Grantchester Grind

by Tom Sharpe

  The Dean seized what he supposed briefly was his opportunity. ‘That is exactly what I was coming to talk to you about, Master.’

  ‘Well, you came too late, you did,’ Skullion continued. ‘That bloody Lady Mary sent him. And why? I’ll tell you why. Because she still wants to know who murdered her husband and this fellow’s here to nose about.’

  He paused. The Dean was stunned. Skullion seemed to know everything. Didn’t seem to. Did know. It was a long pause full of horror.

  ‘And I can tell him,’ said Skullion. ‘And if you try to sweep me under the carpet to Porterhouse Park I will tell him. Want to know why?’

  ‘No, Skullion, no,’ the Dean pleaded.

  But Skullion was ready with the coup de grâce. ‘Because I did. I murdered the bastard. So put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it.’

  And before the Dean could say another word the Master had pressed the button on his wheelchair and was moving implacably towards the Master’s Lodge, leaving a trail of empty beer bottles behind him on the lawn.

  *

  In the maze Purefoy Osbert had forgotten how cold he was. What he had just heard had stunned him almost as much as it had stunned the Dean, who still stood rooted to the spot. Through the thicket of the yew Purefoy could see part of him outlined against the lights of the Lodge and he still didn’t move. In a long lifetime of College intrigue and bitter contest the Dean had never before been outmanoeuvred so completely. Outmanoeuvred was the wrong term. Skullion hadn’t been manoeuvring: he had been fighting a battle tooth and claw. And brain. And the Dean had been crushed. Against the power of Skullion’s verbal onslaught he had been destroyed, and made to eat humble pie in a way that had never happened to him before. And all this by a man in a wheelchair who was largely paralysed and who had drunk numerous bottles of strong ale and was a mere college servant. The Dean had always thought of him as that. He knew better now. Skullion had spoken no more than the truth. He was indeed the Master of Porterhouse. It was five minutes before the Dean could recover sufficiently to stumble away across the lawn. As he went, he stepped into a damp spot where Skullion had been but he didn’t notice. What thoughts he had left, and they were bitter ones, were concentrated on other things.

  To Purefoy Osbert the Dean’s going came as something of a relief. Only something, because he was freezing cold and so stiff that he had trouble getting to his feet and, when he tried to walk, he staggered. The maze was no place for staggering. It was pitch dark and, while Purefoy could vaguely see the night sky and the lights of Cambridge reflected in the clouds that had gathered, he could see nothing else. He had had enough difficulty getting through the maze to the corner where Skullion sat. Finding his way out proved impossible. Time and time again he thought he was about to succeed because he could see the lights of windows through the peripheral yews, only to find he was back in the corner he had set out from an hour before. Somewhere nearby the clock on the Bull Tower struck midnight. Purefoy tried for the umpteenth time to remember the route he had followed to get in. It had entailed going almost to the very centre of the maze and then turning to the left and then the right and then after some yards going left again – or was it right? Not that it mattered. He had no idea where to start or in which direction to go. Thought failed him entirely. With hands outstretched he crept along banging into the yew thicket up dead ends and having to turn round and try to find some other turning. The clock struck one, and then two, and Purefoy had to sit down and shiver for a while until the cold night air and fear of pneumonia forced him to his feet and another hour of stumbling in the darkness. It was well after three when he finally found his way to the very heart of the maze. At least that was where he thought he was. There was no way of telling. He was up another cul-de-sac of yew. Many times he had thought of trying to fight his way through the hedge itself to get out, but the yew was old and had been planted in staggered rows of three around the edge so that it was impossible to squeeze between the thick thrunks.

