Worse rang off. The Commodore was starting to fall back. They heard Ritchie speaking to Kev.
‘That was fucking weird. You know that fucker in the fucking building with the fucked-up lift—Jesus, Kev, what’s that fuckawful stink? That is fucking foul. What have you been fucking eating?’
‘It wasn’t me, fuck.’ From early childhood, Kev had perfected a succinct blend of profanity and denial. It worked best when coupled with a corollary of shifted blame: ‘It must have been you.’
‘Fuck it wasn’t me.’ Ritchie found his originality in small permutations, and was not to be outclassed in gracing evasion with expletive. Evidently, he was still puzzled by Worse’s call. ‘It’s the middle of the fucking night and that Newton fucker wants his fucking fines paid, Jesus. Had the fucking balls to warn us off. Said we’re messing with some bad sister called Millicent Ropey.’
‘Who the fuck is Millicent Ropey?’
‘I dunno. The way he said her name, though, she must be some kind of major league fucking attack bitch, like we’re in serious shit. Fuck, what have we done to her? Fuck, we’re just minding our own business. Fuck, how could he have my number, anyway?’
‘Forget it, fuck. That fucker Newton’s just a building clerk, some fuckin’ fall guy for the super bitch. Anyway,’ Kev counselled consolingly, ‘you’ll feel better when you’ve magged out on the fucker in front. Remember, it’ll be your twenty-first. The boys are going to throw a celebration.’ He paused, apparently forming a plan, and added confidently, ‘Then we can sort out this Ropey bitch, and drop the clerk fucker too, if you want.’ His words were beginning to slur.
Worse shared a small amusement with Millie. ‘There’s an attribution for the hip historian. Newton: the fall guy...’
‘Watch out, Kev!’ shouted Ritchie.
The Commodore had slowed and was wandering on to the gravel edge.
‘Slow down, let Fiendisch get away,’ Worse instructed Millie.
They heard some indistinct words in the other vehicle. Worse watched as Kev lost control and the car left the road, became airborne on a small embankment, and lodged about a hundred metres through the scrub, upright and still quite close to the road.
‘Stop.’
Millie pulled over to the side, and they both looked back at the wreckage of the Commodore. Its headlights were still on, casting an eerie swathe of light that seemed to dim and swirl as they watched. Millie took a moment to realize it was an effect of smoke. Almost immediately, they saw flames; there was an explosion, and within seconds the whole car was ablaze.
Worse turned to look ahead. Fiendisch’s tail-lights were out of sight.
‘Let’s get going,’ he said, ‘someone else can call the fire service. No need to hurry. Let Fiendisch think we’re finished.’
As Millie pulled away from the edge he addressed an unspoken question.
‘They were dead before the fire, quite humanely.’
‘What killed them?’
‘Millicent Ropey, then chemistry.’
Millie didn’t respond. Worse looked down to the laptop and began to track the Range Rover.
* * *
Worse’s signal actuated a miniature solenoid, enabling stoichiometric admixture of potassium cyanide and sulphuric acid, and releasing pressurized hydrogen cyanide through a sintered glass membrane. The reaction is exothermic, intense heat (in combination with an integrated jacket containing a gelled accelerant) eventually destroying all trace of the device and igniting plastics and upholstery locally, as well as detonating leaking fuel. There is no reactant residue and, following incineration, no post-mortem evidence of the metabolic cause of death. Bitter almonds are not available to the general public.
Worse’s last comment refers to the fact that a contributory cause of death, in a setting of lethal threat, was the confusion, distraction and irrationality occasioned by unchecked figmentation, here instantiated by ‘Millicent Ropey’ and taking the form of an acute folie à deux. Of course, such psychological instruments are not discoverable at autopsy, but are conservatively estimated to be causative in approximately fifty per cent of unexplained deaths.
