Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  ‘Tolerable. She should be home in a day or two.’

  ‘Am I speaking to Stable Girl by any chance?’

  Alison nearly said, ‘You forgot the pause,’ but didn’t Instead, intrigued, she essayed, ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Bunny Carslake here. I always thought Norma wasn’t the type to be frequenting early morning gallops or consorting with stable hands at the Dog and Pheasant after last feed so that her racing info had to have been furnished nearer to home. Am I right?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  The pause technique of communication kicked in again, allowing Alison to deliberate on the merits and demerits of Polo Boy in the upcoming mile handicap at Sandown Park whilst hearing Enya yield to Neil Diamond. ‘Not in the rules,’ Bunny resumed, contradicting the impression that he had been finally tailed off. ‘Micky’s gone too far. The old girl didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘Would you tell the police Micky Rubin was responsible?’

  ‘Not in the Corinthian code, I’m afraid. Anyway, it would be futile. What I can do, though, is put Norma ahead of the game in compensation. I now know the whereabouts of Micky’s daughter, Lucy. Is there a pen handy?’

  Alison confirmed she had one and luckily, as speech was in full flow, noted down the address.

  ‘Two days grace then I’ll tell Micky. It’s the best I can do. If Norma can’t go, young Geraldine should measure up. Attractive popsy. Sorry if that’s not apropos. My generation. Old habits etc.’ He hung up, Neil Diamond just managing to squeeze out a sweet Caro as he went.

  Losing no time, after a quick bit of research, Alison called Geraldine’s mobile. ‘A breakthrough I think,’ she said. ‘I’ve got Lucy Rubin’s address in Shortlands.’

  ‘Great. How did you manage that? I’m almost at the crematorium gates. Where the hell is Shortlands?’

  Alison hastily explained Bunny’s gift from the gods. ‘It’s at Bromley, Kent. I’ve looked in the A to Z and checked on trains. You need to go to Victoria and get a stopper. There’s a station at Shortlands itself.’

  ‘You’re wonderful. I’m on my way. Fat kisses.‘

  Unable to settle back into quiet plant tending, Alison considered calling Geraldine again to ask if the information would be passed to Hamish. Geraldine was impetuous. Her excitement could override caution. Belt and braces, she thought. It’s not like snitching or anything. Bit of insurance, really, like in a tight photo finish when you’ve backed one of them and there’s odds offered on the other. She found Feltham’s number and rang CID.

  Chapter 25

  Baby Talk

  For a moment Geraldine thought of turning back and letting Jerzy know that the Bones Agency, and the Bones Agency alone, had unearthed Lucy’s whereabouts, a detail which had eluded their professed legitimate resources. On reflection, however, she deemed it inadvisable. She needed to get there first, and Feltham CID were not likely to invite her along for the ride. Once on the main road she kept a keen lookout for a passing taxi. Hopefully she had enough money to get to Victoria. Then on the train she would call Hamish. That was fair. Honour would be satisfied on both sides. Ten minutes later she was in a cab and on her way. Her growing anticipation thwarted at every dawdling red light.

  Although she now prided herself that she was no longer a rookie in the field, she had had ample time and opportunity, which sadly she had missed, to have spotted that someone else was taking an interest in her movements. A mini-cab had idled then stopped within the crematorium gates while she waited for transport. It had then discreetly tailed her and was at the moment two vehicles behind.

  Arriving at last, decidedly poorer but still eager on the trail, she scanned the departure screens on the bustling Victoria concourse. Eighteen minutes to her train. Sufficient time to buy a ticket and a takeaway coffee. This is the life, she thought. This is really London, and I’ve got a place in it. Important things to do. Probably it was just as well Norma hadn’t been able to go to the funeral, ignoble sentiment though it was. This was her big chance. Reel in Lucy and who knows, their William Wilson, aka Aram Cufovsky, might not be far away. Ticket bought and cappuccino clutched, she boarded the train.

  Once beyond Brixton she called Hamish. Annoyingly he didn’t reply. She texted Lucy’s address with the promise that it would tickle his sporran and make his porridge bowl run over. She tried again as they passed Catford dog track. Still no joy.

  At the middle of the carriage behind, the person following looked keenly out of the window at each stop, ready to alight discreetly if Geraldine emerged. Otherwise a raised copy of Metro left by another passenger shielded their face from view.

