Red Herrings

by Tim Heald

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Then there is not a moment to lose. Squeeze in!’

  Monica got into the Bugatti which was, as the swami implied, a very tight fit, and they drove the fifty or so yards to the Pickled Herring very fast.

  ‘You two go round the back,’ ordered the swami. ‘The rest stay with me.’

  As they entered the hall, Felix appeared, shooting his cuffs, and smiling nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ingratiatingly.

  ‘I’m looking for my husband,’ said Monica. ‘He’s gone missing.’

  Felix frowned, put a hand under his beautiful blazer and massaged his chest thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry to hear that Mrs Bognor,’ he said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I thought,’ said Monica, ‘you might have seen him.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Felix shook his head and managed to look genuinely regretful. ‘He’s probably just gone for a walk. It’s a lovely afternoon, though I shouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have a bit of a storm later on. Getting a bit close.’

  ‘Leave this to me, Monica,’ said the swami. He advanced to within inches of Felix so that had he not been at least six inches shorter his nose would have touched the hotelier’s. ‘Now listen, Entwistle, Mr Bognor is a very old friend of mine, and if anything has happened to him you’re going to be sorry. And if you won’t tell me where he is my men and I are just going to have to search the place. We may make a mess. So are you going to tell me?’

  ‘You’ve no right,’ said Felix. ‘I shall call the police. You can’t just barge in here.’

  ‘I just have,’ said the swami, and he pushed past the unhappy Felix, who, intimidated by the impressively constructed bodyguards, made no effort to stop him.

  In the kitchen they found the two other guards in noisy conversation with Norman. Like his partner, Norman was expressing affronted indignation, invaded privacy and general umbrage, but in a manner which was not altogether convincing.

  ‘There’s a locked door out the back,’ said one of the guards, a six-foot-three negro with LOVE stencilled across his uniform, ‘and chef won’t open it.’

  ‘Chef had better do as we ask,’ said the swami, ‘or we’ll break his door down.’

  ‘This is a disgrace!’ said Norman. ‘It’s a fridge. If you open it before six o’clock an extremely elaborate mousse full of incredibly expensive ingredients will be totally ruined. Ruined.’ He seemed genuinely distressed.

  ‘There are a couple of crowbars in the boot of the Bugatti,’ said the swami improbably, ‘so it shouldn’t take a second.’

  Felix looked at Norman. Norman looked at Felix. Felix shrugged. Norman shrugged.

  ‘Bang goes the mousse,’ said Felix.

  ‘C’est la vie,’ said Norman. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys, selected one and handed it to the swami. Together they all moved outside to the fridge door, which opened easily enough to emit a blast of freezing fog.

  ‘Jumping Jehoshaphat!’ the swami recoiled for a second. ‘It’s Simon and a naked woman. Quick men! Get them out! Simon’s alive, I think, but the girl looks as if she’s frozen to death.’

  ‘Don’t touch Fifi,’ shouted Felix. ‘She’s a mousse.’

  The guards realised this almost as soon as they tried to move her, but it was obvious – just – that Simon was flesh and blood. He was lying on the floor vainly attempting to do what appeared to be a press-up. The two biggest guards grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him out. He was not an encouraging sight. There was practically no colour in his cheeks and his eyebrows had turned a frozen white as well as growing much larger than usual – a sort of icicle effect. His clothes were quite stiff and covered in fine white powder like snow and a small greenish icicle protruded from one nostril. Not pretty.

  ‘Abominable snowman!’ exclaimed the swami, shocked, but relieved to detect signs of life. ‘We must thaw him out but not too fast.’

  ‘How about my hair dryer?’ asked Monica and was on the point of fetching it from Myrtle but the swami said it would be too much of a shock to the system. It was like bringing a diver up from the deep. Slowly, slowly. If you went too fast he’d get the bends. Same with Bognor. Too violent a change from cold to hot might bring on a coronary.

