Another thing about him; he’s good with film. Film is the only art-form I understand. If I’d been a man I reckon I’d have started as a trainee cameraman and become a director. Barty’s camera-work is terrific, he’s got a great eye for a shot and he’s a really talented editor. He can cut mediocre footage and make it tell any story he wants.
He’s a terrible romantic, though. He thinks he’s streetwise and cynical but he’s a conspiracy theorist with the common sense of a newt.
When I reached Barty’s office the latest in his series of feather-brained, decorative Sloaney assistants was still there. This one, Annabel, is brighter than most. She understands VAT and remembers my name. ‘Oh, hello, Alex,’ she said. (Actually she said, ‘Er herler Erlex,’ but you’ll have to imagine the rest of her dialect.) ‘He’s on the phone to Los Angeles. Go right in.’
I went in and sat on a pile of Sammy camera boxes. Barty was leaning back in his swivel chair, feet propped on his littered desk. The Sloanes aren’t allowed into his office to tidy.‘Hope Los Angeles is well,’ I said, reading as much as I could see of the labels on the film cans beside me. ‘Give it my love.’ He wiggled his fingers in greeting, finished the call and sat up.
‘I was talking to Bournemouth, actually. Annabel’s still a touch enthusiastic.’ He raised his voice. ‘You can go home now, ducky. Take the letters to post.’
‘OK,’ she called back and went. I breathed out, feeling better. Barty doesn’t appear to take the Sloanes seriously, but I distrust them. They are too tall and too blonde, their legs are too long, they have too many shiny well-disciplined teeth and they walk as if the earth is lucky to support them. Why shouldn’t it be? I’m sure their daddies are. Barty’s first wife was like that. It would be reassuring that he’s already divorced one of them if men didn’t so often marry the same thing twice, and though I’ve no ambitions to be his wife, he’s much more useful for me unattached. He puts plenty of work my way and a wife might point out that he’d get a far better return on his money if he stopped dabbling in investigative documentaries and bunged it into commercial property or the safer end of the stock market.
‘How’s the colour supplement piece coming on?’ I said.
‘It’s on hold. Why?’
‘It wouldn’t be on the Sherwin murder, by any chance?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Reasons.’
‘You’ve been reading my notes again.’
‘D’you want some help?’
‘Why? What’ve you got?’
‘I may have a source, but let’s deal first. You’ve put the article on hold for at least a week. That means you don’t really want to do it.’
‘Don’t understand me so fast. Maybe I have an interest in it, and a source of my own.’
‘You’ll have to get someone to do the picture research, anyhow. You couldn’t lay your hands on a view of the Houses of Parliament without help. I can do all that stuff, and I was interested in the case as a child.’ (I knew he knew I’d read his notes but I didn’t want him to guess how much I’d done from scratch behind his back. He can be paranoid.) ‘I read a book by a man with a poncy name.’
‘H. Plowright Lemaire.’
‘Could be.’
‘Then you know who everyone thinks did the murder.’
‘Sure. The wife.’
‘Did you know she died three months ago?’
I’d got it spot on. I felt pleased. OK, it was obvious, but my line of work is mostly obvious, a form of painting by numbers, and it’s reassuring to get the numbers right. ‘I didn’t know,’ I said. ‘That frees her up as a target, yeah?’
He frowned. ‘That means I can print the truth.’ Truth is a buzzword for Barty.
‘We can print the truth,’ I repeated, like a mantra, stressing the we.
‘I don’t know that I can afford you, Alex. It’s just a one-off, because the Sherwin murder caught my fancy when I was young. I followed it in the papers; it was my bloodthirsty phase, when I wanted to be a policeman. I didn’t think Laura could have done it.’
‘Laura was the wife? Why couldn’t she have done it?’
‘She was so beautiful.’
‘Not much of a defence,’ I said, marvelling afresh at the extent to which intelligent men will follow their dicks to Disneyland. There could be a heck of a lot of work in it. Over thirty years have passed, most of them’ll be dead and the rest’ll be lying through their teeth because they’ve had so long to edit their memories.’
