Felix in the Underworld

by John Mortimer

  ‘Are the police always so helpful?’

  ‘Well, not always. And I doubt if my Detective Sergeant would approve but this is a special case. Now is there anything you haven’t told us?’

  ‘I haven’t told you anything.’

  ‘On legal advice. But now, anything that might help us help you?’

  ‘Something you should have reminded me of. Something that struck me as very important. The glasses.’

  ‘I see yours are broken. ’ One of Felix’s eyes was still shrouded by a cracked lens. ‘But isn’t that rather a matter for the prison authorities?’

  ‘Not my glasses. Gavin’s glasses.’

  ‘I don’t remember . . .’

  ‘. . . Seeing them on the scene-of-the-crime list? You didn’t because they weren’t there.’

  ‘He wore glasses?’

  ‘Obviously not just reading glasses. He wore them always. Every time I saw him.’

  ‘They’d’ve been broken in the attack.’

  ‘But no bits of them were found. No bent frame, shattered lenses, nothing. I mean, the murderer wouldn’t have taken them away with him, would he?’

  ‘I suppose not. What do you think that means?’ Felix looked round the interview room. On the other side of the glass he could see a screw with his arms crossed, his head sunk on his chest, apparently asleep. Then he told her what he thought it meant.

  ‘It’s a bit of a bloody superstition to think that a preposition is a word you must never end a sentence with,’ said Brenda’s one-time friend Paul, who was wearing only a T-shirt from the Adelaide Literary Festival on which the bald butler-like head of Henry James stared out with a look of fastidious disapproval. ‘Now let me ask you this,’ Paul continued in his best tutorial mode. ‘Would you rather say people worth talking to or people with whom it is worthwhile to talk?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Sandra Tantamount, quite undressed, was fastened to the hotel bed by her Hermes scarf, Paul’s belt and the cords of two Galaxy complimentary bathrobes.

  ‘Well, then, we’d better have a demonstration.’

  ‘About prepositions?’

  ‘Semi-colons. You’ve never really understood how to use them.’

  ‘All right. But do hurry up. We can’t be late for the Llama Books party.’

  The activity which they then engaged in is fully described in chapter twenty of Hole in One (Llama Books £16.99) in which Brad Eagle, the American Ryder Cup hero, encounters Sally Appledorf, a sports page journalist, in a bunker.

  Llama Books didn’t need to hire restaurants or assembly rooms for parties. The first floor of its offices, converted from an old coach station, was a cavernous space, once the starting point for tours of the South Coast or the Shakespeare country, now fitted with a marble floor, tall stained-glass windows and potted palms. There a hundred and fifty assorted booksellers, critics, writers, publicists and broadcasters could circulate, grab glasses of champagne, fill their mouths with miniature pork pies and avocado dip and, splutter, from food-filled mouths, unfavourable views of the authors who made up the autumn list. Tonight the reps, complete with their partners, had turned up in force to hear the announcement of the Rep of the Year Award (an engraved tankard and a handsome cheque) to be presented at some point in the proceedings by the bestselling Sandra Tantamount.

  She arrived only a little late with Paul, her often discontented face wreathed in smiles. She was met, with a little half bow, by Tubal-Smith, as though she were visiting royalty, who took her to meet Lucasta Frisby. ‘She’s dying to talk to you for a series she has in mind about star women writers and their unknown husbands. It’ll be frightfully good for Hole in One.’ Paul found himself near to Brenda, who was wearing the long, green dress she kept for ceremonial occasions, so she looked mystic and wonderful as some sort of water nymph in a pre-Raphaelite painting.

  ‘Long time no see.’

  ‘You’ve been busy with Sandra.’

  ‘She wants me to be with her on tour. Her prose is improving all the time.’

  ‘I bet it is. Does she want you to jab things into her bum?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Brenda! Don’t talk disgusting. There’s people from television about.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Silly question. Of course she does.’

  ‘Haven’t you missed me a little, Brenda?’

  ‘Not much. I rather like being alone. You can stretch out your legs.’

