by John Elliott
Without answering she picked up and showed a measly two covered shortly with his eight of the same suit. Spurning the choice of a shoe or an earring, she took off her top, ‘By ours did you mean the police or we two?’ He was clearly surprised by her action for his eyes rested steadily on the now revealed upper curve of her breasts before switching back to the wine bottle in its cooler. He filled up her glass and then his. ‘As a child, Augustin was in Spotlight. He was a Milky Bar Kid,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you already knew.’
‘No. We. I didn’t know that about him. Is there a winner in this game?’
‘Win win. I’m forgetting whose go it is.’
‘Mine.’ The ten of hearts he drew was easily overcome by her Ace of spades. He took off his shirt.
‘No longer going for equilibrium then.’ She glanced down at his still socked right foot.
Tired of self-regard, Lacenaire reminded them that he would like a large krepkaya and lime juice.
‘The killer was invited in or either had a duplicate key or was an expert lock picker. We found an advert for hairbrushes traced to an upmarket gentlemen’s barbers in Jermyn Street.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir, for your generous reply. Brideshead Revisited might come to mind. I seem to remember Lord whatever-he-was buying a hairbrush to spank his teddy bear when it was naughty from just such a source.’
‘Didn’t Evelyn Waugh make it more to do with vows to God and forsaking adultery or simply sex?’
‘Indubitably. But I’m not sure God figures in this instance. So you read books as well as keeping Feltham safe for honest folk.’ She swilled her wine in the glass, dipped her nose towards it and took an audible slurp. ‘Norma’s showing me the finer points. Do you like it?’
‘To tell the truth, my mind is on other things.’
‘My turn again.’ The queen of diamonds was more than hopeful. His king of hearts, however, soon had it vanquished. ‘After his parent’s deaths he was brought up by his paternal aunt.’ She was running out of information. If she lost again she might have to fib. Putting her hands behind her back she undid her bra and folded her arms across her chest before letting them drop to her sides. Time seemed to stand still for a moment. The library took on an added weight. Even Lacenaire appeared motionless within his confines. Hamish looked and looked. She looked at him. He looked into her face and then held her eyes.
‘We two,’ he whispered and turned over another ace. Without looking at her card she removed her skirt. ‘The initials LR were marked on a calendar we think by Augustin,’ he divulged slipping outside the rules of the game. The following card after the one she had left unseen was a two of clubs. Her fingers moved to the top of her pants.
‘I don’t want it to be like this.’
‘Want it?’ So there was an it he wanted.
He shook his head and took off the rest of his clothes. They stood up together.
‘Fat,’ said Lacenaire.
Her hair brushed his nose and cheek. ‘Want to walk somewhere and eat and go in a taxi and dance?’ she whispered but knew as their fingers interlocked the words, any words, were superfluous. The it had no need of them. Silently she guided him out of the library and up the stairs to the half-landing and beyond. They closed the bedroom door, or rather Hamish pushed it to after she had started its closing motion.
Downstairs the books remained where they were on their shelves. They didn’t shift or intermingle. Their chapters, sentences, phrases and individual words were as discrete and particular to themselves as they had always been. Plots and narrative schemes did not seep from their covers and coalesce into the solving of something apart, something in the mind of a now absent reader which led to a conclusion beyond their own boundaries.
Lacenaire, because the curtains were still open and his cage was unshrouded, stayed awake longer than was good for him. Left to his own devices he slipped more and more into his essential parrotness. As always given time, the light outside gradually faded and night came. Nothing momentous happened. West Hampstead’s reality to the casual observer stayed as expected in its West Hampstead way of dealing with reality. Meanwhile, in the room above, Geraldine and Hamish discovered a new way of beginning.
Chapter 12
Etiquette for Beginners (2)
On the following morning an unaccustomed dip into the racing results of the sports pages revealed to Norma that Old Wenceslas, in a three way photo, had prevailed at 14/1 by a head and a head.