‘So why are you angling for it?’
‘I told you, I have a possible source. And I need the work.’
‘Who’s your source?’
‘Can we make a deal?’
‘Not on a per diem,’ he said, and I knew he meant it. Another reason I like him: he means what he says. ‘It’s not worth it to me.’
‘I’ll do the whole thing, pictures, piece and all, for seventy-five per cent of your fee plus expenses. I’ll get the truth if I can, and if it wasn’t the beautiful Laura I’ll say so, and she can step radiantly exculpated into the Great Beyond, clutching her Miss Congeniality trophy.’
‘Real expenses? Not one of your collected works?’
‘Real expenses, excluding meals. I’ll clear anything big with you first.’
‘I’ll probably rewrite your piece.’
Barty thinks he can write. He’s nothing special, but then neither am I. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘And I get co-credit. My name first.’
‘They’re paying for mine.’
‘Give me a with. Bartholomew O’Neill with Alex Tanner. Then you can translate it into Finnish for all I care, so long as I get seventy-five per cent.’
‘It’s due in the first of next month,’ said Barty casually.
‘That’s bloody impossible. Specially if you want time for a rewrite.’
‘So? I’ll only need a couple of days.’
‘Renegotiate the deadline.’
‘I already have. Twice. If I don’t come up with it this time it’ll go to a staffer.’
‘What’s the fee?’ He told me. It’d be worth my while, if I could get hold of the people – a big if. What the hell. Travis McGee worked on contingency. ‘Deal,’ I said.
‘Deal,’ said Barty.
‘What about development? If it goes to a doco?’
‘We’ll discuss that if and when. Now, who’s your source?’
‘Who’s yours?’
He cracked his knuckles impatiently. ‘You and your bloody games.’
‘It’s my living, Barty.’
‘We’ve just done a deal.’
‘And I need to know your source because I’m doing the work.’
‘My source is the governess, Sarah Potter,’ said Barty. I said nothing. ‘I used to know her. She was my sisters’ governess. She came to us not long after the murder, but she never would talk about the Sherwins, then. I’m hoping it’ll be different now Laura’s dead. Miss Potter’s still alive, or she was two months ago. She sent me a birthday card.’
‘Would she be reliable?’
‘Oh yes, she was a terrific old girl. High standards, integrity, self-discipline, dedication. She always told the truth.’
‘Nobody always tells the truth, nobody. There isn’t that much truth to tell. Will she co-operate?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I should be the one to approach her, pave the way. Only problem is, she isn’t answering her telephone. She must be away.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘In Warwickshire.’
‘Then she is away. She’s house-sitting for one of the Sherwin daughters in Lancaster Gardens, just round the corner from me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because she’s my source too. I picked her up in the street today. She’d been mugged.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Yeah. Bit shaken. She said she wanted to be alone. Babbling about the decline of loranorder. Blaming the upper classes. She might be ready to talk.’
T
hen he took me to supper, gave me lots of pasta and made me laugh. If it hadn’t been Barty I’d have thought he was genuinely chatting me up, but he couldn’t be. His track-record was against it. He liked women beautiful, brainless, tall, blonde and posh. Not like me.
Chapter Three
After Barty brought me home I spent the night at Polly’s borrowed laptop, finishing my current project (the Black Death: masses of technical detail on Rattus rattus for a jaw-crackingly boring Eurodoco), trying not to worry about whether I could deliver Barty’s piece in time. If I couldn’t I’d have wasted two weeks without even free food to show for it. On the other hand, of course, if I could I’d have made one and a half times my usual rate plus a useful credit.
I went to bed at five.
Barty woke me at nine thirty with the news that Miss Potter had invited me to morning coffee at eleven, and she was prepared to help. He thought it sounded promising. That meant nothing: to Barty, most things do.
