Provender Gleed

by James Lovegrove

  'Congratulations.'

  'Thank you. Your Family, you see, hired my colleague and myself to locate you after you ... er, went missing. They had reason to believe you'd been taken against your will, but now ... umm.' Moore threw a look at Is. 'Perhaps they were mistaken and it wasn't involuntary after all.'

  Provender saw what the Anagrammatic Detective was implying. 'Trust me, it was. Very much so. My Family hired you?'

  'Along with my colleague, yes. Courtesy of the Clan Reav-- Of a certain Mr Carver. And so here I am.' Moore's mouth flirted with the idea of a smile. 'Case successfully solved. I can call Mr Carver and inform him that Provender Gleed is alive and well and no longer a captive. I can, can't I?'

  Provender was frowning. 'But you're here. Outside Arthur's pad. Which means you think Arthur...'

  '...kidnapped you? I did think that. Current evidence would appear to indicate otherwise.'

  'Not necessarily. What reason do you have for thinking it was Arthur?'

  'The anagrams.'

  'The anagrams?'

  'The anagrams.'

  'What anagrams?'

  'Of Arthur Gleed. There were all sorts. His name positively dripped guilt. My colleague had a different theory about your disappearance, but me, I had your cousin in the frame from the very start. Turns out I was wrong, but my roundabout route brought me to the right destination in the end. That's how it is with the anagrams sometimes. They move in mysterious ways, their wonders to perform.'

  'Let me get this straight. You're a private investigator who uses anagrams to solve crimes?'

  Moore beamed proudly. 'I am.'

  Provender shook his head in mild disbelief. 'And my Family took you on to find me. Just you?'

  'And my colleague, Merlin Milner.'

  'Of course, your colleague. But no one else.'

  'Not that I know of.'

  Provender let out a hollow laugh. 'Thanks for trying, everyone. No disrespect to you, Mr Moore, but you're hardly the thorough search party I'd have hoped for. A small army of private investigators I could understand, but two people who use anagrams...?'

  'We were told that discretion was paramount.' Moore was trying not to look as though his feelings were hurt. 'A low-key approach. Obviously not good enough for some people, but I would submit that the results speak for themselves.'

  'Yes, yes, they do,' Provender said, mollifying. 'I really wasn't trying to cause offence.'

  'Though you did,' Is chipped in.

  'And,' Provender went on, 'it so happens, Mr Moore, that I believe you're on the right track. Arthur is involved. He arranged for me to be kidnapped. He's the brains behind the operation.'

  'Yes,' said Moore under his breath. 'But you've escaped.'

  'I have, and I'm here to confront the little creep and get him to 'fess up.'

  'And he's not home, as I told you. He's elsewhere.'

  'Where?'

  'I wish I knew.'

  'You don't have any idea? There isn't anywhere else he could be?'

  'Well,' said Moore, cautiously, 'there is one place I've been staking out apart from here.'

  'Which is?'

  'The theatre where his play's on. On New Aldwych. The Shortborn.'

  'Could he be there now?'

  'I doubt it.' Moore consulted his watch. 'Curtain doesn't go up for another four hours. I don't think makeup and costuming takes that long.'

  'What do you say, Is? You think we should try there?'

  'Don't ask my opinion. My opinion apparently doesn't count for anything.'

  'Well, I think we should. Back to the trams. Mr Moore, thanks for your help. It will be remembered.'

  'Very kind. Might I just say, though, that I have a taxi waiting. It might be quicker, more convenient.'

  'A taxi?' Provender pondered. 'Yeah, good idea. A taxi. Why not?'

  56

  The television room stank of sweat, of body odour, of manly musk, of maleness. Prosper had infused it with himself over the course of the day. Just by being there he had scent-marked it as his, a section of Dashlands House that was now Prosper Gleed's exclusive territory.

  Or so Cynthia felt as she cracked the door open and tentatively entered. The smell might have been in her imagination, her senses confirming what she wanted to believe. She wanted the television room to have an offensive aroma, thus it did.

