Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  Pity, thought Jerzy, initials MS not LR that is if LR are someone’s initials. ‘And when Augustin, himself, left in February do you know the reason?’

  ‘No idea. Simply didn’t turn up. No stink or anything if that’s what you’re thinking. People are transitory here no wonder. Only fools like me stick it out. God knows why. Still horrible thing to be dead and nobody looking in. You wouldn’t wish it on.’

  ‘Your worst enemy.’ Jerzy finished it for him. ‘You a family man, Sammy?’

  ‘Grown up daughter. Two grandchildren. The missus.’

  They made their way back down the stairs to the sixth floor and Room 649. ‘Still hanging about?’ said Sammy after he had mounted the step-ladder. ‘I’ve told you all that’s pertinent. Pertinent — that’s one up to me I think.’ He stroked the air with his right forefinger.

  Jerzy half bowed in acknowledgement to his superior word power. ‘As the judge said to the defence barrister, anyone can enter the Ritz Hotel. True, my lord, came the reply, but not everyone can pay the bill. Augustin Cox not only paid the bill but a hefty service charge on top. You know he lived in Bedfont. How did he get here? Car? Van? He must have worked unsociable shifts.’

  ‘Public transport, I think. Never heard him mention anything else. Definition of social failure according to the gospel of Mrs T.’

  Downstairs in the lobby Pat was sipping an obviously hot cappuccino when Jerzy joined her. ‘Do you want one? They’re on the house. You look tired.’ She gave him a searching look as he lowered himself into a wing chair. ‘Wife looking after you?’

  ‘That’s as bad as guv. She’s got a name. Bettina. I don’t need nurturing, Pat. It’s my desire and pleasure to look after her as best I can.’

  A sharp retort was no doubt on the tip of her tongue but if so she strangled it at birth and instead tapped the file lying on the low table in front of her. ‘Standard stuff. Ms HR as you know is a recent arrival. Her predecessor while Augustin was here was Linda.’

  Jerzy’s eyes showed interest.

  ‘Parks. Sorry to disappoint you. Nothing much else. No official reason why he packed it in. They forwarded what he was owed without comeback. Previous employment Wayland Packaging, Hayes. So that’s confirmed.’

  ‘As is your hairbrush. Augustin caught spanking assorted guests according to the grapevine.’

  She laughed. ‘The naughty boy! I know what I would have done with him. Think there’s something there?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m still worried about how neat and tidy and spartan the flat is. No transport. No mobile phone. No computer. No intimates or even anyone else dropping in. I know London can give people high degrees of anonymity, but something here doesn’t fit. Add Milly Simpson, probable associate — she worked in the restaurant — to Linda Parks. We need to track them down. Wayland Packaging may give us something. Otherwise we’re stuck in the in between. Coffee taste okay?’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll have a refill if you’re having one.’

  Jerzy summoned a waiter. Not only had they entered the Lincoln International Hotel it seemed, but they had avoided paying a bill.

  *

  Dipping and skimming à la Norma, Geraldine spent the first part of the morning glossing her way through assorted green Penguins of Dorothy L Sayers, Margery Allingham and Ngaio Marsh — all crime doyennes together. She jotted down under appropriate headings: Milieu — the Norma factor again — Circumstances, Suspects, Weapons, Motives, Deduction Methods and finally Killer. The three tecs in the books were classy articles: namely Lord Peter Wimsey, Albert Campion — the pseudonym used by another aristocrat — and Roddie Alleyn, born to the purple as well but the only serving policeman among them. He was a Superintendent, of course, not a lowly DC like some unreliable fuzz bandit she could name. Aided and abetted by servants — useful links to the lower classes — they also had in Harriet Vane, Amanda Fitton and Agatha Troy resourceful and feistier female companions. Put DC Hamish — ugh the name was so redolent of kilts, mists and caber tossing — Ogden in a dress and herself in a Savile Row suit and trilby and Augustin Cox’s murderer would have a tiger on their tail.

  She laughed out loud at the imagined picture. Lacenaire squawked in approval, ‘Mine’s a double krepkaya and Old Spice.’

  ‘Fat,’ said Geraldine. ‘What comes after fat?’

  ‘The writer did it,’ was his sole reply.