  ‘Shortlands next stop’ the overhead rubric showed. Geraldine rose and moved to the doors. They were on a raised embankment. Houses below straggled up a hillside to an open park and a line of buildings beyond. She got off. The exit was back down the platform. A couple of people passed her. All around was quiet now the train had departed, except for birdsong emanating from somewhere within the verges of the track. She descended the ramp and asked directions at the ticket office. ‘Not far,’ was the reply. ‘Three streets away past a Wine Rack and a dentists’ practice.’ She walked uphill, heart palpitating, rehearsing how she would play it. By ear? Slyly? Coolly? Tough and not taking no for an answer? Here it was so soon. An unprepossessing semi in urgent need of a lick of paint. Do it, she told herself. She rang the bell twice.

  ‘Lucy Rubin?’

  ‘Whatever you’re selling I’ve already got, or if it’s some cause I’m against it.’ The full-figured brunette moved to close the door.

  Geraldine hurriedly improvising said, ‘I’ve come from your father.’ A statement that, although not strictly true in a time sense, still bore some credence. The door remained ajar. Lucy paused. She must be Lucy because she had not denied it.

  ‘Well, he’s recruiting them young and boho nowadays.’ She gave Geraldine and her muted parakeet outfit a long appraising stare. ‘What’s this, the floaty, feel-good approach rather than the frighteners? You’d better come in. If he knows my address he’s not going to go away.’

  ‘He wants to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.’ Geraldine wondered how far to take the caring father routine. It certainly seemed to be working. She followed down the narrow hallway into a small sitting room at the end of which a heavily beaded curtain obscured what was probably the kitchen beyond. It was time to cut to the chase. She was in, and Lucy couldn’t immediately throw her out. ‘Augustin Cox,’ she began.

  Lucy stared at her in surprise. ‘What the hell’s Micky got to do with Augustin?’

  Before Geraldine could answer, the front door bell rang in a sustained press. Lucy glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Jesus Christ! This is come-round-to-Lucy’s-Friday. I take it you came alone.’ Geraldine nodded. ‘Stay here. I’ll get rid of whoever it is. My next appointment’s an hour away.’

  Left to herself, Geraldine took in her surroundings. It was all very ordinary. There was no sign of any baby paraphernalia. Suddenly she had a sense that she was not alone. That there was someone in the room beyond. No sound. No movement. Just a feeling. She moved towards the beaded barrier, but as she did so Lucy re-entered in a very curious posture. She was walking backwards with her hands slightly in the air. Geraldine turned, and met the steely gaze of her erstwhile client and recent eulogist, Joan Oliphant, who was holding a pistol so tiny it was almost laughable, but neither she nor Lucy were laughing.

  ‘You’ve done well, Geraldine, in leading me to the bitch,’ Joan said. ‘Now be a good little detective and sit down quietly. Yes, on the sofa there.’

  Geraldine hurriedly complied. Her knowledge of firearms was minuscule. She had no idea of the range or accuracy of the one Joan was holding. ‘The police are on their way. I called them.’

  ‘Please. Spare us the clichés.’ Joan sneered. ‘You’ve been watching too many duff movies. Shut up or I’ll give you some of the medicine I’m going to give little Miss Lucy. You and your father,’ she turned to her main target, ‘are
two despicable pieces of shit. You corrupted Augustin. You took him away from Blythe, and your father ordered her murder. I don’t care what happens to me. You’re not going to leave this place alive.’

  God. She must have followed me, Geraldine realised. All the time at the funeral she had this gun in her handbag. It was mind blowing. ‘Indomitable,’ Euan had said. Indomitable didn’t cover it. Lucy though, who hadn’t uttered a word, seemed strangely collected for someone facing death and retribution. Indeed, her calm manner stung Joan into a long intake of breath. She raised the gun. Her finger round the trigger. Time elongated itself. Geraldine felt her temples throb. The inner workings of her body were pounding in her eardrums. ‘Don’t shoot, Mum. It’s me.’ A voice came from behind the beads. They parted and the figure of a man, his nether regions clad in an outsize nappy, appeared.

  ‘Sparky,’ Joan gasped. The pistol wobbled. Geraldine propelled herself forward. Her dipped shoulder dislodged the gun from Joan’s shaking hand. Her body follow-through winded her. Joan crumpled and went down. Geraldine sat securely on top of her. After that things went crazy.