  It was rather like watching one of those Richard Attenborough television films about life in the jungle or under the Pacific. With clever and patient photography you could actually show flowers growing or alligators being hatched. They sat Bognor on a stool and loosened his collar and tie and the swami slapped him once or twice, quite gently, on the cheeks. Even as they watched Bognor went from translucent blue to white and then pink. Like a human traffic light. His eyebrows melted and dripped down his front and his mouth opened. Words emerged.

  ‘Christ, it’s hot!’ he said. ‘Water.’

  Monica ran a glass from the tap. Local spring water. No fluoride or other additives.

  Bognor drank, deeply, gasping, then held out the empty glass.

  ‘I think I could use another of those,’ he said. ‘I dreamed I was Captain Oates or Scott of the Antarctic. Had I lived I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ said Monica, returning with more water which he drank noisily. He was obviously recovering fast. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  Bognor scratched his head. ‘Happened?’ he said reflectively. ‘Well, I went into this sort of fridge thing and there was a dead girl lying on a slab only when I pinched her nipple it came away in my hand. It was a glacé cherry and she was some sort of pudding. Vanilla, I think.’

  ‘One of them said her name was Fifi,’ said the swami. ‘By the way, where are Entwistle and Bone?’

  Felix and Norman were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Monica, ‘they can’t have got far. If anywhere. What happened after you pinched Fifi’s nipple?’

  ‘Felix and Norman came in,’ said Bognor, ‘armed with a hatchet and a bottle of vinegar. They said they were going to lock me in and turn down the heating if you see what I mean. Freeze me to death. It would have looked like an accident.’

  ‘Like all the other murders,’ said Monica, ‘except you were saying, Bhagwan, that Sir Nimrod definitely didn’t commit suicide. How did they know?’

  ‘There was a bruise,’ said the swami, ‘under his hair, above the right ear. He’d been knocked unconscious. Then the murderer fixed up the tubing to the exhaust pipe, left the engine running and did a bunk. Not difficult.’

  ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ Monica could be solicitous on occasion. And she was fond of the old thing, especially when he seemed on the verge of departure. ‘Another five minutes and you’d have been a goner,’ she said.

  ‘Bit wobbly.’ Bognor tried a smile which only half succeeded. ‘I think it’s time Guy started arresting people,’ he said. ‘After all, Norman and Felix have had two goes at attempted murder already.’

  ‘Difficult to prove,’ said the swami.

  ‘But they locked me in their fridge,’ protested Bognor.

  ‘They’d say it was an accident,’ said the swami. ‘Their word against yours. And what, a jury would want to know, were you doing in their fridge anyway?’

  ‘Investigating,’ said Bognor. ‘For God’s sake, I am a bloody Board of Trade investigator. Any jury worth their salt would realise I have to spend a lot of time in other people’s fridges. It’s that sort of job.’

  The swami looked at Monica and both raised eyebrows.

  ‘I wouldn’t rate your chances, Simon,’ said the swami, ‘and in any case I don’t think Norman and Felix are more than quite small fry. They’re involved in this but they’re not big enough to be bosses. They’re little men.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ said Monica, ‘Sir Nimrod left a clue with Naomi before h
e left. Said that if anything happened to him we were to blame it on a penny ha’penny.’

  Bognor stared blankly at his spouse.

  ‘I think I ought to have a smidgeon of alcohol,’ he said. ‘I mean what sort of a clue is that for goodness sake?’

  ‘We think,’ said Monica, patiently, ‘Naomi and I, that he made it cryptic because he didn’t want Naomi to know who he meant. It could have been dangerous for her and he didn’t want her to be involved. But he assumed that a special investigator would know at once what the clue meant.’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. You’re implying that I’m too stupid to crack the code.’

  ‘I’m not,’ protested Mrs Bognor, ‘but you can’t crack it, can you?’

