Startled, he poured some more wine. It wobbled into the glass. This was the end of the second bottle and she was already eyeing the liqueur trolley. He thought he had better get to business before it was too late for both of them. ‘What’s that bloke Pengelly like?’ he asked.
‘Odd bugger. Don’t care for him at all,’ she said. ‘But I need him. It’s not fun walking the streets at this time of the year.’
‘You don’t … er walk the …?’
‘Streets? No. Well, not if I can help it. But there’s a recession on and it’s hit our industry like everything else.’ She leaned over, heavily confiding: ‘I saw one girl I know standing in front of a shop window the other night in Southampton. There was a sale on and they had notices on the window, saying: “Big reductions”, “Half price goods” and I thought to myself, that’s just about right.’ She looked at him pessimistically. ‘The bank rate goes up and down but we don’t.’
She made a visible effort to cheer herself. She put her arms around herself, across her large bust, and gave herself a hug. ‘This is nice,’ she repeated. ‘I’m really enjoying this.’
Davies tried pouring some more wine but the bottle was empty. The wine waiter approached with a swift step. ‘I’ll pour it shall I, sir.’
‘It’s finished,’ said Davies examining the waiter accusingly as if he might have drunk it.
The man frowned and examined the bottle: ‘So it is, sir,’ he confirmed. ‘I wonder where that went. Would you like another?’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Michelle her mouth bulging crème caramel. ‘No, let’s have a few brandies, shall we precious.’ Davies glanced around to see who she was calling precious but realised it was him. While he was hesitating she said to the waiter: ‘Bring the bottle.’
‘Any particular bottle, madam?’ he inquired.
‘Anything but Greek or Spanish,’ she told him swallowing her mouthful. She turned to Davies. ‘Makes me sick as a bloody rat that Spanish brandy. Too much of it does anyway.’
He brought the bottle and Davies asked for cheese and biscuits. ‘That’s right,’ encouraged Michelle. ‘Bit of oozy cheese would go down a treat.’
Over their first two brandies he returned to his question. He would have to ask it now, before it was too late. ‘What about Pengelly?’ he said rolling his eyes at her. ‘You were going to tell me about him.’
She blew a spray of cream-cracker crumbs over the tablecloth. ‘I shouldn’t use language like this … not in here, Lol,’ she said when she had composed herself. ‘But he’s a real bumhole. That’s the only word for him … bumhole.’
‘You don’t like him,’ he said inadequately. They were now the only people left in the restaurant. The waiters were grouped at the end of the room observing them.
‘He runs that racket, that so-called agency of his … well, it’s crinimal.…’ She tried to correct herself but only said ‘… crinimal …’ again. She managed a compromise. ‘It’s not right,’ she said.
‘In what way?’
‘It’s highway robbery. Percentages for this and that. We’re just slaves.’ To his consternation she began to weep, the tears rolling down her coloured cheeks. ‘I’m just a sex slave,’ she snivelled. Davies glanced towards the waiters and hurriedly said: ‘Don’t cry’ and wiped her cheek with his napkin. She smiled bravely into his face and said: ‘You’re so nice, Lol. I’ve really fallen for you.’
Davies tried to appear pleased. She then volunteered the opening for which he had been so clumsily manoeuvring. ‘He’s a detective as well, that Pengelly,’ she sniffed. ‘Well, by his reckoning he is.’
‘Good God, a detective!’ He shook his head: ‘Who would have guessed.’
‘Pengelly Associates, although who’s going to associate with him I don’t truly know.’ She sniggered wetly. ‘Have you seen him comb across his bald patch trying to arrange about three bloody hairs?’
‘Fancy him being a detective,’ repeated Davies as if he could not get over the information. ‘A private eye.’
‘Well he doesn’t do anything very big. Sometimes he hardly does anything at all. The office is closed mostly. All he does is a few divorce things, you know spying on people.’ She sniggered with satisfaction. ‘The bugger fell out of a tree once,’ she said.
The brandy bottle was diminishing at the same rate as the wine before it. Davies was struggling to keep his senses together. Michelle was lounging over him now, her powerful scent going up his nose, but her speech, to his admiration, remained lucid.
