Felix in the Underworld

by John Mortimer

  It was then that a flying ball from the game hit him in the face. His glasses fell, turning the clear world into a soft, impressionist blur. He stooped to pick them up and found one lens shattered. But in that act of stooping, he remembered the great, the important thing, the single fact he had to check in the bundle of depositions. His hopes soared high as the vanishing aeroplane.

  That morning Ian Bowker had woken early, as he always did, to be on time for school and saw a piece of paper fastened with a safety pin to his blanket. He put on his glasses and found that it was a note from his mother, scrawled in purple Biro in a hand which he complained was more illegible than he, in fact, found it.

  My darling Ian (he read)

  Mummy has to go away on business. I hope and pray it won’t be long. I know you can get to school and manage on your own. Don’t answer the door to anyone, particularly the police, or if they want to take more of your blood. I have left money under the telephone so you should be all right for suppers etc. I daren’t say where my present address might be in case anyone else’s eyes should pry. I love you and here’s to when we shall be reunited. Keep your chin up.

  Mum

  The kisses filled the rest of the page – a line of crosses and one mouthful of smudged lipstick. Ian got up, washed, dressed and collected the money from under the telephone. He hadn’t got time then but he thought, as he looked round what he considered a complete tip, that if his mum was away in the evening he’d have a really good tidy-up and throw away a load of rubbish.

  He had been fast asleep in the middle of the night before when a Vauxhall Astra had driven up to the entrance of the flats. Mirry, who had been looking out for it, kissed her sleeping son and pinned the note to his blanket. Then she staggered down the stairs with a suitcase bulging with clothes and cosmetics, got into the car and was driven away to a destination she was afraid to divulge even to Ian whom she was leaving to fend for himself.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘The Tantamount tour going well, is it?’

  Tubal-Smith lay on his couch with his shoes off, one of his toes showing palely through a hole in his sock.

  ‘It’s a huge success. I’m not with her all the time now. She prefers to travel with a friend.’

  ‘Really? What sort of a friend?’

  ‘Oh, a brilliant young novelist. He’s from the southern hemisphere to be exact. I think she’s well into a new story.’

  ‘About sport again?’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s about that too!’ Brenda told him.

  ‘I’ll tell you why I wanted to see you. Fergus Campion. Bright young editor, isn’t he, Fergus?’

  ‘Of course. He’s Felix’s editor.’

  ‘Well, that’s the fortunate part of it. He’s just had a novel in from a woman called Elizabeth Cowling. And would you believe it?’

  ‘Would I believe what?’

  ‘This Ms Cowling’s a copper. A Detective Chief Inspector, nothing less. And can you guess . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brenda told him.

  ‘She’s the same copper that arrested Felix Morsom.’

  ‘I think he told me.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit of plum publicity dropped into our laps!

  Don’t you see it, Brenda? How often do we get one Llama author arresting another?’

  ‘Not very often, I suppose.’

  ‘I suppose never! Can you imagine what Lucasta Frisby would do with a story like that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Brenda was seriously concerned. ‘I’m afraid I can.’

  ‘What I want you to do’ – Tubal-Smith heaved himself and his stomach off the couch on to his slender legs and began to pace, excitedly shoeless, about the room – ‘is have a look at the book. Fergus says it’s called something to do with molehills. All about people called things like Tarquin and Arabella who spend their time discussing philosophy in a ruined chapel. But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s by a copper who fingered the collar of Felix Morsom! If you think it’s a good idea, have the woman in. Talk to her.’

  ‘I think,’ Brenda told him, ‘I’d like to do that.’

  At the door she said, ‘Millstream’s shop in the Fulham Road is absolutely bursting with our books. I hope you noticed.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ Tubal-Smith beamed. ‘You’ve done very well, Brenda.’

  ‘Not me. It’s the reps. The reps have done really well.’

  ‘Have they indeed?’ Tubal-Smith was puzzled. ‘I thought you said one of them had vanished. Off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Terry Whitlock? No. I’ve been in touch with him. Terry Whitlock’s one of the best. In fact I thought you might have an idea.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A sort of prize. For Rep of the Year. Stimulate competition and give them all a bit of encouragement. Isn’t that what you have in mind?’

