Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  ‘Ogden. Feltham CID. Now we’ve observed the conventions let me get you another drink. Something similar?’

  ‘I think like Stockwellians do I’ll have a caipirinha for a change if they have it.’

  He asked the young woman behind the bar. Yes they did have cachaça and could mix the cocktail. He ordered two. The backbeat of the octet was already quickening even his stolid pulse. He felt a surge of adrenalin.

  She raised her glass when he returned with the drinks. ‘To murder, mystery and mayhem.’

  Her perfume was becoming more and more seductive. Her eyes were sparkling.

  The club now was really crowded. They were shoved up against each other precariously just managing to keep their cocktails from spilling. Heat and noise. Shouts and the salsa beat rising and rising to crescendo. His lips drew closer to her cheek. There was no longer a space to put down his drink. He wanted to kiss her. He wished they were back in the taxi where he had had room to kiss her. ‘You still haven’t told me what you detect.’ Fool! Why on earth had he opened his big, inopportune mouth? No wonder he hadn’t got to sergeant yet.

  ‘Crime. Real crime. Murder.’

  ‘How did you get into it?’ Double fool! He couldn’t stop himself. He really was a hopeless case.

  ‘I answered an ad in the Evening Chronicle. It said “Detection — Suitable job for a woman. Reading essential.” I applied next day.’

  ‘Unusual. Provocative. Stimulating even.’

  ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Shall we dance?’

  He drained his glass and took hers, squeezing past two couples to deposit them with difficulty on the bar. When he returned she took his hand. There was little space left on the dance floor but they found their way. Gonçalo Pereira, the trumpet player, was a short, balding middle-aged man. Sweat glistened on his pate and ran in rivulets down his cheeks. The band were dressed in white shirts and black trousers like waiters who had just come off duty. They pointed their instruments to the ceiling while behind them percussion chattered, clattered and drove the crowd into exaggerated sways and intricate footwork. Hamish couldn’t really dance the salsa, but it didn’t matter for Geraldine was inspired. Her body and spirit seemed to have fused into one staccato and then one flowing movement after another. She was oh so close it was wonderful. One tune ended then one slower began then another faster and yet faster and still they danced and still it was wonderful.

  Chapter 6

  Is Love Like Music the Answer?

  They had agreed to meet again.

  It had all been arranged without deliberation over work schedules, texting or waiting for e-mails. He had said, I want to see you again as soon as possible. She had said, yes apart from around eight in the evening. He had kissed her. She had kissed him and then they’d kissed and he’d said, shall I pick you up here, meaning West Hampstead, at nine? And again she’d said, yes, and it hadn’t mattered anymore that he hadn’t even touched her hand in the taxi on the way to the club, because once they had danced their fill and left it in the couple of hours before the dawn, and had walked a bit, things moved on, and it was natural to be with him and take his arm, and he had shed the reserve she had felt before and had talked of silly stuff that had happened to him in the past. She knew then that she would sleep with him, not right away, but soon, and she guessed — no let’s be honest — she was sure, he felt the same way too. I’ve never gone out with a policeman, she’d said. He’d smiled. Gone out with, eh? Well I’ve never dated a female private investigator and never expected I would.

  The Augustin Cox case. That had been the solitary caterpillar in the salad. The only thing that threatened all smooth ahead. Well, whatever happened she wouldn’t let it spoil their picnic. She would accept it as the necessary grit in the oyster that had led them to The Hidden Pearl. For how astonishing it had been, how fortuitous, to meet up with Feltham CID — Turostowski, and Kirkland already known from the paper — in the person of Hamish, who had to be there following up the very investigation. What book of Norma’s could have unfolded such an amazing scenario? The attractive stranger — an observation she had kept to herself — had without realising it laid a golden egg, and while he had gone to the loo during the interval she’d taken the opportunity to speak to Gonçalo Pereira, who it turned out to her great excitement knew Augustin and was also willing to talk about him next afternoon at the local car repair garage where he worked.