  ‘Well, you always liked that.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m grateful to you, Paul. What with one thing and another, you’ve been the most wonderful exercise. I leave you a far fitter woman than the one you took up with all those months ago.’

  ‘Brenda, you’re joking?’ Paul had always been the one who ended things.

  ‘In a way. But you’ll be far happier helping Sandra.’

  ‘If we split up’ – Paul was clearly worried – ‘does it mean Llama Books won’t publish The Budding Groves of Wagga Wagga?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m sure Miss Tantamount will see you have a simply enormous print run.’

  He walked away from her then and she said to herself, Of course I’ll miss you, you long, blond post-modernist child of the outback! In some ways I’ll miss you very much indeed.

  She saw Detective Chief Inspector Cowling in a cocktail dress, with a samosa in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. Being in the police, she didn’t know many people to talk to. Brenda went up to her and asked her not about her book but about some other preparations they had planned for this event. ‘It’s all done,’ Elizabeth assured her. ‘But I was so looking forward to this party. Seeing so many writers I admire in the flesh. Now it’s becoming a bit of a busman’s holiday.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that. There’s someone just come in

  I’ve got to talk to. I’ll get Tubal-Smith to come over to keep you company.’

  ‘Will you? Tell me, does he really like Here on This Molehill?’

  ‘He thinks you’re right up there with Virginia Woolf. In fact he thinks Virginia’ll be sick as a cat when she reads it!’ And Brenda was gone. For she had seen, between the drinking, cheering, laughing heads, a straw-haired, boyish woman, with hands deep in the pockets of a dark jacket, come into the room and look round in a way that seemed not hesitant but amused, as though she’d like to stand and enjoy the joke on her own a little longer. She wasn’t left alone, however. Brenda was beside her, holding out a glass of champagne and saying,

  ‘Thanks for coming, Tony. I think Terry’s in with a real chance.’

  ‘Rep of the Year! You really think he’ll show up?’

  ‘He’s probably got to hear about it. We published the shortlist in the Bookseller. There are only three on it, so he’ll know he might well be up for the big one.’

  ‘How big is it exactly?’ Tony screwed up her nose, unaccustomed to the bubbles that sped up towards it.

  ‘Five hundred smackers!’

  ‘Terry’d come for that. If he’s anywhere above ground.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t show, you’ll accept it on his behalf?’

  ‘Course I will. Just so long as PROD doesn’t get their sticky fingers on it.’

  ‘Spend it before they notice! How are the kids?’

  ‘Ghastly, thanks. They’re driving Terry’s mum crazy. Serve her right for giving birth to such a ridiculously fertile bisexual. Is it all right if I have one of those sausages?’

  ‘Look, if you do have to accept the prize, there’s no need for you to make a speech. Just say thanks, take the money and run.’

  ‘That’s just what I had in mind!’

  Three quarters of an hour later the sound of the party had risen several decibels. Deals, takeovers, breathtaking advances, mass sackings and possible prizewinners were debated. Seductions had started in various corners. A plump young historian came up to Miss Bodkin and said, ‘Brenda, I know I’m not much good in bed but with you I’d really try hard,’ imagining this was the approach irresistible. She gave him what she hoped was
a withering look and started to talk with unnatural animation to an octogenarian with a whistling hearing-aid. Don Giovanni in Accounts was making a flagrant approach to Elizabeth Cowling on the basis that, to complete his collection, every serious seducer’s list should include at least one older woman. But he was interrupted by Tubal-Smith who told him he couldn’t wait to tell the Heritage Minister and the lead singer of the Degenerates at dinner that he’d just captured the most newsworthy officer in the entire Metropolitan force. Then he was called to the microphone to introduce ‘our newest bestseller acquisition who has researched, in writing her wonderful novels, almost every sporting activity known to the civilized world’.

