Deadline (The Simon Bognor Mysteries)

by Tim Heald

  So it was a pleasant surprise to find that the temporary occupant of Room 312 was quite affable. He was not much older than Bognor, thinner, more sprightly and a lot more intelligent looking than Lord Wharfedale’s prejudices would admit.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘My commiserations. I can’t imagine you’re wildly amused to be playing charades with this mob.’

  ‘Not actually,’ said Bognor. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, anyway my name is Graham Sanders.’

  ‘Bognor,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Yes.’ Sanders was smoking Embassy tipped. He offered one to Bognor, who declined, then lit another. Bognor noticed that the ash tray was already almost full. ‘I’ve taken a whole lot of statements,’ said the policeman, ‘which frankly is a pretty fatuous exercise, and the carpet is being analysed although it’s perfectly obvious that they’ll find nothing more than a mixture of three parts blood to two parts port, and they’re doing the paper knife for prints. None of which is going to help. Do you have any theories?’

  ‘Not very hard ones,’ said Bognor, relieved at his colleague’s breeziness. ‘I take it you think it’s someone on the column?’

  ‘Christ knows,’ said Sanders, ‘it seems the most likely, but the whole business is so improbable that I’d believe anything.’

  ‘What were the statements like?’

  ‘If you believed them then they were all safely tucked up in bed by midnight at the latest the Mortimer woman and the Wimbledon boy together by the way.’

  ‘I rather imagined that.’

  ‘She claimed they ran into each other at “Hell’s Own Angel” by chance and went home for a nightcap. He says they agreed to have dinner and then he missed the last bus. It doesn’t matter which one’s true. I get the impression she’s had every other member of the staff at some time or another. You’d better watch out. You’ll probably be next.’

  Bognor laughed. ‘Anything else? I’ve got to rush off to some ghastly binge at the Dorchester.’

  ‘Poor old you! No nothing yet,’ he paused, ‘except this. It may be just a doodle, I don’t know. I don’t recognize it but I suppose it might just have some significance.’ He passed over a scrap of paper torn from a loose leaf notebook. Bognor read it:

  In the city set upon slime and loam

  They cry in their parliament ‘Who goes home?’.

  ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I’ve read that before. My guess is that it’s Chesterton, but that’s only a hunch.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  Bognor laughed. ‘I’d like to pretend it’s based on rhyme, metre, sentence construction, language but it’s just that when I was briefed on Derby I was told he was something of an authority on Chesterton. Apparently he could quote great chunks of the stuff.’

  ‘I’ve never read any Chesterton,’ said Sanders.

  ‘You haven’t missed much. If you leave it with me I’ll try and check it out. My girl friend’s passable at Chesterton and Belloc. I’ll get her to do some research. Now I must go to this bloody thing at the Dorchester.’

  He was late at the Dorchester. Yet again he had taken a taxi and it had crawled along Piccadilly and up Park Lane so slowly that he kept on being passed by pedestrians. After a bit it became a game. He would pass a walker as the cab put on a spurt only to be overtaken once more as he was halted at a traffic light. He helped to while away the time by examining the bits of paper that Gringe had given him. The first was from the Public Relations Officer of the Prince of Wales Own Midland Light Infantry, announcing that the Regiment had been granted the freedom of Walsall and would march through the town with fixed bayonets and bugling bugles the following Saturday. The regimental mascot, a Hereford Bull called Charlie, would also be participating. Across the top Gringe had written. ‘Excellent as is. No need to change except delete adjectives.’ Bognor could find very few adjectives indeed except for ‘brown’ in front of bull. He wondered if he was supposed to delete the ‘Midland’ and ‘Light’ in front of Infantry. The second was a handwritten letter from a Cheltenham address asking for support for the hundredth anniversary celebrations of the Gloster Thespians, an amateur theatrical society of which the writer was evidently patron. On this Gringe had written, ‘Friend of Lord Wharfedale’s, so regard as a must. Please telephone for further facts.’ The third was typed on headed paper which proclaimed Duncan Andrews, freelance journalist, London and New York, and, in red typing, ‘This is original, exclusive to the Samuel Pepys column and needs no checking.’ Underneath there were just two sentences. ‘I understand that the Countess of Cornwall, the former dancer and variety artiste Chloe Chicago, recently had a baby daughter at Queen Charlotte’s maternity hospital. The Countess, who is separated from her husband, has recently been seen around London nightspots with Archie de la Rochefoucauld, the drummer.’ On this Gringe had pencilled, ‘Lord Wharfedale is very keen on this sort of thing, but you will obviously have to ring Queen Charlotte’s to see if it is true.’ He had just read the final item which was ‘Seen outside South London church: “Swap tedium for Te Deum”.’ when he finally arrived at the Dorchester. Across the Te Deum joke Gringe had written, ‘Please check and retype’ and Bognor had a terrible vision of being required to tramp round every church in South London. Christ, he thought, if these were the sort of demands Derby was making no wonder he was bumped off. He wondered how much longer, on that basis, Gringe had got.

