Red Herrings

by Tim Heald

  ‘Are you sure?’ Bognor was startled but not totally unsurprised. Macpherson had not impressed him.

  ‘I couldn’t prove it,’ said the swami, ‘not in a court of law. But yes, I’m sure. The next thing was that fellow Contractor from the manor was round. Very oily he was. Now I still don’t know exactly what he was after but it was to do with sex. No doubt about that. He seemed to think I was running some sort of brothel. Could people stay for the weekend. He had one or two clients who … nudge, nudge, wink, wink, know what I mean. He got quite ratty when I said we didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Even got his cheque book out, which was pretty naive of him because I could buy him out twice over before breakfast.’

  The swami looked more outraged by the insult to his financial strength than by the appeal to his larder of sexual goodies.

  ‘And now Wilmslow …’ said Bognor.

  ‘And now Mr Wilmslow of the Customs and Excise,’ concurred the swami, adjusting his robes, then kicking off his sandals and hoisting his legs on to the sofa. ‘What a little tick he was. Dear me. Such poverty of expression too. Do you know what he said? He’d only been in here a few minutes when he looked at me – he was sitting just where you’re sitting in that armchair – and he said to me, “O.K. swami, how about a slice of the action?” “Slice of the action!”’ The swami repeated the words and snorted with disbelief.

  ‘What exactly did he mean?’ asked Bognor, knowing perfectly well but wishing to have it spelt out.

  ‘What he meant, Simon dear boy, is that he and I should connive over a falsification of our Value Added Tax returns and split the profit.’

  ‘Could he do that?’

  ‘Easiest thing in the world.’ From somewhere out in the garden a muezzin-like call disturbed the pastoral calm of morning. Seconds later it was followed by a communal mantra chant from below the window. The swami glanced at his gold Rolex. ‘Excuse me just one second,’ he said apologetically, and walked across to the french windows which led on to a balcony. From where he sat Bognor could see him waving beatifically back in the direction of the mantra and then dipping into his pouch for some purple papers which he scattered majestically towards the earth.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Bognor when he returned to the sofa and was sitting again with his legs pulled up beneath him.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Bhagwan Josht, ‘I’m not entirely certain myself. My Minister for Spiritual Affairs thought it up. At noon and at six p.m. everyone has a bit of a chant and I go out and bless them. It’s very popular.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor.

  ‘To return to Mr Wilmslow,’ said the swami, wrinkling his nose in contemplation of such a slug-like subject, ‘it became quite clear in the course of our conversations that your Mr Wilmslow was doing it the entire time. Quite apart from anything else he as good as told me that he was working some sort of VAT return fiddle with everyone who was registered in Herring St George. Including, I may say, Fashions Sous-tous and that tasteless rip-off down at the Pickled Herring. That, by the way, used to be a proper pub with skittles.’ The swami sighed. ‘Those two queens have ruined it.’

  ‘You couldn’t prove any of this I suppose?’ Bognor expected nothing. Wilmslow was no fool, greedy though he may have been. If VAT returns had been cooked they would be cooked à point. Just so. It would take a clever investigator to identify the frauds.

  ‘I’ve got a tape recording,’ said the swami nonchalantly. ‘Not admissible in court I don’t suppose; if he were alive it would be strong enough to get him fired. It’s fairly clear that he’s making an improper suggestion to me.’

  ‘And what about the others? The Contractors and Felix and Norman?’

  The swami pursed his lips. ‘I think you’ll find he’s been quite careful. Implied everything but said nothing. However if you play your cards right I should think you’ve got enough here to put the wind up one or two people. I’ll run you off a copy before you go. Would you care for lunch?’

  Bognor said, no, he’d better not. Miss Carlsbad’s word-processing disk was burning a hole in his pocket and he wanted to touch base with Monica and Guy. A lot seemed to have happened that morning and the waters were growing murkier by the moment.

  ‘I’ll get one of our people to drop the tape off at the pub,’ said the swami. He stood up and eased on his stout leather sandals. ‘It’s been super seeing you again. If ever you find the pressures of life too much you know where to come. Monica as well, of course.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of sharing her with you,’ said Bognor.