  Tubal-Smith asked himself the question and came up with the answer. ‘Yes,’ he told her, ‘I believe it is.’

  ‘That’s great! We can always rely on you to come up with new ideas.’ Brenda smiled and left the presence.

  Ian was on his way home from school. It was the end of the week and he’d nearly spent all the money Mirry had left under the telephone. In addition to food, he’d had to buy furniture polish, Fairy Liquid and something which turned the water in the lavatory bowl blue. The flat was clean, tidy and smelled gently of disinfectant. Each night he had cooked himself toast and spaghetti rings and, after he’d finished his homework, he allowed himself an hour of television before bed. Far from being lonely, he’d enjoyed the happiest days of his life. He was delighted to be without his mother’s weeping and demands for affection. He could also do without the strange voice she’d put on when answering the telephone and the occasional rumpus of her making love.

  All the same, he was running out of money. He could, perhaps, earn a little by going downstairs to Mrs Pugsley and offering to do her shopping, but her flat smelled like the World’s End public Gents and Mrs Pugsley, who had a nose which set off downwards to meet her upturned chin and a black tangle of wiry hair, had gone completely off her trolley and had taken to bellowing through his letter-box, ‘Your mum’s gone off and abandoned you, hasn’t she? You’re an abandoned child! Someone ought to tell the Council.’ On such occasions he had turned the volume on the television up to its full extent and refrained from answering the door.

  He walked now, in the early dusk, between the dark cliffs of the buildings, down alleys where the smell of Mrs Pugsley’s quarters was echoed and re-echoed, aware of the dangers. He’d been twice set on by gangs of mixed sexes who had pushed him over, kicked him, opened his school-bag and scattered his geography projects in the wind. Dozens of times he had been offered drugs by school-age dealers to whom refusal was a personal affront. He had been groped and once held pinned to a wall by wandering paedophiles unable to find lonely children other than the solemn boy who stared at them through his glasses with a calm disapproval which finally put them off. So now he always walked through the shadows to his home having removed the compasses from his Geometry set, with the point out and sticking forward as a weapon of defence.

  As he walked, he heard footsteps behind him and suspected one of his usual dangers. He quickened his step; the step behind him quickened. Not daring to look round, he started to run; there was running behind him. A hand gripped his shoulder; he turned quickly and lunged with his drawn compass which penetrated a blue skirt and black tights, entering the fleshy thigh of WPC Brisket. She had come with Judy Primrose, a social worker, to investigate Ian as a child totally lacking parental or other control. Later, he was taken into care as a danger to the public, with a record of unlawful wounding and assault on the police. He had spilled some of the WPC’s blood in exchange for the blood she had once come to get from him.

  ‘We’ve got the kid!’ Detective Sergeant Wathen was able to report with great satisfaction. ‘We’ve got the kid put away safely. The Council applied for a supervision order.’

  His Dete
ctive Chief Inspector said nothing. She was studying a piece of forensic, which had only just arrived, in the case of R. v. Morsom. The labs, she thought, must be entirely staffed with partially mobile geriatrics. It took for ever to get a drop of blood sorted.

  ‘The mother’s scarpered. What we need is a law for locking up irresponsible mums.’

  One thing was, Elizabeth Cowling thought, that when they’d crept round to do their job, the result had the virtue of certainty. The DNA test was an almost sure thing in a world which could only guess at the reason for its creation.

  ‘I warned her,’ Wathen said, not for the first time. ‘I gave her a clear warning: “That nipper of yours has bad blood in him. There is the blood of a killer,” I said, “in that nipper’s veins. He should have been under a supervision order from birth, him being the fruit of a murderer’s loins.’” Detective Sergeant Wathen rolled his tongue round the last phrase with particular pleasure.

  ‘You’re wrong!’ his superior officer said, also enjoying the exchange. Detective Sergeant Wathen was getting more than ever up her nose, and she felt a freer spirit since she had heard welcome news about Here on Tins Molehill. ‘You’re completely wrong. Ian Bowker’s not the child of a murderer.’