  Prosper was on the sofa, fixated as ever on the projected TV image on the wall. The Phone was in the corner, dozing where he stood, poor fellow. Prosper ought at least to have instructed the man to sit - it wasn't against the rules - but no, he was too preoccupied, too absorbed in his own fermenting megalomania, too drunk with amazement at the turmoil he had instigated, to think of anyone but himself.

  The glint in Prosper's eyes, as he watched a report being transmitted from a forward command post somewhere in the Sudetenland, was all but indistinguishable from the one that appeared when he was making a move on some nubile young creature. There was the same avarice in it, the same thrill in exerting his influence. Girls fell at Prosper's feet because he was handsome, certainly, but also because of who he was, his surname, his status. Cynthia understood this all too well, since she herself had been one of those girls, a long time ago. He had been utterly captivating back then, youth giving his charm a freshness, an innocence almost. Although Cynthia had been Family too, and therefore in theory his equal, looks coupled with the aura that hung around the word Gleed had made Prosper an irresistible package. Naïve as she had been, she had found him endlessly, fascinatingly sophisticated, and when it became clear that he was courting her, wooing her, she could scarcely believe her luck. Nor could her parents. For the Lamases, a union with the Gleeds was several steps up. Their Family status would be immensely enhanced by the association. It was a match made in heaven. How could she not have been happy about it?

  After almost thirty years - and countless infidelities - the question now was, how could she be happy about it any more? And the answer was, she had adapted. She had adjusted. Incrementally, as time went by, she had hardened herself to the disappointment and the betrayal. She hardly felt his indifference to her.

  And then this. On top of her son being gone, her only boy, his absence like one of her own organs having been torn out of her, she was confronted with a husband who was no longer content with fucking his way through the women of the world and was now trying to fuck the world itself. Cynthia despised coarseness but there it was. Fucking. That was what Prosper was doing, there was no other word for it. Fucking like some maddened rapist, not caring who got hurt so long as he exerted his power.

  Well, no more. Enough. It was time she put a stop to it. After hours of soul-searching, Cynthia knew what she must do. As her nephew had said: Anything and everything must be done to bring about the right conclusion. God help her but she had no choice.

  The Phone's eyelids flickered, then snapped open. He came to attention and nodded to her. 'Ma'am,' he said briskly, hoping to sound like someone who had not just been half-asleep.

  Cynthia smiled at him and kept the smile in place as she turned to her husband.

  'Prosper. Dear. You've been sitting there for ages. You've barely touched your lunch. Might I get you something to eat?'

  'Hmm? Oh, no. I'm fine.'

  'Drink, then?'

  'Again, fine. Don't need to fuss over me.'

  'I take it the Kuczinskis haven't called yet.'

  'Only a matter of time. Only a matter of time. The Pan-Slavic Federation's demanded that America step in and play peace-broker. That's a definite sign. They're cracking. Can't take the pressure.'

  'If you say so. You're sure about that drink? How about some coffee? Strong coffee? You look worn out. You need something to help keep you going.'

  The solicitous, ever sympathetic wife. How often had she pretended to play that role? It came to her easily now, second nature.

  'Some coffee?' said Prosper. 'Yes, all right. Why not? Have a servant bring some.'

  'Better yet,' Cynthia said, 'I'll
make it for you and bring it myself.'

  57

  The taxi driver was tongue-tied throughout the journey to New Aldwych, repeatedly trying to formulate a sentence and failing. Frequent checks in his rearview mirror confirmed that none other than Provender Gleed was sitting in the back of his cab, but he simply could not work out a way of remarking on the fact that wouldn't come across as glib or grovelsome, nor did he feel he could opt for some innocuous comment - about the weather, say - for fear of sounding disrespectfully trite. He was torn between excitement and the desire to appear unflustered, as if driving a Family member across London was something he did every day. He knew that at the first available opportunity he would call his wife and anyone else he could think of and tell them about this, and the prospect somewhat mitigated his present state of speechlessness. In his account of this episode, he and Provender would be chatting like old pals and the Gleed heir would declare himself impressed by the taxi driver's opinions and observations on life. It wouldn't be a lie so much as an embellishment of the truth: had the driver not been dumbstruck, Provender would surely have been delighted to hear what he thought about things.