  ‘There are ways round that,’ said the swami, pausing in the passageway to tear off a strip of paper from a Telex. He frowned, then opened the door of the Communications Room and called out, ‘Sister Fatimah. Sell that Hong Kong stock you bought this morning and buy Bannenbergs. And for heaven’s sake go easy on gold.’ A doe-eyed bride, crouched over a computer screen, glanced up and smiled.

  ‘Right on boss, baby,’ she said.

  The swami smiled at Bognor. ‘I like to keep things very informal except when we’re actually going through some act of worship,’ he said. ‘I don’t want them treating me as a god the entire time. That way lies certain madness.’ He giggled. ‘I hope you find who killed him,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t my cup of tea, but I do draw the line at murder.’

  ‘You think he was murdered then?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the swami, ‘beyond a peradventure.’

  It was a bit of a hike back to the Pickled Herring and the sun was high in a cloudless sky. He knew he should not have worn such thick socks, let alone the grey flannel bags. He could take the tweed jacket off and swing it nonchalantly over his shoulder, but not the trousers. Nothing indecent about nobbly knees and underpants but not the done thing either. Especially when about one’s government’s business. One just had to sweat it out and look forward to a pint of bitter when one reached the Pickled Herring. Maybe a shower as well.

  He was striding along humming Lilli Marlene and thinking wistfully of the Israeli girl paratroop clone when he heard a busy, buzzing car engine approaching briskly from behind. Yet again he was aware of the recklessness of country drivers in these treacherous high-banked lanes. He wondered if it was the district nurse who had a reputation for being the fastest thing on wheels in all the Herrings. She drove a Metro with an MG trim, and was alleged to be no better than she should be, though Bognor put this down to village gossip.

  It was not the district nurse however but a scarlet Mercedes sports car with the hood down, and the driver was Samantha Contractor. She tore past him, then screeched to a halt and reversed noisily until she was alongside.

  ‘Hi stranger!’ she called, leaning across to open the passenger door and exposing large expanses of bra-less breast, ‘Want a lift? You look hot.’

  ‘I am hot,’ said Bognor, guiltily remembering the photograph he had so recently picked up off Emerald Carlsbad’s back path.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked as she crashed the gears and let out the clutch. Bognor felt himself being thrust back into the seat like he did in an aircraft just before take off. She did drive awfully fast.

  ‘Oh, all over,’ he said.

  She glanced across and smiled mischievously as she let the car slide into the bend, checked the drift and accelerated away fast.

  ‘Where’s Monica?’ she asked.

  ‘Back at the Pickled Herring. She had a bad night.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sam did not seem particularly surprised. ‘Come on up to the manor and tell me what you’ve been up to. Do you have a moment?’

  Bognor looked at his watch. It was after twelve-thirty. He really ought to be getting back. On the other hand a few minutes wouldn’t hurt and she was rather gorgeous. He found himself thinking back to her photo again. ‘O.K.,’ he said, ‘just for a second.’ Then before he could stop himself he found that he was blurting out: ‘By the way I saw an absolutely ravishing picture of you earlier today.’

  She looke
d across at him with interest.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I was up at Miss Carlsbad’s. Damian Macpherson was coming out. He dropped his file …’

  Sam stamped on the accelerator again. Bognor’s left hand tightened on the door handle. She was a very fast lady.

  ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘I saw Damian about half an hour ago. He said he’d seen you but he didn’t mention that you’d seen one of the pictures. He’s good isn’t he?’

  They had reached the back lodge. Sam slowed for the bend, rattled over the cattle grid, then stabbed on the gas again. She seemed disturbed, thought Bognor, though he guessed she always did drive aggressively.

  ‘How do you mean good?’

  ‘He hasn’t been taking pictures long. Perry and I have been sort of sponsoring him. He’s keen to try nudes so I agreed to sit for him. If he’s going to use nude models he might as well start at the top.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bognor relaxed. It was a plausible enough explanation. In any case what other explanation could there be? Sam was wonderfully sexy but also wonderfully naive. Perry was the brains. Perry might well be a crook. Sammy on the other hand was one of nature’s innocents. He was sure of that. Indeed, it occurred to him suddenly that if he was going to get straight answers out of either of the Contractors it was much more likely to be from her.