  Lucy pealed with laughter then stopped. ‘I’ve pissed myself,’ she said. ‘This time it’s me who’s pissed themselves.’ Outside there was a crashing sound as the front door was stove in. In a twinkling Jerzy was in the room closely followed by a WPC in uniform. ‘Run, Augie, run!’ Lucy shouted. ‘You don’t need your reins.’ The figure turned and fled. Jerzy picked up the fallen pistol and helped Geraldine to her feet.

  ‘He’s getting away,’ she said. ‘He’s not—’

  ‘Yes I know. He’s not Aram Cufovsky. He won’t get far. Hamish and reinforcements are at the back. The house is surrounded.’

  ‘She tried to shoot me. Bloody kill me.’ A hysterical note heightened Lucy’s normal husky tone. ‘It’s attempted murder.’

  ‘I think not. Menaces, yes. Murder, no.’ Jerzy checked the tiny pistol. ‘Not loaded.’

  Free now from Geraldine’s posterior resting on her spine, Joan remained on the carpet. She looked suddenly older than her years. Her normal steely personality shrunk and vulnerable. ‘Alive,’ she whispered in part disarray part wonderment. Geraldine had a vision of her only managing to totter out with the aid of a zimmer frame.

  ‘We’ve got him.’ The news came over Jerzy’s communication device. He helped Joan to her feet and sat her on the sofa, telling her she might be charged with possession of an illegal firearm and she would be charged with threatening behaviour.

  ‘Rancid old bat,’ said Lucy. ‘Not content with tanning my hide she wants to send me to an early grave. Holloway’s too good for her.’

  ‘I’ll need statements from both of you. Geraldine, are you alright?’ She nodded. ‘Good.’ Jerzy turned to Lucy. ‘Has Augustin got clothes here?’

  ‘Yes. Behind there.’ She indicated the beaded curtain. I need to change. Truth is I’ve pissed in my pants and I’ve a baby upstairs, who has been waiting God knows how long for a bedtime story.’

  ‘Go with her,’ Jerzy said to the WPC. ‘Hamish, I need you in here to take a statement from a baby,’ he relayed over his network. ‘Upstairs somewhere. Get what he witnessed, if anything, and no jokes please.’

  ‘I thought of telling you,’ Geraldine said sheepishly.

  ‘Better if you had. Safer. But then,’ there was a twinkle in his eye, ‘you’d have missed all the fun.’ He turned to Joan. ‘We’ll be off soon, Mrs Oliphant. At least your boy is alive.’

  ‘Fat lot you care.’ She dipped her face into her hands and began to sob quietly.

  A grinning Hamish popped his head round the door. Geraldine beamed back. Jerzy shooed him upstairs. Bit by bit order was being restored.

  Chapter 26

  A Good Deed in the Worst of all Possible Worlds

  1. No-one

  ‘Time 19.32. Present DS Kirkland, DI Turostowski, Bernard Simkiss, solicitor. For the record please state your name, age and address.’ Pat leant back in her chair in the Feltham interview room and waited. There was no response. Across the table Bernard Simkiss whispered to his client, who seemed mesmerised by the green light of the recorder. Jerzy unconcernedly studied the transcripts of the statements already taken from Lucy Rubin and Joan Oliphant. Simkiss whispered again.

  ‘No-one. No time. No place.’ The voice was as short of emotion as the information it carried.

  ‘Thank-you,’ Jerzy said without irony, ‘that helps me understand. Augustin Cox, I wish to interview you in connection with the murder of Aram Cufovsky.‘

  Having made his intention clear he proceeded with a series of questions interspersed with the occasional supposition as to what had happened. Each time he was met by silence and solicitor whispering followed by the assertion, ‘No-one makes no comment.’ A double negative which would have appealed to Noam Chomsky if no-one else. A rigorous pattern was set which Jerzy continued to meet with good grace and repeated cordiality.

  For a time Pat took over, ranging in style from she who must be obeyed to Deborah Kerr in Tea And Sympathy with a stop along the way for an appealing Miss Jones from Rising Damp. Seals, no doubt would have rubbed their flippers enthusiastically, and the late Lew Grade would have had a contract on the table faster than he could clip his Romeo y Julieta, but No-one continued in his stonewall way to make no comment.

  Jerzy finally terminated the interview. Augustin Cox was escorted back to his cell.

