Brought to Book (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘Meaning exactly that,’ said Bognor. ‘He’s an obvious psychopath. A real pervert.’

  ‘It does give an interesting extra dimension to some of the verse,’ said Monica. ‘You could interpret the “Dartington Rhymes” in a completely different way if you knew they were by the sort of man who could make snuff movies.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Bognor was not much interested in textual analysis of Glatt’s poetry.

  ‘Yes.’ Monica squeezed his arm. ‘Who’d have thought a gentle excursion into the world of publishing would have thrown up such a mess of death and intrigue?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was all about Bloomsbury and gentlemen in the Garrick and the Travellers and blue-stockinged Leavisites with PhDs in imagery in Smollett. I thought it would be fey and charming and literate. I thought it would be to do with fine writing and good books.’

  ‘I knew it wasn’t like that,’ said Bognor, ‘as soon as that little shit Prendergast went into publishing. Do you remember? – that spotty little Young Conservative in BNC who was sent down for flogging the typescript of the History Finals Papers.’

  ‘Whatever happened to him?’

  ‘He’s managing director of one of the big paperback houses in the States. Par for the course.’

  The streets of Byfleet were as gloomy as London’s in the blitz. Those hoteliers who knew how to milk the tourists and trippers were soaking up sun in Barbados. The rest were, doubtless, cowering by twin-bar electric fires. The ‘No Vacancy’ signs were on display in front of the net curtains of practically every guest house in town; the shutters were shut at the Tropicana Fish Bar and Freddie’s Freak Show and every single whelk, cockle, mussel and winkle stall. Even the street-lamps seemed to be on half power. A Big Book author would have described it as ‘Stygian gloom’. Visibility zero, as near as dammit.

  They had just ambled past a three-foot gap in the houses described as ‘Blind Bo’sun’s Alley’ when Bognor suddenly felt something hard press into his back. As it did a female Bronx voice which seemed ludicrously out of place in this genteel English seaside town said: ‘Just keep walking. Do as I say. Act natural. Any fancy Board of Trade heroics and you get led in one end and out the other.’

  ‘We have company, Monica,’ said Bognor, with a lightness he was far from feeling. ‘Marlene Glopff, the aerobic queen and author of Working Out with Glopff, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  There was a strong smell of distilled lilac. Not so much scent as something an athletic lady would splash on in the locker room after a sauna and whirlpool. A hint of talc and sweat.

  ‘Don’t turn round; just do as I say. Walk.’

  Mr and Mrs Bognor walked.

  ‘I should have realised our American friends would become involved before long,’ said Bognor, ‘though I assumed they’d do things by the book. Official notification via Parkinson. That’s the usual form.’

  ‘Playing ball with the Brits,’ said the Bronx voice, ‘is like trying to play footsy with a faggot. Strike out every time.’

  ‘Is she CIA?’ asked Monica in her most Badminton Horse Trials voice.

  ‘God alone knows,’ said Bognor; ‘amateur theatricals, I should say, but…’

  The gun barrel, if that was what it was and Bognor was inclined to give it the benefit of the doubt, jabbed into him painfully.

  ‘No chatter, please. Just do as you’re told and you’ll be all right.’

  Bognor shut up and walked. He and Monica were still arm-in-arm and he squeezed back at her. It felt even colder than talking to Glatt.

  Just ahead of them a ‘C’-reg BMW saloon was parked, lights on, engine running.

  ‘Mrs Bognor,’ said Marlene, ‘in the front. Mr Bognor in the back alongside moi. No funny stuff.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Bognor, ‘I’m much too intrigued.’ He slid into the back seat and stared thoughtfully at the back of the driver’s neck. The driver was wearing a chauffeur’s cap but there was something familiar about his rear view.

  ‘I say,’ said Bognor, as the chauffeur gunned the car into action. ‘Hastings!’

  ‘Please don’t talk to the driver,’ said Marlene, ‘he has to concentrate.’

  Hastings was no mean motorist. He riffled through the gears like a saxophonist doing scales. Once out of town he allowed himself some gentle glides on icy bends. On the straights they touched the ton. Quite exhilarating.