  They had pulled up outside the house now. A scrunching of gravel, a stench of burning rubber and life had come to a merciful halt. ‘Ah!’ said Sam, ‘I love to live dangerously!’

  ‘By the way,’ said Bognor, trying to appear offhand and nonchalant, ‘tell me about Dull Boy Productions.’

  Was it his imagination, or was there a sudden slip in her composure. She was just getting out of the car and she seemed to stumble slightly. ‘Shit!’ she swore, slamming the door, ‘I’m always snagging that wretched window handle. I’m sorry darling, I didn’t catch you. What did you ask?’

  ‘A company called Dull Boy Productions,’ he repeated. ‘My boss phoned about it this morning.’

  ‘Dull Boy Productions,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘what a peculiar name. It doesn’t mean anything to me but then Perry has so many companies. I should ask him.’

  She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looked at him almost suggestively and said, ‘Darling, what about a swim? You do look terribly terribly hot.’

  ‘I am hot,’ said Bognor. ‘And I’d love a swim, only I don’t have any trunks.’

  ‘Oh, if you’re going to be prudish you can borrow a pair of Perry’s. But no one’s going to care if you swim in the buff. We usually do when we’re on our own. There’s no one else here. Perry won’t be back for hours.’

  Bognor’s mouth felt dry. He wasn’t sure whether he was being propositioned or not, but he did know that she was challenging him not to be a prude. He thought of her photograph and of his friend the swami and his brides and he thought, ‘Dammit’. And out loud he said, ‘Good idea!’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You swim and I’ll change into something cool and fix us a drink. I’ll see you on the terrace in ten minutes.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Bognor.

  ‘You know where it is,’ she said. Which he did, having swum there before, though always in trunks. It was a spectacularly sensible pool – half in and half out of doors. A glass screen came down to just below water level, and ran the entire width of the pool. If you wanted to move outdoors from the indoor pool you had only to duck under this window and swim on into the garden. If swimming out of doors the weather suddenly turned cold you had only to duck under the screen and swim back in. Bognor could not think why there weren’t more pools like it.

  He undressed in the men’s changing room – they were labelled, predictably enough, Guys and Dolls – and slightly apprehensively wrapped himself in an enormous bath towel before heading out into the pool area. He did not, he had to confess, look wonderful without any clothes on, and he was not at all sure he wanted to be surprised. At least not until he was in the water. And even then … He did rather fancy Mrs Contractor and he sometimes wondered if perhaps … and some people found him quite attractive … and what in God’s name would Monica say … and …

  There was nobody in the pool but he wasn’t taking any chances. Sitting down on the edge he did not divest himself of the bath towel until he was almost in the water, somehow managing to half sidle, half jump in with only a fleeting exposure to anyone who might be around, of what he still tended to think of as his ‘private parts’. He was all in favour of others flaunting these parts wherever they wished but he wasn’t sure he would ever come round to the idea himself.

  It was wonderfully cool after the sticky heat of wandering around in grey flannels, and he felt pleasantly liberated. The towel was close at hand right by the steps so that if he should be surprised he could almost certainly manage an exit with decency and dignity intact. ‘Aaaah,’ he sighed. This was the life. If only a little more money had adhered to his fingers how much happier he would be. This was bliss. In a second he would be out on the terrace drinking champagne with the beautiful Samantha and, perhaps, who knows? He lay on his back and closed his eyes. He could lie like this for ever.

  ‘Aaaah,’ he sighed, and then suddenly changed pitch. ‘Aaargh!’ he gasped as he felt himself seized from below and ducked. Luckily he was in his depth but he had been taken by surprise and was gasping for air. Whoever it was had hands secure over both eyes.

  ‘Guess who?’ said Samantha, giggling. She must, he realised, have come in from the garden without him noticing.

  ‘Samantha,’ he spluttered, ‘let go.’