  As far as Moore was concerned, the driver's silence was golden. He'd been worried that the man would talk them all to death before they reached the Notting Hill Skyway or even the Shepherd's Bush Tunnel. Provender's presence, however, was talismanic. It granted an unexpressed wish.

  It did the same at the Shortborn Theatre. The building which Moore had been unable to penetrate, this seemingly impregnable fortress of Thespis, raised its portcullis and lowered its drawbridge and surrendered without a siege. All that was needed was for Provender to enter the lobby, and within seconds there were members of the front-of-house staff rushing around madly, and the manager appeared, and there was much hand-wringing and kowtowing, and the three visitors - Provender, Moore, the girl called Is - were given free rein to venture anywhere they wanted. Provender asked the manager where he might find his cousin, and was told, 'On stage.' It transpired that an unscheduled extra rehearsal was going on, the show's star dissatisfied with the previous night's performance and wanting to give the play that last little extra polish to make it just so.

  'A consummate perfectionist, our leading man,' said the manager.

  'A complete pain in the arse, more like,' Provender muttered. 'So we can go into the auditorium, then? Have a look at what's happening?'

  'But of course,' said the manager with an unctuous writhe. 'Allow me to escort you.'

  'No. If you don't mind, I'd prefer it if we slipped quietly in. So as not to cause a fuss.'

  'Very well.' The manager bit his lip with disappointment. 'Perhaps later, though, I could take you on a tour of the theatre. The Shortborn is one of London's most historic venues, substantially rebuilt after the war with funds from the Bannerjee Foundation, but still retaining --'

  'Yes, maybe.' Provender turned to Moore and Is. 'Public place. Lots of witnesses around to see. This should be good.'

  Rubbing his hands, he headed for the doors that led from the lobby to the stalls. Moore and Is filed after him.

  Outside, at a bus stop across the street from the theatre, a figure who had been lying in wait made his move.

  Damien had been standing at the bus stop for nigh on an hour. Buses had come and gone, passengers had stepped on and off, and Damien had stayed put, making it look each time as if the bus he was waiting for wasn't this one but the next. His air of long-suffering, barely-contained impatience was readily recognisable to anyone with experience of the vagaries of London's public transport system. His huffs and grimaces were taken by others to mean he was being badly let down by the RLA and its inability to run a bus service which was even on nodding acquaintance with the word efficiency.

  It wasn't completely an act, but the real source of Damien's discontent was not, of course, buses. Every minute he spent at the stop had been a minute in which it seemed even more implausible that Provender Gleed and Is were going to turn up at the theatre. As long shots went, this one was inordinately, inconceivably long. It was, however, his only shot. He had no alternative, other than to sit at home and stew in his own frustration. Which he couldn't anyway do because there was the small matter of the body of a dead detective cluttering up his flat. His only option had been to come here and hope.

  Hope that the detective had not lied.

  Hope that Is had conferred with Provender and told him that Damien had collaborated with a Family insider.

  Hope that Provender put two and two together and came to the same conclusion as the dead detective's partner.

  Hope that Provender would choose to visit the Shortborn Theatre and confront his cousin.

  A ragged patchwork quilt of hopes, threadbare and full of holes, but it was all Damien had to draw around him and take comfort from. Where else could he go to look for Provender? What other chance did he have of getting his hands on his hostage again? Circumstances forced him to be at the theatre. His choices were narrowed down to this tiny, mote-like, infinitesimal scrap of possibility.

  And he had been close to giving up, on the point of going back to his parked Dragon Wind and driving dismally back to Needle Grove, when remarkably, astonishingly, his against-all-odds gamble paid off. A taxi pulled up in front of the theatre and three passengers disembarked from it: Provender Gleed, then Is, then a little man Damien did not recognise but, were he to hazard a guess, would have said was Merlin Milner's partner-in-crimebusting.