  Sandra Tantamount, flushed and overexcited by the ever-flowing champagne and the afternoon’s activities, had raised her voice an octave and her short speech was punctuated by high and girlish giggles. ‘Those of us who have had a little success at writing,’ she said, ‘owe everything to the unsung heroes of the literary world, the reps!’ Laughter at this was drowned in cries of ‘Got it right, girl!’ and ‘Good on you!’ from all the reps present. ‘This prize is therefore far more important than the Booker and the Prix . . .’ She was about to say the Prix Goncourt, but after Prix she abandoned the attempt. ‘All those reps on the shortlist have done splendid work and now, if I can only open the envelope ... It seems to have been stuck down with superglue! Yes, I’ve got it open. And, yes, I’m so glad about this. The winner of Rep of the Year prize will be well known to you all. It is ... Terry Whitlock!’ Sandra looked brightly round the room. ‘Is he here? Mr Whitlock, come and collect the prize. Rep of the Year!’

  There were shouts of ‘Give him the money!’, ‘Where’s Terry?’, ‘Probably still down the old Jane Shaw’ and, even, ‘He’s done a runner!’ But Brenda appeared at the bestseller’s side and told her, ‘His wife’s here to receive the prize.’

  ‘Good news!’ Sandra’s voice rose high and excited over the chatter. ‘Terry, it seems, is busy. Well, he’s always busy, isn’t he, our Terry? But luckily his wife, the lovely . . .’

  ‘Tony,’ Brenda prompted.

  ‘Tony! Did you say Tony?’ Sandra was puzzled until Brenda said, ‘Yes. It’s a woman.’

  ‘Oh, right. Will Terry’s wife Tony please come up and collect his prize? Terry’s busy, isn’t he?’ she asked the short-haired woman who had appeared beside her. ‘Always busy! Thank you very much.’ And she took the envelope with the cheque in it rather as a hungry young zoo leopard might take its daily lump of horseflesh from a keeper. And then she was pushing her way through the crowd, her head down, not looking at anybody, and out of the door. Brenda gave her a short start before she went after her, and Detective Chief Inspector Cowling left Tubal-Smith in the middle of his anecdote about an ‘amazingly star-studded lunch at the Galaxy Grill’, the only point of which seemed to be the names of the characters concerned. The movements of Terry’s wife Tony were from now on to be carefully scrutinized.

  The Llama car park was a place of faint lights and long shadows. In a dark patch Brenda had got into her Golf, taking care to shut the door quietly, and sat looking forward, her hand on the ignition, peering through the windscreen. She saw, in a pool of light, Tony ferreting in her handbag for the key to her child-infested, beat-up Ford Fiesta which the H P company might just not reclaim if she could get Terry’s cheque cashed. It took her a long time and Brenda could guess at the abuse of life and the universe that went on as Tony shook her bag, shook her head and shaped her lips round various obscenities. At last she found a bunch of keys and Brenda started her engine.

  At the same time there was a roar from another car which seemed to bound out of the shadows and aim itself directly at Tony. It came like a torpedo at the woman dazed in its headlamps, a standing bewildered target. Brenda could never be sure what made her drive forward, her foot flat on the floor, to cannon into the side of the advancing murder weapon, to turn it, with the horrible sound of crunching metal, out of its course, so that it hit a concrete pillar broadside and stopped. Both Tony and Brenda could then see it for what it was. The relic of the Vauxhall Astra used by Terry, the rep, to conduct his business.

  Figures came out of the shadows. Detective Sergeant Wathen pulled open the door of the wreck and leant over to switch off the engine. The driver seemed unhurt. He was pale, however, and the impact had broken his glasses. He was wearing a maroon-coloured anorak and the bottom half of a tracksuit. He was not Terry but, undoubtedly, Gavin Piercey, alive in spite of everything.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Felix sat in the dock of number one court in the Old Bailey and looked with wonder at his trousers. He thought it was only in another existence, another world almost, that he had worn his best suit – dark grey with a discreet back slit – which Brenda had brought to the prison for his day in court. The prominence to which he had been led by a secret staircase from the cells, blinking at unexpected daylight like a mole emerging from the earth, didn’t feel like a position for an important actor but a back seat in the audience. The play, which he had long ago decided would be protracted, meaningless and finally boring, seemed to be starting off at a great distance and, having nothing to do with him, was unlikely to hold his attention.