  ‘Recently graduated from the young offenders’ drama workshop,’ said Pat after she and Jerzy had joined Hamish in their own version of reality sanctuary. ‘Oldest trick in the space archive, playing doolally.’

  ‘We’ll see. Fear not. I’m confident we are going to charge him. After that it’s psychiatry, CPS, the courts and society. Gentleness may get us there.’ Jerzy contemplated the soggy slice of pizza resting in its delivery box which Hamish had ordered — the canteen being closed — as emergency sustenance. ‘Oh for a salt beef sandwich. What is it?’

  ‘Hawaiian with double pineapple. Friday’s a duff evening for choice if you don’t get in quick.’

  ‘Looks more Heathrow catering than 510. A show you’re too young to remember, Hamish,’ said Jerzy taking a tentative bite.

  ‘So, gently we go, as in the Lucy baby method rather than the no nonsense Mother Joan.’ Hamish had recently assisted in both their interviews. ‘One weirder than the other. Thank goodness Geraldine wasn’t hurt.’

  ‘From what I hear she’s a bit of an Irish prop forward, your librarian,’ Pat joked. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with a pineapple chunk on a savoury topping.’

  ‘Somewhat more lissom than that. I can see what attracts you.’ Jerzy reprieved his taste-buds by abandoning the pizza struggle.

  ‘Whatever size her frame, it’s going to be celebration nooky tonight. Crazy or sane, Cox notwithstanding if you’ll pardon the expression.’

  Hamish cringed inwardly. As he had feared, Pat was in her element now that the truth about Geraldine had been revealed. He sought temporary refuge in returning to the two women’s taped statements which he had been listening to before.

  Lucy, after some initial prevarication, had admitted she had met Augustin and Aram together. It was a game. They were smug about it. It helped Aram work and stay in the country. Augie had a brother he’d always wanted, and it was something Joan knew nothing about. A sweet secret Augie only shared in baby talk. At first Aram was tolerant of Augie’s favourite pastime, but then he became sarky, belittling Augie’s manhood. She guessed it was part of that Latin American macho bunk. Yes, in answer to their questions, Aram did want to spank her. He was excited because she’d been a professional. He’d watched the DVDs. She told him no chance. If anything, she’d have whopped his arse. Even brought along his own paddle. Augie wrested it away from him. ‘You should have seen his face. Physically neither Augie nor Aram were a Van Damme or a Vin Diesel, no disrespect to Augie. Weedy little runt, Aram. That’s spelled with an R by the way.’ She didn’t like to use swear words even if she w
as not with her babies. Augie said he wouldn’t bring him round anymore. It was the last she saw of him. As far she knew the arrangement ended and Aram left the country. Augie wouldn’t hurt anyone. It’s just he could be too trusting. He always wanted to say the Milky Bars were on him.

  Joan Oliphant, on the other hand, had never met or heard of Aram Cufovsky. There was only one Augustin Cox and to suggest otherwise was preposterous. He, poor young fellow, had obviously suffered some kind of mental breakdown, not helped by being in the clutches of the predatory Lucy Rubin, The body at Bedfont must have been an intruder, a vagrant or druggie. One never knew these days. As for the firearm, she had found it somewhere and had always meant to hand it in. No she didn’t have a licence and yes she could see that was not right in the eyes of the law. Charged with illegal possession and using a firearm to threaten with menaces she was released until her court appearance. She hired her solicitor to represent Augustin.

  ‘Right. Let’s call it for today. We’ll try him again tomorrow morning. Join me this time, Hamish. Pat, keep up the pressure on Montevideo. We’ve struck it lucky and the impetus is on our side.’ Jerzy wrapped up the proceedings and consigned his neglected pizza to the waste bin.

  When he had left, Pat said with a leering grin, ‘Head down tonight, Princess Leia. The baby boy’s going to need a stern talking to in the morning. You’ll have to be up for it.’

  ‘Don’t you get enough at home?’ Hamish was exasperated.

  ‘Yes. I do and it’s none of your business. Another thing, tell your bookworm the girl done good, from me.’ The situation slightly mollified they went their separate ways.

  Augustin continued doggedly as no-one making no comment in their second meeting, Hamish’s presence instead of Pat failing to dislodge him from his obdurate defence. Eventually Bernard Simkiss intervened to declare, ‘As, apart from the purely circumstantial evidence, you have produced nothing specific to implicate my client, Inspector, I ask you either to charge him or release him forthwith.’