by Tim Heald
‘Oh god, Monica,’ he said. ‘I am sorry. The fact of the matter is I got stuck on an island in the middle of The Mousetrap. There was a storm and the ferry didn’t turn up.’
There was a long pause. ‘That sounds like you, Simon,’ said Monica’s voice dully. ‘You’d better go on.’
‘Not much to go on about. I had a rendezvous with this man, the prime suspect as a matter of fact, and he didn’t want to be followed by anyone so he took me off to this island and, as I say, the last ferry didn’t show.’
‘I rang and rang last night,’ said Monica. ‘I rang every hour from eight o’clock your time until two in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Bognor could not think of anything sensible to say.
‘Is that all you can say?’ asked Monica. Now she was beginning to sound tearful. Bognor tried desperately to think of something conciliatory.
‘Not at all. It’s just that, well, it was business. This chap had something to tell me so I felt I had to go and listen to him in case it was something important. As a matter of fact it was rather.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you. It’s not something I think I ought to discuss on the phone.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘No,’ said Bognor. ‘I’d rather not. Not on the phone.’
‘Not that, silly. When I see you. That’s what I meant. I spoke to Parkinson and he says you may be out there for weeks. Uncle Freddie’s legacy just came through. It’s five thousand, would you believe. So I thought I’d hop out and we could have a bit of a delayed honeymoon.’
‘Oh.’ Dammit, thought Bognor, I must try to sound enthusiastic. ‘Did Parkinson really say I’d be here for weeks?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I do wish he wouldn’t say things like that when he has no idea what’s going on at ground level. I may be back in days.’
‘Oh.’ It was her turn for the drab, wet little word.
‘Look,’ Bognor pulled himself together, ‘it would be wonderful to have you out here. It’s just that, quite frankly, things are hellishly complicated. There’s a political element which I don’t think Parkinson has appreciated. I’d love to see you, but I’d rather you didn’t come until you’ve cleared it with Parkinson, after I’ve spoken to him. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘How are you otherwise?’ he asked solicitously.
‘I’m fine. I was worried though.’
‘Well, you mustn’t worry.’
‘Why not? You’re such a fool.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’
‘True though.’
‘Yes. Well. Maybe. No. Hell. Not at all. Look this is costing an awful lot. Let’s talk later. Maybe I’ll see you soon. Must rush. ’Bye.’
‘’Bye.’
Click. Married life, thought Bognor, is by no means a bed of roses. He decided to snatch another hour’s sleep and settled back under the bedclothes feeling somewhat troubled. He began to dream. But just as he began to dream glorious technicolor dreams he was disturbed again. Once more the phone. He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. He glared at the telephone, then seized it as if by snatching at it and squeezing hard he might succeed in throttling the thing.
‘Bognor,’ he rasped.
‘Simon?’ The voice sounded slightly tremulous, unsure of itself.
‘Yes,’ he said, hoping it was who he thought it was.
‘It is Louise.’
‘Oh. Hello.’
‘Can you come skiing this afternoon?’
‘Skiing?’ Bognor’s hands began to sweat. ‘I don’t know that I have the gear.’
‘You can borrow some trousers and an anorak from Jean-Claude. Skis and boots you can hire at the zoo.’
‘The zoo?’
‘Yes. We are going skiing at the zoo.’
‘Listen, Louise, is this some kind of a joke?’
That irresistible tinkling laugh. ‘I am an assistant professor of economics. I don’t joke. Listen. It’s important. There is a girlfriend of mine I want you to meet.’
‘But couldn’t we meet here? Or at your place? Skiing really isn’t my sort of thing.’
‘It’s cross-country skiing. No problem. And I promise you it is connected with the Farquhar murder. It may help to prove to you that Jean-Claude is innocent.’
‘I still don’t see why it’s necessary to go skiing to meet her.’
‘Don’t argue.’ She giggled again. ‘I’ll come by the hotel and pick you up at twelve-thirty. We can have lunch out there.’
Click.
