Bottled Spider

by John Gardner

  Suzie thought of her mum and the Galloping Major. They share a bed and they do it. Kissing that moustache. Ugh. At her age! Double ugh.

  ‘Do you really want to enjoy it?’ in the swing and rumble of the train Shirley shouted and a businessman, deeply engrossed in his newspaper, glanced up, then quickly looked away when Shirl gave him her Evil Eye.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘So you’re going to do it with Sanders of the River?’

  ‘Do you think we ought to have another session with Steve Fermin?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Suzie. I’ve got some advice for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if you’re at last determined to become a woman —’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Suzie, how old are you?’

  ‘I’ll be twenty-three on April 3rd next year.’

  ‘I’m nearly two years older than you.’

  ‘Sometimes it seems like a century.’

  ‘Listen Suzie, take Sanders of the River by all means; let him chase the hell out of you and catch you and marry you. Make a man out of him — but for the first time, for your virginity’s sake, get your arms around Josh Dance stick your tongue down his throat and open your legs for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I reckon Joshua Dance has more experience than Sanders, and for that first time you need to have a man with experience. I’d lay money on Sanders of the River still being a virgin, like yourself, and it would be a good idea to know a bit so you can teach him a thing or three. And it’s so worth it. The sheer pleasure’s a two-way street, and that was lost to a lot of women in our mums’ generation.’

  ‘And do you think we should talk to Fermin again?’

  ‘About what?’ Shirley shouted.

  ‘About if he knew his future wife was playing bury the bone with people she bumps into, like the entire BBC Symphony Orchestra.’

  ‘Why, Suzie?’

  Suzie waited, then didn’t look Shirley in the eye. ‘Because I’m marking time, Shirl. I haven’t the first idea about investigating a murder.’ Silently she said, I’ve had one good thought — that the killer has done this before — and that’s it. ‘If I can hang on until the New Year, just over a week. Big Toe’ll be back, and he’ll take over. I’ve simply got to question people and type up the reports.’

  ‘You mean you don’t really want to solve this? You don’t want to find whoever’s behind this?’

  ‘I don’t really believe I could even manage the Ovaltiney’s code, let alone a murderer.’

  They got off at Knightsbridge and walked up past the sandbagged Albert Hall and on to Kensington Church Street, with its antique shops all looking a little lost because their owners had taken the precaution of moving their best stock out of town.

  ‘There it is, over there — Flint’s.’

  Across the road there were two large double-fronted antique shops: flamboyant in a stylish sort of way. Sandwiched between them was this one bay window with a black painted door to the left. Above the door was a swinging sign, like an inn sign: black with white gothic lettering.

  ‘It’s the Admiral Benbow,’ Shirley said. ‘Jim Hawkins is going to come out any minute. You can almost hear them singing “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum”.’

  ‘Daniel Flint,’ Suzie read. ‘Antiques. By Appointment.’

  ‘I told you. Cap’n Flint. Pieces of eight, pieces of eight.’

  As they approached the door, Shirley murmured, ‘Considering Flint’s predilections regarding footwear I hope you’ve got your sensible shoes on, Skip.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Suzie. She opened the door and a catch hit a bell above the jamb. The bell pinged.

  Jim Hawkins wasn’t there, neither was Long John Silver, Blind Pugh, Billy Bones or Israel Hands.

  ‘You must be Detective Sergeant Mountford,’ said Daniel Flint, no relation to Cap’n Flint, and many miles from the Spanish Main. Daniel Flint was tall, sleek, dark, moderately handsome and not altogether likeable. ‘Before you ask —’ he shook hands with both of them, squeezing and holding a little longer than necessary — ‘before you ask why I’m not in uniform, I should tell you that I have a dicey heart.’

  He gazed at Suzie’s feet and she felt a blush creeping up the back of her neck. Then he switched allegiance and looked longingly at Shirley’s size sevens.

  Suzie suggested that they find somewhere to sit down, so Flint led them through the long, narrow and elegantly furnished shop into a dowdy little apartment at the rear — scuffed carpet, an indifferent circular dining table, scratched and ringed, surrounded by half a dozen stand chairs of differing sizes and indifferent condition. On one wall — she could hardly believe it — a print of Edward Landseer’s Stag at Bay.