‘I had to do an investigation down here once,’ he said carefully. ‘Inland Revenue sent me down. Big Income Tax fraud.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I forgot that’s what you do.’ She became alarmed. ‘You’re not after me, are you?’
‘Not in that way,’ he returned roguishly. He was quite proud of the lie and the way she smiled as she accepted it. ‘No, I came down, a few years ago this was, to take a look at a man who was on the fiddle in a big way. What was his name? He had a funny name … Ah yes, Dulciman. That’s an odd …’
‘Dulciman?’ she said immediately with a start. ‘Well, I knew about him.’
‘You did?’
‘Everybody did around Bournemouth. He was a pig. Another one. He disappeared you know.’
‘Did he? Disappeared? No, I didn’t know that. You mean he left the area on the quiet.’
‘Left the earth,’ she corrected grimly. ‘They reckon he walked into to sea like the MPs do. Left his shoes on the side and just walked in.’
‘Fancy that,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Only his shoes left.’
She shook her head. ‘I could never understand why he left them. Except as a sort of signing-off, you know what I mean, like goodbye.’
Davies acknowledged the point. ‘So they reckon he did for himself, did he?’
‘Or did he?’ she queried. ‘I don’t know, Lol. Anything could have happened to him. Pengelly might know more than he tells.’
‘He was involved with the case, Pengelly?’
‘Oh, I’m sure. I heard him talking on the phone one day.’
The head waiter padded towards them. ‘Would you like your bill, sir? I happen to have it here.’
Davies blinked. ‘That’s a stroke of luck. Are we keeping you up?’ He took the bill and preferring not to look at it handed over his Visa card. Michelle said she was going to the ladies. While she was away the man brought back the docket to be signed. Michelle’s heady aroma was still present. ‘Sir was in here on Saturday,’ said the head waiter. His eyes remained unblinking.
‘You’re right,’ said Davies as if the man had won a quiz. He nodded sideways to the empty seat with the debris from Michelle’s meal scattered across the table. She had spilled her brandy as she had attempted to get up. ‘I thought I’d give the old lady a treat.’ He nodded sideways again. ‘My mother.’
‘Oh, quite sir.’ Michelle was returning, waltzing heavily between the tables. The waiter said: ‘Thank you Mr Davies …’
Davies glanced up in alarm but she had not heard. He picked up his credit card. ‘Durrell,’ he corrected.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Thank you Mr Durrell.’
The sleepy cloakroom attendant helped Davies on with his coat, assisting him to remain upright as he did so. Michelle had collected her tatty fur but had insisted on putting it on herself and had done so back to front. As they went out towards the main exit, where the attendant eyed them apprehensively, Davies put his hand into his overcoat pocket and detected an unfamiliar object which he privately extracted. It was small and soft and turned out to be the dusty dead mouse which he had picked up from the window sill in the corridor outside Pengelly Associates. He blinked at it in the palm of his hand and then, with a guilty glance around the lobby, placed it on a brass tray on an ornamental table. ‘Sleep well,’ he said quietly to the mouse. It looked out of context there, however, and he imagined it would end up inside a dustpan so he retrieved it and put it back in his pocket.
In th
e taxi he showed Michelle the mouse. She produced a bottle of brandy, half-full, from the folds of her coat and two glasses from the pockets. ‘Couldn’t get the proper glasses,’ she apologised hazily.
‘Where did you obtain it?’ he asked squeezing his eyes at the bottle.
‘It … Well, it sort of became attached to my hand as we left. They won’t miss it. We paid enough.’ She cuddled fatly into him. She had told the driver where to go and the lit and deserted streets travelled by the window. Davies tried to focus on the buildings but could not. ‘You’re ever so nice, you know,’ she confided. ‘For an Income Tax man.’ Her big face worked reflectively. ‘Fancy her going off with a bloke from Ipswich.’
‘Who was that?’ he inquired blearily.
‘Your wife.’
‘Oh, that Ipswich,’ he said trying to remember the lie in full. ‘Well, she was no loss. I’m better off on my own.’
‘You are now,’ she gushed. ‘Now you’re with me.’ She attempted to embrace him extravagantly but with a soft groan slid onto the floor of the cab. She was too heavy to retrieve so she remained propped up there for the rest of the journey. He poured the brandy lavishly and handed it down to her.
