Victory Disc

by Andrew Cartmel

  “How sweet,” said Miss Honeyland. “Do you know what Sigmund Freud said about cats? He said, ‘Time spent with cats is never wasted.’ They are such lovely creatures. I wish I could have one myself.”

  “Why can’t you?” said Nevada. It obviously wasn’t a question of being able to afford the odd tin of tuna. The woman smiled and stopped stroking Fanny. She showed us her hand. There was an angry red rash across her knuckles.

  “Allergic, I’m afraid.”

  “Your poor hand,” said Nevada. “Can I get you some ointment?”

  “No, please don’t worry. It will soon fade.” She leaned down to caress the cat some more. “And it’s certainly worth it.” At this point Fanny decided she’d had enough and headed for the kitchen, to see if her bowl had magically been filled with food. Miss Honeyland sighed and folded her hands on the table in front of her.

  It was time for business.

  She said, “I would like to hire you to find some records for me. Some very important and very valuable records.”

  3. LOCUST PIE

  “My father was Lucian Honeyland,” said the woman. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” I couldn’t say that I had. Nevada clearly also drew a blank. The woman smiled with the satisfaction of someone pulling off a successful conjuring trick. “He was rather better known by his nickname—Lucky. A nickname he received during the war when he served in a bomber squadron. Commanded it, in fact.”

  I felt a ripple of premonition.

  “On one memorable occasion he flew back from a mission with three out of four engines on his Lancaster destroyed and half of his crew dead. But he successfully landed and returned to his command. He also continued to fly active bombing missions over Germany, although the duties of command prevented him doing as much of this as he would have liked. Just as it prevented him from spending more time in his role as the leader of a band called the Flare Path Orchestra.”

  There it was.

  She smiled at us. “Now, I understand you have found one of my father’s records.”

  “God bless the Internet,” said Nevada.

  “Exactly. I read about your discovery online. And as you know, my father’s records are quite hard to come by.”

  I said, “If you want to buy it—”

  “I actually want to employ you,” said Miss Honeyland. She smiled again, revealing her many impressive teeth. They might have belonged to a healthy horse. “To find as many of my father’s recordings as you can.” At the word ‘employ’ Nevada went into a kind of blissful trance state, sighing over her coffee as her eyes glazed over. I must admit, I was quite pleased myself.

  “You see—and I apologise if this is a rather discursive explanation—my father used to do all his writing in a garage at our house. It was quite a large, detached garage, a small building in its own right. He took it over and turned the cars out. Rather fine and expensive cars. He exposed them to the elements. Can you imagine? Our old Wolseley out under a tarpaulin in all weathers. Anyway, he converted the garage into a kind of office and study, and it was there that he wrote his books.” She smiled at all of us. “All of his beloved books.”

  I hadn’t known that Lucian Honeyland had also been an author. But at this point I assumed she was referring to some tiresome volumes of military memoirs, or, at best, his musings on music. Perhaps privately printed as the old airman’s vanity project.

  So I just nodded.

  “Now we intend to turn the garage into a museum, so people can see where the books were written. There is a great deal of interest, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said politely.

  “And the museum exhibitions will cover all phases of my father’s life. Including, naturally, his air force career and his wartime years and his band activities and his love of jazz. So I desperately need some of his records—as many as we can get our hands on. And, as I’ve said, they are in short supply.”

  “Rare,” said Nevada, as if she was suddenly an expert on the subject. “Very rare.”

  Miss Honeyland smiled at me. “Which is where your specialist talents come in.”

  I summarised what I thought she wanted: “You’d like me to, if possible, find one copy of each of his records?”

  “Not just one copy. I am very eager for duplicates. As you know, these 78rpm records often turn up in a damaged state.” She’d obviously done her homework. “Ideally I would like to be able to choose among multiple copies of each recording, so that I can select the ones with the best sound quality, which I will have digitally transferred and preserved. The spare copies can be used for display purposes in the museum.” She smiled. “So it really is a case of the more the merrier.”