  There was no time for Damien to catch them in the few seconds it took them to cross the pavement and disappear into the theatre lobby. The traffic was flowing thick and fast in the roadway and he wasn't able to reach the other side of the street for a full minute. When he got there, a glance through the lobby's glassed doors showed Provender surrounded by people and speaking to someone who was obviously the theatre manager. Damien considered barging in, but the lobby was too public a place. What with all the theatre employees, there were too many eyewitnesses, too many potential have-a-go heroes who could make his life difficult. Then Provender left the lobby, heading deeper into the building, and Damien knew he would have to find another way into the theatre.

  Easily done. All theatres had stage doors, and the Shortborn's wasn't difficult to find. It was situated down an alley at the side. Damien walked up to it and jabbed the buzzer-button marked ENQUIRIES.

  The person who answered the buzzer was not some wispy theatrical type as Damien had anticipated, but rather a stocky, thick-necked, short-back-and-sided individual whose bad suit and matching attitude said, unmistakably, bouncer. Which made sense, what with a Gleed in the play's cast.

  Damien was unfazed. Not pausing, he shunted the man backwards with an outstretched hand, unsheathing his knife with the other hand. The bouncer, taken by surprise, staggered and collided with a plastic chair, sending it and the nudie mag that was lying on it skidding across the floor. He recovered his balance expertly and came back at Damien, adopting a boxer's stance, weight on the rear foot, fists loosely clasped at jaw height. The knife was still concealed behind Damien's back, so the bouncer had no reason not to feel confident that the fight would be his. This bloke who had pushed him was big but not that big, and a venue-security professional feared no one. A venue-security professional was trained for moments like this, lived for moments like this.

  He swung. Damien parried. Huge equalled slow. The bouncer might as well have stopped and told him when the punch was coming and where he intended it to land.

  He swung again, another hefty, lumbering roundhouse. Damien ducked in under it and brought the knife into play, whipping it in from the side and sinking it hilt-deep into the bouncer's flank.

  By rights the knife-thrust ought to have settled the scuffle then and there. It was a mortal blow and the shock alone should have toppled the bouncer. Damien gave the deerhorn handle an extra twist, further ruining whichever vital organs the blade was embedded in, then stepped back, as if inviting his opponent to do the decent thing now and
fall.

  The bouncer teetered, looking down, exploring the knife handle with inquisitive fingers, feeling the shape of it, fathoming what it meant to have this thing protruding from his abdomen, this wetness leaking out. Then, to Damien's surprise, instead of having the good grace to keel over, he grunted and lunged, arms spread wide.

  The strength with which the arms pincered around Damien's chest and began to squeeze was, literally, breathtaking. Damien's ribcage constricted; he all but heard bones creak. His lungs were suddenly straining for air but he could get none into them. Meanwhile the bouncer's own breath was gusting in his face, a series of rapid, meaty-smelling exhalations that added to the torture of being suffocated: even if he could inhale, there was nothing to inhale but this. Damien writhed and gasped but could not wrestle free. The pressure of the bouncer's bearhug intensified. Damien's head woozed. His backbone groaned. Something, surely, was on the point of snapping.

  Then, at last, the knife-wound took effect. The bearhug relaxed. The bouncer seemed to crumble away. Suddenly he was supine on the floor. His heels were kicking the linoleum. His teeth were bared in a rictus of anguish and dismay. He started to choke, gagging gutturally.

  Damien, reeling somewhat, bent down and yanked out the knife. He raised it and plunged it into the bouncer's chest, doing this much as he would have if the man had been a suffering animal - matter-of-factly, out of necessity, putting the creature out of its misery. The bouncer shuddered, spasmed, and went still. His eyes rolled and settled. A croak escaped his slack, gaping mouth. Gone.

  Damien swabbed the blade clean on the bouncer's trouser-leg, then re-sheathed the knife. He stood up carefully. His chest throbbed, tender to the touch, and his head was swimmy, but otherwise he was unharmed.

  He took stock of his surroundings. He was in a short corridor which terminated in a pair of swing doors inset with frosted-glass panes. A notice drew attention to the fact that no unauthorised persons were permitted beyond this point.