  ‘You need to look to your laurels and give us more that’s new. Mr Campion had a pet jackdaw called Autolycus. Like you named after a thief and “a snapper up of unconsidered trifles” according to Shakespeare. What clues have you delivered so far, eh?’

  Lacenaire preened himself and hopped from one foot to the other.

  ‘Indeed, nada.’ The strains of a samba tune returned unbidden. The sway, the beat, the nearness of a man she had just met, more gauche than gaucho. But no, that was Argentina and the tango — more of an overtly sexual dance. Really she should phone, take the initiative and follow Norma’s advice. Stopping further procrastination she got Feltham CID’s number from Inquiries. Then what? Ask for him direct and possibly receive another rebuff? No. Safer to say she had something on the Augustin Cox case. She fingered the numbers.

  ‘Feltham Police. Can I help you?’

  The voice wasn’t his. ‘I want to speak to someone dealing with the Augustin Cox murder.’

  ‘Certainly. May I take your name?’

  ‘I don’t want to give it. I’ve got some information.’

  A short silence then, ‘I’m putting you through.’

  If someone else answered she would say she would only talk to the perfidious but alas still attractive, tree-trunk-throwing Hamish.

  ‘DC Ogden. Thank you for calling. I understand...’

  Thank you for calling. He understood. The rest of what he said passed her by as she savoured the words. Kilted, Highland Games, misty rustic though he might be with splinters of fir or pine or whatever they used to fashion a caber embedded in his palms he still sounded good. Okay this was the moment. Time to jump out of the aircraft and test the parachute.

  ‘What’s up chucky? Tiger got your furry mittens?’

  ‘Oh shut up. No. I don’t mean you. Geraldine Mycroft here.’ The air was spinning her round. The earth far below waited for either a happy landing or a catastrophe.

  ‘Geraldine.’

  A second’s silence perhaps less. Further delay could be fatal. It was time to pull the ripcord and experience its efficacy or otherwise. ‘We’re working on the same case.’

  Another silence. Was the man struck dumb or was he preoccupied with paring his nails or aiming paper darts at the desk opposite?

  ‘You didn’t tell me at the time.’

  So he still could speak even if his voice was cold and his tone combative.

  ‘I felt you’d used meeting me for your own purposes and you weren’t honest.’

  Felt, he had said, not thought or reckoned. Steady. Be calm, she told herself. Check the flush of annoyance which was welling inside her. He had feelings towards her even if at the moment they were veering towards the negative. The parachute had opened. Now it was up to her to achieve a satisfactory landing. ‘We both want to find who killed Augustin. We share a common goal. I talked to Gonçalo Pereira. He told me Augustin had a peculiarity. He liked to spank women.’ There. She had divulged. Whether he already knew that or not she had offered it in good faith. ‘I was hurt when you didn’t show up. I was waiting for you.’ There again. It was said. The ground was rushing up to meet her. She might well crash-land and injure herself, but at least she wasn’t suspended from the branches of an inopportune tree.

  ‘Tell me who your client is.’

  ‘I can’t do that. I’m sure my client is keen to help the police, and they’ll come forward when they have something to offer, but their identity for the moment is confidential.’

  ‘Geraldine.’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘I wanted to see you, but when I found out you’d talked to Pereira I was a
ngry and upset.’

  ‘Peace then? Shall we meet?’ Another pause. She was on her feet and out of her harness. Her legs felt wobbly, but she was still in one piece.

  ‘It’s tricky. I’m glad you got in touch though. Look I’ll give you a call later today.’

  ‘Hamish, get this straight. I’m not the kind of woman who waits patiently on the end of a line for some man whoever he is to deign to phone.’

  ‘No, I really will call. This time it’s a promise I will keep.’

  At the other end of the now dead line, at home in the mother ship, grafting his shift in the factory, whatever you chose to call it, Hamish allowed himself to think about Geraldine. He had thought about her plenty already, but those thoughts had been intrusions. They had been annoying, rueful, angry, spiteful and — now he dared to admit it — at the same time thoroughly provocative and alluring. Her voice. How good it had been to hear her voice again, and really, when he thought about it seriously, what was a Pereira, a client or a murder victim between him and his erstwhile dancing partner? He called Jerzy’s mobile and told him Augustin had a kink for spanking. Pereira had rung with the additional information. Jerzy thanked him. The way was now clear to renew what promised to be an exciting acquaintance.

