Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘I reckon,’ said Blight-Purley, inserting the blade of his knife under the spine of the fish and removing the bone with the careless dexterity of a man who has been doing it all his life, ‘that someone has turned vicious.’

  Bognor decided against porridge or prunes. ‘Tomato juice,’ he said to the round pink country girl who had come to take their orders, ‘and Worcester sauce. I’d like the bottle please. And then scrambled eggs and, er, coffee.’

  He returned to the Colonel, now partially obscured by the rim of a ginormous willow pattern breakfast cup. ‘Aren’t you rather jumping to conclusions? I mean the scenario is perfectly plausible. Jaguar in car park. Keys in dashboard. Rough cider in local youth. In they all get. Off they all go. Faster and faster. Vrrooom vrrooom. Long hill. Sharp bend. Lose control. Bang! Splat! Finish!’ He made a sharp concluding movement with his right hand and dislodged a knife and spoon which fell noisily to the highly polished wooden floor. ‘Sorry,’ he said, bending to pick them up. The effort worsened the pains in his head and also brought him into close proximity to the Colonel’s serviceable brown brogues. He wrinkled his nose and returning to table level said, ‘I think you’ve trodden in some dog …’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Precisely.’

  There was a brief, embarrassed silence and then Bognor said, ‘I hadn’t realized you’d been out.’

  ‘Your deductive processes are in remarkable working order,’ said Blight-Purley sardonically. ‘Yes, I’ve been out where I inadvertently trod in a dog turd. I also noticed tyre marks on the rose bed. Little buggers seem to have demolished a couple of rather charming floribunda on their way out.’

  ‘Which bears out my hypothesis,’ said Bognor, stirring large quantities of Worcester sauce into his tomato juice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That they were drunk and incapable.’

  ‘And that they had a dog with them I suppose?’ The Colonel laughed hollowly and Bognor went red.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What do you think happened? Who did what and to whom as they say?’

  Blight-Purley chomped on a slab of toast covered in dark home-made marmalade heavy with rind and mature consideration. Amanda Bullingdon, markedly silent, tapped gently at her mottled brown softly boiled egg with the end of her silver spoon, and squinted slightly in her determination not to miss all that was being said. Bognor addressed himself to the scrambled eggs which were, unlike almost every other institutional scrambled egg he had attempted, buttery, soft, and self-evidently constructed almost exclusively from eggs.

  ‘Someone must have known we were here,’ said the Colonel, his voice blurred by toast. ‘None of us even knew we were coming here until we’d got in the car, so we must have been followed.’

  ‘That’s assuming the car was nobbled,’ said Bognor.

  ‘That’s what I am assuming,’ said Blight-Purley with a quelling glare.

  ‘It could have been an inside job,’ said Amanda.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ asked Blight-Purley. They both looked at her with surprise and interest. ‘It’s obvious,’ she said. She wiped her upper lip with a napkin thus removing the odd crumb and a thin splodge of egg yolk. ‘The people who work here knew we were here. Pottinger, for instance. He could easily have nipped out and done whatever he had to do.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Blight-Purley.

  ‘Why?’ asked Bognor. ‘I think Mandy has a point.’

  ‘I’ve known Cedric for years, and he doesn’t know anything about cars and their innards. Also I think he’s straight. And finally because of his hands.’

  ‘His hands?’ they chorused.

  ‘They were spotless throughout the time we were having dinner. They’d have been covered in oil and grease if he’d been fixing the car.’

  ‘He could have got one of the waiters to do it,’ said Bognor, doubtfully.

  ‘I believe we were followed,’ said the Colonel with emphasis. ‘It would have been far too risky for anyone from the Lily to have done it.’

  ‘He could have washed his hands,’ offered Bognor.

  Blight-Purley ignored him. ‘And I have a hunch that ffrench-Thomas would know about cars.’

  ‘Can you prove that?’

  ‘No. Just intuition. I sense he’s the sort of chap who knows about car guts.’