  ‘Well.’ Bognor settled back into the seat and wished he were armed with the sort of Walther PPK that men like Glatt habitually carried. Or maybe not. He wouldn’t have known what to do with it under circumstances like these. Talking his way out of trouble was the only way he knew. The gab was a better gift than gun as far as he was concerned. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  Ms Glopff chuckled throatily.

  ‘The reason we’ve taken you over, Mr Bognor, is that we want you to tell us what’s going on.’

  ‘We being you and the butler?’

  She shoved at him with the gun barrel and he grunted with pain.

  ‘I’ve been told you think you’re a wise guy, Mr Bognor,’ she said, ‘but our records show that your boss Parkinson says you’re not as funny as you think you are. So cut the comedy.’

  He winced. ‘Are you official?’ he asked. Ms Glopff pulled out the ubiquitous laminated ID card. Bognor squinted at it. It could have been a driver’s licence or a credit card for all he could tell but he nodded sagely at it all the same.

  ‘You can put the gun away,’ he said. ‘I’m a paid-up subscriber to the Special Relationship. Anything I can do to help. Nothing too much trouble for Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Treat everything with a pinch of salt, Marlene,’ said Hastings, taking an ‘S’ bend with the aplomb of an Ayrton Senna. ‘He may not be as funny as he thinks but he’s not as stupid as he looks, either.’

  ‘Thank you, Hastings,’ said Bognor. ‘Any time you want a reference…Anyway, how come you’re working with the Americans?’

  ‘I bet I know,’ said Monica. ‘Hastings is a mute inglorious Big Book author. For reasons we still don’t know, Hemlock wouldn’t publish him. Our friend here, however, has arranged through her employers to guarantee Hastings an American publisher for his novel. Or memoirs. Or whatever.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Ms Glopff shifted her attention to the front seat.

  ‘I guessed,’ said Monica. ‘It stands to reason. But I’d also like to know why Hastings stayed with Hemlock all those years.’

  ‘Too many questions,’ said Hastings, crashing the gears from four to two as they grappled with a sharp left hander. ‘What have you told Merlin Glatt?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bognor innocently.

  Ms Glopff dug at him again with the gun.

  ‘Cut that crap!’ she said. ‘I’m not stupid. We know who Glatt is. And we know he drove you into town and that you’ve just come from his room at the Goose.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bognor.

  ‘And that you’ve been talking to another British agent, Molly Mortimer.’

  ‘Molly’s not a British agent,’ said Bognor.

  ‘She is so,’ said Ms Glopff. ‘Part-time but keen. And you talked to her after Green’s presentation in the Winter Gardens.’

  ‘Actually we were talking about the Royal Family. The Midgelys. Miranda Howard.’

  Marlene Glopff obviously didn’t believe this. She snorted.

  ‘That schlock,’ she said.

  ‘No more than Working Out with Glopff,’ said Bognor. ‘In fact I should have thought you and the Midgelys could do an extremely lucrative combined effort. Working Out with Royalty. There’s a Big Book if ever I heard of one.’

  She jabbed him again with the gun barrel. ‘I warned you once, buster,’ she said. ‘No jokes. No funny stuff.’

  They were on the coast road heading south. An occasional shaft of thin moonlight caught the cliffs but it was still a murky night with scudding cloud and a misty drizzle. Hastings kept the windscreen wipers in overdrive. There was very little traffic. T
his part of the country gave every impression of having closed for the night. Halfway along a deserted straight they came on a signpost marked ‘Reckitt Magna 3’. Hastings swung the car right and the hedgerows closed in on either side.

  ‘Reckitt Magna,’ said Monica; ‘that’s familiar.’

  Bognor sensed her frowning in the front, willing herself to remember something from a footnote in the past.

  ‘Got it,’ she said. ‘It’s an early Glatt: “The Haven, Reckitt Magna”. It’s a writers’ retreat like that place outside Reigate and the McDowell and the Yaddo in the States. Novelists go there to commune with each other and with nature, eat nut cutlets, beat their block. And all for under a pound a day.’

  ‘Sounds like a CIA front,’ said Bognor without thinking. He got another dig in the ribs for being unthinking out loud. Many a true word…

  Ten minutes later the car passed through a sleeping hamlet, rattled left over a cattle grid and past a bungaloid lodge. The drive wound up through an avenue of beeches until debouching into a gravelled forecourt before a mansion of prep school dimensions and appearance. As they came to a crunching halt two large dogs emerged, barking.