Indeed, most people, most of the time, negotiate the world disadvantaged by impaired or illusory mental constructs. (The experience of surprise is virtually pathognomonic. Their contrived fabrication and collapse is a basic mode of humour, and of cruelty.) These might introduce inefficiencies, puzzlement, disappointment, or embarrassment, but they are not ordinarily life-threatening. The role of ‘imagination’ in their genesis is easily overstated, as they form quite naturally around errors of perception and errors of logic, which are both common. The figment ‘Millicent Ropey’ originated in a false perception where a suite of possibilities as to what Worse might have said was restricted by Ritchie’s ignorance of entropy; that accepted, and within the mental universe of Kev and Ritchie’s car, the progression of thoughts would not seem fanciful. Far more fundamental though, and more problematic, is that given correctly perceived facts, figmentation arises from erroneous hypothesis-forming about reality—a limitation of inductive reasoning.
Aspects of this subject are explored in the context of religious delusion in Timothy Bystander’s Studies in Cowardice I: The Suicide Murderer (previously cited). There it is asserted that corrupted figmentation is routinely exploited by cynical elders in the tuition of perpetrators. The author shows that widened culpability (and, importantly, cowardice), if not moral revulsion, extends categorically from any such atrocity. (Note that the charge of cowardice is proven when conscience, in respect of an act’s consequences, is intentionally excised in the act itself. Bystander conjectures that some human conduct is so evil that such an excision is its necessary condition. The alternative, which supposes impossible moral accommodation, would declare protagonists formally non-human; this is disallowed by political nicety, though the weaker ‘inhuman’ is commonly applied—albeit wrongly to the act rather than the individual.)
28
PRUSSIAN BLUE
An hour later, they were driving through the town of Margaret River, centre of the South-West wine industry. The main street was deserted, with little public lighting. As Worse expected, Fiendisch was heading for the same map reference that he had found in Zheng’s GPS. He had turned toward the coast, then north on Caves Road. Worse estimated that they were ten minutes behind, and was happy with the gap. Millie was still driving, following instructions from their own satnav, which Worse had programmed.
‘Are you hungry? Restaurants look closed,’ he added, ‘but I have some take-away.’ Worse had reached for a shopping bag on the rear seat. He tore a piece of olive bread from a small loaf and passed it to Millie, then took some for himself.
Worse was constantly checking Fiendisch’s movement on the laptop. He wondered if Millie shared his own sense that they were getting closer to finding Nicholas, or at least, an explanation for his disappearance.
‘He’s stopped. We turn right in a kilometre. He’s about a kilometre inland from there. It’ll be a minor road. Start slowing down. As we turn in, switch off the lights.’
The turn-off wasn’t difficult to see; it was signposted ‘Verita’s Winery. Wine Tasting. Cellar Door Sales.’
‘Who’s Verita, do you think?’ said Millie.
Worse replied as if changing the subject. ‘Did you know that there are now more apostrophes in the world than locusts?’
The side road was narrow but sealed, winding slightly through stands of karri forest. From time to time there were unsealed tracks disappearing off on either side. After about six hundred metres, Worse told Millie to slow to a crawl, and turn into one of these. It was rough, and hard to read the surface without lights, but they found that it led to a clearing and what looked, in the moonlight, to be a gravel pit. At Worse’s request, Millie turned the car to face back toward the road, and switched off the engine. Worse opened the sunroof and they sat quietly, listening to the sound of the forest, breathing in the scent of eucalypt.
‘Wh
at’s the plan?’ Millie said.
‘The plan? Search, rescue, destroy, punish, celebrate. Easy.’
Worse reached forward to the Comand panel and pressed for telephone. He dialled Spoiling. The call was answered promptly but wearily.
‘Worse? When I said meet for coffee, I was thinking, like most sane people, about ten o’clock. I forgot you were not in that company.’
‘Sorry, Victor. So much perplexity, couldn’t wait. Take this down before anything else.’ Worse gave their GPS position.
‘I’m just out of Margaret River with Nicholas’s sister. We’ve followed Fiendisch down.’ The call was on speakerphone, and Millie heard Spoiling sigh. ‘He told his employees to kill us earlier. And just so you’re not taken by surprise, you’ll hear news of a brushfire off the Old Coast Road. In the fire is a car. In the car are two bodies. With the bodies I expect there are two handguns. Possibly more. That’s why you’ll be brought in.’
‘And what part did you play in their unhappy fate?’
