by Tim Heald
‘I wish the Midgelys had murdered someone.’ Molly lit another cheroot. ‘I feel a lot of ill will towards them, but there you are. How much of this stuff can I use without losing you your job?’
Bognor sighed. ‘I sometimes think losing my job would be the best thing for me,’ he said, ‘but if that happens I’ll probably lose my wife too and I don’t actually want that. Oh, just proceed with care. Talk to the fuzz and see what they’re prepared to say officially. They can hardly deny having mounted an operation at Reckitt Magna. They made enough noise about it. The locals can’t have missed it. See what bromide they put out, then embellish according to what I’ve told you. You can certainly say that Megaword are, effectively, making a bid for the commercially viable bit of the British book industry and I think you could say that they’re doing it with official American backing.’
‘And what about the Green factoid?’
‘How much do you know?’
Molly put on a poker face. ‘Not a lot,’ she said. ‘If I did it would have been in my story. How does it tie in with the fishing trip?’
‘I haven’t worked that out.’
‘It really is non-fiction?’
‘Yes.’
‘Libellous?’
Bognor considered. ‘The principal character is dead. Beyond libel. Ditto quite a few others. But some may still be alive in which case there’s certainly a potential libel.’
‘Can’t you be a little more specific?’
‘It’s traitors and double agents. You know, the Chapman Pincher-Nigel West school of writing. After Philby and Blunt, who next?’
‘Lord Rothschild?’
‘No, no.’ Bognor flicked toast crumbs off his tie and grinned. Molly did bring out his innate sense of mischief. So did most hacks. He had enjoyed his brief foray into journalism, investigating the death of that drunken diarist, St John Derby. Mad, arguably; bad, unquestionably; dangerous to know, well, yes, on balance; but journalists were entertaining people to hang around with. At least those of the old school were – the ones before the age of the Cellnet phone and the lap computer. ‘Wrong sex,’ he said. ‘The newest double agent is not a bloke.’
Molly thought hard. ‘The Queen Mother,’ she said at last.
‘Good try,’ said Bognor, ‘but I’m afraid my lips are now sealed. I’ve said more than enough.’
‘Are you going fishing with Arthur and Romany?’ she asked.
‘I might lurk,’ said Bognor, ‘just to see what happens.’
‘I’ll be lurking myself,’ said Molly. ‘Maybe we’ll meet in the shadows.’
And she effected an exit, left, with as much period theatricality as her entrance.
Bognor carefully spread the last slice of toast and pondered.
Any normal conscientious subordinate would, of course, have done as he was told by his boss, but Bognor was not like that. He had reached a time of life when it scarcely mattered whether he threw caution to the winds or not. It was plain that he was not going to what his teachers and tutors had always referred to as ‘the top’. The older he got the less clear he was where the elusive top was to be found. Observing other more energetic climbers it always seemed to him that the top was a chimera permanently situated beyond the next horizon. In any case Bognor was so obviously marooned in the foothills just above base camp that there was no point in pretending otherwise.
Parkinson would be magnificently furious. No doubt about that. But when it came to the crunch Bognor would be difficult to sack. For breaking the Official Secrets Act and talking to the press, maybe – though not automatically. Cf. Clive Ponting. For being late back to the office, hardly. If Parkinson tried that Bognor would get himself taken up by the union. Become a cause célèbre.
And his curiosity was aroused. The more this case progressed the more potential villains emerged. Strobe, Glopff and Hastings on the run; Capstick and Warrington in clink; Arthur Green and Romany Flange about to get on a boat under pseudonymous disguise; Bumstead and Glatt thrashing about the county with the anti-terrorist squad. Things must surely be moving towards some sort of resolution. Could he miss the denouement while sitting frustrated on a slow train home?
He could not.
It should have been easy to apprehend a maverick publisher with an enormous head and a pair of supergame legs but Strobe proved elusive. They sought him here, they sought him there…Bumstead ranted; Glatt’s smile tightened. A watch was put on the airports and the Channel ports and a Special Branch posse in riding macs and brown felt hats, like characters from an old ‘B’ movie, called on the Strobe offices in Elysium Wharf on the Isle of Dogs where they upset a number of secretaries but found nothing. They took away some unsolicited typescripts and some light blue sketches for Glatt’s erotic bestiary just to show that they were not to be trifled with.
