Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been of much help. I shall plunge on Old Wenceslas given stable girl’s recommendation.’ He raised his half finished dram. ‘That sheep may safely graze.’

  ‘Haruki Murakami.’ This name, however, like Joan Oliphant’s, failed to register and Norman took his leave.

  Turning smartly towards Shaftesbury Avenue, thus avoiding the temptations of Charing Cross Road bookshops, he progressed to Piccadilly Circus and Eros’s polyglot knot of admirers. Pressing his way through the throng at the traffic lights he noted with glad spirits that Simpson’s clothing store had surrendered to Waterstone’s perhaps to the discomfort of Hatchard’s close by, whose portals he had never breached out of some prejudice which he had now forgotten. Fortnum and Mason’s, however, was a different tin of petit pois. Scarce had he glanced at the customary splendid window display than the door was traditionally opened by a young uniformed doorman whom he did not recognise. He traversed the hall without dalliance and ascended by the lift to the newly refurbished Fountain restaurant.

  Micky Rubin was installed — in homage to Adam Faith — at a small table in the far corner. An open laptop, a Blackberry and numerous mobile phones plus a teapot, cup and saucer lay in front of him. ‘Wotcha gorgeous,’ he said as Norman approached. The maître d’ hurried over and supplied a necessary chair. Norman subsided. A waitress was bidden. ‘Marvellous thing e-Bay. You won’t believe the stuff I’m turning over nowadays. Got my own little packaging and delivery service.’ The summoned waitress stood attentively at Norman’s elbow. He made no attempt to read the bill of fare though it, like the décor, had no doubt changed. ‘Go on,’ continued Micky. ‘Have a pot of Darjeeling on me.’ Norman chose not to protest. The waitress satisfied departed. ‘Anyway how’s tricks? Long time no peeper clap.’

  ‘Fings ain’t what they used to be as they sang once in Stratford East.’ His feet were beginning to throb and he thought wistfully of his usual more comfortable attire.

  ‘Now don’t go old aged relative on me. Fings, as you put it, are on the upswing.’

  ‘Legit things, Micky?’

  ‘Legit things, Norman.’ He paused while the waitress deposited the teapot, cup and saucer. Norman made no move to disturb the still life. ‘Let it brew,’ said Micky. ‘The champagne of the Himalayas. But I guess you came to see me not drink fine tea, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Norman repeated the tale of Joan Oliphant and Augustin Cox.

  Micky listened attentively although he tapped from time to time on the keyboard of a mobile, scrolled screens and twice fielded calls. ‘Not in the life as far as I know,’ he said when Norman had finished. ‘Unusual name. Might not be kosher, of course. Listen, tell you what I’ll do if you’ve got time, I’ll drop this and make a few immediate soundings okay?’

  ‘I didn’t think professional crims went into this kind of etiquette stuff. I only wondered if she was connected.’

  ‘You’d be surprised how many mummy’s boys there are on the sly.’ Micky began texting at a pace Norman could only wonder at. His corns were twitching now. Norma long ago would have cast off her sensible flat-heeled brogues, but in his other appearance he felt constrained to keep his shoes on. ‘Technology I love it,’ continued Mickey. ‘It’s making Britain great again. What with PACE and the harder it is to fit up and Michael Mansfield — bless his silk knickers — the old girl is coming up petunias. Britannia that is.’

  ‘I never doubted it was she of whom you spoke.’

  ‘Wait. Here’s a runner.’ Micky studied the screen on one of the mobiles. ‘Elephant.’

  ‘And Castle,’ said Norman helpfully.

  ‘No. Geezer called Elephant. Arsed about a bit. Few minor stretches. Tried to relieve a bookie at Catford dogs. Not so called because of his hooter or anything, but because his real monniker was Oliphant. Married name of Jean, Joan or maybe Joyce. This is interesting. She’s a daughter of Bill Savory. Now he was a tasty number if you’ll pardon the allusion. GBH. Protection. Menaces. The lot. Come to think of it I was on the same landing in the Scrubs on my triple. Bill’s dead. The other two present whereabouts unknown. Now how about that? Do the doves still reappear when I wave my magic stick?’

  Norman agreed that indeed they did. ‘Much obliged, Micky. You are a true chronicler of our days.’ He stood up.

