Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  ‘Oh, god,’ he said to himself as his thoughts began to arrange themselves into something approaching order. ‘I’m in a car. We’re going somewhere.’ He had never been tied up and dumped in the boot of a car before. It was not a form of travel he would recommend. Also, he feared the precedents were not good. In his experience it was a prelude to the final unpleasantness. People conveyed about the place in the boots of cars ended up as bodies. Sometimes they were just left in the car where they were discovered, alas too late, after an anonymous tip-off to the local police. He was quite used to being knocked unconscious by unexpected blows to the back of the head. Indeed he regarded it, very nearly, as part of his day’s work. He was also quite used to great discomfort and even very great fear. But death was a new experience and not one for which he felt yet prepared.

  Gingerly he tried to move his feet, but they were tied much too fast. His hands likewise. He had read and seen that in circumstances such as this people manoeuvred themselves so that their bonds came up against some sharp metallic surface. By dint of feverish rubbing the bonds were severed and as soon as the door of the boot was opened the hero, or person previously bound and gagged, leaped out confounding his captors with lightning lefts and rights or karate blows. Such, however, was not Bognor’s style. There had once been attempts to teach him the rudiments of unarmed combat but these had been abandoned when it became clear that he was far more likely to damage himself than anybody else. He could feel endless sharp surfaces but there was no way in which he could use them to cut the rope at his wrists. He wondered if they were going to shoot him or just leave him to starve or suffocate. And if so why? Who were these people? Not Mounties surely? For all the vilification heaped on them and for all his own less intemperate reservations he could not believe that the RCMP would abduct and kill an official emissary of the British Board of Trade. Especially since he was here at their own invitation. Sort of. If not Mounties then it was presumably someone who was apprehensive about his investigations into the Farquhar murder. Harrison Bentley? Would that fastidious ersatz English gentleman hire brutish assassins like this? Quite possibly. Or Prideaux? Was this a hit squad from the Group of Seven or whatever his shadowy band of Quebecois extremists was called? But if so why? Prideaux was already almost convicted by the Mounties and Bognor was a potential ally, a straw, at least for Prideaux to clutch at. Indeed Bognor was under the impression that he had been clutched at. Which ruled out Prideaux. At least for the time being. Unless something had gone wrong since the two had parted. And then surely Louise would have said so. Or maybe she deliberately led him into a trap? Or Maggie? He hadn’t cared for the pneumatic Maggie, but she had just confessed the secrets of her sex life to him. That was an unlikely prelude to having him kidnapped. Ouch! A more than usually violent jolt brought his ear into contact with a protruding knob. He felt tears start to his eyes. The pain was appalling. He would probably go deaf. Perhaps Amos Littlejohn was at the bottom of it. But how would he know to come looking for him on the ski piste of the Metro Zoo? The same applied to the Cerniks and La Bandanna Rose. Unless, of course, they had had a tail on him and followed the three of them from the hotel. That was possible. But wasn’t it a somewhat extreme reaction? He had not even got round to questioning any of the last few suspects yet. He did not fool himself that his forensic reputation would lead any of them into such a dastardly pre-emptive strike. Unless of course they were in a state of real panic. Which was possible. He wished to heaven he could make a, list, but there was no pencil or paper to hand. Another bad bump. His nose this time. Blood? Something warm and wet. It trickled through or past his gag and into his mouth. Blood all right. He should never have come here. He couldn’t even stretch out, it was so cramped. Another lurch, even more vicious, and then, merciful heaven, it stopped. No more noise. No more bumping. Perhaps this was the end. Perhaps this was death. But no, the pain was still there. He lay still, feeling the blood trickling into his mouth. His back itched and he had an agonizing need to scratch it. Another impossibility. From outside he could hear a slamming of doors and then the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Seconds later the lid of his coffin swung up and he saw faces looking down at him. It was dark now but there were artificial lights on somewhere and he could make out the outlines of the faces though not their details. They looked big-boned, strong, stupid, just what you would expect from hired heavies.

  ‘He still alive?’ enquired one.