‘Nothing. They were driving too fast, overconfident, lost control. Hit a kangaroo, maybe. Fortuitous, for us.’
‘Mm. Worse, I’ve been making some enquiries about Fiendisch since our last conversation. He’s no ordinary banker. Fiendisch is an alias; his real name is von Fierssenbad—’
‘Fiendisch was an inspired substitution,’ said Worse.
‘I have to tell you he is dangerous. He has a bulky Interpol dossier. I’m very distressed that my suburban colleagues didn’t take the sister’s complaints seriously enough.’
‘Millie,’ said Worse.
‘What?’
‘The sister is named Millie.’
‘Oh yes. My apologies. Worse.’
‘Yes?’
‘Try not to cause too much havoc.’
‘Havoc? Havoc?’ Worse sounded incredulous. ‘Oh, you mean pandemonium. Of course not, Victor.’
Again there was a deep, audible sigh. ‘At least keep Millie safe, even if you’ve no sense of what that means for yourself.’
‘We’ve pulled off the road about four hundred metres short of the winery. It’s called Verita’s. We’ll go ahead on foot and see what we can find. You should come on down. Margaret River’s the ideal destination for an action-packed, and yet, intriguingly relaxed, getaway. Why, there are forests, caves, wineries, beaches—’
‘Worse. No. No. No havoc. Enough perplexity. I feel a headache...’
‘Nice to talk, Victor.’ Worse ended the call. He glanced at Millie. She was smiling.
‘He’s a very good man, very smart and very good. A philosopher detective.’
‘I think I can hear that.’ Millie hesitated. ‘What was all that about a kangaroo? That was for my benefit, right? That’s a local joke; you’re having me on?’
‘Unfortunately, no. It’s a real hazard at night. Many a car has been written off and many a life lost. Kangaroos largely, of course.’
Millie was eyeing him suspiciously, her fixed smile suggesting she wasn’t sure what expression to adopt. She found it hard to read Worse; the serious seemed enmeshed with obliquity and even the occasional fantastical. What about that post-subtle business? She had never heard of philosophers actually living on the Métro. For all she knew, all that was made up in the moment, just to needle her. She felt it was time to clarify something that had bothered her for days.
‘What was that you were saying the other night about a feud in my family? Who was it with?’
‘Oh, the Magnacarts,’ said Worse. Again he pronounced it Marnacourts. ‘Why do you bring that up, after kangaroos?’
‘Because I’ve never heard of it, and it’s my family.’
‘The spelling is Magnacart, by the way.’ Worse sequenced the letters. ‘And I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of it. The feud was settled in the thirteenth century, and the story is passed only down the male lines of the two families. You’ll need to ask Nicholas about it. Of course, he may feel he shouldn’t tell you; that’s been the tradition for seven centuries.’
Millie was indignant. ‘Nicholas knows? Nicholas knows and hasn’t told me?’
‘Well, you’ll have to ask him.’ For Worse, this was a strategic assertion that Nicholas would be found alive. ‘Just don’t be surprised if he says he knows nothing about it.’
Now she was outraged. ‘How do you know about it, anyway?’
‘Someone once told me.’ Worse drew the exchange to a close by opening his door and going to the boot, returning with a bag.
‘Take this.’ He handed her a small torch. ‘Silence your phone. Leave the keys under the seat.’
He transferred a few items to his backpack, closed the roof, and without looking at her said, ‘Ready?’ In response, Millie opened her door, and they made their way to the sealed road, turning left toward the winery.
After about three hundred metres, the forest thinned, and they could make out the cultivated rows of a vineyard, just perceptible in the cloud-diffused moonlight. The road widened and split. On the left, a sign indicated parking for tourist coaches. On the right, there was a car park. Ahead was a grand turning circle in front of a large building. There were no lights showing. A large sign read Cellar Door, with an arrow pointing to the left. To the right was a more industrial frontage, probably the production area of the winery, thought Worse.
He whispered to Millie, ‘The Range Rover must be parked at the rear. There’s probably a private residence. Follow me.’
Worse ran to the right-hand side of the building, edged forward, and looked around the corner. He fell back, and told Millie what he had seen.
‘There is another building, with lights. And his car. I want to have a look here first.’ He gestured back toward the cellar door, and they moved in that direction.