‘As a new author of Strobe’s I feel particularly aggrieved,’ said Glatt, sitting in the back of an unmarked constabulary Rover with Bumstead but speaking to himself rather than the DCI who could not be expected to understand. ‘If I’d realised he was going to do a deal with Megaword I’d have gone elsewhere. Or maybe I wouldn’t. One mustn’t allow one’s politics to interfere with one’s poetry. Or vice versa.’
The poet fingered the shaft of the Navajo throwing knife he always carried in the special pocket in the uppers of his goatskin boots. It had killed more than one man already – several, in fact. But never yet a publisher.
Monica saw the car as it prowled aimlessly down the promenade. Years of experience had taught her to recognise such vehicles almost by instinct. As it waited for the red light to change she pretended to be checking the window display of the nearest shop front and contemplated the two men on the back seat. Their expressions were familiar to her. She had become accustomed to it after years of marriage. It was obvious to her, if not to others, that although they were trying to appear in charge of the situation they were actually all at sea. They had not found Andover Strobe and did not know where to look.
There had, naturally, been a row at the Goose and Goblet. Monica, fed up to the teeth with Byfleet-next-the-Sea, apprehensive about being kidnapped again, reluctant to see her husband playing fast and loose with his pension, was determined on a home run. The more she exhorted, cajoled and erupted, the more obstinate Bognor had become. Her fury was made worse by the sudden discovery that her engagement ring was missing. The paradox was that had she been wearing it she would probably have torn it off and thrown it at him, but missing it she missed it. It was Victorian, semi-precious stone (garnet), bought together in the Brighton lanes. She noticed the loss when she had gone upstairs to pack.
Under the bed? In the loo? Handbag? No. She could not have taken it off at the Haven. Nor in the Winter Gardens. She distinctly remembered having it on the night before Hemlock was murdered because he had admired it. ‘What a perfectly charming ring, me dear,’ he had said, lifting her hand to examine it and planting a slobbery kiss on her fingers. Quel creep!
The row ended in a stroppy agreement to diverge. Monica was to go home on the 9.10; Simon to play truant in the hope of seeing mysteries solved. Monica made a detour on her way to the station, hoping that someone or other might still be at Hemlocks and that she might find the garnet ring there lying where she had left it. It was a long chance but the only chance she could conjure up.
This was why she happened to be on the promenade when the Bumstead-Glatt limo drove by and paused at the lights. The day was still bright and crisp. She shivered slightly, partly from cold, partly from something more abstract and ethereal. It was this side of fear but the far side of apprehension. Rows with her husband tended to make her uneasy. They were usually resolved quite fast but they were infrequent these days and they worried her when they did come. She was always afraid one of them would fall under a bus before a reconciliation could be effected. She would hate to leave a bad taste behind. Nor did she relish arriving at the Pearly Gates as an estranged wife. She felt St Peter would lack sympathy. Superstitious old duck, M
onica.
The police car smoothed off like an unguided missile, predatory but powerless, target unidentified. Monica stayed for a moment, gazing at what appeared to a windowful of World War Two army surplus women’s knickers, and then moved on towards the dead publisher’s house.
Was it her imagination, or had it acquired a morgue-like air? A shutter on the first floor had lost a hinge and dangled limp; there was a hole in the glass roof of the porte-cochere; a large dog turd disfigured the pavement outside; a black rim around the half-submerged basement windows served as a vivid obituary notice to Hemlocks’ deceased owner. She stood briefly at the door, swallowed hard and pressed the bell. A longish pause. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard a door bang. Footsteps? Couldn’t be. Imagination playing tricks. Pity, the engagement ring would have to become past history. Insurance would pay for another. Not as nice, not the Real McCoy. She and Simon would go on a sentimental outing to the Brighton lanes and find a substitute. Something identical would be four times the price and out of reach but they would find something acceptable. She was clever in shops like that. Had an eye for neglected goodies. Could bargain, too. She sighed and was about to turn away when there was a buzz. A voice, metallic and unrecognisable, emanated from the grille.