  She giggled again. ‘Not unless you promise.’

  ‘Promise to what?’ He tried to sound indignant but it had to be admitted that the proximity of her naked body was rather exciting.

  She nibbled his ear. ‘To kiss me passionately,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous Samantha I really can’t. It’s broad daylight. I mean what on earth would Perry say? And Monica? Let go and don’t tickle. Please, I’m not ticklish. No really I’m not. No absolutely not.’

  Somehow she had managed to turn him or perhaps he had turned himself so that now her mouth was on his and her arms were enveloping him. He half opened his eyes and saw her naked breasts and nipples pressed up against his chest. ‘Oh God!’ he thought as she managed to force her tongue between his lips. This was awful. On the one hand it was fearfully, perhaps even dangerously, exciting. On the other it was excitingly, dangerously fearful. What was it about pain and pleasure? To his horror he realised he seemed to be returning her kiss. He tried half-heartedly to break free but she seemed stronger than him or perhaps just more determined. And he knew he was being feeble.

  ‘Sam,’ he tried to say as she relaxed her pincer grip on his mouth and gasped for air. ‘Sam. This is silly. This is terribly terribly silly,’ but before he could say more she had her breath back and was grinding her teeth against his and flicking her tongue around his mouth in a way that Monica would have dismissed as downright unhygienic. He had read recently that you could get AIDS from saliva and the thought galvanised him into a sudden spasm of activity. Somehow he must have got one of his feet behind her ankle because she lost her footing though not her grip and the two of them tumbled over into four foot of water. Now she did let go for a moment.

  As they resurfaced Bognor was aware of a pair of very shiny black shoes more or less level with his eyes. Raising his gaze he took in pinstriped trousers, a black coat and waistcoat, black tie and white shirt, and above them a leering face, partially obscured by a 35 millimetre Canon ‘sureshot’ camera of exactly the kind that Monica had given him for Christmas.

  ‘Smile please!’ said the cameraman and although Bognor did nothing of the kind the camera clicked and the flash flashed. ‘Terrific!’ said the photographer. ‘That’s the end of the film. Thirty-six pictures.’

  ‘Dandiprat!’ said Bognor, ashen-faced.

  ‘Thirty-six beautiful full colour pictures,’ said Dandi
prat, ‘and these are wonderful little cameras. Absolutely foolproof. Never known to make a mistake. Mind you I’m a very good photographer even with more sophisticated equipment, but I thought in the circumstances …’ He pressed the re-wind button, then opened the back of the camera to remove the film.

  Bognor turned to Samantha.

  ‘Samantha!’ he said, ‘how could you?’

  For a moment she returned his stare; then suddenly looked away and flipped backwards towards the glass screen. A little shimmy of arms and legs and her preposterously appealing form was back in the garden.

  Bognor did not follow. Instead he stared at Dandiprat as he felt a gentleman should stare at a peeping Tom butler who has surprised him in a swimming pool with a naked lady. Unfortunately he was only too well aware that he did not cut a very imposing figure. Dandiprat, in any case, was not looking at him but was busy extracting the yellow Kodachrome film and, when he had done so, tossing it in the air with an expression of nauseating self-satisfaction.

  ‘Dandiprat,’ said Bognor in his most officer class voice, ‘I wonder if you would be so good as to pass me the bath towel at the top of the steps.’

  ‘Certainly sir,’ said Dandiprat, pocketing the film.

  Bognor, slowly and deliberately waded to the stairs, and ascended them, sucking in his stomach to offset any tendency to paunch and trying to drape the towel as strategically as possible. Only when he had regained terra firma did he remember the stories of how Lyndon Johnson had humiliated his staff by dictating to them while sitting on the loo. Oppressive white South Africans were supposed to do the same sort of thing with their kaffirs. Apparently it was very upsetting for staff to have their masters’ bodies paraded about in front of them; it made staff and servants feel like unpersons. Bognor therefore made a considerable show of drying himself quite naturally without any show of modesty. Unfortunately this seemed to have no effect on Dandiprat one way or another.