I’d have preferred to see Miss Potter later in the day, when I’d had time to make notes on Lemaire and get some questions sorted, but I couldn’t afford to mess her about. I gulped as much of the book as I could with my breakfast, spent three quid on a taxi to drop off the Black Death piece complete with invoice, and rolled up to Penelope’s house dead on time.
The non-mugged Miss Potter looked younger than the seventy at least Barty reckoned and the dishevelled old mutterer I’d rescued. She was actually well preserved and rather good-looking, with regular features and plenty of white hair, about my height (fivefour) but with a much narrower build. I was disappointed by how well she had pulled herself together. She was in the worst of states, from my point of view: self-possessed and very alert. I accepted her offer of coffee and home-made shortbread (I prefer shop-bought) and tried not to let her prissy manner make me inspect the soles of my Doc Martens for dog-shit more than once every five minutes. The coffee was good but the china cup was much too small. Miss Potter’s voice was self-consciously clear about the consonants and pure about the vowels, and she removed tiny crumbs from the corners of her mouth with zealous precision. ‘I used to live in Warwickshire,’ she said. ‘Do you like the country?’
I hate the country. It’s either twee or bleak, full of people too interested in each other’s business and much too conscious of class distinctions. But she was the source. ‘Very much, what I’ve been lucky enough to see of it, but I’m a city person, myself.’
‘Yes,’ Miss Potter said, her eyes commenting on my appearance. I could only guess what aspect of it she found offensive. It might have been my Levi’s and heavy cotton sweatshirt; it might have been my boots; she may have thought young women should not crop their hair and dye it red. On the other hand, I may have been misinterpreting her assessment as condemnation, easy to do with women of her age and type. ‘How marvellous that you’re a friend of Barty’s,’ she said. ‘I’m very fond of him. Such a bright boy, always so considerate, don’t you think so, Alexandra?’
‘My name is Alex, Miss Potter.’
‘Surely you were christened Alexandra?’
I hate prying. When people pry, I improvise. I wasn’t about to confide that my mother had meant to name me Alice but it wasn’t one of her good days and the registrar couldn’t understand her. ‘I was baptized Mary, after my mother, but she always called me Alex, after an old film she liked, Ice Cold in Alex. I suppose my full name should be Alexandria, but Mum never knew what it stood for.’
‘And the rest of your family?’
‘There isn’t any. I come from a long line of single parents.’
‘You have done very well, then, to reach your present position. I gather from Barty that research positions are much sought-after, and that you are successfully self-employed.’ I knew she would try to change the subject, tactfully. She managed the change but not the tact. ‘How gratifying that we have a friend in common. One of the pleasures of life, don’t you think? Like re-reading a much loved book. Do you enjoy reading?’
My pastimes are my own business, I thought, and sod the upper-class guff about who you know. This complete stranger picked you up in the street and you were grateful enough then. I resisted the temptation to tell her the truth, that when I couldn’t sleep, which was quite often, I read two or three books a night. ‘Do you mind if I get to work?’ I said. ‘Has Barty explained to you about the article and the time pressure we’re under?’
‘Indeed. He was always disorganized. Surely it will be impossible for you to complete your research in time?’
‘I hope not, otherwise I don’t get paid. He said you might be prepared to help.’
‘That depends what you need to know.’
There was a definite note of anxiety in her voice. Good. If I could knock her off balance, I might get somewhere. ‘Have you read Lemaire’s book?’ I said.
‘Naturally.’
‘How much of it is accurate?’
She looked disapproving. ‘The tone was deplorable.’
‘But were the facts right?’
‘Such facts as there were, yes, I suppose so. Tell me, Alex, what will you do if your inquiries find nothing new?’
‘Add some local colour and thirty-years-on quotes, find some memory-lane snaps, stir Lemaire round a bit, garnish with cheap amateur sociological comment and here-they-are-now pix, and serve.’
‘And that would be consistent with your professional code of conduct?’
I just gaped at her. ‘My job isn’t a profession.’