Oh god, thought Bognor, I’m too old for this. He retreated under the bedclothes to see if he could spend ten minutes in contemplation of the problems which beset him. It seemed to him that these were increasing with every phone call. The thought of skiing, even with the delectable Miss Poitou, appalled him. He had never been much of a games player and he was now hopelessly out of condition. He told himself that he was not very overweight and could manage a game of tennis without undue fatigue. Or a length or two of the swimming pool. But skiing was something else. A different sort of muscle altogether and not one he had used in years. Not since Wengen in ’63 when he had pulled his Achilles tendon and come down the Lauberhorn on a ski-borne stretcher. It might not have been the Lauberhorn, actually, but that was what he told people and he had come to believe it. The prospect of being with Louise Poitou was attractive but dampened by the phone call from his beloved in London. And then there was the Farquhar murder. Did Prideaux do it? If Harrison Bentley was a recipient of personalized bath oil, might not he have done the deed? Or anyone else, come to that. He was not much further on, though he very much resented the attitude of Smith of the Mounties and if only for that reason was disposed to believe in Prideaux’s innocence. Insufficient motive. Besides, he was too obvious a suspect. Private secretaries had too many opportunities for murdering the boss. To succumb to them would be foolhardy. No, he was inclined to rule out Prideaux. He disliked Harrison Bentley even more. Besides, there were others: the Cerniks and La Bandanna Rose. They were bound to have had Balenciaga for Christmas. It was like being caught up in an absurd distortion of last night’s Christie play. One detective. One corpse. A fistful of suspects each one with a smoking gun. He burrowed still farther under the bedclothes, then emerged with a dramatic spring on to the carpet. Skiing involved thigh muscles. He essayed a full knees-bend and toppled over, pushed himself back into the squat position and attempted to rise to attention slowly and gracefully as he had been taught at school. He experienced a creaking sensation and heard a couple of sharp snaps which, oddly enough, caused him no pain. Once he was upright he stood on his toes. This was gratifyingly easy. He then lowered himself slowly, finding it simple at first but having to hurry the final furlong and falling again at the end. There were a couple more sharp cracks on the way. He sat on the carpet dejectedly and wondered whether to try a toe-touch. He did and ended up six inches short of the target. With a superhuman final effort he managed to brush his feet with the very tip of an index finger. This was not good. Louise would laugh at him. He smiled. The idea did not displease him. After all, he was old enough to be her uncle.
He subsided on to the bed and reached for the phone. ‘I want a London number,’ he said to the courteous girl who wished him good day.
‘London England?’
‘Yes. London England.’ It disturbed him to be in a country where such a question could be asked with apparent seriousness. He gave the girl Parkinson’s home number and was rewarded seconds later with a series of electronic blips followed by Parkinson’s bark. More of a yap than a bark, he thought, at least from a distance of three and a half thousand miles.
‘Parkinson,’ yapped Parkinson.
‘Bognor, here.’
‘I’ve already had a long talk with Mrs Bognor. As a matter of fact, I was on the point of phoning you myself except that I understand it’s still morning on your side of the world
and your wife seemed to think you would be asleep.’
Over the years of their deceptively prickly relationship Bognor had developed a virtual immunity to his superior’s brand of plonking sarcasm and irony.
‘It’s a very sensitive business this,’ he said. ‘I’m not at all happy about it.’
‘None of us are happy about it, Bognor. We’re not paid to be happy. We’re paid to get on with the job. And we knew it was a sensitive business as soon as you became involved in it. The most mundane and straightforward little murder becomes an international incident as soon as your elephantine presence makes itself felt.’
‘I think it might be as well for me to come home quite soon,’ said Bognor. ‘It seems to me that the RCMP have got it wrapped up. At least they’re convinced they’ve got it wrapped up and I don’t fancy another argy-bargy with the Mounties. Not on their home turf.’