When they reached the large corrugated iron sliding door on the winery side, Worse tried to open it. There was no give at all, and no visible lock. To one side, there was a smaller access door, and Worse pushed on it pessimistically. To his surprise it opened, and he turned to convey his satisfaction to Millie. They both stepped through, and he closed it behind them.
They stood still to listen, and accommodate to the gloom. The space was suffused with a dim fluorescent light from safety and exit signs. They were in a truck loading-bay, and above their heads were two heavy-duty chain blocks suspended from a steel girder. To one side was parked a forklift tractor. There were several pallets loaded with cartons of bottles. To the rear of the building there was a soft glisten from gigantic stainless steel vats and crushing beds, and to their right they could make out a floor-to-roof rack system. Worse briefly shone his torch on some of the stacked plastic drums. Preservatives, precipitators, flocculants, and pure ethyl alcohol.
On the left were steel stairs leading to a mezzanine floor. Worse took Millie’s hand briefly so she would follow. On the upper level were offices and an assay lab, and they worked their way along to find another staircase at the rear. They descended to floor level, moved between the vats and some enormous oak barrels, and found themselves in a bottling area. This led around on the left toward the public cellar door entrance. Here, the concrete floor was polished, there were free-standing racks of bottles and comfortable seating, and the walls were decorated with vineyard scenes and posters portraying historical winemaking. A large timber counter faced the entrance, and Worse slipped behind it, noting wine-racks, sinks and a dishwasher, and a cash drawer with electronic payment facilities. For the whole exploration, he had paid particular attention to the floor, but had nowhere found it breached with a trapdoor. Without mentioning his purpose to Millie, he had wanted to assure himself that Nicholas was not secreted in this building.
Worse motioned for Millie to follow, and led her back to where they had entered. From the storage racks, he lifted down three drums of ethyl alcohol.
‘They supplement fermentation with this,’ he whispered, ‘Fortifying. Perfectly legal. Hold your breath.’
He broke the seals with a pocketknife, unscrewed their
caps, and poured the contents onto the floor. When the last one was empty enough to manoeuvre easily he lifted it to pour alcohol over other containers in the lower racks, and then laid a liquid fuse to the door. Putting it down, he bundled Millie to the access door, and out into the fresh air. Only then did she become aware of how polluted was the atmosphere inside. Worse reached into his backpack and handed her a box of matches.
‘Stay hidden here. Don’t go back in under any circumstances. I’ll text you if we need a diversionary fire.’ As he spoke, Worse entered the message into his phone in preparation.
‘It will just say “Now”. Be careful. Most of the ethanol will have vaporized and it could go off like a bomb. After lighting it, run to the vines and hide. I’ll find you.’
He pointed to the neat rows of wired vines in the semidarkness, and touching her hand gently, addressed the subject that he knew to be the most important in her world.
‘If Nicholas is here, I will find him.’
Worse slipped away without looking at her response. He was still holding the backpack and, out of Millie’s view, he removed Zheng’s pistol and put it inside his jacket, then reshouldered the pack.
From the corner of the winery he now surveyed the other building more carefully. It was about thirty metres distant, single-storeyed, and he could make out a large satellite dish, along with a few smaller ones, on the iron roof. There were more interior lights on than he had noted before. Fiendisch’s vehicle obscured the main entrance, and Worse used it as cover to cross the open space. When he reached it, he could see that the rear tailgate had been left open. He glanced inside; the rugs that had concealed him earlier were undisturbed. Through its windows, he could now examine the main entrance to the building. It was recessed within a trellised portico area accommodating a garden and some ornamental trees.
The front door was open—Fiendisch was expecting Ritchie and Kev, reasoned Worse—and he could now hear voices. He made a dash to the garden on the right side of the entrance, almost colliding with a wheelbarrow in the dark. Moving under the cover of the trees, he was able to reach the wall only two metres from the door, through which some weak yellow light was falling on the paved entrance. Worse was straining to interpret what he could hear when suddenly the glow he had been staring at shifted and darkened as somebody inside moved close to the front door. One voice was now clear.
The Weaver Fish Page 20