  ‘Not at the moment. But you seem to forget that I have only this minute returned from the valley of the shadow of death. I shall solve it in due course when I’ve done some more thawing out and had a drink or two. Where is Guy?’

  ‘Whelk,’ said Monica.

  ‘I suppose we ought to have a chat to him.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I think,’ said the swami, ‘that the first thing is that you should both come to Herring Hall at once. You can discuss it all there and phone Guy. I don’t think this is a good place to stay.’

  ‘More intuitions?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the swami, smiling.

  Chapter 7

  Bognor made two telephone calls as soon as they had reached the safety of Herring Hall.

  The first was to Guy. Guy sounded weary and none too impressed by what Bognor had to tell him.

  ‘It’s not an offence to make mousses in the shape of naked ladies,’ he said, ‘the so-called clue is hopelessly inconclusive, not to say incoherent. The Herring girl probably invented it. She struck me as being very simple if not actually having a few screws loose.’

  ‘But they tried to freeze me to death.’

  ‘It could have been a mistake.’

  ‘You don’t think that, surely. I’m telling you they deliberately locked me in there and turned down the thermostat.’

  ‘I think you’ve been overdoing it Simon. Maybe you should take a break. Food poisoning and freezing all within twenty-four hours. That sort of experience imposes severe strains. I think you should go back to London and leave it to me.’

  ‘Leave it to the professionals, you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You implied it.’

  ‘I’m sorry if you got that impression.’

  ‘In any case,’ Bognor was most put out, ‘I can’t go back to London. I’m under orders.’

  ‘We can soon change that.’ Guy sounded unnecessarily menacing.

  ‘I’m staying on this case,’ said Bognor, ‘if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘At the present rate of progress it almost certainly will be. They’ve tried to do you in twice. Maybe it’s going to be third time lucky.’

  ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Guy suddenly sounded as weary as Bognor felt. ‘It’s been a hard day. I suggest you and Monica get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

  The conversation with Parkinson was more satisfactory in content if not in tone. Conversations between Parkinson and Bognor were always brittle. That was the nature of their relationship.

  Before he could phrase his initial question Parkinson had got in first.

  ‘And where, pray, have you been disporting yourself, Bognor?’ enquired his boss, beadily. ‘I made enquiries at Mid-Angleside Police in Whelk and also at that ludicrously named hotel. Neither seemed to know where you were. I even rang your friends the Contractors but the only person there was the butler who was quite uncivil when I mentioned your name.’

  ‘Dandiprat.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Parkinson sounded quite affronted. ‘What exactly has numismatics to do with it?’

  ‘Numismatics?’ Bognor did not recall having said anything about numismatics.

  ‘You said “Dandiprat”,’ said Parkinson irritably.

  ‘It’s the name of the Contractors’ butler,’ said Bognor equally irritably. ‘But that is by the by. I have moved from that ludicrously named hotel because the proprietors first attempted to poison me and then, this afternoon, tried to freeze me to death. So I’m moved up to the swami’s ashram at Herring Hall.’

  There was a prolonged silence from the other end of the line.

  ‘Blast!’ said Bognor, ‘we’ve been cut off. God knows what the old fool was blathering on about. He seemed to think I said “numismatics” when I said “Dandiprat”. He really is showing his age.’

  ‘The old fool is still here, Bognor,’ said Parkinson more irritably than ever. ‘I was indulging in what might best be described as a “stunned” silence. First poison, then freezing and now you’re in an ashram in the middle of the English countryside.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘All in a day’s work, eh, Bognor?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, it has been, yes.’

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

  ‘Sir Nimrod Herring has been killed.’

  ‘The president of Dull Boy Productions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told of this?’

  ‘You were. I mean you are. I’m telling you now.’

  Bognor could visualise the grinding of teeth that must be taking place. Perhaps Parkinson was even snapping a pencil or two in half. His blood pressure must be a worry.

  ‘How was Sir Nimrod killed?’

