“Did you, or do you, have any reason to suspect the charge might be true?”
“No,” she said flatly. “No specific reason. But, don’t you see, it was something I had to know.”
“Is the corporation, or you, or was your husband, maybe, involved in a school or schools—even legitimate ones—in any way?
“What are you insinuating, Mr. Cobb?”
“Relax, I’m not insinuating anything. I’m trying to find out what was going on in the sender’s mind.”
“Mischief,” the lady insisted. “Troublemaking, pure and simple.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Not so pure and not so simple at all. You sent Joseph Aliou out to sign up at a bunch of English schools, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. We had a list of schools that we suspected, but couldn’t prove, were bogus.”
“And I assume the idea was for him to let drop some sort of tentative connection with BIC, maybe a grudge he had against them or something?”
Lady Arking nodded half-admiringly. “You’ve done this sort of investigation before, then, Mr. Cobb.”
“Yes, I have, God help me. Look, Aliou was looking into this, and he got shot to death. Whatever’s going on here, it’s a lot dirtier and more dangerous than mere mischief.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll answer your question. No, to my knowledge, neither I, nor the corporation, nor Richard in a private capacity had or has any connection with a school of any kind.”
“What about members of the staff?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. It’s in their contracts that they may not invest in any rival communications companies, but we take no notice of how they invest their private funds otherwise.”
I frowned. It was the decent way to run a business, of course, but it made for some damned inconvenient investigating.
“Stephen,” I said.
He jumped. “What?” Then he grinned self-consciously. “You quite startled me, you know.”
“Sorry. Do you live by the fruits of poetry alone, or do you have any investment in a school or a chain of schools or something else like that?”
“No, poetry these days is a forest bereft of fruit. If I depended on it for my living, I should be deceased by now. Fortunately, BIC has never failed to declare a dividend, and that manna is gathered and husbanded by Phoebe, the well-named light of my life. We don’t want for anything, do we, dear?” he asked.
“No, Stephen,” she said. “Mr. Cobb, why are you doing this? Pamela was the victim of the anonymous letter. We surely don’t know anything about it. You sound so—so accusatory.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I’m driving at. You’ve read the letter. It’s grammatical and spelled correctly—unusual in anonymous letters, by the way; we get thousands of them at the Network—but it’s hardly a model of clarity, is it? I mean the person who wrote this was either in the midst of severe nervous agitation, or giving a good impression of feeling that way.
“Can it be a pack of lies? Sure it can, but if it is, they’re lies covering up something equally sinister—the death of Aliou shows that.
“But I’m pursuing something else. What if the person who wrote the letter is sincere but mistaken? If they’ve noticed something significant and misinterpreted it?”
There was a chorus of “ahs” as the message got through.
“You see? If you can figure out what someone might have gotten wrong, you might be able to figure out who it is. Then we could learn what else he knows.”
“Or she,” Roxanne said.
“Or she. Don’t just shake your heads. Keep it in mind and think about it for a while.”
“Excellent, Mr. Cobb. I might never have thought of this.”
“BIC needs a department of Special Projects.”
“Fine idea,” she said. “Start one for me. Handle this business. Establish the department in full when it’s taken care of. Name your own price.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Roxanne’s luscious lips tighten, and saw her draw her shoe back to kick me in the ankle if I gave the slightest sign I was going to acquiesce.
“Ha!” I said rudely. Rox’s leg relaxed. “With all due respect, Lady Arking, ha! And also, ha-ha! It was exactly this kind of work that drove me out of New York, my hometown, and away from the Network in the first place. I suggest you get a good private eye to look into the murder of Joseph Aliou. If you want recommendations of names for special-project head, I can help you there, too. But as far as personal involvement with this matter goes, as far as I’m concerned, it ends with whatever advice I can give you this afternoon.”
She didn’t like it, that much was evident in the frozen look that came over her face. She was, however, too well bred to give the typical American reaction (you can’t walk out on me now, you bastard). Or maybe she was living up to her house.