La Petrie’s assiduous study of form and climatic conditions had come up trumps. Bunny’s coffers, no doubt, had been somewhat replenished and his immediate intake of alcohol in the Scottish manner gratified. In effect, a job well done, as had been a trip to study the electoral roll of N7 and N19 further to Shirley’s information. Oliphants thankfully were a rare species and only one had borne the initial J. A cursory reconnoitre of the address had revealed an unremarkable semi-detached house on a suburban street with a convenient vantage point of a patch of waste ground further down the opposite side.
A breakfast of Melba toast — slivered by her own still muscular hand — spread with the contents of a prized plastic pot of Gentleman’s Relish and washed down with a fulsome cup of Sumatra coffee — no effete tea malarkey — completed a successful abandonment of the decline syndrome. Geraldine might be somewhat miffed by her senior partner’s unannounced intervention, but time would tell if the result outweighed any necessary little white lies.
Deciding once again that manly attire was more auspicious, Norman sallied forth — the temperature outside remaining balmy — clad in bottle green slacks, a muted Granny Smith apple green short-sleeved shirt and an Italian jerkin of emerald hue. Only the pair of dark tan, tasselled loafers adorning and easing his feet would have lessened a hearty cheer from any passing Friend of the Earth. With a pair of binoculars round his neck, an also green small haversack on his back containing a camera with zoom and a vintage shooting stick in hand, he closed the door, after phoning Alison to tell her where he was bound, and headed north to Hornsey.
Since he expected to spend a considerable time client-watching he stopped en route at a convenient Prêt A Manger to pick up future sustenance of two sandwiches: one of tuna mayonnaise, the other of boiled gammon and piccalilli with an accompanying bottle of English apple juice to ward off dehydration. Gaining his destination of Carlton Crescent, after a long linkage of public transport, he planted his shooting stick firmly in the meagre sward of the vacant lot, seated himself and trained his binoculars on house number 63.
Time passed — there being nothing to prevent it. Nobody entered or left. His view through the front bay window and the more curtailed one into the narrower pane above afforded no evidence of the occupant. The delights of the situation remained purely internally linked with the memories of other such surveillances undertaken in younger days. As the sun was now well over the yardarm, he took a ruminative sip of apple juice and thought fondly of Lacenaire and his new vocabulary. Vita was brevis, but at least a parrot’s possible longer timescale afforded hope of at last mastering the desired phrase. Then a large, sleek black car — a Lexus through the bins — drew up in one of the available parking spaces opposite. Soon, after regarding the efficacy or otherwise of his thinning, fair hair in the mirror, a middle-aged man in casual togs got out, locked up with the customary beep and strolled up the short pathway to Joan Oliphant’s etiquette academy.
After his two quick presses of the bell, the door opened, and Norman was given his first sighting of the lady in question. A smile of welcome, a shake of the caller’s hand, a disguised glance to right and left beyond his shoulders, a cordial ushering in, all were accomplished according to the stipulated handbook before the door closed. Ah, thought Norman, Drusilla Beyfus you should be living at this hour. Curtains now were drawn across the bay window. No doubt she had spotted the extraneous figure in the landscape, but that was all to the good. He was not of the shrinking violet genus. He had dressed specifically to draw attention to himself. As well as t
he photos taken, the registration number of the Lexus went down for future reference in the notebook brought for that purpose, belt and braces being a sine qua non in the profession.
After a scant half hour — tariff presumably agreed — the visitor exited without a show from his instructress. As he eased himself into the driver’s seat of his vehicle, Norman wondered — rather pruriently he had to admit — how much his behind smarted as it made contact with the upholstery.
Time passed again in its confluence. Cars swished up and down. Curious glances were cast in his direction by denizens and assorted humanity going about their lawful pursuits. He acknowledged each of them with a courteous nod and, if they persisted, a cheery wave of his hand. A slight pang of hunger reminded him it was fodder time. Tuna with mayo he decided should open the offensive. Modern enclosed packaging of comestibles was not something he was accustomed to deal with, however, so more time elapsed on its preordained course before he mastered the knack and sank his teeth through the seeded wholegrain to the fish and squishy amalgam within.