  Bognor told him.

  ‘And what do you imagine was the motive for this?’

  Bognor took a breath. ‘Just after your phone call this morning Sir Nimrod left home in rather a hurry. According to his daughter, Naomi, he seemed very agitated, but he didn’t say where he was going. My guess is that Entwistle and Bone at the Pickled Herring overheard you saying that we knew that Sir Nimrod was president of Dull Boy and passed on some message to the old boy.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Either to warn him that we were on his trail or – which looks more likely – to nobble him before he could spill any more beans. He’d spilled enough the night before.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Bognor could only hear the hum of Parkinson’s voice but he could picture the contemplative peer at the portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, the impatient drumming of fingertips on the top of the regulation civil service desk. The boss at bay.

  ‘Well, Bognor,’ he said eventually, ‘our cousins on the other side of the big pond have sent us a wee bit more information on the subject of Dull Boy Productions. It appears to have something to do with the late President Kennedy: All work and no play …’

  ‘… makes Jack a dull boy,’ said Bognor, involuntarily. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me that Jack was that Jack.’

  ‘Bear with me a moment please, Bognor.’ A note of depressing weariness had crept into Parkinson’s voice. ‘As you may be aware, it is quite common knowledge that the late President Kennedy was in the habit of curing his migraines with women, if you follow me. Or so it is alleged.’

  ‘They do say sex is a wonderful panacea for almost everything,’ said Bognor, ‘although Monica and I …’

  ‘Please spare me your revelations, Bognor.’ Parkinson sounded even more deflated than before. ‘I don’t think I could stand the excitement.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that the late president was in any way involved in Dull Boy Productions, I’m merely giving you background information. That is how the company got its name. It’s the derivation.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor. ‘But derivation apart, what exactly does Dull Boy do?’

  There was a rather pregnant pause. Parkinson was not especially prudish in public at least not by civil service standards but he was obviously finding this embarrassing.
‘As far as I have been able to ascertain from our cousins,’ he said, ‘the company began as a cheap tour operator offering packages to Manila and Bangkok. You’ll see what I’m getting at.’

  ‘Massage parlours,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Parkinson. ‘The enterprise appears to have been controlled by the Mob or the Organisation or the Mafia or whatever we’re supposed to call them these days. It was very tatty stuff frankly. Very tatty. Our cousins began to get very concerned about some of the diseases which these tourists were picking up and importing into the States.’

  ‘AIDS,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Things like that. Anyway for whatever reason the people who control Dull Boy decided, in the jargon of the market place, to “diversify” and “go upmarket”. For the last few years they have been organising the same sort of tours to this country.’

  ‘You mean “stately home sex”, and “titled ladies for sale”?’

  Parkinson sighed disapprovingly. ‘I was rather afraid you’d understand the idea altogether too quickly,’ he said. ‘The man I spoke to at Langley quoted some passages from the Dull Boy brochure. Frequent references to Eton, the Brigade of Guards and even, I regret to say, the Royal Family. It’s extremely distasteful. HMG is concerned at the highest possible level. And I mean highest. I’m not just talking about the British Tourist Authority.’

  ‘And this whole operation was being presided over by Sir Nimrod Herring?’

  ‘He was a front obviously. Gave the thing respectability. We’re talking about a lot of money here, Bognor. Dull Boy’s clients are chief executives of some of the world’s biggest corporations. They require absolute discretion, exclusivity and above all what they call “prestigiousness”.’

  ‘And they’re still old fashioned enough to think that an oddly named English baronet guarantees all that?’

  ‘In my experience, Bognor, a great many of our American cousins are profoundly old fashioned particularly where the British are concerned. They regard us purely as a source of entertainment and in that sense they think of us as being pickled permanently in the 1920s. I regret to say that even the more sophisticated of our colleagues in the intelligence world take that view. It even extends to their estimate of the Special Investigations Department of the Board of Trade.’