  ‘Sure,’ replied another. ‘I just gave him a little tap.’

  ‘What do we do with him now?’

  ‘Better find out. Ask the boss.’

  ‘And leave him there?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Shall I shut him up again?’

  ‘No, just leave him. Boss may wanna talk with him.’

  Suddenly one of the men put a huge hand down, grabbed hold of Bognor’s hair and yanked his head up. Bognor groaned. For a second the man held him there while Bognor kept his eyes tight shut, then he let go and Bognor crashed back on to the floor with another painful thud. He heard the men laugh, then turn away and crunch across the gravel.

  He must have lain there for another ten minutes, maybe longer because he lost consciousness again and did not come round until the men returned. Roughly they lifted him out of the car and half carried, half dragged him through a front door which looked to Bognor much like Harrison Bentley’s. Inside the house was as big, but different, more North American. Whoever it belonged to was clearly not trying to pretend to be an English gentleman. He was dragged along the hall, then left down a corridor and into a long study or office. At one end there was a massive modern desk made of steel and glass and maple wood. Behind it there was a Canadian national flag which reminded Bognor of the patriotic symbolism in Parkinson’s office. All around the walls were photographs and scrolls and citations. All the latter were inscribed to the Honourable John C. Baker. The photographs were of a man shaking hands with different people, some of whom Bognor recognized, but all of whom, he guessed, were world-famous somewhere. The same man was sitting behind the desk but he had not bothered to put on the insincerely rapturous smile which split his face in the photographs. Instead he wore a malevolent frown which looked as if it came a great deal more naturally to him. In his mouth was a large cigar, half smoked and dead. It remained in the mouth, as if clamped, when he spoke.

  ‘Put the guy down,’ he said. ‘No. Wait. He’s filthy dirty. He’ll soil the chair. Get some newspaper.’

  One of his captors went outside while Bognor remained, held more or less upright, in the hands of the other two. They grasped him painfully tight. The Honourable John C. Baker glared at him from eyes like slits.

  ‘You’re gonna regret this, feller,’ he said, still not removing his cigar. Bognor grunted at him defiantly, unable to articulate real words because of his gag. This was just as well since he could think of nothing effective to say.

  The third man returned with a copy of the Toronto Star. Baker removed the cigar and waved it at the chair in front of the desk. ‘Spread it over that,’ he said, ‘then put him down. And take that thing out of his mouth.’ The newspaper was duly laid out over the upholstery, Bognor was dropped on top of it and his gag was removed. His hands and feet, however, remained tied.

  ‘OK,’ said Baker. He nodded to his employees. ‘You guys split now. Have a beer in the TV room and don’t leave. I’ll call you later.’

  As they left, Baker stood and went to a cupboard set into the wall from which he removed a bottle of Chivas Regal scotch whisky and a single glass which he half filled with ice from a small freezer. Putting the glass on the desk top he filled it two thirds full of scotch, removed the cigar from his mouth, drank back half the contents of the glass, and refilled it. He then replaced the cigar, sat down again, and favoured Bognor with a long, searching and very menacing stare. Bognor consoled himself with the thought that the man was impotent. He didn’t look like someone who was ‘unable to function as a man’ but then Bognor did not know how to judge such
things from purely external superficial evidence. He certainly looked like a man who drank and ate too much. His neck bulged over his collar and his gut bulged over his trouser top.

  ‘Could I have a glass of water?’ enquired Bognor with what he considered an appropriately deferential smile.

  ‘Don’t patronise me,’ snapped Baker, his cigar shaking. He took another slug of whisky, then attempted to light his cigar from the massive silver device on his desk.

  ‘Where’d you get that goddam affected accent from?’ asked Baker. ‘You some sort of faggot?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘British then?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Baker gulped back smoke. ‘First Farquhar, now some goddamn British faggot.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Baker stabbed at him with his cigar. ‘Don’t you give me that shit, you fag,’ he shouted. Bognor noticed a thin dribble of saliva coming from the corner of his mouth. He was reminded of the camel earlier that day. Or was it a dromedary? Or was it yesterday? This man was dangerous. He also seemed to have got the wrong end of the stick and if his wife’s insinuations at lunch were correct then that was likely to prove bad news for Bognor.