  ‘Which book are we in now, mon pote?’ she said to Lacenaire as she unshrouded his cage. A little French each day might, who knows, finally get him to say Norma’s equivalent of tu parles, tu parles, c’est tous ce que tu sais faire, the only phrase uttered by the parrot, Laverdure, in Zazie Dans Le Metro, a copy of which she had hastily scanned after her application interview.

  Lacenaire, probably sulking, ignored her because she was late, and the morning light had for some considerable time been illuminating the bookshelves. In expiation she dutifully replenished his seed and water. Forgivingly he gave her finger a light peck, which in human terms nipped a bit. ‘The writer did it,’ he said as a way of clearing his throat after a mouthful of sustenance.

  ‘Yes, so you keep saying, but which one?’ She went to the furthest bookcase and looked along the third shelf down, pulling out and putting back a Margery Allingham, a John Creasey, a Jim Thompson, a Nikolai Gogol and an Isaak Dinesen, real name Karen Blixen. Rather than the standard Dewey classification of stacking Norma favoured random collisions. Speaking of whom, she should phone her to talk about Hamish and the extraordinary, in at least two ways, turn of events. She fingered the spine of the Dinesen and picked it out.

  ‘Fat.’

  A new word. She turned and looked at Lacenaire. ‘Fat,’ she encouraged but that, at least for the moment, appeared to be the extent of his improved vocabulary for his beak was dipping ungrammatically into the water bowl.

  The Dinesen was a book of short stories. On reading the index, one of them, Babette’s Feast, struck a chord. She remembered having seen a movie called that on RTE when she was in Dublin. She began its opening paragraph and then three and four of the other opening paragraphs of the first and second gothic tales as the collection was called. She snickered, not because the writing was humorous, but because here, in an inversion of Norma, was a wo hiding under the pseudonym of a man. The settings were historical and European, Nothing in them struck her as germane to the present case. Norma’s method, if it really was a method, of solving cases by books appeared far-fetched in the bright glow of the by now sun filled room. She replaced the Dinesen, and as she did so her eye caught the title of the book immediately on the shelf above: The Moving Toyshop by Edmund Crispin. It bore the slightly battered green cover of an old crime Penguin. She half pulled it out so that it would be clearly visible on her return because she really must get on and phone Norma to bring her up to date with developments before going to see Mr Pereira.

  A different female voice answered when she called Dollis Hill. ‘Norma Bones’ residence. May I help you?’

  May. Grammatically correct — shades of Joan Oliphant — but unusual. ‘Geraldine here. Is Norma in?’

  ‘Ah Geraldine. Norma said you might call. Alison Petrie here. I’m an old friend and neighbour of Norma’s. Yes she is in, but she’s in a decline.’

  ‘Decline? What on earth does that mean?’

  ‘The kind Victorian women used to drop into. It’s an annual event. She takes to her bed having decided long ago that a chaise-longue is too uncomfortable. It usually only lasts about a week. Something in the nature of paying homage to some Russian called Oblomov or a French writer whose name I’ve forgotten writing about a man asleep.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Oblomov but never read the actual book. Norma appears to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of everything written between hard and paper covers. Has she got her mobile with her in the bedroom?’

  ‘No. Telephone conversations are banned I’m afraid. In the circs I look after the house and provide her with invalid food. Visitors thoug
h may be admitted. As to her reading, in all the years I’ve known her she’s never read a book right through. She’s a great dipper though and has a photographic memory for scenes and themes. Henrietta was much more methodical.’

  ‘Quelle surprise,’ said Geraldine softly to Lacenaire, then to Alison on the other end of the line ‘I’ll call round tomorrow morning. You say you’ve known her a long time. May I—’ Geraldine decided to play with the same syntactical precision ‘—ask if one should always think of her as she or he?’

  Alison Petrie laughed. ‘Firmly she. He is only a figment of some people’s imagination. I’ll tell Norma to expect you. I’m sure even in decline she’ll look forward to seeing you. Goodbye.’

  What next? thought Geraldine And then immediately thought of Hamish and how it was only part of a day to go until she saw him again.

  ‘Fat,’ said Lacenaire for the second time.