  ‘A drink?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Coffee? I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer.’ Once more he glanced down: first at Suzie’s shoes and then Shirley’s.

  ‘No, thank you. This shouldn’t take long.’ She sat down and took out her notebook. Flint sat opposite and Shirley pulled a chair out and put it near the door, as though she was ready to block his escape if he made a run for it.

  ‘Daniel Elbow Flint,’ Suzie read.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Elbow? Odd. Elbow, that’s a strange name.’

  ‘Elbow. Yes it is odd. My mother’s maiden name. Every male child in the family has that as a second name. My initials are DEF as in deflate. That’s what I was called at school: Def.’

  ‘That’s what Jo Benton called you then.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. You’re well informed, yes we were at school together.’ The light went out of his eyes. ‘That’s a terrible business. Are you anywhere nearer?’

  ‘Nearer what?’

  ‘Catching the man who killed her? Motive, all that.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a man?’

  He gave a wry, off-centre smile. ‘Assumed. Also I read a scholarly article saying women kill with poison, occasionally a knife, rarely with a gun and uncommonly by strangulation. The manner of Jo’s dying seems more like a male act.’ He coughed, nervous. ‘Progress, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re asking a lot of questions, that’s all I can say at the moment.’

  Flint looked serious. Even a little emotional. ‘I still can’t really believe it. Jo being dead, I mean.’

  ‘You’ve known her since school?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose since we were both around eleven years old.’

  ‘Then you knew about Miss Benton’s predilections.’

  He gave her a little two-note laugh. ‘That her hobby was sex? Yes. She’s been like that since Fordham O’Dell first tupped her one Saturday night in Glenbervie Woods. We were all free spirits in those days and I suppose that was what Farnham Place was all about — being free, doing your own thing, learning through life’s little surprises. It came naturally enough.’

  He started to fiddle with a box of Bryant & May matches. Then — ‘Some people were into being entrepreneurs. I remember one guy bought eggs, bacon, sausages and potatoes cheap then cooked them; got orders for them, sold at almost a hundred per cent mark up. No surprise that he’s now a colonel buying most of the food for the Army. Brilliant idea because the food at school was pretty atrocious: he did a roaring trade. Others were into the demon drink, and some of us were into sex quite early on. Jo had a talent for it: enjoyed it immensely; said it was the nicest thing you got for free — only she used it as a business in those days.’

  ‘You mean she —?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Half a crown a pop, as I recall it. Unless you were a special chum.’

  Lawks, Suzie thought, a million years from her days at St Helen’s with its regimentation and strap-wielding nuns. Farnham Place was definitely different. The discipline was by the pupils for the pupils, and you chose what subjects you wanted to study: though the impression given was that study was a word not encouraged by the staff.

  ‘You see —’ Flint seemed to think he had to explain matters — ‘with mos
t people these days sex is one of the prizes for getting married. But to people like Jo it’s always been for fun. I know that’s not the general view, but it was her slant.’

  ‘A lot of people would disagree with her.’ Suzie knew she sounded prissy. She cleared her throat and continued, ‘I presume she made a lot of enemies.’

  ‘Particularly with her ideas about free love and having a lot of men.’ Shirley Cox chimed in. ‘I mean it follows that there could well be people who might be driven to harm her?’

  Flint gave a snort of laughter. ‘She’d be the last person to understand that she was causing offence, jealousy or whatever. Jo had a really bizarre view of life: almost the view of an innocent.’

  ‘But she did have a number of regular lovers, yes?’ Shirley avoided her sergeant’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t know if “regular” is the right word. She had people with whom she was on sleeping terms. I think that’s how you’d put it, and I suppose I was one of those.’

  ‘That’s what we understand,’ Suzie said quickly, wanting to change the subject.

  ‘Funny that. I didn’t see her for long stretches of time, but when we met up again it was always as though we’d never been apart.’

  ‘You were seeing her regularly over the last year or so?’