  He even tried climbing, but he had never been anything of an athlete and the cold had sapped what strength he had in his arms. In any case there were no proper branches to grasp. He was in a thicket of yew. He was also in a thicket of fear. He had sat within a few yards of a murderer and heard his confession, if that was what Skullion’s revelation had been. It hadn’t sounded like a confession to Purefoy Osbert. It had been far too threatening to be called that. And the man had shown no remorse. ‘Because I did,’ he had said almost with pride and certainly with terrible menace. ‘I murdered the bastard. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.’ To Purefoy Osbert, whose whole career had been spent finding reasons for crime, and in particular for murder, that shifted the onus of guilt from the criminal onto the police and the judiciary and the law and the prison system, those words had come as a frightening refutation of everything he believed in. The sheer brutality and cold-blooded nature of the words had chilled him almost as much as the night air. They had done more. They had gone to the very centre of his being and unlike the cold of the night their cold would never leave him. He was trapped in a maze of knowing that was at the same time unknowing. His theory about Sir Godber’s death had been almost entirely logically right – he had been wrong about the Dean’s complicity, but that was all. And he knew, as certainly as he knew he would never get out of the yew maze until dawn brought some light, that he would never be able to prove it. The murderer in the wheelchair was harder than anyone he had ever encountered. He was adamantine. Nothing and no one had it in their power to break his will. Purefoy Osbert had heard that hardness in Skullion’s voice and he hadn’t required his intellect to tell him the strength of will that was in the mind of the man in the bowler hat. His understanding of it was more primitive than rational thought. It was like hearing death speak.

  Now cold and hungry and lost, he was filled with terror too. Everything he had ever heard about Porterhouse had been an underestimation of its awfulness. As dawn began to break and the yew sides of the maze slowly changed from black walls to reveal their dark green leaves, Purefoy Osbert fought down his panic and made his last attempt to find the way out. He listened to the clock on the Bull Tower and tried to position it in his mind. The entrance had been on that side of the maze and he set out towards it. Even so the clock had struck five before he stumbled utterly exhausted onto the lawn and made his way to his rooms and collapsed on the bed. He was no longer capable of thinking. Pure instinct told him he had to get out of Porterhouse before the place destroyed him. Even, perhaps, in the way it had destroyed Sir Godber Evans.

  25

  Had Edgar Hartang had his dearest wish fulfilled he would have had Kudzuvine murdered. He might have included Schnabel, Feuchtwangler and Bolsover in the massacre for allowing Ross Skundler to get out of the building. Then again, he didn’t find their advice to his liking. But he depended on them. They knew too much and Schnabel was laying it on the line.

  ‘It seems they’ve got a sworn statement out of Karl Kudzuvine that doesn’t leave much room for manoeuvre,’ Schnabel told him.

  ‘Like what? And who’s to believe the bastard?’

  ‘Like everything. And as to who’s to believe him, I’d say just about everyone.’

  ‘What he’s got is say-so. Circumstantial,’ said Hartang.

  Schnabel shrugged. ‘He’s got corroboration from Skundler. From what we’ve seen from the Porterhouse lawyers, Kudzuvine had the schedule of various consignments and Skundler confirms them with payments.’

  Behind the blue glasses Hartang’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You took a statement from Skundler? You did that?’

  ‘No, no need. He’s seen this coming and bought himself some insurance. Like copies of financial movements and transactions locked in a bank deposit. All we’ve seen are the copies.’

  Hartang wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘Comes of helping people,’ he said. ‘The bastards. The bastards. So what do we do?’

  ‘Depends,’ said Schnabel. ‘They aren’t pressing criminal charges an
d they could. That’s a hopeful sign. I mean you don’t want to be standing trial at the Old Bailey or having the DEA investigating Stateside. At least I don’t think you do.’

  Hartang didn’t.

  ‘So they’re dealing off the top of the deck,’ Schnabel went on. ‘They’re not interested in your business dealings, they’re only after compensation for the damage done.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Forty million.’

  ‘Forty million?’ squawked Hartang. ‘Forty million is only? Where’d they get that figure from? Last time I heard, it was twenty.’

  ‘Could be Kudzuvine,’ said Schnabel. ‘What he’s given them. Could be he wants his cut. I don’t know. I’m just reporting what their lawyers are saying.’

  ‘Fucking blackmail,’ shouted Hartang and knew he had been screwed. To make matters worse, Dos Passos was in London and still out for his blood over the loss of the consignment of Bogota Best. Now Schnabel was telling him he had better settle the Porterhouse claim out of court or face the unpleasant alternative of standing in the dock in the Old Bailey or even of being deported to the United States and standing trial under RICO.