‘There must be rules.’
‘I try not to rip off my bosses, if that’s what you mean. I don’t invoice for many more hours than I work, and I keep expense-padding to an agreed level. I produce what I’m paid for. Colour supplement pieces of this kind are mostly just coat-hangers for the pix and the ads.’
‘And confidentiality?’
‘Yeah. If I agree to it. Usually I don’t. What’re you getting at?’
She hesitated. ‘I suppose I am interested in your philosophy of life: your code of ethics. I realize it’s unusual and possibly intrusive to ask such a question so early in our acquaintance, but I am in an unusual position.’
She folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
Odd price you sometimes pay for information. ‘Right,’ I said, and considered. It was a classic interview question, superficially ingenuous, tempting me into an open landscape mined with who knew what unexploded prejudices and preconceptions. I’d been caught once before, and resolved then that in future, I would tell the truth, as far as the questioner could understand it.
‘My philosophy of life. Triage.’
‘I’m not familiar with the word. How do you spell it? Is it a religious faith?’
‘T-R-I-A-G-E, and it’s a military term. It’s how field medics sort out cases for treatment. That one’s beyond help, leave him to die; that one’s OK for the moment, leave him till later; that one will profit from our help now.’
‘In your view, that is how the Supreme Being treats us? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I don’t believe in a Supreme Being. That’s how I try to treat everything. People, tasks – everything.’
‘A question of priorities.’
‘Yes.’
‘You only spend time, emotion, money, where you think it to be profitable?’
‘Yes.’ She was quick. I liked that.
‘Profitable in financial terms?’
‘Not only. Not even mainly. It’s more to do with life. Effective, positive life. Fun. Building things. Not hurting people.’ I was embarrassed, now. The more I said the sillier it sounded.
‘This – philosophy. Is it your own?’
‘I think philosophy is too grand a term for it. As far as I know it’s my own.’
‘Very well,’ she said briskly, and it seemed that I’d passed her test. ‘To return to your article. I’m uneasy about – the whole enterprise. Does it not seem to you that the family have suffered enough? Why should the children be reminded of such a dreadful
tragedy?’
‘The children are in their forties.’
‘Candida is only thirty-nine.’
Oh God, a trivial pursuiter. ‘Old enough to face facts, surely,’ I said, suppressing my exasperation. Her anxiety had gone. She was evading me. ‘Someone’s going to write this article. Now Laura’s dead, it’s only a matter of time. There might be books, television programmes, maybe a film. If you help us now at least you can make sure we understand, that we get it right, to be as fair as possible to the children.’
‘Barty made that point, and it has some merit. It was on that understanding that I agreed to co-operate.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘If the Lemaire book is more or less accurate, I can use it as a basis to work from and we don’t need to go over the ground again.’ I gave her Barty’s list of names and addresses, and asked her if the addresses were current and if she could think of any names I should add. As she read, I watched. She tensed up. Her neck reddened. She was upset. Now was the time for the big question. ‘Laura wasn’t the murderer, was she?’ I said casually.
‘I’ll make some more coffee,’ she said, and bolted to the kitchen. I followed her, silent, bringing my question with me. I didn’t necessarily expect her to answer truthfully: in an important sense, she already had. She had told me she knew something I didn’t, something that upset her. Now, I should be kind. I’d get more out of her.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t press you. It’s often painful.’
‘What is?’
I’d been hoping she’d tell me. ‘Digging up the past,’ I said.
She concentrated unusual attention on the coffee grinder. ‘I was very – disturbed, yesterday.’
‘Of course. Shock.’
‘I gave serious attention to my position. Loyalty is most important.’
‘Naturally.’ Promising. People most often talk about loyalty just seconds before they haggle over the price of betrayal.
‘But there are priorities. There are always priorities. That is why it is so important to me to know your views on confidentiality.’
‘Because you might be prepared to tell me everything on condition I’d only use some of it?’
An Uncommon Murder Page 2