  ‘No. Over the last six months. She turned up here one day without warning. Waltzed in all merry and bright, said she’d a proposition and that she’d tell me after we’d been to bed ... only she put it a shade more frankly than that.’

  ‘Which you did.’

  ‘Like a couple of stoats, yes.’

  ‘And the proposition?’

  ‘BBC’d offered her several ideas for programmes. One of them was about antiques. She said she didn’t know an antique from a badger’s whatsit. Needed advice and a good teacher. Said she’d get me a regular spot with her on the show.’ He gave a sketchy little laugh. ‘As she was leaving, she told me she’d got engaged to this wizard gem of a bloke called Steve Fermin. I’d heard of him of course. Well, I’d heard of his programme, Fermin and Friends.’

  ‘Did it shock you? That she was engaged and yet had, well, just been to bed with you.’

  ‘Not at all. That was Jo. All the fun of the fair. I doubt if marriage would ever have changed her.’

  ‘Fermin didn’t know she was promiscuous. Still doesn’t.’

  ‘So I gathered. She said she wanted to keep him unblemished. Though I suppose he was bound to find out sooner or later.’

  ‘You saw her again regularly after that? After she tagged you for the antiques programme?’

  ‘Of course. We went to it and at it. Job to be done. Met a couple of times a week. I taught her about antique furniture and a little bit about paintings. We worked out what she called a format; and we had a couple of meetings with BBC people. The accent seemed to be on fake antiques — how to identify iffy pieces.’

  ‘You’re an expert on iffy antiques, Mr Flint?’

  ‘Anyone in the antique business for more than ten years is an expert in dodgy wood. I suppose I’ve had my fair share of experience.’

  ‘So, the radio programme on antiques was going ahead nicely?’ Suzie smiled sweetly to push things along.

  ‘Yes, until last week.’

  ‘Last week?’

  ‘She telephoned me. Said it was all off: there wasn’t going to be a new show about antiques. Powers-that-be thought the listeners weren’t in the right mood for it. They could be right with what else is going on. Consigned the show to oblivion. I remember I asked what they were planning and she said probably German classes — her idea of a joke.’

  This was new, Suzie thought, and tried not to show it.

  ‘She sounded bitter, then, Jo Benton?’

  ‘She wasn’t best pleased,’ Flint agreed. ‘But neither was I. I’d invested quite a lot of time in teaching her. Casualty of war, of course.’

  ‘Of course. And that was that?’

  ‘She said that was what happened in radio. Said she’d see me around.’

  ‘And you felt a bit let down.’

  ‘Of course I felt let down. In fact I sent an invoice to Broadcasting House.’

  Suzie thought that if it had been her she’d have been as chocker as hell. Wondered if there was enough of a motive there.

  ‘So, she was having a bit of a carry on with you, and —’ Shirley Cox sounded like someone who desperately wanted to know all the sordid facts.

  Flint held up a hand to stop her, ‘If you’re going to ask if I felt jealous or something, don’t even start. That was Jo. We’d known each other a long time and it was how Jo was.’

  ‘I was going to ask if she mentioned other affairs, other friends.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘One day, oh, a month or so ago — no, beginning of November, end of October it would be, she said she’d seen Fordham O’Dell. The way she said it you knew what she meant. Old Fordy was a live wire. You knew what she’d been up to with him. “Saw old Fordham last night,” she said and you knew immediately what she meant.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Oh she said she’d been out to dinner with Gerry Vine and he’d been in splendid form. She liked to name-drop Gerry.’

  ‘You know him? You know Mr Vine?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve sold a few pieces to him.’

  ‘And, when she name-dropped Gerald Vine that meant the same thing?’

  Flint pondered for around twenty seconds. ‘Not sure. Not so certain about that one. I think she mentioned that Betty was there. Vine’s wife, Betty Tinsdale. Medusa, as she’s known in the trade.’

  ‘Medusa? I know who she was, but why?’

  The laugh again, ‘Because that’s what Betty is — a gorgon with the ability to turn people to stone. In the case of Gerald, people say she turns only one part of him into stone.’ Cough, laugh again. ‘People’re quite frightened of her.’