‘Hello. Who’s there?’
The keys, thought Monica, remembering a late night at the Tower of London, the Queen’s keys. Aloud, she said, ‘It’s Monica Bognor. I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s just, I think I left something behind the other day. A ring. And I wonder if I might…I mean…’ She wondered why she was so uncharacteristically flustered and incoherent.
‘Just a moment,’ said the voice. There was a click and the buzzing stopped.
Again she waited. Better not be too long or she’d miss the train. The next wasn’t for two hours. Oh, well, what was a couple of hours in life’s rich what-have-you? A thousand ages in His sight was just an evening gone and all that. Where would Simon be now? In trouble, no doubt. Just so long as he didn’t get shot at. He was so stubborn. One day the luck would run out and he would get seriously hurt. If only he’d gone into merchant banking or prep school headmastership. A nice cosy job at Morgan Grenfell with long lunches and gullible boardrooms. Too late now. Oh, what was become of youth and promise and…there was a snap, crackle, pop and the disembodied voice said, ‘You’d better come in, Mrs Bognor.’ Another click and then the buzz which meant the door was off the latch. She pushed, tentatively, and it gave way. She stepped forward and into the hall. It was gloomy dark and as the door clicked shut behind her she strained to make out the shadowy figures lined up to welcome her. They were all too familiar. In the centre, the big-headed, disabled shape of Andover Strobe in his chair, and flanking him Hastings and Glopff. Glopff held her little Derringer, Hastings a large military .38.
They all smiled.
‘Mrs Bognor,’ said Strobe, eyes opaque and chilled as ever, thin lips stretched just wide enough to reveal the tips of teeth, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure…but you’re very, very welcome.’
Bognor was also fazed by connubial discord. It made him mutter. ‘Silly cow!’ he repeated to himself as he descended the stairs of the Goose, ‘if only she’d listen. I’ve never known a woman interrupt as much as she does. And hector. Bloody back-seat drive through life. “Do this, do that, don’t do this, don’t do that.” Yack, yack, yack and who pays the mortgage, I’d like to know? Just answer that, Mrs Bognor. It may not be much but it’s kept you in After Eights and Pretty Polly tights for most of your adult life. I dare say you could have married someone with more money but you’ve never gone short so it’s a bit ripe…Ooops, sorry!’
He had almost bouleverséed the Midgelys.
It was a narrow staircase of the sort one finds in pubs. Sharp bends and steep steps. Little room to pass without a degree of physical proximity that people as fastidious as the Midgelys found upsetting. You had to touch. Touching strangers wasn’t nice.
‘Oh, hello!’ said Bognor, inhaling Cynthia’s heavy aroma of Chanel and talc. ‘Bognor, Board of Trade, I thought you’d left town with the circus.’
They stared back as if in mild shock.
‘Oh, Mr Bognor,’ said Wilfred. ‘We wrote you a letter.’
Bognor couldn’t help noticing the ‘we’. It could be that they did everything together; it could be that it was a regal derivative. He wondered if Cynthia was much given to saying ‘my husband and I’.
‘My husband and I wrote to you,’ said Cynthia, confirming his suspicions, ‘but if you’re still here you won’t have got it.’
‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘I am so I haven’t.’
It wasn’t the best place for a discussion and Bognor said so. They adjourned to the foyer. It was still cramped – not much more than a passage but there were a few chairs. They sat.
‘I thought everyone would have gone home by now,’ said Bognor. ‘Nothing here but unpleasant memories.’
‘We’re addressing the Local Literary Guild,’ said Cynthia with a simper of pride. “The Role of the Royal Biographer in Twentieth-century Literature.”’
‘Gosh,’ said Bognor. He remembered that Glatt had used the local Lit Soc as an excuse. It gave him pause for a frown.
‘We’ve been ever so worried,’ said Wilfred.
‘We don’t think poor Audrey Hemlock killed herself,’ said Cynthia.
‘Why not?’ asked Bognor.
‘Writers are very good judges of character, Mr Bognor. Wilfred and I couldn’t be biographers without having a real intuition into what makes people tick.’