  ‘And I don’t mean Puerto Rico,’ Schnabel said. ‘I heard a rumour that the FBI are interested. And the source is good.’

  ‘How good?’

  ‘Like Lord Tankerell,’ Schnabel said. ‘You’ve heard of him, Mr Hartang. Just happens to have been the Attorney General some years back.’

  ‘Him? You call an ex-Attorney fucking General over here a good source? Those shysters can’t barely spell their names they’re so dumb.’

  ‘Sure. Don’t have to spell what Karl K. and Ross Skundler signed their sworn names to,’ said Schnabel. ‘Just read it out and you’ll go down twelve to twenty. Stateside more like ninety-nine and some. They’ve got a containment unit for RICOs, place called Marian. Real safe down there. No one gets you till the morticians are sent for.’

  There was a long silence while Edgar Hartang digested this information and felt sick. ‘What’s with this Rico?’ he asked.

  ‘Racketeering and Incitement to Corruption Act. But you know that, Mr Hartang. Like tiny mesh for big fishes and you don’t ever come out.’

  Hartang said nothing. He was thinking of a way out.

  ‘Another thing I have to advise. I wouldn’t be thinking of taking a powder.’

  ‘Powder? What the fuck you talking about, powder?’

  ‘Like trying to leave the country. There’s too much known about another sort of powder. Like the talcum you flew in from Venezuela June fifteenth 1987. Or the load shipped out of Ecuador to Miami November eleven ’89. Like it’s all here and no loopholes. So if you are thinking of Learing it some place, don’t. Ross Skundler saw that situation coming and he bought himself some more life insurance. Like a miniature video in your bathroom so he knows who he’s working for. Bald guy without glasses, uncircumcised, got a mole on his right shoulder, appendix scar, gives himself a hand job with pictures of little boys. You know anyone like that, Mr Hartang? Because if you do, you’d better pay your forty million and be thankful.’

  ‘Forty million? Jesus.’ He paused and looked venomously at the lawyer. ‘Schnabel, just who are you working for? Me or fucking them?’

  Schnabel sighed. It was always like this with mobsters. Consequences had to be spelt out for them when they were in deep shit. ‘Mr Hartang,’ he said patiently, ‘I am working for myself and you have hired me to lay it on the line so you can make a rational choice. If you want me to feed you a weather report says it’s going to be sunshine all day and every day for ever and ever and only rain nights, that’s fine with me only I lose a valuable client whose doing all the time he’s got left and I don’t earn my regular fees when he’s in trouble again. That is how it is. I just want you to make a rational decision is all. I’ve given you the information. You make a choice. I cannot do it for you.’

  ‘You have,’ said Hartang bitterly. ‘Like forty fucking million and you call that a rational choice?’

  ‘Matter of fact, no. I call it a necessity. Like of life.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Hartang, with his usual economy.

  ‘And just one more thing, Mr Hartang,’ said Schnabel. ‘A minor matter but it’s down in black and white. You ever been in Damascus, Syria? Khartoum, Sudan? That neck of the woods?’

  A grunt from Hartang signified that he could have been.

  ‘Ever had drinks with a guy called Carlos?’

  ‘Of course I’ve had drinks with hundreds of guys called Carlos. I do business with South America. You think I can avoid having drinks with Carloses?’

  ‘Just enquiring, Mr Hartang. Abu Nidal mean anything to you? Like you bank-rolled one or two of their operations for insurance in the Arab world? You got friends in mighty strange places but I don’t think they’ll help you in this situation.’

  ‘So what exactly are you trying to tell me, Schnabel? Tell it like it is.’