  Hastings lowered the window. ‘Hodder, Stoughton, shut up, for God’s sake! Major, get those bloody Airedales under control before I run them over!’

  Bognor noticed a new Rolls Royce parked to one side of the porch. The number-plate was ‘AS 1’ and there was a ‘disabled driver’ sticker in the rear window.

  Marlene Glopff alighted from the car with lissom grace as the Major reined in his hounds.

  ‘Two more guests,’ she said. ‘Mr and Mrs Bognor. They can go in Coleridge.’

  ‘They’ll have to,’ said the Major, ‘it’s the only double room left. Good evening, sir. Evening, madam. Welcome to the Haven.’

  Mr and Mrs Bognor muttered.

  ‘No luggage, Major,’ said the butler. ‘I’m afraid it’s all been a bit sudden. But I dare say you can rustle a couple of toothbrushes up from stores. They’ll only be with us the one night.’

  Marlene Glopff led the way indoors.

  ‘The Major will see you to your room,’ she said, ‘and you have five minutes to freshen up. Then we’ll see you in the library.’

  There was a gong in the hall; also a noticeboard covered with green felt. On it were pinned the times of the church and bus services as well as a note saying that cocoa was available at 25p, provided the housekeeper’s office was told before teatime. The hall table was very shiny and smelt of beeswax.

  ‘Upstairs, second on the left. The name’s on the door. Bathroom’s right opposite.’ Marlene Glopff was almost selfconsciously brisk. Now that she was apparently on home turf she had taken her right hand out of her coat pocket and Bognor was chilled to see that she was indeed armed. She held a small snub-nosed revolver which Bognor guessed was a Derringer. He wondered if it had a mother-of-pearl handle. ‘And don’t try anything clever,’ she added; ‘the drainpipe is not strong enough to support your weight, Hodder and Stoughton may not kill but they’ll give you an awfully nasty bite, and we’re miles from anywhere.’

  The Bognors went upstairs in silence, aware of the triple gaze of Marlene, Hastings and the Major boring into their backs.

  ‘Crikey!’ said Bognor, closing the door of Coleridge behind them. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  The room was very plain. There were two iron bedsteads of institutional design and a gas fireplace with a reproduction oil painting of Samuel Coleridge-Taylor above it. The floors were polished wood, apart from two or three scattered and elderly rugs of vaguely Turcoman appearance. There was a wash basin in one corner.

  Bognor went over to it and turned on both taps.

  ‘Bound to be bugged,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Monica said, ‘it’s a writers’ retreat. Or was. Endowed by some old literary philanthropist in the thirties so that impecunious authors can get away from the enemies of promise – families, VAT men, society hostesses and all that. It used to be in southwest London somewhere but they sold it to a property developer a few years ago and moved out here. It’s all coming back to me now. I think I must have read a piece about it somewhere like the Literary Review. I always thought it was perfectly legit. A bit loopy but harmless. I was obviously wrong. It’s clearly been taken over by the CIA as a safe house.’

  ‘What do you imagine they want?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Monica, a touch frantically, ‘but I suspect it’s as the lady says. They’re feeling left out by MI5 and 6 and they want to be let in on some secrets.’

  ‘I think I should refer back to Parkinson. There must be some proper Anglo-American liaison at his level.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. Anyway it’s too late for that. Are you having a pee?’

  ‘Yes. After you.’

  They peed in turn, both impressed by the Delft tiling in the loo as well as the heavy brass chain on the plug and the thick mahogany seat, both thinking hard about what to say and what to do next. It felt like a tight corner. And although Marlene and the Major claimed to be Official CIA they could just as well be from the Mob.

  Downstairs they were surprised by the identity of their fellow guests. As they entered the library two other Big Book authors looked up: Milton Capstick and Danvers Warrington.

  ‘Aha!’ Bognor looked very hard at Danvers Warrington and wondered when to play the card of the vestigial piece of canary yellow stocking the forensic boys had found in Audrey Hemlock’s bedroom.

  ‘Enjoyed your talk last night, Capstick,’ he said. Was it only last night? The Royal Institute of Letters seemed light years away, though the bruise on his head reminded him that it wasn’t.