One of Parkinson’s menacing silences ensued. Somehow he managed to send the threat along the wires so that for a moment Bognor felt as if he were sitting in Parkinson’s office trying to focus on that dreadful black-and-white photograph of Her Gracious Majesty above the Parkinson head while the Parkinson stare drilled remorselessly into him, accompanied perhaps by a quiet persistent drumming of exasperated fingers on the mahogany surface of his regulation senior civil servant’s desk. There was no such photograph in his hotel room here in Toronto and so he gazed out of the window at the still bright day and tried not to squirm. Then Parkinson said, ‘Your orders were to maintain a scrupulously low profile. And above all not to provoke a row between us and the Canadians. I told you the Minister is particularly anxious to be nice to the Canadians. The Canadians are prone to misconceived feelings of inferiority. They do not like to be patronized. Particularly by us. Do not let me hear that you are patronizing Canadians, Bognor.’
‘No.’
‘Nor disagreeing with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.’
‘No.’
‘Which is one of the world’s finest police forces.’
‘Which is indeed one of the world’s finest police forces.’
‘So let us have no more loose talk about returning imminently.’
‘No. Well. Not unless circumstances demand it.’
‘Correction. Not unless I demand it.’
‘Same thing,’ said Bognor with asperity.
‘As long as that is understood,’ said Parkinson. ‘Your wife sounded very distressed. She is evidently as dubious about your talent for this kind of work as I am myself. But unlike me, Bognor, she cares. I think you should remember that before you spend all night on the town again.’
‘I was following up a lead.’
‘Yes. So she said. And I would be extremely surprised if the so-called lead led anywhere at all. Mmm?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. You never do. In any case I told Mrs Bognor that if she was able to find the fare, as I understand she can, then the board would not be averse to taking a generous view of whatever expenses you care to submit. Do I make myself plain?’
‘Very.’
‘And, Bognor …’
‘Yes?’
‘Please try to remember that your presence in Canada is largely cosmetic. There is very little need for you to actually do anything. That you can leave to the experts. I just want you to do what our transatlantic friends call “hang in there”. Unruffle any ruffled feathers. Report back if our interests appear to be threatened. Don’t get into trouble.’
‘I won’t. As a matter of fact, I’m going skiing this afternoon.’
‘Excellent. Should you happen to do yourself an injury kindly do not use it as an excuse to return home. A hospital bed may well be the best place for you to maintain the sort of unobtrusive presence I’m looking for.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Not at all. When Mrs Bognor arrives I suggest you take her skiing. I understand there is fine skiing somewhere called Banff.’
‘That’s in Scotland.’
‘I think not,’ said Parkinson. ‘Try to be sensible until your wife arrives to look after you. I have a great deal of confidence in that young woman.’
‘Which is more than you have in me.’
‘You said it, Bognor.’
‘Yes,’ said Bognor, ‘and you meant it.’
‘Come, come.’ Parkinson sounded quite affable. ‘The transatlantic telephone is no place for such badinage. I’ll wish you good skiing.’
‘Huh.’ Bognor replaced the telephone and got dressed, taking care to wear a pair of warm RAF surplus long johns next to the skin. A present from Monica. Then he went downstairs and had a hair of the dog in the shape of a Bloody Mary before going out to meet Louise.
6
SHE ARRIVED AT THE appointed hour, in a large vulgar white automobile with ‘TRANS AM’ written on the back. The car was covered in wavy blue hieroglyphs not unlike the sort of illustration you used to find on canal barges. Louise was in the passenger seat beside the driver, who was a ravishing ash blonde in tight ski pants and a pink angora sweater. Bognor got in the back.
‘Simon,’ said Louise, ‘this is Maggie Baker.’
‘Hi, Si,’ said Maggie, craning her neck to stare into his eyes with her own, which were a flashing Mediterranean blue. She held out a hand, heavily painted and much bejewelled. Bognor shook it, though he toyed with the idea of kissing it, which he might have done, if that had been his style. She had perfect teeth and a large heavily lipsticked mouth. About thirty, he supposed. The sort of woman who drove a certain sort of man to distraction but a little too obvious for him. Too rich too. He found such flaunted wealth distracting.