  He saw Septimus, chatting with a man from the Crown Prosecution Service at the solicitor’s table. He saw Chipless, lounging with his hands in his pockets, his wig pulled down over his forehead like an Edwardian dandy’s top hat, laughing at a joke told to him by Marmaduke Pusey, QC. He saw Quentin Thurgood, who was busy reading a brief in another case. And then there was a knock like that which used to precede French plays and an usher yelled, ‘Be upstanding!’ and Felix rose wearily as a tiny man in scarlet and ermine, a judge seen through the wrong end of a telescope, bustled into court. When they all sat down again, another voice intoned, ‘The Queen against Morsom,’ and Felix wondered what exactly the Queen had against him.

  When the judge said, ‘Yes, Mr Pusey,’ he turned out to have a deep bass voice, inappropriate to such a small, fussy person, so that it all seemed like a television play with the volume turned up. From then on the trial proceeded in the shortened version. Felix was reminded of those actors who undertake to do the whole of Hamlet in five minutes. The text was as follows:

  MARMADUKE PUSEY, QC: My Lord, in this case I appear to prosecute with my learned friend Miss Goldacre. The defence is in the able hands of my learned friends Mr Christopher Warrington and Mr Quentin Thurgood. My Lord, your Lordship will not be troubled long with this case. Certain facts have emerged which have led me to advise the Crown not to offer any evidence against the defendant Morsom.

  JUDGE: I understand that the deceased victim is, in fact, still alive?

  PUSEY: Indeed he is, my Lord. It was an event which the Crown could not possibly have foreseen.

  JUDGE: Quite so, Mr Pusey. I understand it was entirely unexpected?

  PUSEY: Indeed it was, my Lord.

  JUDGE: But being without a fatality is somewhat fatal to your case?

  [Polite, if muted, laughter in court.]

  PUSEY: Your Lordship puts it so much better than I could have done. When it comes to costs, it is our contention that the defendant Morsom brought these proceedings on his own head by constantly threatening the man Piercey with death. The threats are referred to in the depositions.

  JUDGE: I have read the depositions. What have you to say on costs, Mr Warrington?

  WARRINGTON: My Lord, I agree with every word which has fallen from my learned friend. These proceedings were undoubtedly due to Morsom’s conduct. That is not disputed.

  JUDGE: Brought it on his own head, did he?

  WARRINGTON: He did indeed, my Lord.

  JUDGE: Then I’m most grateful to you two gentlemen for not wasting the time of the court. [He looks towards the dock.] Are you Felix Morsom? [As though he didn’t know who he might find sitting there.]

  FELIX: Yes. [For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘my Lord’.]

  JUDGE: Then you a
re free to go. There will be no order for costs against the prosecution.

  The privatized dock officers opened a small door and Felix walked out of the sinister playpen. Septimus came strutting up, his fingers in his waistcoat pockets, sniffing through the hair in his nose and smelling, as usual, of eau de cologne and sweat.

  ‘I think your chestnuts have been pulled out of the fire,’ he said, ‘by the best legal team in the country. Are you coming to say thank you to Chipless?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Felix was looking up at the public gallery, where he saw the bright hair of the person he needed to thank. She smiled, waved and pointed to show that she was coming down to join him.

  ‘He’s not allowed to speak to anyone. Sorry. No story! Mr Morsom’s reminiscences are the sole copyright of Llama Books. He’s under a contractual obligation. Just let us through, will you? Sorry to disappoint you.’ Lights were flashing, lenses and microphones were pushed towards him. There were cries of‘This way for the Sun, Felix’, ‘Quick smile for the Meteor’, ‘Just a couple of words for the BBC’. There was even a faint and distant cry of ‘Radio Thames Estuary’. Brenda gripped Felix’s arm, steered him away through the traffic, ran with him down the side-streets to where her car (a hired job, the Golf convertible was still very sick indeed) was parked outside the Mother Bunglass pub. She started the engine as the news gatherers, weighed down with cameras, recorders and bags of equipment, came panting round the corner of the alley-way.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Felix, for not much reason, found himself laughing.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘I suppose home. Unless. . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘. . . you can think of anywhere else?’ He was trying not to sound hopeful.