Three more visitors, all male and of varied garb and prosperity, entered and exited after their allotted lesson from number 63 during the first part of the afternoon. The second sandwich now followed the first. Concluding that apple juice was almost as obnoxious as tea, Norman silently vowed never to buy a bottle of the brew again. Then something, or rather someone different, happened. The doorbell was rung not by a man but by a young woman. She was shown in quickly minus greeting and the door was just as quickly closed.
Ten minutes later a rather decrepit Citroen Deux Chevaux pulled up, its occupant resplendent in a canary Pringle sweater as if off for a casual round of golf. A loose swing of an imaginary club — sand wedge, Norman surmised — on the doorstep of 63 completed the picture. Like other clients he seemed concerned about the state of his hair for he ran his fingers twice through the thick silver locks which surmounted his still boyish face before his hostess appeared. A good walk wasted, as Mark Twain had described the Scottish pastime of skelping the gutta percha over fairway and rough. No doubt the finer points of the rules according to the Royal and Ancient would soon be thrashed out behind the curtains. Absorbed in these thoughts while stowing the camera back in the haversack, Norman failed to spot the arrival of two members — one female one male – of the Local Community Police.
‘Bird watching, are we, sir?’ inquired the uniform of the female persuasion, this witticism sending her male cohort into an unadulterated chortle.
‘Exactly put,’ applauded Norman. ‘You have seized the nub of the matter rapidly and succinctly.’ He refrained from any hole in one analogy. ‘Sparrows, you see. Something of a comeback after a positive dearth.’ He spread an arm expansively taking in sky, pavement and the meagre forms of shrubbery supplied by the Crescent. Unluckily one solitary urban seagull provided the sole avian presence. It did not even deign to vent its habitual raucous screech.
‘Name,’ continued the womanly guardian of local safety. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Earl of Dalgleish. I’m conducting a sparrow census before repairing to the House. Lords that is. Not the other place,’ he added helpfully.
‘I think you’ll find you’ve taken an ex-footballer and manager’s name in vain,’ suggested the male — without power of arrest — peacekeeper of the streets, this time to the merriment of his oppo.
‘Kenneth of that ilk. Stout fellow and adornment to the family escutcheon. Cadet branch, of course.’ Behind them, walking rather stiffly, the putative Walker Cup selection suddenly emerged. Good heavens that was quick, thought Norman. A swift six of the best and next to no time in the corner. A moment later the young woman appeared. ‘Well it’s been nice chatting to you, but I must make tracks.’
‘The right idea.’ said the female encouragingly.
‘Definitely the right idea,’ echoed the male.
They watched solicitously as Norman shook his stumps and uprooted the shooting stick. ‘Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,’ came their parting shot.
Luckily the young woman passed the Citroen with a wave to its occupant and continued on her own. Norman followed her none too discreetly. They had not gone far past the City of London Hospital when his quarry stopped, turned and waited patiently for him to catch up. ‘It seems you want a word with me. Either that or you’re a fan of my rear view.’
‘An exceedingly diverting one, my compliments. But no, your first supposition is correct. Is there somewhere nearby where we could have a drink or a sociable coffee?’
‘I don’t know about sociable. There is a caff, however, further down.’
‘Not of the Seattle variety I trust.’
‘No, more the Italian working men variety. They’re likely to take the piss though. You dressed as you are like the jolly green gnome. You’re a bit of a stand out aren’t you, what with the bins and all? Joan and I had you clocked from the start.’
‘Most gratifying, but shall we walk on? As our American friends used to say, my dogs are killing me. I’m Norman Bones by the way. Norma to my friends.’
The young woman screwed up her face and eyed him more intently. ‘Blythe,’ she said. ‘Blythe Fuller.’