  ‘You haven’t touched your Darjeeling,’ admonished Micky. ‘That’s more than a fox’s pass. It’s an opportunity missed.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ He let Micky’s faux pronunciation pass unchallenged. ‘They can reheat it and sell it to who next orders it. F and M can do no wrong.’

  ‘Sacrilege. Unbeliever. You don’t deserve it, but there is an old pal of Bill’s still knocking around. Ex-dip. Alcoholic. You’ll probably find her if you hurry on a bench by the lake in St James’s Park. Shirley something. Her second name’s gone. Cans. Cheap port. One of them contraptions to wheel shopping bags.’

  ‘Again many thanks.’

  ‘Well when you’ve taken out like I have you’ve gotta put something back. I can’t interest you in some lovely grandfather clocks can I? Spotless provenance.’

  With a wave of his hand Norman was gone.

  Back on the ground floor in the wine and spirits department he purchased three cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, watched as they were carefully wrapped in tissue and bagged then exited to hail a cab in the direction of St James’s Park. He eased his feet temporarily out of his shoes and thought about nothing in particular.

  Bird calls predominately of the duck and moorhen variety greeted him, as, shod once more, he made his way along the path which skirted the lake. Toddlers crept to the water’s edge dispensing a largess of stale breadcrumbs to the encouragement of their assorted parents and grandparents. Snatches of Russian, Polish, Japanese and American English floated upwards in the still warm, sunlit air. Everything conversely was right as rain for a picture postcard or indeed a location in a John Le Carré spy film. The only thing missing was two soberly dressed spymasters — one carrying a furled umbrella in a military manner — tersely chatting to one another up on the ornamental bridge. Tourists and sober citizens idly watched the passing cavalcade from the green park benches. Regulation notices dotted here and there strictly forbad skate-boarding, roller skating, ball games, litter dropping and other pursuits deemed anti-social by HM’s commissioners. Vagrants, drunks, addicts and flashers were noticeable by their absence.

  Osmosing this generally soothing scene but in his heart preferring the seedy grandeur of Victoria Park, Hackney, Norman soon espied the lady to whom Micky had so kindly alluded. She sat alone at the edge of a bench, a cloth coat of some vintage protecting her from the rays of the sun. Her hand dipped abstractedly into the aforementioned shopping bag attached to the aforementioned trolley and drew out a bottle whose contents were discreetly shielded by a brown paper bag. Her face was red, the veins in it broken. She took a contemplative swig then returned the vessel to its convenient hidey-hole. Norman courteously greeted her, inquired if she were Shirley, introduced himself and ignoring the glare she bestowed upon him sat down beside her. He produced two of the Special Brew cans, opened them both, passed one to her and took a sip from the other. ‘Still sufficiently chilled,’ he noted benignly.

  ‘What the sexual intercourse makes you so pleased with yourself?’ asked his now fellow lager drinker.

  He reserved his reply for later and mentioned that one Micky Rubin, guide and confidante to the underworld, had kindly suggested she might know something of a Joan Oliphant’s whereabouts.

  ‘You from SB or just a ponce who gets his kicks tormenting women in public parks?’

  ‘Alas neither. Special Branch would have provided me with a pension even if it were a meagre one whereas only the State Retirement version keeps me in booze and pikelets. As to your latter suggestion I rarely go to parks before dark.’

  ‘Another person practising sexual intercourse who thinks they’re funny. You known Micky long?’
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  Norman nodded. ‘Inside and out. Once rough diamond and Mr Nasty now salt of the earth and e-Bay entrepreneur. Joan Oliphant’s the name of the game.’

  ‘Give us twenty quid.’

  He demurred but produced the last remaining can.

  ‘I could have had your wallet off you even from here. You wouldn’t have felt a thing.’ She rummaged in her bag and took a restorative accompanying slug of her preferred tipple before draining the remains of her bad woman’s brew. ‘Bill Savory’s daughter. Hard case, Bill, but generous, unlike some, when he was in the right mood and had had a few. Married the Elephant Man. Johnny, Jimmy, Frankie. I forget his proper name. Runner about, odds and ends, opportune break-ins. No trade. No craft. Now I could tell you something about developing a skill, working with a team or goin’ it alone. A tenner would help.’