  ‘Giving the little blue-eyed lad the benefit of the doubt, are you? Bleeding little innocent, is he?’ Wathen did a poor imitation of a soft-hearted do-gooder. ‘My honest opinion is the only thing to do with lads like that is crack down on them. Crack down on them hard!’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any doubt to give him the benefit of. I’ve got the DNA.’

  ‘Science! That never proves anything.’ Wathen said it, but he was already losing confidence. He felt as though Science was stealing up on him with some sort of blunt instrument.

  ‘We’ve got Ian’s blood and that of the deceased Gavin Piercey. Felix Morsom gave us some of his when we took prints. Anyway, the answer is Ian isn’t the child of either of them.’

  ‘Not Piercey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or Morsom?’

  ‘Certainly not Felix Morsom.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know who his father is, do we?’ Detective Sergeant Wathen began to cheer up.

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘So it might be another murderer?’

  ‘It’s not very likely.’

  ‘Or some violent criminal spawned him?’ The Detective Sergeant was hopeful again. ‘In which case we did right to crack down on the lad and bang him up.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Cecil!’ The Detective Chief Inspector was smiling. ‘Not all parents are violent criminals, you know.’ Elizabeth Cowling knew that her sergeant was particularly hurt by her calling him Cecil, mainly because it was his name.

  ‘You see, when Tarquin lies to Dermot and makes up a story about Arabella and Neville being lovers, and Dermot accuses Arabella and that then puts the idea in her head, so she does go to bed with Neville – or at least has sex with him in the old Coach House – and that leads, however indirectly, to Nuncle’s suicide . . . What I’m trying to say is that it’s by way of fiction we find out the truth.’ Detective Chief Inspector Cowling leant forward eagerly. She wore a mauve dress with a single row of pearls. Her hair had just been done and she was clutching a gin and tonic, feeling somewhat out of place in the Malibu Club, the glimmering white and gleaming chromium I930s-style cocktail bar in Soho, where she had been asked to meet the girl from Llama Books. Around her the men wore unstructured suits, gold chains on their wrists, shaven heads or beards or small, drooping moustaches. The white-faced, tousled women wore tights like ballet dancers or minute leather skirts. Many were muttering into mobile phones, some into tape-recorders. The strawberry blonde girl she had come to meet, whom she had feared would turn out a hugely efficient female editor with strong ideas, ready to attack Here on This Molehill with a blue pencil and a pair of scissors, had a gentle voice and wore baggy tartan trousers and an old football shirt, designed for a man. She made the Detective Chief Inspector feel middle-aged and overdressed. ‘I expect,’ she said, ‘you’ll make all sorts of helpful suggestions during the editing process. After all, this is my first.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not an editor,’ Brenda told her.

  ‘You’re not?’ Then what are we doing here in this extraordinary place?

  ‘I’m publicity. I shall be doing all the promotion for Molehill. Signing sessions. Literary lunches. All that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, yes. Provided my work doesn’t get in the way.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Crime’s soaring, I’m afraid. It’s really giving me awfully little time for writing.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brenda leant forward and talked to her new author confidentially. Detective Chief Inspector Cowling was taken aback by how beautiful she looked. ‘Your job? I think we should keep your job out of it.’

  ‘Oh, I agree. Murder and sudden death. Everyone must be bored of that by now. It’s becoming as tedious as the weather.

  I mean, for a topic of conversation.’

  ‘The head of Llama Books is very keen on the story about you arresting Felix Morsom, another of our authors.’

  ‘He does seem to have killed someone.’ Elizabeth Cowling smiled defensively. ‘So, really, I had very little choice . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it was your job. But I don’t see that as a particularly good way of selling Molehill. I don’t think your beautiful novel. . .’

  ‘You’ve read it, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’ Brenda lied swiftly but convincingly. ‘I don’t think it needs that sort of lurid publicity.’