Bognor thought of Good Queen Bess and The Royal Family Bedside Book, swallowed hard and nodded.
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
‘Anyway,’ continued Cynthia, ‘she’d been on very good form that morning at breakfast. Full of plans for the future. All that sort of thing.’
‘She could just have been putting a brave face on it,’ said Bognor; ‘being British.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Wilfred, ‘that wasn’t Audrey’s style. Not her way of doing things at all. You could always tell what was in Audrey’s mind. At least, Cynthia and I could.’
‘And it wasn’t suicide,’ said Cynthia.
‘So,’ said Bognor, glancing surreptitiously at his watch. He had a rendezvous with Molly Mortimer and her fisherman. He didn’t want to miss it. ‘What happened to her if it wasn’t suicide?’
‘Well,’ Cynthia leaned forward and dropped her voice to a shade over whisper, ‘the story is that Romany Flange came back from London, went straight up to Audrey’s room and found her dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Bognor, ‘that’s the official line. It’s what Romany Flange told Bumstead. It’s on the files.’
‘But it’s not true,’ said Wilfred. For once he looked quite fierce.
‘How do you mean, “not true”?’
‘Simply not true,’ said Cynthia. ‘We saw Green’s car. You can’t miss it. It’s an old gold Lagonda, registration GRN 1. Vulgar and ostentatious just like his ghastly hero, Lance Remington.’
‘And singularly unlike Arthur Green himself,’ said Bognor.
‘Anyway,’ Cynthia looked disapproving, ‘it’s unmistakable. He drives it surprisingly fast, too. I think,’ she lowered her voice yet further, fluttered her false eyelashes and gave a girlish giggle, ‘I think he thinks he is Lance Remington when he’s driving the Lagonda. Would you believe, he calls it “Daisy” or “Old Girl” when he’s being familiar.’
‘Flange went to London with us and Capstick in his Rolls,’ said Bognor, thinking.
‘Well, she didn’t come back with him,’ said Cynthia. ‘She’s admitted that. She got a lift with Arthur Green. And they were in Byfleet a full half hour before they were officially back. We saw them drive down the prom. You couldn’t miss them.’
‘I see,’ said Bognor. ‘Can you prove it?’
‘We both saw them.’ Cynthia looked at Wilfred. Wilfred nodded. Miranda Howard turned back to Bognor and nodded in unison.
> ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Bognor guessed what they were driving at but he wanted to hear it from their own lips.
Cynthia took a deep breath. ‘I know it’s a dreadful thing to say,’ she said, ‘but we think they came back early and murdered Audrey Hemlock. Poisoned her. We think one of them held her while the other forced down the overdose of sleeping tablets. Then half an hour later Romany Flange “discovered” her.’
‘It’s a theory.’ Bognor scratched the back of his neck. ‘But I can’t see it’s much more.’
‘I bet there’s forensic evidence,’ said Wilfred, ‘if they bother to look. But they won’t. It’s all too cut and dried. They won’t take the trouble. Much easier to record a suicide. The circumstances make it all so plausible.’
‘But why?’ Bognor was by no means sure that Romany Flange and Arthur Green belonged to the murdering classes. Particularly as this killing involved premeditation and a coolness of execution that required exceptionally cold blood. Still, one never knew. Murder was a funny old game.
‘Romany’s very ambitious. She obviously wanted to take control of Big Books. With Vernon out of her way Audrey was the only obstacle left.’ To Cynthia it seemed to be clear-cut and straightforward.
‘But, with respect, Mrs Midgely, even in the City people who want to gain control of companies don’t go around murdering the chairmen. There are more conventional ways of going about these things.’
‘This isn’t the City, Mr Bognor,’ said Cynthia. ‘This is the world of books.’
‘Sounds as if some people are beginning to believe their own plots,’ said Bognor. He suddenly felt very weary. ‘I’ll try to get the forensic people to have a proper look,’ he said, ‘but it’s awfully thin. So you saw Green’s Lagonda half an hour or so before they say they arrived. They could have stopped off to get the papers or buy a coffee. It simply isn’t enough. Unless there’s some corroborating evidence. Is there?’
The Midgelys shuffled their feet.
‘Well, thanks anyway,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything else…’