  “Are you suggesting paying us on a per-disc basis?” said Nevada, who had now obviously emerged fully from her trance.

  “If you find that satisfactory. And it isn’t just 78s we’re after. Any kind of recordings you might happen on. I believe there may be what was called a Victory disc or V-Disc.”

  I nodded. Some great jazz had been recorded on V-Discs during the war. It had actually been an early 12-inch vinyl format, though played at 78rpm. “I would also be very grateful if you put me in touch with anyone you discover in your travels who knew my father at all well. We are absolutely on the lookout for all anecdotes and stories about him from people who knew him in those days. Fellow musicians from the Flare Path Orchestra, for example.”

  “And would there be a fee structure covering any such discoveries?” said Nevada. “In addition to whatever recordings we find.”

  “Naturally. And a bonus payable on a successful conclusion of our researches.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “Just wait a minute…”

  Nevada sighed. “Oh, this is where he gets all hot and bothered and puts his foot down about some small detail. Please ignore him. It’s just a ritual he has.” Miss Honeyland laughed.

  “Okay,” I said. “But it has to be said. My area of expertise is finding vinyl records, from a later period.”

  “Some of my father’s records are on vinyl,” said Miss Honeyland mildly.

  “Yes,” I said, “but mostly they are 78s, on shellac. And they’re more difficult to find. They generally come in anonymous sleeves, they’re likely to be misfiled—where they are filed at all—and on top of everything else, they’re extremely fragile. We might find them in small pieces, or most likely not find them at all.”

  Nevada winked at Miss Honeyland. “He just likes to have his say.”

  I said, “Look, I’m the Vinyl Detective.”

  “And now you’re the Shellac Shamus,” said Nevada. And Miss Honeyland chuckled again.

  And that was that.

  * * *

  Just before Miss Honeyland left she confided that she was indeed interested in acquiring the record we’d found inside the speaker. Tinkler’s record.

  “It will be the first of our finds for the museum,” she said. I explained that it belonged to a friend of ours and he would be thinking of auctioning it. “Then please have a word with him and see if he can be inveigled to part with it. I will happily pay him an advantageous pre-emptive bid to forestall any auction. Tell him to name his price.” Then she left.

  As soon as she closed the door, Nevada turned to me and said, “Advantageous. Pre-emptive bid. Name your price.” She did another little dance. “You’ve got a job! Let’s celebrate.”

  Our celebrations consisted of buying some even better than usual wine and food, including some diced lamb for the cats, and inviting Tinkler around for supper. We had to talk business with him anyway, about the record. And, for his pleasure and ours, we also invited Agatha DuBois-Kanes, known to her friends as Clean Head, a nickname she’d acquired because of her fashionably shaved scalp. She was a good friend and the nearest thing we’d ever have to a chauffeur of our own.

  Clean Head drove a London taxi.

  Although not when she was drinking, which we did a great deal of that evening, working our way through the bottles of Rhône red that N
evada had so carefully selected, in descending price order. “Always drink the best stuff first,” said Nevada, “while you still have a palate with which to appreciate it.”

  I turned to Tinkler, who was trying not to make big mooncalf eyes at Clean Head—and failing. I said, “You’ll never guess who our new client is the daughter of.”

  “Deceased World War Two aviation hero and band leader. Boring. Heard all about it.”

  “Deceased aviation hero, band leader and beloved children’s author,” said Nevada. “I looked him up online and discovered he was actually the Lucky.”

  “Really?” said Tinkler and Clean Head simultaneously. This seemed to impress them both.

  “The Lucky?” asked Clean Head.

  “Yes.”

  “Locust pie!” said Tinkler.

  “Crunch crunch crunch!” said Clean Head.

  “‘Ugh,’ said Farmer Henry,” said Nevada.