He had no idea where they arrived. Nor did he remember its location later. It was a house in a terrace with a single light behind curtains in the bedroom. ‘I always have that on,’ she mumbled as they stumbled towards the door and she attempted to lift her keys from her handbag. ‘It lights me home.’ The contents of the bag spilled on the pavement and they spent some minutes trying to collect them. A lipstick had rolled into the gutter and was the last object to be found. A window opened along the street and a voice shouted for them to shut up since he had to go to work.
‘It’s a bleeding change then!’ Michelle bellowed back uncompromisingly. She completed restoring her goods to her handbag. ‘Hasn’t done a stroke in years, that bugger,’ she said.
With difficulty they got inside the house but the stairs proved too much for them. They sat at the bottom finishing the brandy and that is where Davies awoke with the first insipid daylight seeping through the fanlight above the door. Michelle was not with him and he decided to remember her as he had last seen her. Groaning, quietly he unhinged his limbs. God, he felt terrible. The empty brandy bottle was standing upright on the stairs, half-way up, with the two glasses set neatly beside it. He still had all his money so he put fifty pounds under the bottle and made for the door. Some things were not meant to last.
It was late afternoon before he thought he could face the outdoors. He crept out of the hotel and went again to the Goodtime Escort Agency. He could see Pengelly moving behind the glass door. He walked in.
‘It’s usual to knock,’ said Pengelly.
‘Sorry,’ returned Davies. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Pengelly pondered this and then said: ‘Wasn’t she any good? You can’t have your money back. We have no facilities for dealing with complaints.’
Davies waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m hardly likely to take it to the Ombudsman, am I?’
‘What did you want then?’
‘A bit of a chat really.’ Davies smiled a broken smile. He moved the newspapers from the chair and pulling it sideways sat on it in front of the desk. ‘Oh,’ sniffed Pengelly. He produced his comb and began to run it nervously through his sparse hair. ‘What about?’
‘You’re not really Cornish, are you?’ said Davies as though it were the most important thing. He leaned towards Pengelly. ‘You don’t sound all that Cornish.’
‘It’s a trade name,’ the man answered sulkily. ‘I’m from London.’
‘Go on!’ enthused Davies. ‘So am I!’
Pengelly regarded him narrowly and nervously. Fumbling he put his comb away. ‘There’s a few million of us,’ he suggested.
‘But only two in this room,’ returned Davies.
‘What do you want?’
‘A natter really.’ He hesitated but then produced his warrant card. ‘Metropolitan Police.’
‘So?’
‘I wanted to question you about Vernon Dulciman. You did some private eyeing didn’t you. I just wanted to ask you what you’d got.’
Pengelly appeared astonished. ‘Dulciman?’ he said. ‘What the hell …?’ He became firmer. ‘What’s got the Met involved?’ he asked. ‘Or am I not allowed to know? I can find out. I have my contacts.’
Davies’ heart sank but he said: ‘I bet you have. This is a private investigation. On behalf of Mrs Dulciman.’
Pengelly laughed outright. ‘Private? Off your own bat, is it? Christ, that’s bloody rich, and you come in here flashing your warrant card. Maybe I ought to have a quick word with my contacts. You’d be right in it then.’
‘Not as much as you’d be in it, Pengelly,’ said Davies with a little menace. ‘Pimping. Living on the earnings …’
‘Michelle …’
‘Michelle nothing. I’ve got plenty on you without her telling me. And unless I get your co-operation I’m going to shop you. And if you try to take it out on her I’ll shop you as well.’
‘What’s your wife going to say?’ suggested Pengelly but unconvincingly.
‘My wife went off with a man from Ipswich,’ recited Davies.
Pengelly sighed. ‘All right. Dulciman’s no skin off my nose.’ He went to one of the desk drawers and took out a key. ‘The file’s downstairs. In the other office.’
Again he nervously combed his sparse hair. They went to the door. He locked it after them and led the way down the bare stairs. While he unlocked the door of the lower office, Davies, on a thought, felt in his pocket and produced the dead mouse. ‘I brought your mouse back,’ he said replacing it on the dusty window sill.