  Norman wiped the top of his can, from which he had only taken a first perfunctory swallow, with his spotless white handkerchief and placed it beside the last one he had offered. Shirley eyed the sky ruminatively but continued with her narrative. ‘Bill didn’t like him. What Joan saw in him only the Lord Chancellor knows. Unprepossessing little runt. Perhaps she was prepared to do anything to get away from her happy home. After three or four years there’s an almighty ruckus, over what I don’t know. Elephant’s been in and out Petty stuff. Bill and assorted friends are on his trail. He scarpers and that’s it. Although a fiver’s beneath me it wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Any kids?’

  ‘None I know of. Joan went north.’

  ‘Know where?’

  ‘Hornsey, I think.’ She tipped up the second can and grasped the third.

  ‘Thank you, Shirley,’ Norman said. Twenty-five pounds I heard you say. Please donate it to the cause of your choice. Truly I’ve found our conversation quite delightful.’

  Chapter 11

  Sleuthing Twosome

  Hamish did ring Geraldine as promised. He proposed a meal and some dancing later that night. She acquiesced. He then suggested they meet for a drink before the restaurant. She asked if he intended driving. He answered in the affirmative. She then posited he pick her up at West Hampstead and have one — repeated one — drink. He declared neutral ground might be better after what had happened. She told him not to be silly, and if he was determined to be silly the date was off. Although stung by her riposte he decided he was being silly after all, rescinded his remark and said he would come to hers at 7.30.

  He put down the phone stereotypically muttering ‘women’. She put down her phone retracting her metaphoric Kilkenny cat’s claws with a contented smile.

  Before dressing for their date she rang Dollis Hill but received no answer. Catching Alison on her mobile she learned that Norma was in isolation during the nadir of her decline although the prognosis for a rapid ascent and general cheering up approached by the hour. Satisfied that the aged book sleuth was probably well tucked up with a box of peppermint creams and a gaggle of Ivy Compton Burnetts, she turned her attention to her projected plan of campaign for the evening. A bottle of St Pourcain — she was beginning to get the wine bug — was cooling in the fridge. A pack of cards lay unobtrusively on the library coffee table beside two thin-stemmed glasses. She knew exactly the number of items of clothing she would wear. In other words all systems were go. Her reflection smiled back at her in the bedroom mirror. If not a full Cheshire cat grin at least it was the self-satisfied smirk of a Kilkenny cat that had not only smelled fish but had managed to digest a substantial coley. Hamish. Well he wouldn’t really know what had hit him.

  In the event when he did arrive there was a definite air of awkwardness about him. She proffered her cheek, but he kept his distance muttering about he was sorry to be late and offering some banalities concerning the traffic. She blanked out the words and concentrated on his scrumminess — for he did look scrummy — otherwise she might have sent him packing with a mosquito buzzing in his ear. ‘Come into the hub of my operation,’ she said, thinking of the spider and the fly. ‘As you’ll see I do it by the book.’

  They entered the library where, before Hamish could fully take in the quantity of volumes on display, Lacenaire began hopping excitedly from one foot to the other. A sustained chirping and preening of his feathers enabled him to sum up the situation with an inspired if unpremeditated, ‘What’s the matter, chucky? Tiger got your handcuffs?’

  Hamish gasped open-mouthed. ‘How the hell did it know I was a copper?’

  ‘Oh, I told him all about you. By the way did you bring your handcuffs? If so I’m not that kind of girl. Anyway, I’ll get the drinks and let you two get better acquainted. I think he’s taken quite a shine to you. Hamish this is Lacenaire. Lacenaire this is the young and upstanding pillar of the law I mentioned in passing. Have fun.’

  Unaccustomed to conversing with parrots, no matter how clairvoyant they appeared to be, Hamish turned his attention to the serried rows of books lining the wall. He stooped to make out some of their titles, while Lacenaire remained on high alert, hopping vigorously and pecking at his perch until Hamish finally slid out a particular title which had caught his fancy. ‘The writer did it,’ uttered the bird triumphantly.