  I looked blankly at them all. “Okay…”

  “You mean you never read Farmer Henry Versus the Locusts?” said Nevada.

  “Or any of the other books by Lucky?” said Clean Head. I shrugged. “Apparently not.”

  “What were you reading when you were eight years old?”

  “Probably Miles Davis’s autobiography,” said Tinkler. “It would be all ‘motherfucker’ this and ‘motherfucker’ that.”

  * * *

  The following day, as a direct sequel to this conversation, Nevada gave me a present. She’d found it in a charity shop while hunting for designer clothes at low, low prices. It was a children’s book. A dog-eared old copy of Farmer Henry Versus the Locusts. The author was given as ‘Lucky’ but the copyright notice on the publication page—the book had come out in 1955—listed Lucian Honeyland.

  I was curious and I read the book. It didn’t take long. It was lavishly and luridly illustrated—not by the author—with brightly coloured, semi-abstract images of the characters, all of whom were cartoonish and some of whom were downright scary. It detailed the story of Farmer Henry who was the only agriculturist in the peaceful land of Green Valley who recognised the danger of the coming plague of locusts.

  In a surprisingly accurate, though simplified, account of insect swarming behaviour, Farmer Henry explained how apparently innocent grasshoppers could, if their numbers swelled to a critical point, turn into an evil, ravening horde of locusts. Everybody ignored his warnings and, sure enough, the population of locusts exploded and went on the rampage. All the other farms were wiped out and Farmer Henry’s was the last bastion against the attackers.

  With the help of a friendly cast of farm animals, including pigs, horses, chickens, dogs and cats—all of whom could speak, of course; Nevada’s version of Fanny would have fitted right in—Farmer Henry fought a plucky last-ditch defence against the evil hordes of hideously ugly rapacious insects.

  It was a gory and protracted battle, but in the end the good guys won.

  Farmer Henry and the animals found themselves knee-deep in dead locusts. They had to be got rid of somehow, so what the chickens couldn’t eat was taken into the kitchen and a big feast was prepared. All the animals sat down with Farmer Henry at his table for the celebration dinner. But the big gag was the farmer didn’t know what was in the pie.

  So he bit into it innocently. Cue: Crunch crunch crunch! And: ‘Ugh,’ said Farmer Henry. Locust pie!

  The end.

  I could see why kids loved it. It read like Roald Dahl with the moral governor removed.

  * * *

  That evening Miss Honeyland was scheduled to come around and collect the record that Tinkler had quickly agreed to sell—as well he might, given that he was being paid a small fortune for it and he wasn’t really interested in 78s anyway—and which he had left with us after our celebration dinner.

  I was in the kitchen, getting ready to make tea of all things. This was for Miss Honeyland. Nevada had somehow discovered that, although she’d politely sipped our expensive and dwindling supply of finest coffee, the old bat would actually have preferred a cup of tea. As zero hour drew close, Fanny suddenly came scooting in through the garden cat flap. A moment later the back door opened and Nevada hurried in. “My god,” she said. “Their car.”

  “What is it?” We all bustled back outside, Fanny zipping along at our heels as we tried to peer over the garden wall without being too obvious about it. I understood what Nevada meant. The gorgeous gleaming Mercedes we’d seen the other day was no more. It took me a moment to even recognise it as the same vehicle.

  It looked like someone had worked it over with a giant sledgehammer.

  The side panels were caved in, the chrome shattered, the paintwork scarred. I was amazed that it was even roadworthy, it looked like such a wreck. We ducked behind the wall as the door popped open and Albert the chauffeur stepped out. He had a bandage around his head. As he helped Miss Honeyland out of the car we hurried back inside the house.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Did you see that?” said Nevada. Then, “Is the tea ready?”

  “I think I’ve forgotten how to make it. It’s been so long.”

  The doorbell rang. “Oh, for god’s sake,” said Nevada. “Here, let me do it. You go and let her in.”

