The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

  “Investigating a death is like a boxing match, Como. You can’t plan punches far in advance. You have to react to the motions of your opponent. When the bell dings for the first round, you don’t know you’ll need a left hook two minutes into the fifth. With hindsight it’s obvious we should have asked what triggered Herbert’s arrest, but we shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves for missing it at the time.”

  “True.” Como appeared consoled by my words, and we drove a few more miles in companionable silence.

  “Know what I think?” he asked at last.

  “No.”

  “I think we need a case conference in a room with a glass wall where we can stick photographs and draw arrows between people with connections to the case. They have them in all the TV cop shows, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t have one too.”

  LESSON TWENTY-FOUR

  'Herbert, for a book to be a bestseller, must it be well written?'

  'No, Marco. Some bestsellers are well written, but the two qualities are not related.'

  'Then what makes a bestselling book?'

  'Money and contacts, Marco. Sales are in proportion to the number of palms that are greased. The critics will say anything if they are paid enough.'

  'But surely there must be more to it. Surely the book must have some merit.'

  'Well, there are some basics, admittedly. The book must have at least a certain number of pages. The text should constitute recognizable sentences. Clearly, Marco, the words cannot be a random jumble.'

  'But can truly mediocre writing become a bestseller purely through the perverse machinations of publishers and their marketing advisors?'

  ‘For your sake, Marco, let us hope so.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In which a malodorous episode precedes a passage of proper police procedure.

  Como dropped me at Herbert’s place where I had set up camp in one of the many guest bedrooms. Or maybe I dropped Como at police HQ and drove to Herbert’s myself, depending on whose car we were in last. Como’s suggestion, that we should insert a dollop of realistic police procedure by holding a case conference, seemed to have two major drawbacks, viz:

  Drawback #1—Realistic police procedure might not have a place in a mold-breaker a la Jackson Pollock.

  Drawback #2—I had no idea how to write it.

  However, with my usual gritty determination I decided to give it a go. After all, if we always downed the pen every time we found something we didn’t know how to write, we’d never get past Chapter One. Accordingly, I spent my free time performing the most diligent preparations for the forthcoming case conference—charging my iPad and having a nap.

  In good time I roused myself, packed the necessaries in my satchel and went out to blip open my black Range Rover, admiring the view of the ocean reflected in its tinted windows. Ordinarily my car flashes its lights when blipped, greeting the owner who feeds it gas and other nourishing fluids. There was no such greeting today—I must have left it unlocked. Never mind. Herbert’s house was very isolated—it was unlikely there’d be car thieves about. I opened the driver's door.

  On the squab of my seat, contrasting with the immaculate cream leather, were several moist blobs of dog doo doo. Stuck into the doo doo was an envelope addressed to 'Snooper.'

  Recoiling from the dreadful whiff, I pulled the envelope from the blobs and gingerly opened it, hoping not to get any of the poo on my fingers. Inside was a card showing a view of Clarkesville harbor, the rear bearing the words:

  'We don't like snoopers, especially when they stick up for pedophiles. If you know what's good for you, you better leave. We'll give you forty-eight hours to pack your bags.'

  The words were in 16-point Incredula, a font normally found in books on the occult. What could it mean? Who could have done this? Who knew I was helping Herbert? Engrossed in my thoughts, I flopped onto the driver's seat, having forgotten the doo doo.

  An unpleasant change of trousers later, I went into Herbert's garage to search for cleaning aids to deal with the excreta my buttocks had pressed into the grained leather. Among the paraphernalia cluttering the place, I found a mannequin of the sort department stores have in window displays. It was about the size of a fifteen-year-old girl. Lines had been drawn across its limbs, with the instruction ‘cut here’. What could it mean? Perhaps it meant writing the first thing that came into your head was a daft idea after all.

  Having cleaned the seat, I drove into town to join Como at police HQ. He was just about to brief his team—a mix of young, eager detectives and seasoned cynics who had joined Clarkesville PD before I was born.

  “Ah, Writer, good of you to come,” said Como.

  We made introductions; I shook a dozen hands; the team complemented me on my stylish use of semicolons; then the briefing began in earnest.

  “Gentlemen. Ladies. Let us go through what we know about this case,” said Como. “At 2:47 p.m. on the ninth a call came through to the Clarkesville PD emergency line.” Como nodded at one of the technical specialists to play a recording.

  “This is Clarkesville County Police Emergency Line. Please state your emergency, Caller.”

  “There's a famous novelist with a house overlooking the ocean who's been having a secret affair with an underage girl, and now I think he has killed her and is cutting her body into pieces at his house.”

  “Thank you, Caller. I'll dispatch a patrol car right away. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Thank you for calling Clarkesville County Police. Have a nice day.”

  “Any questions?” asked Como.

  I put up my non-typing hand.

  “Yes, Writer.”

  “Have we been able to trace the call?”

  “Not yet. The caller withheld their number. It’s technically possible for the telephone company to trace the call, but we need a warrant to give them permission to do it, as it would otherwise be a breach of the caller’s rights.”

  “And how long will it take us to get a warrant, Lieutenant?”