  *

  Stockwell in daylight had a different feel from Stockwell at night. The road outside the tube station — whose interior and frontage was now so horrifically etched in the national consciousness — was broad and thundering to the passing of heavy lorries, cars and buses. A good ten minutes brisk walking took Geraldine back towards the boundary with Brixton and the lane and garage where Gonçalo Pereira had said he worked.

  She turned the handle of the small door set in the pull-down shutter of U Fixed Motor Repairs and stopped where she was as the smell of paint spraying assailed her nostrils. Gonçalo, who was manoeuvring the spray gun, motioned her to wait outside and indicated with one hand he would join her in five minutes. Five minutes to think of Hamish. Five minutes more to revel in her new self.

  The patch of sky above the buildings was blue with a few wisps of cirrus straggling in the distance. Before the Bones Agency and now DC Hamish Ogden this back street, indistinguishable from countless others spread through London, would have made her feel I might as well be anywhere, but here she was following up a lead and later going to see a man upon whom she had designs and who in return had designs on her. Life was better than books. Nothing’s the matter, chucky, she said to herself falling into Lacenaire speech. Tiger’s drawn a blank today. Time waiting is still time well spent. The wispy cirrus drifted slowly out of sight. Further down the lane a crow trod sedately along the gutter. Say what you like in general about policemen, flatfeet and filth. Hamish Ogden was a bit of alright.

  The sauntering crow had risen into a short flapping flight when Gonçalo joined her. He proffered a cigarette from the packet tucked in the top pocket of his overalls. She refused. He lit up with a throwaway lighter. ‘Bad habit for a brass player,’ he said, ‘but we’ll die anyway.’

  Geraldine kept quiet. Now wasn’t the time to break the bad news because from their previous brief conversation she knew he thought Augustin was still alive.

  ‘You wanted to know about Augustin. You said you’re working in his interest.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pereira. I’ve been hired by someone to protect his interests.’

  ‘Well okay, but listen, as I told you I don’t know where he lives. I don’t have his number. It isn’t like that, He loves the music. He’s really into it. He’s often there wherever we play. Good guy. Mixes with everyone in the community: young and old. Uruguayan background of course, but as we say in Brazil nobody’s perfect. I haven’t seen him since I came back from Recife last month.’

  ‘Did he have any girlfriends? Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Yeah but not serious. He told me he had women at the hotel where he worked. He usually came on his own then if he saw someone it’s the way of things. Of course, he could have had a sweetheart who he kept apart. I’m not his Father Confessor. As I said it was his love of the music which made us friends.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of the hotel where he worked?’

  ‘Sure. The Lincoln International. It’s near the airport somewhere.’ He dropped the remnant of his cigarette and extinguished it with the toe of his boot. ‘Forgive me, miss, for someone looking out for Augustin’s interests you don’t seem to know much about him.’

  It was time to take the plunge. Gonçalo obviously liked Augustin Cox, but in fairness she couldn’t withhold the information. ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news, Mr Pereira. Augustin is dead and worse than that he was murdered.’

  The shock was visible. He muttered something in Portuguese. She didn’t understand the words but their sense was palpable. ‘When? When I was in Brazil?’

  ‘Probably. It was some time in March.’ She chose not to go into the gruesome details. ‘I’m here to try and find out who killed him. I work for a detective agency.’

  ‘I’ll still play for Augustin, but he won’t hear it will he? The music’s over for him.’ He looked at the ground fumbled in his pocket for another cigarette then thought better of it and put it back. ‘I’ve got to go. We’re shorthanded. Poor Augustin. No age at all really.’

  ‘If there’s anything else you can tell me about him, anything in his private life that might give someone a motive for murder, I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘You’re truly looking out for him?’

  Geraldine nodded.

  Gonçalo sighed. ‘Well, I don’t like to say it, especially now you tell me he is dead, but he had a weakness, a kind of fetish.’ He stopped, obviously reluctant to continue.

  Geraldine looked at him encouragingly. Once he had started she was sure he would have to spit it out, and sure enough the sleuthing gods were on her side.

  ‘In Brazil we admire women’s behinds very much. I’m sorry if this is a bit crude, Miss, but,’ he paused again, ‘he liked to spank women. It was like, I dunno, a talisman for him.’