  Chapter 10

  Etiquette for Beginners (1)

  Coming out of a decline had always been a ticklish business for Norma. The timing was so important. Correct signals such as asking for the window to be slightly opened or demurring at the prospect of beef tea being prepared yet again in favour of a tiny glass of Pedro Ximenez and perhaps just one ratafia biscuit, given a further twenty-four hour interval, usually heralded a possible recovery. These time-hallowed niceties, however, felt overburdensome in the prevailing circumstances. Geraldine needed to be helped, discreetly helped, and for the time being without her knowledge. I’m too old to be hidebound by tradition, Norma thought, as she relinquished her grasp of a Lemmy Caution paperback and blew her far from delicate nose in a handy tissue. Mind made up she pulled back the sheet and two blankets, smoothed the patchwork quilt Henrietta had so assiduously compiled, shod herself in a pair of red pantoufles, donned a silk peignoir of similar hue and descended tout de suite to the nether regions.

  Seated at the kitchen table, a cup of oolong raised to her lips, the afternoon’s Racing Post card at Newbury already marked in pencil against possible selections in front of her, Alison Petrie nearly choked as the creature from the attic hove into sight. ‘Good God!’ she gurgled. ‘Are you feeling alright? Are you ill?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, chucky? Tiger got your stirrups? Ooh noxious stuff,’ Norma said, glancing at the cup now descended safely to its saucer. ‘Time for a stiff G and T I think, whatever the actual time is.’ She busied herself with glass, gin bottle, ice and lemon-finding, while Alison regained her composure.

  ‘Ten forty-three if you want you know. I take it the game’s afoot or some such technical expression.’

  ‘I can’t find the blasted tonic. People will move things about. Forget I said that — here it is.’ Norma, tall glass now suitably replenished, took a hearty swig and sat down beside her. ‘Joan Oliphant, our de facto client. We need to know more about her motives (a) in choosing us and (b) vis-à-vis Augustin Cox.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s de facto. She has paid substantially up front. And what about Geraldine? Can’t she do it?’

  ‘Don’t get all legalistic on me. I’ve great hopes for Gerry as you know, but she’s inexperienced and she has enough to be getting on with. No, I need to sally forth once more into the world, decline or no decline.’

  ‘I see. And how will you appear in the world, as you term it?’

  Norma polished off the rest of her gin and tonic with relish. She beamed at Alison. ‘As I have in the past, chère amie. My reserve wardrobe awaits.’

  ‘And Geraldine if she calls?’

  ‘I’m in decline, or better still I’ve moved to a country cottage phase of decline.’

  ‘Would that be in Budleigh Salterton or St Mary Mead?’

  ‘Sarky monkey. Anything promising at Newbury? State of going?’

  ‘Good to firm. Old Wenceslas in the four thirty-five.’

  Norma nodded, ‘I’ll pass it on. Stable girl says etcetera. La Oliphant lied about being at school with Christabel. Why invent something like that? She wants to protect Augustin Cox’s interests but not specifically unearth his killer. Methinks murky waters. Of course, there are always more things in heaven and hell which pass our understanding, dear Alison.’

  Upstairs again, this time in the smaller back bedroom, it was a choice between bohemian 80’s BBC roving correspondent or standard Austen Reed two-piece suit with louche accessories. The latter was chosen. A brief glance in the full-length cheval mirror confirmed that age and relative lack of use had not spoiled the line or caused any trouser sag. Satisfied, Norman descended for Alison’s ritual brushing away of non-existent fluff and superfluous collar straightening. The outside world awaited if not with bated breath then at least with the prospect of a bright and breezy day.

  Pressing his freedom pass lightly against subsequent readers — thanks to the munificence of the newt admirer now again ensconced in his mayoral high tower and numerous local councillors of good cheer — he travelled slowly but steadily up west by bus and tube.

  In the old days Soho would have been his first port of call in the search for the origins of a lady who provided etiquette for gentlemen. Adverts in shop windows, doorways and telephone boxes would have habitually provided abundant information. No doubt also she would have served an apprenticeship, been widely known by barrow boys, waitresses in neon-lit caffs, off and on duty barmen, hustlers outside clip joints and the dear old vice squad regulars. Today, however, was different. The street names were the same, but the process was out of kilter. Trade quite simply had moved. Nevertheless it was into the heart of Soho he directed his newly polished Loakes, inserting them into a variety of hostelries without success before finally tracking down his intended quarry in the insistently red and white interior of Ladbrokes in Berwick Street.