  “Usually two working days, but there’s a case going through the state court challenging the right of law enforcement authorities to apply for warrants in such circumstances, so we have no idea how long it might take in this case.”

  “That’s literally unbelievable. How is a small-town police department expected to clear a writer framed for a grisly murder with one arm tied behind their backs?”

  I scowled at my coffee cup with ill-concealed disgust for my inept mingling of the singular and the plural, and for the do-gooders responsible for hampering our investigation. I was also very annoyed about the anonymous caller’s hyphenation of overlooking, which was making me look a rank amateur in the spelling department. Looking on the bright side, however, the court case did set up the possibility of a deus ex machina ending in which Herbert would be saved from frying in the chair thanks to a last-minute issue of a warrant to trace the call.

  “Let’s move on,” said Como. “At 3:06pm Chief McGee arrives at the scene of the reported crime with heavy back-up. Upon entering the premises, the police find the suspect Herbert Quarry kneeling in a pool of blood within which are scattered large pieces of a dismembered corpse.”

  Como affixed to the glass wall a large color print showing Herbert kneeling among the blood and cuts of meat. Three of the younger members of the team threw-up and two fainted. I almost threw-up myself at having to write such rubbish. The older members of the team, however, were hardened cops, inured to the clichés of crime fiction—they crushed their cans of soft drink to denote their anger at the brutal murder.

  Como ignored the commotion.

  “Forensic examination has shown the dismembered body was of a girl aged fifteen or sixteen. Her blood group, DNA, appearance, hair color, eye color, dental configuration and other distinguishing features match those of Lola Kellogg, a young girl who disappeared on the day the corpse was discovered. The r
are Japanese cooking knife with which the corpse was dismembered appears to be one of a set of rare Japanese cooking knives in Herbert Quarry's kitchen. Herbert Quarry's DNA and fingerprints are all over the corpse. There are distinctive handprints on the sections of the corpse showing where the body had been held steady as it was cut up, and the prints match those of Herbert Quarry. We also know from many independent sources, including a confession from Quarry himself, that he had a long illicit love affair with the poor child.”

  At this, Como affixed a photo of Herbert to the glass wall and drew thick arrows between the photo and one of the dismembered Lola, thus signifying the strong evidential links between the two.

  One of the more seasoned detectives raised her hand, shedding salt and pepper over the conference table. “Does Quarry have an alibi?”

  An alibi. I knew there was something else I had forgotten. I decided a brief flashback was necessary to correct my omission…

  Six days earlier…

  After my first visit to see Herbert had been ended prematurely by the heavily armed warder, I realized I hadn’t asked Herbert all I needed to know. At the next available opportunity, I returned to the prison and once again went through all the formalities to find myself alone with Herbert in an interview room. I asked him to tell me about the day on which he had found Lola’s dismembered body…

  “It no longer seems real to me, Marco,” he said. “It seems like an impressionist painting viewed from afar through smudged spectacles. However, the day before was the happiest of my life, and the happiest of Lola’s too. We had settled into a routine, she and I, one we had to hide from the world. Every morning she would arrive at my house, having convinced her parents with some story that she would be visiting friends for the day. She would cook breakfast while I sketched ideas for the next few pages of my book. After breakfast we would tell each other how much we loved each other, and dance on the beach. She took to looking after me and liked nothing better than to darn my socks while we discussed literature. She said she wanted to be my wife and look after me forever. Never again would my socks be un-darned. We would have children and move to Canada where we could live in peace. She would be my muse, my editor, my wife, my lover, my best friend, and my agent, all rolled into one. She left messages for me around the house, penciled on paper, or written in lipstick on the mirror, or cut into the lawn with a lawnmower, or arranged with trails of toilet paper in the bathroom, or let into the surface of my desk in exquisite marquetry. All expressed her undying love for me. Then one day she came to my house with angry livid bruises all over her body. I asked her what had happened, and she told me her father beat her, that she was a wicked, wicked girl and she deserved all of the beatings. I had never heard anything so outrageous, and I went to look up the telephone number of the appropriate authorities to whom the beating should be reported; but Lola was wiser than I, and pointed out that our relationship was just as illegal as the beatings, and if we were to report the latter then surely we would end up exposing the former, and our love would be torn asunder.”

  I gave a small nod of sleepiness which thankfully Herbert misinterpreted as one of understanding. He went on…

  “It became clear to me that the only way to save Lola from her abusive parent was to elope. We agreed on a time and a date. I started rumors about a promotional trip to Europe, hoping to throw people off the scent once we had left for Canada. On the fateful day, I had arranged to meet Lola at my house at 1pm, but that very morning she called to say she wanted to meet me at the beach instead, to dance there one last time. She also said she might be running up to two hours late, so I should wait for her from 1pm to 3pm and only return to the house if she had not arrived by the aforementioned time. (Yawn, yawn.) I went to the beach at exactly 1pm in a state of supreme relaxation. The worries and tensions that had been such a constant part of our secret life had vanished. We were on our way to our new life. Soon all of our troubles would be behind us. Reflecting on my good fortune and golden future, I fell asleep, awaking at exactly 3pm. At once I was worried that Lola had not arrived, and in accordance with our agreement I returned to the house. What did I find but my beautiful darling Lola in pieces on the floor. I sank to my knees in shock, incapable of thought or movement, as if in a trance, and I touched my fingers to the bloody pool to see if it was real or the continuation of my dream on the beach. After all, it was easier for me to believe I was still sleeping than to accept the horror surrounding me. It was then the police arrived, Marco, and the rest you know.”