‘How was your class?’ he asked, as Maggie let the car move out into the traffic. This was not the sort of machine one drove. It looked after itself. Maggie did not appear to do more than give the wheel the faintest nudge, and as far as Bognor could see there were no gears. He hoped there were brakes.
‘Oh fine,’ said Louise. ‘Did you have a good morning?’
‘Yes. I talked to London.’
‘Good.’
The car’s engine, though clearly many hundreds of horsepower strong, was as silent as a Rolls-Royce, but Maggie compensated by playing a Liza Minnelli tape very loudly, snapping her fingers in time to the beat. This made conversation difficult and so Bognor was content to settle back into the upholstery and watch the city pass. They were moving north up Yonge Street, the hundred-mile-or-more straight highway which bisects the city before heading out towards the summer cottage country to the west of Georgian Bay. Presently garish neon shopfronts gave way to private houses which became more and more bungaloid and suburban as they rolled smoothly north. At length they reached the 401, and turned east towards Kingston and Montreal. After another twenty minutes of creaming along to the strains of Minnelli and then Anne Murray they reached a turning which indicated ‘Toronto Metro Zoo’.
‘Did you say you were a keen skier?’ asked Louise, turning to grin impishly at him.
‘I’m not even a skier,’ said Bognor.
‘We’ll soon get you going,’ she said. ‘It’s easy. Not like downhill.’
The girls’ skis were strapped to the top of the car and after they had parked as near to the main entrance as possible they pulled on anoraks and took the long narrow fibre-glass skis down and set them on the ground. Louise handed Bognor an anorak and a pair of loose windproof trousers which she said he could slip over his sweater and corduroys. Considering Jean-Claude was a good two inches taller and about four inches slimmer, they were a surprisingly good fit. He felt a little like Michelin man but he was assured by Louise and Maggie that he looked just fine.
‘What’s this all in aid of?’ he hissed at Louise as Maggie set off ahead of them. She had a wonderfully athletic bottom but still Bognor could not bring himself to be attracted to her.
‘Wait and see,’ said Louise. ‘Maggie is extraordinary. She collects rich men. Her husband is Johnny Baker.’
>
‘Johnny Baker?’
‘You know. Johnny Baker. The Johnny Baker.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Are you pulling my leg?’ She looked at him, eyes wide with wonder.
‘No. I’ve never heard of Johnny Baker.’
‘But everybody has heard of Johnny Baker.’
‘Not where I come from,’ said Bognor flatly.
‘He’s the next leader of the Liberal party bar two, and rich. Boy is he rich!’
‘Rich as Farquhar?’
‘Mmm. Well, I don’t know. I don’t suppose anybody knows for certain. He will be though. He’s only just forty.’
‘And where does his money come from?’
‘I don’t like him very much,’ said Louise. ‘His early money he made from gambling and syndicates in harness racing. Maybe not criminal but too near to criminal. Now he is ultra-respectable. He has Pactolus Mines, Haute Cuisine Foods, Bonanza Banking Corporation.’
‘Does he have something to do with the murder?’
‘I think maybe. But we’ll find out when you listen to what Maggie tells you. She is a nice girl really. You mustn’t be put off by how she looks.’
‘What makes you think I am?’
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘I notice certain things,’ she said. ‘You think I’m stupid?’
‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘certainly not.’
The heavy snowfall and the fine weather had brought out a crowd of winter sportsmen. There was a queue at the turnstile and on a high ridge to their right Bognor could see a crocodile of skiers in gay costumes, striding gracefully along the skyline, pausing occasionally to swoop down a hill or climb in an economical herringbone up the next. Inside the entrance the girls bent down to strap on the skis which fastened with a simple clamp on the toe, leaving the heel free to move up and down as you sped across the countryside.
‘OK, Si,’ said Maggie, patting him on the shoulder with good-natured enthusiasm. ‘Let’s get you kitted out, then you can show us a thing or two. You guys in Britain invented skiing. Know that?’