  ‘There seems to be some misunderstanding,’ said Bognor in his politest voice.

  ‘Too damn right, sonny,’ agreed Baker. He sloshed more Chivas into the glass and relit the cigar which had gone out, neglected during his bout of ill temper.

  ‘What have you done with her?’

  ‘What do you mean? Who?’ Bognor decided to act dumb.

  ‘Jesus! You bum! I suppose you were at some damn fancy English version of Upper Canada College. You got her set up in some apartment someplace. Who are you anyway?’

  ‘Bognor. Board of Trade.’

  ‘Bognor. Board of Trade,’ mimicked Baker, pseudo-English accent thick with alcohol and a rotten imitation in any case. ‘What in hell does that mean? That’s a place, not a person.’

  ‘With respect,’ said Bognor, still longing for a glass of water but thinking it unwise to repeat the request, ‘if you would only stop to listen I am trying to tell you that you are barking up the wrong tree. I hardly know your wife. I don’t even particularly fancy her.’

  ‘You what!?’ Baker half rose from his chair and then subsided. He was angrier than ever. ‘Are you telling me you don’t fancy my wife? Goddam, you first commit adultery with my wife and then, so help me, you tell me you don’t fancy her. I will kill you with my bare hands if it’s the last thing I do, so help me.’

  The phone on his desk rang and he scooped up the receiver in a trembling hand while the other refilled the glass. Bognor reckoned Baker would pass out before long. A quarter of the bottle had gone down his gullet already and they had hardly started.

  ‘Where in hell are you?’ Baker shouted into the telephone. ‘I know where you are, you’re at this guy’s apartment. Yeah, Bognor. I’m coming right down there soon as I’ve dealt with him. Sure, he’s right here … No, you cannot. Are you joking? You have to be joking … Honey, give me just one good reason why I should believe one lying word you say to me … Because you are trying to ruin me, that’s for why … You better get yourself one good lawyer, hon, because that’s what you’re gonna need … What I do with him is my affair … You do that. You just do that. You just go right ahead and you do just that thing … Hello? … Hello?’ And he crashed the receiver on to its cradle.

  ‘Tell me,’ Bognor felt suddenly lightheaded, ‘did you kill Farquhar?’ It seemed the obvious question. The man was about to kill him, or have him killed by his gorillas, for cuckolding him. The fact that Bognor was innocent of this was neither here nor there. If Baker was going to kill now for love, or for damaged amour-propre—or whatever it was that he imagined had been done to him—then he could have killed first time round.

  He did not appear to have heard the question for he was sitting at the desk staring blankly at the phone.

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ tried Bognor. ‘Did you get a present of rather special Balenciaga bath oil last Christmas?’

  Still Baker said nothing. Then, just as Bognor was about to rephrase the question for the third time, the cuckolded tycoon looked up at him with an expression of manic malevolence. It was an expression which haunted Bognor for the rest of his life but he did not have long to absorb it, for an instant later Baker picked up the first thing that came to hand and threw it hard straight at his prisoner, striking him above the temple. Bognor managed to duck his head in time to avoid being hit in the eyes, which was just as well for a smashing bottle of Chivas Regal could well have blinded him. As it was he simply passed out.

  This time he came round under more pleasant circumstances. He woke to find himself in bed. The room appeared to be decorated entirely in different shades of white. Even the solicitous people, dimly observed through the one eye which he apprehensively opened and then shut at once, seemed to be more than usually white. It hurt to open the eye so he kept it closed. He was pleased to hear a soothing female voice seconds later and to feel a cool damp cloth being applied to his brow with gentle ministering hands. He listened briefly to kind, efficient voices, one male, one female, conferring in muted tones. Thus comforted, he returned to sleep.