  Back in the present…

  “No,” I heard myself saying. “He has no proper alibi. He said he spent the two preceding hours sleeping alone on the beach waiting for Lola, then returned to the house only after she failed to turn-up.”

  Elevated eyebrows indicated the cynicism with which my words were received by the more-experienced members of the team.

  “So, Herbert Quarry does indeed appear to be the most likely suspect,” asserted Como.

  “I disagree,” I contested. “I know Herbert to be incapable of committing such a crime, especially against his one true love; but putting that aside, his story is consistent with the known facts, and there are others with both the motive and the opportunity to have committed the crime.”

  “True,” acknowledged Como, with what seemed to me to be remarkable fairness. “Let us get on to what else we have established about the case. Firstly, we have Marcia Delgado.” At this, Como affixed to the wall a photograph of the waitress’s scorned sister, one taken at the mental asylum, showing her in some sort of fit, the very image of a psychopathic lunatic. He went on:

  “Delgado had a strong motive for ruining Quarry. She had been deeply scorned by him, had accused him of being a sick pedophile, had publicly vowed to see him rot in hell, and had, according to one of the world’s most renowned psychologists, subconsciously betrayed an implacable desire to frame the bestselling author.”

  Como told of the 3,285 extraordinary artworks Marcia had produced in the lunatic asylum, each showing Herbert framed in some way. Como drew an arrow from the photo of Marcia to the photo of Herbert, writing the word ‘FRAMED’ next to it, and a reverse arrow from Herbert to Marcia, which he labelled ‘SCORNED’.

  “Our honorary colleague here,” Como nodded at me, “has pointed out that Professor Sushing has taken a remarkable interest in the Delgado case, and that his powers of subconscious influence could have been directed at Marcia then, and at us now, to lead us to the conclusion that Marcia was likely to be framing Herbert. The Professor could be framing the framer.” Como fixed up a photo of the stern and austere countenance of Sushing—one that highlighted his villainous mien—and drew another arrow to show the potential relationship to Delgado.

  “We also know bad blood existed between the Professor and Quarry, who had taken him to court for libelous reviews of his books.” Como drew another pair of arrows, marking one ‘JEALOUSY’ and the other ‘COURT CASE.’

  “Next we have Aaron Aaronovitch,” Como added a photo to the wall, “an expert taxidermist who professes to have no direct link to the killing, but whose wife was killed by Quarry in a tragic accident.” Como added more photos and arrows showing the links between Aaronovitch and Herbert, writing ‘KILLED WIFE’ next to them.

  “Then we have Elijah Bow, the billionaire industrialist who was found to have a huge bronze statue of the naked victim. Could he be a love rival to Quarry, anxious to suppress evidence of his own illegal love for Lola?” Another photo hit the wall, with six more arrows.

  “Finally, we have Bluther Cale, two people we believe he stuffed, and a chameleon who may be unrelated but whom we have yet to rule out.” Como added four more photos and a whole quiver of arrows to the glass wall.

  “Okay, now what have we got…”

  Como stepped back to assess the overall picture. It was an indecipherable mess of scribbles with everyone connected to everyone else.

  I took a nice picture of it with my iPad.
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br />   LESSON TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Marco, what were you trying to convey with this sentence ‘I felt like a volcano preparing to erupt’?’

  ‘I was trying to say I was suddenly excited and energized, Herbert. Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Volcanic eruptions are never sudden, Marco—they are always preceded by months of seismic activity.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘In any case, it is nonsense to say volcanoes prepare to erupt. Volcanoes do not make preparations, Marco.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You must understand, Marco: writing spontaneously is not the same as writing tripe.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  In which Marco continues to confuse tripe and spontaneity.

  I returned to Herbert’s house on the beach overlooking the ocean and sat in a recliner on his deck. I was beginning to have doubts about the whole business: about my ability to solve the case, about my ability to write a bestseller, about the plot I had developed, or, rather, not developed. I tried to clear my mind and live in the moment for a moment. The sun was setting, and the surface of the ocean was iridescent. I felt a pang of loneliness. In spite of all my fame, wealth and success, and in spite of my growing camaraderie with Como, and in spite of the esprit de corps I shared as an honorary member of his crack squad, I still felt I was missing someone to share my life. The hot actresses who pestered me to father their babies were one thing, but I missed something more fundamental. I wanted a special companion. I wanted someone to dance on the beach with, someone who would share my taste in books and music, someone who would talk with me on long, romantic walks, someone I could surprise with romantic gifts, someone who could argue with me about which of us was doing our fair share of the housework, someone who could criticize my Bronx mom for interfering in our life, someone who could daub accusations about me on the side of civic buildings, someone who…