  I let Miss Honeyland in and guided her to a seat at the dining table while Nevada wrestled with tea-making. “We saw the car,” I said.

  “Oh, did you?”

  “What happened?”

  She sighed. “Someone tried to run us off the road.”

  “What?”

  “A Range Rover. It came up behind us, then passed us on the inside and swerved and hit us, and very nearly drove us in the path of an oncoming lorry.” She studied me, her eyes bright. “If it hadn’t been for Albert’s excellent reflexes, that would have been our lot.” Things had gone very quiet in the kitchen while Nevada listened to this. Now she came through and sat down with us.

  “So, naturally enough, we were rather shaken and we pulled over onto the side of the road. And then who should pull up just ahead of us?”

  “The Range Rover,” I said.

  “Yes. There were three men inside. We thought they’d come to offer help, or to apologise. At least, that’s what I thought. Albert got out of the car to remonstrate with them. And then they got out. All three of them. There was something about the way they were standing there. I leaned out of the car and called for Albert to get back in. I was too late, though. The men had already surrounded him. And there was a scuffle.”

  “My god,” said Nevada.

  “Now, Albert can acquit himself quite handily in almost any situation.” There was a note of quiet pride in her voice. “But with odds of three to one against, even he was in trouble. Luckily, at that moment a police car was passing, and it slowed down to see if there had been an accident. The three men immediately got into the Range Rover and drove off. By the time we were able to explain to the police what had actually happened, they were long gone. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a cup of tea? Or coffee would be fine.”

  “No, no, we have tea,” said Nevada, hurrying out to resume her interrupted preparations. Miss Honeyland looked at me.

  “They did find the Range Rover. Abandoned. It had been stolen a few hours earlier. The theory of the police, in so far as they can be said to have such a thing, is that the whole incident comes under the three broad headings of ‘joyriding’, ‘hit-and-run’, and ‘road rage’.” She studied me with her pale, intelligent eyes.

  I said, “But you have a different theory.”

  “That’s right.”

  Nevada came back in with a teapot and three cups on a tray. I hoped she wasn’t going to serve me any of the stuff.

  “I think the incident is considerably more complicated, and more serious, than that. For example, Albert is the least paranoid soul, but he says he thinks he glimpsed one of them holding a gun. One of the men.”

  I said, “You think you were singled out. That you were a deliberate target.”
/>   “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “Why do you think that?” said Nevada.

  The old woman picked up her teacup and held it carefully in both hands, as though warming them. “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely candid with you.”

  “How so?”

  She set the cup down, her tea untasted. We probably all would have been better off with coffee. “Well, everything I told you was absolutely accurate, as far as it went. But what I left out was the background, so to speak. I am indeed desperately looking for my father’s recordings to go into the museum we’re building. But I didn’t tell you why the museum is so significant. You see, I am the executor of my father’s literary estate, and his heritage is entirely in my care. And I have reached a point in my life where I want to be certain that the future of his work, and his reputation, is assured. So I have set about the museum project, but I also have started looking for a buyer.”

  “A buyer?” said Nevada.

  “For all his literary properties.” She picked up the cup again and this time took a sip. I could smell the gentle fragrance of the tea now. It smelled nice enough, but it certainly wasn’t coffee. She looked at us over the rim of the cup. “You may have heard about what became of the literary estates of A. A. Milne and Beatrix Potter and Enid Blyton.”

  “They were bought by big American media conglomerates, weren’t they?” said Nevada.

  Miss Honeyland nodded. “Yes, for the most part. The Americans recognise the value of timeless children’s literature. And they are willing to pay a fair price for it. Some of the estates I mentioned were purchased for eight- or nine-figure sums.” She let this sink in as she took another sip of tea, then lowered the cup. I was thinking, Nine figures. A hundred million dollars. Yes, people have been killed for less.

  “And that is the kind of price I intend to secure for my father’s work. From a major and reputable buyer. I’m rather hoping the Disney people will prevail.”