  ‘I’m sure it does not.’ The Detective Chief Inspector was getting nervous. ‘I mean, I certainly couldn’t talk about the case to the newspapers. Sub judice and all that sort of thing. My superintendent would be absolutely livid.’

  ‘All the same’ – Brenda looked doubtful – ‘Tubal-Smith might insist on it as a publicity peg. He wants you to talk to Lucasta Frisby on “How I Fingered a Famous Novelist’s Collar”.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that!’ The professional policewoman was profoundly shocked.

  Brenda frowned, sank her chin in her hands. ‘I’ve been trying to think of a way out for you.’

  ‘Oh, if you only would! Lucasta Frisby! In the upper reaches of the Met everybody reads her.’

  ‘The only possible answer,’ Brenda had to admit, ‘is for Felix to be acquitted.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, then it would be a non-story! You just fingered the wrong collar. We’d have to fall back on the book.’

  ‘But is it really likely he’ll get off? I mean all the facts seem dead against him.’

  ‘All the facts?’ Brenda looked surprised. ‘I mean, I know you haven’t found Terry Whitlock yet, but surely it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Terry who?’

  ‘Whitlock. One of the Llama reps. He’s obviously the chap who really killed Piercey. I know Felix told you all about him. His car number and everything.’

  ‘He never said a word. Not about this Whitlock or anyone else.’

  ‘Or he told your sergeant. Surely he reported back?’

  ‘Just you tell me!’ The Chief Inspector leant forward intently. ‘Tell me all you know! There are some channels of communication which need clearing out. Like drains. So tell me about this Whitlock.’ When Brenda had told the story, Elizabeth Cowling resolved to reopen the inquiries at once. She might not reach the truth but, and this was even more important, she would make Detective Sergeant Cecil Wathen look a complete prat.

  Felix was in the group of prisoners out of their cells and watching ‘Southern Cross’, the latest Australian soap. Why had April left home? Was she pregnant by the new manager of the BYO Catch of the Day restaurant? Where had they all gone wrong? These were the subjects the Sydney-side family were anxiously discussing as they gathered in the kitchen where Granma was cooking a chook. New papers had just arrived from Septimus Roache, containing scientific evidence. Felix gl
anced at the conclusion and saw that neither he nor Gavin had been identified as Ian’s father.

  ‘Of course,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s it! That figures absolutely.’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ Dumbarton, gazing at the screen, was rarely moved to speak. ‘You’ll ruin the bloody story!’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘I’m afraid this is very unconventional but we authors are creatures of impulse.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘I’ve come alone. Without even informing your solicitor.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s worth informing.’

  ‘And no Detective Constable to corroborate my version of the following conversation.’

  ‘So I notice.’

  ‘We’re just chatting informally,’ Detective Chief Inspector Cowling almost gushed, ‘as brother and sister of the pen.’

  Felix felt his toes curl in embarrassment but he said nothing to stop the policewoman’s flow. ‘You see, I’ve had a most interesting and helpful meeting with Llama publicity department. I do feel it’s a wonderful start for me to be sharing publishers with so many famous authors, you in particular. She gave me some very valuable advice. I expect you know her? A nice girl called Brenda Bodkin?’

  ‘I know her’ – Felix’s voice was full of regret – ‘up to a point.’

  ‘She’s dead against an idea they apparently had at Llama of using, well, the way we bumped into each other – or shall we say over this case of yours – to publicize Here on This Molehill.’

  ‘You don’t want that?’

  ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘I must say that, at the moment, it would be the least of my worries.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I expect you get a lot of time to yourself here, don’t you?’

  ‘Not bad. We’re banged up about fourteen hours a day.’

  ‘So you have a nice lot of time for writing?’

  ‘I can’t write. I read crappy novels and watch television.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Elizabeth Cowling couldn’t quite conceal the pleasure that an accepted novelist must feel on hearing that another author can’t write. ‘But what I wanted, after seeing Brenda Bodkin who took me to that interesting club of hers, no doubt the haven of authors ... I suppose I’ll have to join ... I mean, why I wanted this little informal chat was that it might possibly help us to help you.’