She took about half a minute to get it swallowed, then said, “I see. Is there no way I can persuade you to continue with this? You’ve been so helpful already.”
“No, ma’am. You couldn’t pay me to do it; even if I needed the money, if I took it, I would violate the terms of my visa. I really need to get away from this sort of thing. I attract murder the way other people attract the opposite sex. I did a simple favor for you, and look what happened.”
“Of course. I shall pay your solicitor.”
I was mad at myself. I was over here trying to save what was left of my sanity and my humanity. I didn’t owe Lady Arking a thing; in fact, I had already delivered more for her than any reasonable person could expect. Yet I sat there in that drawing room feeling like a total shit who had let the side down badly.
“Thank you,” I said. “There’s just one thing I wanted to know about.”
Stephen left no doubt of what he thought of me. “Why bother, old man, if you’re no longer involved?”
God, I thought, when a poet holds you in contempt, you are really belly down to the bottom.
“Because,” I said, “I’ve got the kind of brain that won’t be bossed. If I have enough facts, I might think of something helpful, even if I’m not involved.”
Lady Arking sounded weary. “Ask your question, Mr. Cobb.”
“What was the five thousand pounds about?”
“Aliou had told me he needed some money to pay for information. And to live on. He had to live like an immigrant on the make, as you Americans would say, but it wasn’t necessary for him to starve.”
“So he was going to schmear somebody,” I mused. “I wonder who.”
I stood up. Rox followed suit.
“Well,” I said, “if you follow my advice, and hire a good PI to look into this for you, the place to have him start is the W. G. Peterson School of English.”
“I believe that was on the list.”
“Well, when Aliou switched envelopes with me, the one he gave me for you had a brochure from there in it.”
“A what?” Stephen demanded.
“A broacher.”
“Oh.”
I was about to make our awkward replies when a flustered Banbridge burst most unbutlerlike into the room.
“Beg pardon, mum, but the gentlemen—I couldn’t prevent—the police.”
And it was the police, right behind him.
Specifically, it was Detective Inspector Bristow. When he saw me, his face lit up with a good imitation of delight.
“Jackpot!” he said. “Imagine, Griffiths,” he said to the black detective accompanying him, “everyone we wanted to talk to in one place.”
He made a slight bow. “Lady Arking, I’m afraid we shall have to talk to you again. And to Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Arking. We missed them last night. I should like to do it myself, but instead, I am going to leave you in the capable hands of DC Griffiths, who has been to university.
“Mr. Cobb, however, is going to come with me.”
11
“Forget about that bloody rubbish and listen to me. This is important.”
Cra
ig Charles
Red Dwarf, BBC
“NOT AGAIN!” ROXANNE SCREAMED.
She looked as if she were about to kick him in the ankle.
“Quiet, Rox,” I said. “What happened, Bristow? Lose the gunshot test?”
“No, no,” he said. “Everything’s fine on that score. Just something I’d like to consult you about. You seem to be doing that fairly freely, and I thought I’d avail myself, in the interest of transatlantic relations, as it were.”
“Lady Arking,” I said distinctly, “asked us for tea.”
“Of course she did, and what a good idea, too. You’re the most charming of guests, as I learned last night. So full of ideas and conversation, isn’t he, Lady Arking?”
I spoke to her before she could answer. “There’s no sense in making a scene about it,” I said. “I’ll go along with the inspector—”
“Me, too,” Rox added grimly.
“A call to Williams might be in order,” I said. “Just in case.”
“I shall be calling my solicitor straightaway, in any case, Mr. Cobb. Williams will be standing by for you.”
“Very good,” I said. “If Miss Schick can’t come along, she will follow, find out where I am, and call for Williams as soon as I need him.”
“I really don’t think you’ll need him tonight,” Bristow said mildly. “I simply need your assistance with some of our enquiries.”