  Suzie wondered if, in some ways, people had been a bit frightened of Jo Benton as well.

  ‘What about Barry Forbes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Distracted, unsure of himself. ‘Yes, turned up here with him one day.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘End of the Battle of Britain. Late September. He looked decidedly fishy and finally left muttering something about having an appointment at Number Ten. Got to see Winston, he said. Good excuse that, an appointment with Winnie.’

  ‘Chummy with Miss Benton, Barry Forbes?’

  ‘More of a case of her being chummy with him. He seemed a bit uncomfortable. He’s a long-term sleeping partner as well, isn’t he?’

  ‘So the story goes.’

  Suzie asked when exactly had he last seen Jo Benton — ‘Been with her, I mean. No, I don’t mean been with her, as in sexually. I mean when did you last see her physically.’

  ‘December twelfth. Lunch at a nasty little place in the High Street. She arranged it. Didn’t come here. Thinking back, I’d say she already knew the idea of a programme on antiques was just about washed out.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Suzie murmured. ‘Washed out.’

  ‘Think so,’ he said. ‘Looking back, the writing must’ve been on the wall already.’

  ‘Well, Mr Flint. We’ll probably speak again.’ She rose gathering up her notebook and pencil.

  ‘It’ll have to be after Christmas, for me.’ A shade too quickly. ‘I’m going to the country for Christmas. Off tomorrow.’

  ‘Somewhere nice, I hope.’

  ‘Relatives. West Country. Huge house. Tradition. Big tree in the drawing room. Carols, mince pies. Father Christmas arriving with the local hunt. Used to be servants waiting on you hand and foot. I gather that’s changed.’

  ‘Well it would have to be after Christmas anyway. I’m off on Monday.’

  ‘Somewhere jolly?’

  ‘Hampshire. To my sister and her children. Husband’s off keeping Hitler at bay.’

  ‘Hampshire’s nice. Good part?’

  ‘Overchurch. Village the other side of Basingstoke.’

  ‘
Know it well. Lovely part of the world. There’s a good pub there, the White Hart, right?’

  ‘All the pubs in Hampshire seem to be called the White Hart,’ said Suzie and her feelings lifted at the thought of a couple of days with Charlotte and the children, maybe a visit to the pub if her sister could get someone to look after the kids. A good old-fashioned pint on Christmas Eve, she thought. Well, half-pint if we’re talking about me.

  Twelve

  ‘Flint’s got the motive.’ For a change Shirley sounded serious, not a smile in sight.

  ‘I didn’t like him either —’ Suzie took another mouthful of Cauliflower Cheese — ‘but that doesn’t make him a killer.’ She mumbled, trying to chew the Cauliflower Cheese and talk at the same time. The cheese was stringy and tasteless and had begun to go claggy around her teeth.

  ‘This is the original Cheddar that was cheesed off.’ Shirley pulled a face that made her look like Dopey of the seven dwarfs. When Shirley started being silly like this Suzie felt great warmth towards her. At times she imagined they were almost forging the same kind of relationship she had experienced with her sister, Charlotte, during those last years when they were at home; when their father was still alive.

  They had done so many stupid silly things together; a month or so when they only spoke to each other in a cleft-palate-like language; and again they’d had a primitive kind of sign language that now seemed dreadfully out of place given the reality of Charlotte’s little boy’s — Ben’s — total exclusion to the hearing world. Theirs had been a coded lifestyle punctuated by catchphrases from BBC comedy shows.

  Now Suzie Mountford and Shirley Cox discussed Daniel Flint over lunch at an anonymous restaurant just off Trafalgar Square. The bottom of Nelson’s Column was sandbagged and boarded off with big signs that said, GET YOUR OWN BACK: LONDON! THE WORLD IS WATCHING: LEND YOUR MONKY TO BUY WAR WEAPONS NOW!

  Suzie wondered if this was part of Barry Forbes’ advice to the government: get the people to pay for the war now with promises to repay them with interest when it was all over. She wondered if she should actually ask him that outright when they saw him in his plush office near Marble Arch.