  Some time later he came round again and opened both eyes to be rewarded with the sight of Louise Poitou gazing down at him with an expression of apparently anguished concern. He was unable to focus very well but she seemed even more attractive than usual when observed in this soft blurred way. He tried smiling but found it hurt so returned his mouth to a position of repose. Then he made an effort to speak but ceased before he began because that too caused pain.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ said Louise. ‘You’re going to be all right.’

  It had not occurred to Bognor that he was not going to be all right, so that this well-intentioned sentence did not have quite the desired effect. He tried to sit up, but immediately experienced severe shooting pains all over his body.

  ‘Don’t move,’ whispered Louise putting a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s rather a lot broken.’

  ‘Like what?’ he asked hoarsely, even those two words costing more than they were worth.

  ‘Oh, a couple of ribs, and a leg. Otherwise it’s just heavy bruising. And concussion. They were worried about a skull fracture and brain damage at first, but your skull’s intact and the brain is fine.’

  Bognor was relieved to hear it.

  ‘They found you on the Don Valley Parkway,’ she continued, ‘under one of the bridges, the favourite suicide spot. That’s what they thought at first. That you were a failed suicide, the first ever you’d have been, because that bridge is so high no one makes mistakes. Then when they smelt the booze and saw the blood they decided you were a traffic case. Hit and run. It wasn’t till they got you in here and found the marks on your wrists and ankles that they started to treat it as an attempted murder. Then your friend Smith of the RCMP showed up and he’s dealing with it. He’s going to try to get a statement as soon as you’re fit.’

  ‘How …’ Bognor began, but the effort cost him too much and he stopped.

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ she said. ‘I’ll just try to give you the answers. I got in as I said I was your girlfriend. I hope you don’t mind.’ She faltered. ‘Oh, Simon,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry. It was my fault. It was crazy to do it, but it never occurred to me that the guy was so paranoid. He had thugs following Maggie wherever she went. Just to catch her out with a man. They thought it was an assignation.’

  She paused, sounding quite overcome.

  ‘They may not let me have very long, Simon. You’re not supposed to be tired. There are just two points you have to remember, when Smith comes for your statement. The first is that he is convinced, but convinced, that you were roughed up by the Quebecois. By Seven, in fact. Jean-Claude is in the clear. He can prove where he was all that day and nothing Smith can do will break that alibi. The other thing is that Jo
hnny Baker is very big in this town. No one will believe you if you try to blame him for what happened. It will do you no good even to suggest it. It is much better not even to mention it.’

  Bognor nodded. Out of the corner of his better eye he was aware that another person had come into his room. A woman in white.

  ‘Nurse wants me to go now,’ said Louise softly. ‘Maggie sends her love. She is safe and in the country. Remember what I say. I will come again soon, meanwhile take care, eh?’

  And she leaned over and kissed him gently on each cheek.

  Bognor managed an agonizing half smile. He had always found deathbed scenes romantic and this, though more painful than he would have wished, showed signs of having moments to recommend it. He closed his eyes and slipped back into merciful sleep.

  When he woke next the pain was worse and he felt a great deal more alert. On the whole he preferred a more painless, drug-dulled state, but he supposed he was going to have to become used to the sordid business of living again. The nurse was bending over him. This time she was in sharp focus.

  ‘Your friend Pete Smith is here,’ she said. ‘Do you feel well enough to see him?’

  ‘No,’ said Bognor, ‘but I will. Show him in.’

  He had not the slightest wish to see Smith. He knew all too well how he would behave and he was not mistaken.

  ‘Hi, Simon. How ya doin?’ the Mountie asked boisterously. In his hands he held a bunch of black grapes and a green creeping thing in a pot. ‘Gee, they sure gave you a hard time,’ he said, giving Bognor a genial once-over. ‘Would you recognize any of them?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Simon. ‘Doubt it.’

  Smith put the plant on the bedside table and helped himself to a handful of grapes.

  ‘Wanna talk about it?’

  ‘Not particularly, but I will if you want me to.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’ He took out a notebook and a ballpoint pen. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Shoot.’