  ‘Like it is is this,’ said Schnabel. ‘You pay the forty million plus all costs, you buy yourself immunity in London. Money comes in and no one asks why. Bank of England is happy you’re such a big investor in Britain. Chancellor of the Exchequer is in love with you because you pay some taxes and everyone loves you because you’re respectable and have helped a Cambridge college out. Even Bolsover loves you, and that’s difficult with what you’ve called him. You pay our fees and we all love you. Right?’ He paused for a moment and then went on. ‘But you take the talcum route and nobody is going to love you. British Government, the United States Attorney General and the FBI and of course the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Agency, but you knew that, didn’t you, Mr Hartang? You’ve made enemies, and with friends like Carlos and Abu Nidal you could be in worse places than Marian, Illinois. There’s some story going the rounds the Israelis have the idea you’ve been buying insurance with some bad guys, and a bomb explodes in Tel Aviv. With the video Ross Skundler took you can have all the plastic surgery in the world, and that includes a sex-change operation, and they’re still going to get you. Mossad, Mr Hartang, Mossad.’

  The sweat was pouring down Hartang’s face now. He took another pill and Schnabel went on. ‘Just a rumour of course and maybe there’s no truth in it but if there is, I’d say you’re in deeper shit than you know. I don’t say it is but rumour has it that way. And if you don’t believe me, you take a look out the window at the two cars out there, because one thing is as certain as death itself, those guys aren’t Transworld groupies, you better believe me.’

  *

  By the time he left the building Schnabel felt good. ‘He’s paying,’ he told Feuchtwangler and Bolsover when he got back to the office. ‘Through the nose. Those two cars and the private heavies in them were a good idea of yours, Bolsover. I have to hand it to you. Put them down to the bastard’s expenses.’

  ‘What’s all this about Skundler’s video?’ asked Feuchtwangler. ‘First I heard of it.’

  But Schnabel only smiled enigmatically and was thoughtful. ‘Let’s go some place for coffee,’ he said. ‘I think our own position needs considering.’

  Feuchtwangler and Bolsover nodded. The same thought had crossed their minds. They went out into the street and took a taxi.

  ‘The point we’ve got to bear in mind is that we are dealing with a man who’s lost all sense of reality,’ said Schnabel.

  ‘Genius tends to,’ said Feuchtwangler. ‘And financially, that’s what he is. He’s got more money than sense and he’s lost what little sense he ever possessed. He has become a no-hoper and a loner.’

  ‘Precisely my point. And the investigation of his affairs isn’t going to stop with him. He’s involving us. All right, we merely represent him legally but the shit about to hit the fan is likely to cover us too. I think we are going to have to start our own negotiations with certain influential authorities ourselves.’

  ‘He’ll kill us if he finds out,’ said Bolsover.

  Schnabel shook his head. ‘He isn’t going to find out, and
he’s going to be too scared to think at all clearly.’

  ‘In short we are going to trade. I take it that is your proposition,’ said Feuchtwangler.

  ‘We are going to cover ourselves and, if my conversations with Lord Tankerell are anything to go by, and I think they are, the situation can be contained without too much trouble. Which is what I told Hartang just now.’

  ‘You old fox, you’ve started negotiations already,’ Bolsover said.

  But Schnabel only smiled enigmatically again.

  *

  There was hardly a flicker of a smile on the Praelector’s face when Mr Retter and Mr Wyve brought him the news. ‘Forty million pounds? Are you absolutely sure? It’s quite extraordinary. Transworld Television must be coining it.’

  ‘I think you could almost literally put it like that,’ said Mr Wyve, ‘and Edgar Hartang is, without any qualifications, filthy rich.’

  ‘And to think that it all comes from television programmes about whales and dolphins,’ said the Praelector. ‘I saw the most interesting programme the other day about bears in Alaska. They wade out into rivers and catch leaping salmon. One would not think a bear had so much quickness of eye and hand. Or should I say paw? Most remarkable. But then so many wonders of nature depend on something approaching brilliance in the most unexpected places. I once read Darwin, and while I found it hard going, I think I learnt what he meant by the survival of the species.’

  ‘That,’ said Mr Retter as they walked solemnly but with joy in their hearts across the Fellows’ Garden, ‘that is a quite remarkable old gentleman. I use the word in its best sense. Did you notice how tactfully he had forgotten everything that madman Kudzuvine had said onto the tape recorder. And he read both affidavits most carefully too and yet he has put all the filth out of his mind. It has been a privilege to have worked with him.’