  ‘Should be easy enough to find out.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But why?’ This was Amanda again.

  The other two looked at each other. It was true they had told her very little.

  ‘Um,’ said Bognor, trying to give the impression of a man who had seized the initiative. ‘ffrench-Thomas obviously thinks we’re on to him.’

  ‘And are you?’

  Bognor appealed mutely to the Colonel, who said, ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He then embarked on a brief but lucid summary of his suspicions and his reasons for harbouring them. At the mention of Scoff’s espionage ring she said, ‘You don’t have to tell me about that. I know most of it already.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Bognor. ‘Tell.’

  ‘Nothing to tell, much,’ she said, ‘he never said anything to me directly. But I found some letters once in an old file; and I overheard a telephone conversation. That kind of thing. Wasn’t difficult to piece it all together.’

  ‘But you never told me.’

  ‘You never asked. Besides, you’re Board of Trade. It’s hardly your pigeon.’

  ‘What about Gabrielle?’

  ‘You forget,’ she raised her eyebrows. ‘Gabrielle was the main reason I left.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Blight-Purley continued his résumé. Most of it was familiar to Bognor who allowed his concentration to pass from it to the remains of breakfast and his persistent hangover. Only when the peroration was reached did his mind snap back to attention. ‘So you see, my dear,’ he said, ‘that is the situation. We think that Scoff’s suicide was connived at by a person or persons as yet unknown, at least unknown to Simon and myself.’

  ‘I’m sure we know them,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s just that we don’t know which ones were responsible.’

  Again the Colonel glowered.

  ‘Whoever did it wanted Scoff out of the way because they wanted to acquire his espionage ring, or whatever we choose to call it. It could have been one of the ring’s members. An ambitious baron, as it were, anxious to usurp the power and position of the throne. The only members about whom we are absolutely certain are Gabrielle herself and Luigi Dotto; but my impression is that ffrench-Thomas is implicated.’

  ‘But,’ said Amanda, ‘ffrench-Thomas is part of the Bitschwiller organization and surely that would mean …’

  ‘If you think about it, it means nothing,’ continued the old man. ‘As the Bitschwiller rep he does a lot of travelling. He could have been a useful link for Scoff. He could perfectly well have been involved.’

  ‘Without Bitschwiller’s realizing?’ This from Bognor.

  ‘Of course. Delphine is beyond reproach. And nothing can be done in her organization—officially that is—without her knowledge and consent.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bognor, ‘Scoff’s death could have been a palace revolution, but what about Dmitri Petrov?’

  ‘You mean …’ said Amanda, ‘but I thought …’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Blight-Purley. There was a respectful pause while the three of them stared deep into their cups.

  ‘So that rules out the Russians,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Blight-Purley. ‘The Russians might have induced Scoff’s suicide and then removed the man responsible, thus covering their tracks in the best possible fashion.’

  ‘But who’s taken Petrov’s place in all this?’

  ‘That we don’t know.’

  ‘We don’t seem to know much,’ grumbled Bognor, aware once more of the tortuous ramifications of this case, ‘but from what Ebertson said, we can rule out th
e Americans.’

  ‘That I doubt,’ said Blight-Purley, enjoying his role as dispenser of cold water. ‘What could be more natural than for the Americans to remove Scoff and then turn round and say, “Pax! Nothing to do with us. You British take over and we won’t interfere”.’

  ‘But what about Petrov?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Could the Americans have killed him too?’

  Blight-Purley sighed. ‘I see no reason why not. As I read it the Americans were frustrated and angry about Scoff’s ring and the way he ran it. Having removed him, they were anxious for it to be controlled either by themselves or their nominee. It looks as if they have now decided to back the British interest.’

  ‘But the British aren’t interested,’ wailed Bognor.

  ‘But they don’t know that.’ Blight-Purley smiled. ‘In their innocence they are assuming that your own presence in all this is an indication of British interest.’

  ‘So you think Ebertson’s bluffing?’ asked Bognor, ignoring the implicit insult.