The interior of the caff was unsullied in its formica splendour. All-day breakfasts were being appreciatively guzzled by the majority of its patrons. Well-tended flies circled in homage round the central revolving fan in the ceiling. Curious looks, which Norman ignored, evolved into several whistles accompanied by general mirth which abated finally when Blythe led the way to a now vacated table flanked by two narrow bench seats. An elderly waitress approached and cleared the previous occupants’ detritus. Blythe ordered a coffee and Norman said ditto. Out of nostalgia he was tempted to ask for condensed milk in it but wisely refrained. Those attempted lurches into the past rarely succeeded. One’s previous tastes usually proved revolting in practice.
‘You’re a bit of a sly boots,’ said Blythe when their coffees had been brought.
‘Sly boots, yourself,’ replied Norman affably. ‘Joan Oliphant’s my client, or rather the client of my assistant, Geraldine Mycroft. She hired us over the murder of Augustin Cox. I run a detective agency.’
‘Listen. I’ve heard all sorts of stories. Stick to it if you wish, but I’d say in spite of your show-off dress you’re a wee bit shy. You want to come in, but the bottle isn’t quite there so you stand outside and watch.’
‘And inside? What’s your bottle letting you do?’
‘No secret. We’re not doing anything illegal. People pay. Some of them like to be watched. I play the part and wear the uniform they prefer. Pin money really. I’ve got a proper job, as straights would call it. This I can take or leave. Joan’s a sweetie though. She was friends with my mum.’
‘Yes, there’s usually a lot of sweetness and light in these situations I’ve often found.’
‘Sarky. Joan wouldn’t appreciate that.’
‘As well as some people asking to be watched others might want to watch. Unobserved let’s say. Augustin Cox for instance. You did know Augustin?’
‘What you getting at? Joan wouldn’t have anyone spying on the clients unless it was on their wish menu. She runs a business. Trust’s the name of the game. As for Augustin, well.’ She finished her coffee. ‘Tastes disgusting don’t it. Not a patch on Caffe Uno where you got comfortable sofas, music and papers to read if you want them.’
‘WiFi, too I hear.’ Norman chose not to get into an Egon Ronay stroke Fay Maschler critique of their present surroundings. ‘Like his friend, Joan, Augustin liked to spank. Women in his case.’
Blythe burst out laughing. ‘Augustin? You are pulling my leg. Just as you didn’t have the bottle to come in he didn’t have the bottle to try something like that. Not in a million years. Somebody has been extracting the Michael.’
Slightly nonplussed, Norman continued probing. ‘You knew him well then?’
She nodded. ‘Joan used to joke she’d got us together like people in a Dickens. Can’t reme
mber the name. Great something.’
Good god. Pip and Estella with La Oliphant playing Miss Havisham, thought Norman. ‘She was matchmaking then. But I take it you didn’t fancy him.’
‘Okay in his way. Definitely not my type though. Wait a minute,’ she paused and studied the circling flies. ‘Whoever told you what they told you might have been thinking of Halcyon. They put two and two together and got six.’
‘Halcyon. Kingfisher. Golden days of yore.’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Augustin was a camera operator for them. Always behind the camera. Never a participant. They’re still going strong. Big deal nowadays on the web. Are you really a detective? You don’t look like one. Not even the filth would be as ham-fisted as you.’
‘One tries. Yes, it’s my belief I am.‘
And on that assertion of faith, apart from some further inconsequential chit chat, they went their separate ways, Norman’s followed by a man from an adjoining table, whose presence the competent or incompetent detective had noted and photographed previously in Carlton Crescent.
Chapter 13
Geraldine in Spankerland
Soothed by rillettes spread on Melba toast, perked up by a tempting slice of jambon persillé and rallied by the promise of kumquats to come, Norma — according to Alison Petrie’s phone call — had emerged from the slough of her despond in the early hours of the morning and was — as she spoke — embarking towards the upper slopes. Oh and by the way, an anonymous well-wisher had mentioned Halcyon Features in connection with Augustin Cox. It had been a man’s voice on the other end of the line but no name, no pack drill.
Geraldine giggled at the thought of kumquats no doubt already on their way to Dollis Hill borne by a small green van with gold lettering. It was all very Song of Solomon and now on the morning after Hamish, if truth be told, she still retained a trace of the Queen of Sheba herself.