  ‘You mean he was into S & M. Bondage. That kind of stuff.’

  Gonçalo shook his head. ‘No. He met women who liked to be spanked. It was only foreplay I guess. I don’t know who they were. From the hotel. At special clubs. He never gave details. Now I must go. I hope I haven’t said too much.’

  Geraldine thanked him. He went back inside the garage. The sky above was still blue. The same crow as before or perhaps another one strutted unconcernedly in front of her.

  *

  Back at the factory Hamish talked to Jerzy and Pat about the Latin American music in Augustin’s flat. He avoided mentioning his visit to La Perla Escondida the previous night. but said that one CD had been made by musicians resident in London. Jerzy told him to follow it up but to ration his time.

  ‘Although he may have loved that Latino loudino he also used it as a weapon to piss off his neighbours in the middle of the night,’ added Pat. She then went on to report progress on the hairbrush ad which it turned out emanated from a posh gentlemen’s barbers emporium in Jermyn Street no less, now catering to mostly well-heeled tourists, the majority Russkis, seeking outposts of bygone London.

  ‘Oh for the smell of bay rum oil and strong fingers massaging it onto your scalp,’ sighed Jerzy wistfully. ‘None of this half-hearted spray or sticky gel.’

  ‘Whatever gets your schooner off the rocks, guv. Yes. I know that’s the second today,’ continued Pat. ‘Anyway they no cognoscee Augustin Cox and somehow Jermyn Street and Bedfont exchanging gents accessories sounds a bit like Fortnums stocking a tin of Lidl’s baked beans.’

  ‘Someone else may have gone or even planted it there for us to find. Remember how tidy things were. The killer perhaps. Sometimes we have to beware of the obvious. This one looks more and more premeditated. No sign yet of the murder weapon. It’s almost as though the victim and the assailant have gone to inordinate lengths to obliterate their tracks. Nothing still on a possible vehicle, Pat?’

  She shook her head. ‘One scumbag totals another scumbag. It happens all the time.’

  Jerzy held up his hand in protest. ‘That’s unworthy of you. Whatever unspeakable acts they do humans are still human. Your famed tenacity of pursuit suits you much better.’

  And with that admonition taken on board they parted to their separate tasks.

>   Pereira in the telephone directories proved to be a surprisingly common surname. Hamish, therefore, decided his best route would be back through La Perla Escondida, and so it proved, because after holding on while the manager checked his mobile phone he was given both Gonçalo’s home number and the number of the car repair shop where he worked.

  Immediate goal attained, he thought of Geraldine. He envisioned their meeting later that evening and what it might lead to. She had been steadily in his thoughts from when they had parted in the early hours to when he went to bed alone to when he got up alone and didn’t care what mess his flat was still in or what he had for breakfast or how slow the traffic would be on his way to work. Her image had always been there. The way she had eaten her Greek-style snack during Professor Donald’s lecture. The way she had tilted her head to one side when he had invited her to join him in the club. Her profile in the taxi. Her legs. Her hair highlighted occasionally by the lights of vehicles behind. Her energy and gaiety in the dance. Holding her. Feeling her body pressed against his. Careful, you’ve only just met her and already you’re obsessing about her, a still voice cautioned from within. Happily obsessing was the considered reply. Obsessing happily and long may it continue was the forecast.

  The intermittent surge of an engine revving in the background partially obliterated the voice at the other end of the line. It stopped and Hamish heard the words, ‘U Fixed. Can I help?’

  ‘I want to speak to Gonçalo Pereira please.’

  ‘Speaking. Who’s calling?’

  ‘This is Feltham CID. I’m Detective Constable Hamish Ogden. We’re investigating the murder of Mr Augustin Cox, late of Cobden Estate, Bedfont, and I believe you may be able to help us.’

  There was a brief silence. Words in what Hamish took to be Portugese were said to someone else in the garage. A faint hissing noise sounded in his ear until Gonçalo spoke again. ‘I knew him. I met him sometimes when we played. He loved music. I told the young lady all this already this morning. Music is the answer. The only answer God provides to help us bear the blows life can deliver. I’m sorry he’s dead, and I don’t wish peace to whoever killed him.’