  ‘In a sense,’ said Blight-Purley, ‘though I’m sure you can count on his co-operation from now on.’

  ‘Which,’ said Amanda, ‘leaves the internal candidates.’

  ‘Precisely.’ They were pondering the implications of this when Pottinger shimmered over, face concentrated in a furrow of worry. Bognor thought it contrived but did not say so.

  ‘Police, Colonel. On the telephone.’ Blight-Purley rose and staggered off. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am that this should have happened,’ continued their host, simpering. ‘I blame myself. If the car park had been better lit … If only we could have an attendant … But these things cost money.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Bognor. ‘It’s not your fault. It could have happened anywhere.’

  ‘And the publicity,’ he went on, not apparently hearing. ‘I’ve had the Advertiser on already. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything yourself,’ asked Bognor, ‘nothing unusual, I mean?’

  ‘You saw yourself.’ He spread his arms out in a gesture of mock-Gallic despair. ‘We were busy. In any case there would have been nothing unusual to hear—just a car starting and driving off. That happens all the time.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Bognor and Amanda exchanged glances that would often be described as pregnant with meaning. In fact all they meant was that they were now bound together in some form of partnership or conspiracy from which Pottinger was emphatically excluded. Both would have been pushed to define the meaning behind their meaningful looks, but Pottinger rightly concluded from them that his presence was not required.

  ‘He gives me the creeps,’ said Amanda, after he had beaten a retreat in a fog of ritual remarks about hoping they had had a good night and hoping they had had a good breakfast.

  ‘He couldn’t care less whether we had a good night or a good breakfast,’ said Bognor.

  ‘They never can,’ she agreed.

  It took time to effect a departure for London. There was no question of using the Jaguar, but Pottinger agreed to drive them the three miles to the nearest railway station. Before that, however, Blight-Purley had to make a formal statement to a police sergeant who arrived self-importantly about half an hour after the completion of breakfast. Bognor himself was called in for brief corroboration. It was still too early to say with any certainty that the brakes or steering had been interfered with, but all four of the now greatly chastened thieves agreed that at the bottom of the hill the car had responded to neither. Keith, who had been driving, was adamant about the speed—no more than thirty, he said—and the fact that he had put his foot hard down on the brake pedal and turned the steering wheel as far to the left as he could. The car had continued with increasing momentum and in an unerringly straight line until it had hit the wall. The police were inclined to believe this version since the injuries were, in the circumstances, comparatively slight. It looked as if all four had been prepared for the crash and had had time to take some action to diminish its effects. The car being old and expensive had proved at least as resilient as the wall and though seriously damaged had not concertina-ed as a cheaper, younger model might have done. Blight-Purley regarded it as a definite case of sabotage perpetrated by Hugh ffrench-Thomas. He did not, however, voice his suspicions except to Simon and Amanda. There seemed relatively little point, certainly none until any interference had been established by a post mortem on the machine.

  ‘What neither of you has explained totally satisfactorily,’ said Amanda, when they were all established in an otherwise unoccupied first-class compartment, ‘is exactly why anyone should want to kill us.’

  ‘Nobody wants to kill you, my dear,’ said Blight-Purley trying to wipe grime from the window pane with his rolled up Daily Telegraph. ‘It’s me they want to kill.’

  ‘And me,’ said Bognor, offended.

  ‘But I would have been in the car as well, and they would have realized it,’ she said.

  ‘You would have come into the spilt milk or broken egg category, I’m afraid.’ The Colonel smiled his vaguely sinister smile. ‘There would have been no use crying over you, and they couldn’t have made an omelette without you either.’

  ‘I see.’ She frowned. ‘But I still don’t understand what sort of threat you pose. I mean you don’t even know for certain who “they” are.’

  ‘But that,’ said Bognor looking smugger than he felt, ‘doesn’t prevent them from thinking that we know. They know that I’m officially investigating it all for the Board of Trade, and they know that Colonel Blight-Purley is helping me out in an unofficial capacity. As they say.’