  ‘Thank you very much, Bognor.’ Capstick’s polka dot bow tie bobbed with self importance. ‘I’m sorry your view wasn’t more widely shared. It’s really rather pathetic to see how a certain sort of literary person makes poverty an art form. They seem to think making money from one’s writing is a sign of philistinism. They’ve obviously never heard of Johnson. Johnson said there were few ways in which a man might be more innocently employed as in making money. That’s not something you’ll hear anyone endorse at the Royal Institute of Letters. Dear me, no!’

  From outside, Bognor heard wheels trundling over polished boards. At first he thought it must be the Major or the housekeeper with a trolley of drinks but then he remembered the Rolls Royce with the disabled driver sticker and the ‘AS 1’ number plate.

  Seconds later the wheelchair entered the library and he realised he was right.

  Andover Strobe was driving the very latest thing in invalid carriages. Silky grey gunmetal with flashing lights. It looked like something designed by Lord Snowdon for Star Wars. He himself was wearing a magenta tracksuit and a gold cravat. The legs were short and enfeebled, the trunk and arms normal to large, the head enormous. He had low cheekbones, a less than generous mouth and opaque blue eyes. When he spoke it sounded like treacle processed in a cement mixer. He was smoking a Grade Lew cigar. Big. Expensive. A statement.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Bognor, hi there. Welcome to the Haven. I’m Strobe. Take a pew. Great to have you aboard.’

  The Bognors sat.

  ‘OK,’ said Strobe; ‘publishing’s a tough business and it’s tougher still when you start tangling with issues of National Security.’

  Bognor inclined his head but said nothing. Capstick and Warrington both smiled uneasily, Glopff and Hastings not at all.

  ‘You’re an intelligent man, I hear,’ Strobe continued. He was unnaturally brown. Also bald. The great dome of his head shone like a seamless rugby ball. ‘So you’ll understand that I’m not about to let you or anyone else interfere with my plans now that they’re reaching fruition.’

  Bognor nodded again and maintained a superior-sounding silence. He could see that he was in for a lecture anyway.

  ‘You will have discovered already’, said Strobe, ‘that Hemlock and I are the only two publishers in town.
Everything else is mere dilettante rubbish. Gentlemen playing at trade, tradesmen pretending to be gentlemen. Give Hemlock his due – he was the only one who understood what in hell it was all about.’ He waved the cigar expansively. ‘Money, money, money and the power that money begets. Let’s not faff around, Mr Bognor. Hemlock and I have never given a shit about “art” or “literature” let alone what some so-called publishers call “ethics”. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Bognor.

  ‘There was a time,’ and here Strobe’s milky-blue eyes narrowed momentarily, ‘there was a time when there was room for the two of us but that time passed. There was a time – maybe – when it was possible to be a seriously rich, seriously powerful publisher based in London and controlled from London. That time passed, too. People still talk about the English language, God help them, but they’re talking a lie. It’s been the American language and the American speaking peoples since you were so high. You’re smart and you know it, but I tell you there are still arty farty little Englanders around who think George III is on the throne.’

  Strobe paused, examined the end of his cigar, frowned and said, ‘Major, will you find me a goddam light for this thing?’ and continued.

  ‘You’ve heard of Megaword Universal?’

  Again Bognor nodded. Biggest word shifters in the world – hard-core pornography, do-it-yourself manuals, partworks, videos, computer programs, even old-fashioned books. All these and more were typeset and printed by sweated labour in third-world countries, mainly in South East Asia, then beamed via computerised satellite to Megaword’s North American headquarters on a private island in Cayuga Lake, upstate New York. Megaword’s pulp shunted around the seven seas under every known flag of convenience. Megaword’s slush funds and ambiguously named deposits were in dodgy banks in Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands, the Channel Islands and anywhere at all where legitimacy was a dubious premise. Megaword was not so much a publisher as a word broker employing every artifice of the New Technology to get its words to every corner of the globe. Megaword dealt with Moscow and Beijing and even had a contract for Star War Manuals from the Pentagon. The company made men like Strobe and Hemlock look like a couple of down-and-outs dossing down in back numbers of the Daily Maxwell under Hungerford Bridge. Not only that, it made them look naive and even honest by comparison.