wanted a favour. His flat and van were at stake.

‘Close your eyes and count to three. Slowly.’

Jack guessed what was coming, but the thought of three months inside, being homeless, van and tools gone, counteracted any resistance. He closed his eyes firmly and began the count.

‘One. Two.’ He clenched his jaw in trepidation at the final number and what would follow. ‘Three.’

And it came, a slammer. Not to the eye, but to the stomach. Jack doubled up, expelling air, arms clamped to his stomach. Pain flashed out from his centre like a firework. He groaned, he moaned, he dropped to the bench, a jackknife of concentrated hurt. Eyes closed, wincing, teeth gritted. It was the foulest of foul blows. He felt sick and retched, nothing came out but dribbles of anguish. Tears rolled down his cheeks, he was a punctured bladder. All suffering, bent over, clutching his innards. There was no past, no future, nothing but the hurt in his guts. Dizzying darkness, his kidneys, stomach, intestines pounded to paste.

When at last Jack opened his eyes, unknown minutes later, barely able to see through a mist of tears, there was just Fayyad with him in the cell. He handed Jack a tissue.

Jack dabbed his eyes and wiped his mouth.

‘You’re free to go,’ said Fayyad.

Chapter 2

At the front desk, Jack was given his keys, phone, watch and wallet. He signed for them. PC Simmons and DS Kamani came out from the back.

‘You alright, mate?’ said Simmons. ‘I thought I’d killed you for a minute.’

‘I thought you had too,’ said Jack. ‘You pack one hell of a punch.’

‘London Police champion boxer, middleweight. That could’ve been my last punch, if I’d done for you. I should’ve settled for a black eye, but I couldn’t resist.’ He slapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘Glad you’re alive, standing up and walking. That’s a relief.’

‘Stumbling,’ said Jack, pointing to his ankle.

‘Quits,’ said Simmons and put out his hand.

Jack shook it. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done.’

‘Thank DS Kamani. He persuaded me.’

‘I thank both of you.’

‘That’s more than enough thank yous,’ said Fayyad. ‘Let’s take it you are grateful, Jack, and get you home.’

After a few words of goodbye to Simmons, Jack and Fayyad left the station.

Jack waited at the station steps while Fayyad brought the car round. It was a blowy spring morning, not ten o’clock yet. He looked up at the sky, the scuttling white clouds. A busy sky, one of those where you never know what it will do, clear or fill. Not that he’d be out on the Flats with his telescope for a week or so, with this ankle.

All in all, a close shave. In another universe, his doppelgänger was still in the cell. No reprieve. He would be jailed, and leave prison, after a couple of months, homeless. Such knife edge decisions. He was a fool, didn’t deserve it, but he had been lucky.

Fayyad drew up in his car. Jack hopped over and got in on the passenger side. He only lived ten minutes’ walk from the police station. That is, ten minutes if the walker had two sound ankles.

‘What you going to do now, Jack?’ asked Fayyad, moving into the traffic.

‘Phone the man where I’m working. Say I won’t be round for a few days, and hope he’ll be OK about it.’

‘What’s that alcoholics’ place you go to?’

‘Alcohol Halt. Haven’t been for six months. Better go, admit my failure.’

‘What brought it on?’

Jack flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Stupid things. Girlfriend trouble, a client gone bankrupt. I couldn’t sleep, so I took the blackout solution.’

‘And woke up with even more problems.’

Unless you don’t wake up, he thought, but didn’t say. They had stopped at traffic lights.

‘Yep. She’s still dumped me, I’m just as broke. Just out of the nick, with a sprained ankle to boot.’

The lights had changed. They moved on.

‘You know your van has been impounded?’

Jack sighed. ‘Yeh. Double yellow line. The desk sergeant told me. No parking anytime. Where’s the pound?’

‘Jenkins Lane. Not sure what the charge is. Couple of hundred, I’d expect. I would take you there, but I’ve got a lot on today.’

‘Thanks for the thought.’

‘You know you’ve got a drunken driving case coming up?’

Jack nodded. ‘They told me at the desk too. In a month or so. Could lose my license.’

‘Get a solicitor.’

More cash drain, he inwardly groaned, as they turned into Earlham Grove, Jack’s road. How would he manage without his van? Solicitors don’t work for peanuts.

Fayyad stopped outside Jack’s house.

‘Stay sober, Jack. And give my best wishes to that daughter of yours. What’s her name?’

‘Mia.’

‘Another reason to lay off the booze. See you around.’

Jack thanked him for the lift and getting him out of jail. He hobbled up the path, and haltingly up the stairs to his flat, then flopped out on the sofa, breathing heavily. Count your blessings, as his mother would say. He was out of clink, he was back home. Forget