  ‘But …’ she looked even more perplexed, ‘they still wouldn’t kill you. Surely?’

  ‘They’ve killed twice already,’ said Bognor, ‘for reasons which might seem trivial or even absurd to the normal person. But we aren’t dealing with normal people. We aren’t dealing with a normal world. We’re dealing with people and things which, if they weren’t utterly lethal, would be quite staggeringly silly. Espionage and organized crime are like that.’

  ‘A bit like life,’ said Blight-Purley sententiously.

  The truth of these observations was borne in on him more than an hour later, after he had checked back into the office. It was almost lunchtime and the place was deserted. However, he was sufficiently sated, and aware of it, not to have any need of further food. Instead he eased back his mock leather swivel chair and put his feet on the desk. His thoughts were a mixture. On the one hand there was the memory of his masterful performance on the cricket field; on the other the increasing realization that the hand of death had only just been stayed. Moreover, his demise had not been avoided by any cleverness on his part. His survival was pure fluke. He was a wanted man. Somehow he had got someone rattled. That in itself was a more or less pleasing thought. He felt like Robin Hood must have felt when he saw a ‘Wanted’ notice signed Sheriff, Nottingham, pinned to a forest oak. Or Billy the Kid. He pulled on his cheroot and tried jutting his jaw. Unfortunately it wasn’t the sort of jaw to which jutting came easily. He allowed it to sag back into its usual weary position of acceptance and humility, then consoled himself by trying to recall precisely what it was that had happened to him in bed. He had asked Mandy on the platform at Charing Cross when he would see her again, and she had replied that it was up to him. He had said he would telephone. He looked at the telephone. It was too soon. It would indicate a lack of cool. He sighed and, suddenly, as if in answer to his interest the phone rang. Surprised, he allowed it two or three rings before picking it up. The voice at the other end was muffled as if it was being passed through a thick woollen scarf.

  ‘Mr Bognor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You enjoyed your stay at the Orange Lily, I hope.’

  Bognor’s antennae twitched. The fuzzy-voiced enquirer was not, he realized even through his hangover, a simple well-wisher. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  ‘Let us just say it is someone who ha
s your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Do you think you could take whatever you’ve got in your mouth out? I can’t hear what you’re saying. Who are you?’

  ‘My identity is immaterial. I don’t wish you to come to any harm.’

  ‘Very good of you. Is that all? I’m extremely busy, and I’m afraid I really don’t have time to fiddle around talking to complete strangers on the telephone.’

  ‘Oh come, Simon, don’t be so petulant. I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ He wished he could recognize the voice but the disguise was effective.

  ‘I do hope Monica is well,’ said the voice.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said crisply. ‘I haven’t seen her since the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said the voice, breathing a touch heavily in the prescribed manner of anonymous telephone callers. ‘She will have been concerned about you.’

  Bognor said nothing. He had, in all honesty, forgotten about Monica. Not since early that morning had he given her a passing thought. Then in the unfamiliar, even exotic surroundings of the Orange Lily, he had decided that guilt was uncalled for. Now he wasn’t so sure. Last night seemed less pardonable. More of an aberration.

  ‘Of course,’ continued the voice. ‘I know you’re not married or anything but living together does suggest certain, how shall I put it, obligations? I don’t imagine Monica would be amused to hear how you spent last night.’

  Bognor tried to persuade himself not to be rattled. It was only partially successful. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Oh come on, Simon, we’re both men of the world you and I. You know quite well what I’m getting at. If Monica were to receive certain information about you and Miss Bullingdon there might be trouble. Even in these permissive days …’

  Bognor thought. It was perfectly true that Monica would not be chuffed. Far from it. Perhaps that was what he wanted. Perhaps he wanted to end the relationship. However, if that were so he wanted to end it on his own terms and in his own way. He did not want a scene.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, realizing sadly that despite what he might have thought he was just as easy a blackmail victim as anyone else.