“As Inspector Dew undoubtedly said to Crippen.”
“My goodness, Mr. Cobb, the people you will compare yourself to. And poor Miss Schick. Excuse me for being personal, Miss, but having seen your performance on the steps of the nick this morning, I doubt that you could ever masquerade as a boy.”
“I’ve never even been tempted.” To me, she said, “Matt, what is this asshole talking about?”
“Way to turn on the old charm, honey.” I turned to Bristow. “All right,” I said, “I’m ready to come along.” I stuck out my wrists, but Bristow just looked at me reproachfully.
“We’ll dispense with that this evening,” he said, leaving me to wonder whether he meant the handcuffs, the badinage, or both.
I decided it was both, and gave him a break in the two minutes it took to get our coats and be escorted down to the sidewalk.
Then I said, “Where are we going? You’ll notice I waited until we were outside before I asked that.”
“Yeah,” he said, “You’re Mr. Consideration himself, you are. We’re going, if you absolutely insist on knowing, to the morgue. The Battersea Morgue, to be precise.”
“It’s always nice to be precise,” I said.
“Am I coming or not?” Roxanne demanded.
Bristow thought it over for a minute.
“Might as well, darlin’,” he said at last. “I saw your performance this morning. If I don’t bring you along, you’re likely to show up in a circus wagon and all.”
Roxanne’s smile gleamed in the street lights. “You never know.”
“All right, come on then.”
We climbed into the back of a really nice car, a big Jaguar, with a driver yet.
“Not bad,” I said. “Who pays the driver, the department or you?”
Bristow took out a cigar, bit the end off, lowered a window electronically, and spat.
“You know, Cobb,” he said, “just when I get to thinking you might not be such a bad sort after all, you go and get up my nose all over again.”
“My heart bleeds,” I said. “Listen, you could stand me up your nose like this for two and a half years and still not be even for the stunt you pulled on me last night, and you know it.”
“I was trying to keep the peace,” he said.
“Yeah, Gandhi Bristow, they call him around the nick. You’re not planning to light that thing, are you?”
“I’m allergic,” Roxanne lied.
Bristow said, “Grrr,” and put it back in his pocket. The driver, a big, red-haired Irish-looking guy, snickered. It was the only sound I ever heard him make. Bristow gave him a dirty look.
“So,” I said jauntily, “who’s dead?”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Cobb.”
I shook my head, realized that Bristow, in the front seat, couldn’t see it, then said, “No, I’m reaching logical conclusions. If I were back under arrest or in danger of being, you would have slapped me down before I’d even ruffled the first nostril hair.”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“It’s your metaphor, not mine. Anyway, a man on his way back to the clink would have had more respect forced on him. And I didn’t figure you’d be hauling me off to the morgue because you like to see the Battersea Power Station by moonlight. Therefore, somebody’s dead—either to do with this case or another one, and you’ve got to be there. The question is, do I?” And that remained the question, right up through the time we entered the place.
It occurred to me that practically every morgue I’ve ever been in (granted, it’s been fewer than five, but I bet that’s more than you’ve been in. I hope so, at least, for your sake—it isn’t the kind of excursion you take for fun) has been near a river.
Knowing what lay ahead, I asked Roxanne if she wanted to wait in the anteroom, but it’s a funny thing about morgues. Any living person hanging around, even somebody you’d trust your baby to in an emergency in any other place, instantly becomes suspect.
Rox, deciding she’d feel safer among the dead, said she’d stick with me.
It was downstairs to the accommodations. The unmistakable smell greeted us, the gallons of antiseptic, and the dark, fetid, slightly sweet smell the antiseptic never quite manages to get rid of.
Bristow pulled the cigar out of his pocket again, and looked at it wistfully. “Pity Miss Schick is allergic,” he said.
I looked at Roxanne, who was slightly green but determined. “Oh, what the heck,” she said. Her voice sounded slightly strangled, which was, I guess, appropriate. “Go ahead.”