  Standing tall and resplendent, dressed in a manner worthy of Messrs John Dunlop and James Fanshawe, a Panama hat — no doubt sported in anticipation of Glorious Goodwood — atop his bald head, Vincent ‘Bunny’ Carslake impassively watched a sextet of straining greyhounds go round the final bend at Wimbledon. Acknowledging Norman’s presence he touched the brim of his hat. ‘How is she?’ he inquired. Known from childhood to his parents and chums as Bunny after the illustrious pre-Second World War jockey, Bunny Carslake, he also had an aversion to using the second person pronoun.

  ‘She’s well thank you and yourself?’

  ‘Remittance hasn’t turned up this month as yet, but I still have some credit with a discerning Irish turf accountant.’

  ‘Similar problem I seem to recall for a certain Stanley Dangerfield aka The Ginger Man.’

  ‘She cites JP Donleavy, he of shirtings and suitings in Jermyn Street, who knew through thick and thin his redeemer still liveth. Well read as always, Norma.’

  ‘Later race today at Newbury, Bunny. Try Old Wenceslas. Recent gallops encouraging. Now got the going he prefers. Word of his ravishing stable lass.’

  ‘Ravishing or ravished? They’re always biased in favour of their charges.’

  ‘Both I expect, but ye shall be the judge.’

  ‘Knowing herself, as herself knows I do, a quid pro quo is odds on favourite.’

  Norman nodded. ‘Succinctly put. If a horse veers off a straight line the jockey must correct and use the whip, right?’

  ‘Filly or colt?’

  ‘Colt. I’m searching for someone purveying etiquette for gentlemen. She goes by the name of Joan Oliphant. But why don’t we repair to somewhere quiet and have a well-earned refreshment. This commentator’s voice and all the little screens changing all the time are quite debilitating.’

  Bunny agreed readily, confessing to a drouth which in his word
s combined the bottom of a untended hamster’s cage with the munch of an arrowroot biscuit. Accordingly they retired in happy unison to the hallowed, nicotine-stained premises of The York Minster, known simply from mine host, Gaston’s day as The French. Seated with his back to the wall where bibulous literary giants from Dylan Thomas to Frank Norman to Derek Raymond had held court, Bunny awaited the outcome of Norman’s generosity. The resulting two small Famous Grouses followed immediately after with a jug of water did not meet with his whole-hearted approval. ‘I’m of the Scottish persuasion,’ he peevishly reminded his benefactor.

  ‘Sorry.’ Norman raised his glass over the water jug. ‘The king.’

  ‘I said Scottish not Jacobite. Flora nowadays is an obnoxious spread.’

  Norman bowed his head in defeat and once more went to the well. This time bearing back a triple Glenmorangie and a half pint of Greene King Abbot. Bunny, having dispatched the miserly single, held his glass of amber fluid aloft. ‘Her health,’ he toasted.

  ‘Fire in the grate and chimney reek,’ rejoined Norman sipping his own modest dram.

  ‘Extreme, intermediate or mild?’ asked Bunny reverting to business.

  ‘I have the sense of mild to intermediate. Nanny with the wooden spoon stuff, a bit of ear tugging, britches down presumably. I thought you might know some of her habitués. Perhaps even going back to your Wealdstone Catering College chums.’

  ‘Steady on. Just because I submit from time to time doesn’t mean I surround myself with other submissives. She’s tried the usual channels I take it: the internet, specialist mags, yellow pages, even The Lady. Age? Description?’

  Norman related what he knew. ‘She came to us regarding the murder of one Augustin Cox late of Bedfont.’

  Bunny shuddered and finished off the half pint of beer. ‘From Bedfont, Hounslow and Heathrow may the good Lord deliver us. I don’t know. It all sounds petit-bourgeois to me. The etiquette for gentlemen schtick went out years ago. It’s positively Edwardian. Manuals for raising young gentlemen. I expect some are lurking in her vast library. Our sort of chaps and chapesses prefer, well degradation and a serious spot of manacling come to that. The Oliphant woman, of course, might have a criminal record. You could try Micky Rubin.’