  ‘I expect they did,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s got to be the nature of the book.’ This parrot was intriguing, completely unlike the who’s-a-pretty-boy budgies he had come across in visiting relatives as a boy. He was tempted to ask it about Geraldine who seemed to be taking her time to re-emerge with the drinks.

  ‘Fat,’ said Lacenaire as if reading his thoughts.

  ‘No, whatever else she is she’s certainly not that.’

  ‘Not what?’ Geraldine came back in with the bottle of wine in an ice bucket. ‘I see you two have got on famously.’

  ‘He said you were fat.’

  ‘Did he now? It’s a recent word of his. I don’t know whether he’s concerned about the trend towards obesity or his preference for polyunsaturates, but please take a seat. I’ve uncorked the wine.’

  Hamish obeyed. ‘Just one,’ he said. ‘I’m driving.’

  She smiled. ‘That’ll be nice for you.’

  Waiting until she had poured her own, he half raised his glass in salute, a movement which she reciprocated. ‘Been playing patience?’ he said indicating the pack of cards.

  ‘Ah, visions of the woman detective whiling away the empty hours waiting for her man to call.’ She gave a hoot, took a deep draught of her wine and held the bottle over his glass in order to replenish it. His hand covered it in refusal.

  ‘Mine’s a large krepkaya and coconut milk,’ squawked Lacenaire encouragingly.

  ‘Isn’t that a kind of Russian vodka?’

  ‘It is indeed. A strong one.’ Her eyes moved from his face to his torso, to his legs and back up again. Her second glass of wine quickly drunk was going to her head. She was beginning to really enjoy herself. ‘I thought we might have a little game before we went out,’ she said. ‘Cards on the table. Share what we know. A version of strip poker but not poker itself. I don’t know a flush from a full house. No, something simple. Highest card wins. Lowest divulges info about Augustin Cox and...’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I did say strip. Only I’d have a metaphorical fig leaf. My client’s name. I won’t give that away. You can have one too if you like.’

  ‘And a non-metaphoric fig leaf?’

  ‘Oh they went out of fashion long ago. I can’t be doing with them. Another drink?’

  This time he let her fill his glass. ‘Aces high?’

  ‘As you like. I do think you should remove your jacket in a sign of good faith. I did volunteer information that he liked to spank women.’

  Hamish graciously complied. ‘I’m not sure whether you’re trying to suborn or seduce me.’

  ‘Suborn. I’ve no idea what that means, but yes I am trying to seduce you, and I hope you want to seduce me too.’

  ‘Fat,’ interjected Lacenaire again, cogitating, if it were possible, on something unexplained.


  ‘You may have rigged the pack for all I know.’

  ‘In this life of crime and mystery the dice are always loaded, my dear DC. They’re the odds we battle.’ She had indeed doctored the pack giving herself, provided she went first, a solid winning run with only the occasional concession, but then had thought better of it and had given them a virtuous shuffle.

  ‘If we do go ahead with this pre-date game remember I’ve more to lose than you.’

  ‘What can you mean? Nakedness, if it comes to that, doesn’t have a profit and loss column. but perhaps you’re missing your policeman’s helmet with which to cover whatever seems to embarrass you most.’

  ‘No helmet needed. No fig leaf. Be prepared, I usually win at cards. You pick first then we’ll alternate.’

  She did so and laid face up a Jack of diamonds on the table. Sipping her wine she awaited the revelation of the next one which she now no longer knew. It was the eight of spades. Hamish slid off his left shoe.

  ‘The Bedfont flat was tidy in the extreme.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s as much as a Jack is worth plus a shoe.’

  She refilled his glass noting that he didn’t protest. The prospect of him driving was beginning to fade. Tidiness like cleanliness might be next to godliness, but the devil still had the best tricks.

  Hamish picked a card, looked at it briefly and turned up the four of hearts. With a smile Geraldine laid a four of spades beside it. Impasse. ‘My turn again.’ A ten and then a king brought her two further victories removing his right shoe and left sock plus the knowledge that Augustin annoyed the neighbours with loud music through the night and that one of them, Delman Cesareau, had pushed lighted newspapers through his door.

  ‘Does your parrot read the cards as well as the books?’ asked Hamish, casting a mock scowl towards Lacenaire, who was admiring himself in his tilted mirror. ‘Whose side are you really on? Ours or Augustin’s?’