“You’re sure, now?” he said.
She grabbed him by the wrist. “Light the goddamn thing,” she said. “Just light it, okay?”
“With pleasure.” Bristow smiled.
He did, too, puffing and sucking on the thing until the end glowed cherry red behind ą coating of gray. It certainly was nicer to smell the place wrapped in a cocoon of smoke than it was otherwise. Bristow had obviously been in more morgues than I had.
Your brain is your worst enemy in a place like that. Most morgues are clean and well lit and labored in by healthy and well-educated individuals dressed in immaculate white outfits. Your imagination, however, insists on hearing water dripping, and rats scuttling in nonexistent dark corners, and expects to see a hairy hunchback behind every rank of drawers.
The morgue attendant who waved hello to DI Bristow and showed us the way to locker number 2467Z (pronounced “zed”) was a tall young fellow with a blond crew cut who could have been a guard on a U.S. high school basketball team circa 1958. The only visible thing wrong with him was acne.
The kid stifled a yawn and grabbed the handle of the cabinet.
“Wait!” I said.
“What’s wrong now?” Bristow demanded.
What was wrong was that Roxanne’s shoulder had bumped mine about three times in the last minute. It could mean nothing, or it could mean she was getting a little rocky on her pins.
She appeared a little woozy when I looked at her. I said, “Rox, before he opens the drawer, I want you to be aware of something.”
“What’s that?”
“The first time I was inside one of these places, and they pulled the drawer open, I went blind and deaf for thirty seconds. If you want to be honest about it, you can say I more or less fainted on my feet.”
“Lost my lunch, I did,” Bristow said mildly. He kept puffing his cigar. He reminded me of The Little Engine That Could.
“It’s a natural reaction. There’s survival value in being upset by the presence of death. It may not be especially smart to train ourselves out of it,
but we do. So whatever happens, it’s nothing to be ashamed of, okay?”
She managed a little smile and nodded. “Okay,” she said.
This time, the kid with the acne didn’t bother to stifle the yawn. He thumbed the latch, pulled the handle, and slid out the drawer.
It was loud—ridiculously, incredibly loud. They must do something to the damn things to make that particular rolling, grinding noise reverberate so thoroughly through your soul.
Roxanne did fine. She gripped my arm near the elbow and squeezed tight, but she didn’t faint, and she didn’t bring up any of Lady Arking’s watercress sandwiches, either.
It helped that the stiff in question was not gruesome, as these things go. It wasn’t visibly decayed or dismembered or anything like that. The eyes were open, but that was just gravity. Without muscles to hold them closed, eyelids usually fall open. The effect in this case was to give the face an expression of surprise and distaste, as though he’d just found a caterpillar in his salad.
There were three brownish holes in the torso, but the body had been washed, and from a distance (which I hoped Rox would keep) they didn’t look a whole lot worse than, say, hickeys.
“Recognize him?” Bristow asked.
“Sure do,” I said.
“You do?” Rox demanded. Puzzlement brought a little color back to her cheeks.
“Who is it?” Bristow said. “For the record.”
“Well, I don’t know his name,” I said. “But it’s who I expected it to be. It’s the guy in the crowd outside Planet Hollywood on Sunday. The one who shot Joseph Aliou.”
“Don’t be hasty now,” Bristow cautioned. “Take your time.”
There was no sense arguing with him; he even had a point. So I looked again. The complexion was a little paler, but what the hell, the guy was dead. I’d had a good look and the features were the same. This was the man who’d shot Joseph Aliou. I was sure of it. I told Bristow as much.
“Sure of that, are you?”
“Jesus Christ, Bristow, talk about getting up somebody’s nose. You get up mine and into all eight sinus cavities. How many times do I have to answer a question? It’s him. Have somebody write it down and I’ll sign it.”
Killed in the Fog Page 9