‘Thanks. I wondered where it had gone,’ sniffed Pengelly. He led the way into the office which was almost identical with the room upstairs except that the naked-girl-and-donkey calendar was replaced by one showing a London policeman directing traffic. Davies studied it: ‘Makes me feel homesick,’ he said.
‘That’s why I keep it,’ said Pengelly. He sat at the desk and opened a drawer. ‘There’s not a lot,’ he said taking out a file. ‘He just vanished. End of story.’ He made to pass the file across to Davies but then withdrew it.
‘You’re on a fee,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be doing it out of the goodness of your heart.’
‘Believe it or not that’s how it stands at the moment. I get a fee at the end. When I’ve found him or whatever.’
‘The old girl’s crafty,’ said Pengelly.
‘It was my suggestion,’ said Davies. ‘No solve, no money.’
Pengelly had become more assured, as if he had feared much worse. He turned the pages in the folder. ‘When you get paid, if you get paid, I’d like a little cut for this,’ he suggested. ‘I had to do all the work.’
‘Two hundred quid,’ said Davies as if he had thought it through.
‘How about three? I can get the official police report as well.’
‘Three,’ agreed Davies. ‘Where is it?’
‘My auntie’s looking after it,’ said Pengelly. Davies felt his eyebrows rise. ‘I don’t like things lying around here.’ He smiled craftily. ‘Make it five hundred.’
‘I’m already blackmailing you,’ Davies pointed out. ‘Don’t try my patience.’
‘My auntie might have thrown it away,’ said Pengelly combing his bald pate again. ‘She’s always throwing things away. She’s houseproud.’
‘Another hundred then,’ said Davies.
‘Now.’
‘When I get the file.’
‘She only lives around the corner. I could go and get it,’ said Pengelly. He was confident now, confident and relieved. He handed the first file across and rose from the desk. ‘I’ll leave you with this while I go,’ he said. ‘You can sit and read it here. There’s nothing special kept in this office.’ He rose. ‘I hope auntie’s in,’ he said. ‘Do you need to go to the bank?’
‘I’ve
got enough,’ said Davies.
Pengelly laughed unpleasantly. ‘Michelle left you with some then?’
‘I’ve no complaints,’ said Davies.
Nine
Nola Cloudsley-Clive changed her location in the afternoons. She was poised at the fringe of the ornamental lake propelling bread to the ducks. Davies, who had been directed to where she might be by Phineas at the Moonlighters, approached as she was in mid-serve. He waited until she had projected a crust some distance into the water and the gratified recipients had gathered quacking around it.
‘Play much tennis?’ Davies inquired.
She was startled but smiled a little when she saw who it was. ‘Good practice for the summer months,’ she said. ‘It keeps me out of trouble, I get some fresh air, and the ducks and the gulls look forward to it. They’re not half so enthusiastic if you merely toss the bread into the water.’ She gave him a swift sizing up. ‘Here, you have a go,’ she said offering the racquet. ‘You’d better take your overcoat off. You won’t get any distance.’
Davies climbed out of his overcoat. He took the racquet and made a show of testing its weight, the tautness of the strings with the nub of his hand, and its feel in the swing. She handed a piece of bread to him and he tossed it into the grey afternoon bringing the racquet down ferociously and completely missing the crust which fell at his feet. Nola Cloudsley-Clive and the assembled ducks watched with scarcely concealed disdain.
‘Timing’s a bit out,’ said Davies embarrassed.
‘Completely out,’ she corrected. She eyed him like an already lost cause. ‘You don’t appear to have any co-ordination. I thought policemen were supposed to be co-ordinated.’
Davies looked shamefaced. ‘Well, we are. But not with tennis bats.’
She appeared sorry that she had been critical. ‘Here, have another go,’ she encouraged. ‘This time bring the racquet around in a loop.’ She looked him over again. ‘And your stance is wrong.’ Tentatively she leaned forward and moved him into position, getting her long, elderly hands around his knees to put his legs into place and then revolving his arm with the racquet. ‘There, at least you’re facing the right way,’ she said surveying him again. ‘Now first look towards your target and measure the distance.’
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 60