  Inside the hotel he quickly established that the private room in which the Food makers were lunching was down a passage to the right. Despite the time which was almost forty minutes after the scheduled kick-off, guests were still drinking in the bar. He asked for a dry martini and wrinkled his nose when the waiter produced just that. He must remind himself to ask for ‘dry martini cocktail’ otherwise he was bound to get vile neat vermouth. On an easel in the corner there was a seating plan which he managed to consult just as the toastmaster, in a scarlet coat two sizes too small, boomed out ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, luncheon is served.’ The Food makers obviously believed in keeping the press away from normal people. They were all at a separate table and Bognor saw that S. Pepys, Daily Globe, was sandwiched between J. Evelyn, Evening Clarion, and Parson Woodforde of the Sunday News. Looking round he half expected to see gentlemen in wigs and frock coats but was relieved to find that the uniform of the day was exactly what he was wearing a shiny two piece grey worsted that had known better days.

  John Evelyn of the Clarion turned out to be a spotty individual called Clough who had only recently joined after two years general reporting for a paper on the Isle of Wight, while Parson Woodforde was an older version of the same thing with a row of biro’s neatly arranged in his jacket pocket and a light fall of dandruff on his shoulders. Lunch, or luncheon consisted of sole in a white sauce, lamb and an ice cream concoction with pineapple. Bognor, however, had little time to notice this since his neighbours started bombarding him the minute grace had been said.

  ‘You’re new, aren’t you?’

  ‘What actually happened to old Derby then?’

  ‘Don’t tell me it was a stroke. That’s not what they’re saying in El Vino.’

  ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘If you ask me it was pretty Lord Wimbledon, fed up with being touched up in the office.’

  ‘I should think the Globe’s glad to see the last of him. He’d been useless the last five years always spouting poetry, or playing bridge at his club or watching cricket at the Oval. He hadn’t done a hand’s turn for years. Bloody awful column too.’

  ‘Maybe it was Lord Wharfedale himself then. I don’t suppose the Union would let him sack the old bugger.’

  ‘What’s the chat in the office anyway?’

  ‘I suppose it wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘’Course that Milborn Port’s a funny guy. Vicious tempered if you brush him up the wrong way.’

  ‘Then there’s always Molly didn’t he have an affair with her, way back?’

  ‘Everyone’
s had an affair with Molly Mortimer. They don’t call her the office bicycle for nothing.’

  ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  ‘Bloody good nosh at the Dorchester.’

  ‘Couldn’t have been the sub, could it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not the sort of thing a sub would do, is it? Too busy butchering the copy to butcher one of the writers.’

  ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  ‘What about Bertie Harris then?’

  ‘What about Bertie Harris? Not him, he’s too toffee nosed for anything like that. Wouldn’t soil his hands with knocking people off in the office.’

  ‘Isn’t that him over there?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there. Sitting next to Miss Natural Yoghurt, the one with the cleavage and the big tits.’

  ‘Don’t fancy her.’

  ‘No but is it Harris?’

  For the first time Bognor was interested. Not, naturally, in the beauty queen’s breasts but in the possible presence of Lord Wharfedale’s heir.

  He craned his neck to get a view of the top table and met the gaze of Miss Natural Yoghurt across the room. She blushed.

  ‘Come on, old boy, restrain yourself,’ said his older neighbour.

  ‘It is Bertie Harris,’ said Bognor. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here?’

  ‘Old Wharfedale’s got a dairy farm somewhere in Rutland, hasn’t he?’ said Parson Woodforde.

  ‘Wins prizes,’ said John Evelyn.

  ‘It’s a bit thick,’ said Bognor. ‘I mean he might have said he was coming. It’s ridiculous having two of us here. I hope he’s going to write the story.’

  ‘What are you griping for? It’s a free meal, isn’t it?’

  ‘’Course he won’t write the story. Like I said he’s not going to get his paws mucky doing anything like your actual work. He doesn’t do any more work than old Derby did. Idle sod.’

  ‘Bloody privilege. Almost makes you into a socialist, dunnit?’ said the younger of the two journalists taking a gulp of Niersteiner. ‘He’s always playing polo with your lot, isn’t he?’

  ‘With Macarthy,’ said the man from the News. ‘They were at Oxford together. Poor little rich boys waiting for their fathers to kick the bucket. Look at him.’

  All three turned to stare at Bertie who was deep in conversation with the woman on the opposite side to the beauty queen. She was tweedy and plain but looked, unlike her nubile rival, as if she could string a couple of sentences together.

  ‘Bloody silly having people like him poncing around pretending to be journalists. Bet he’s never done a doorstep in the middle of winter.’

  ‘I’d like to see him have a go at some bloody court reporting. You going on this Liberace do this afternoon?’

  ‘Do you reckon there’ll be any booze?’

  ‘It’s at tea time.’

  ‘Shouldn’t make any bloody difference.’

  ‘Are you going?’ they asked Bognor. He sighed inwardly and attempted to make conversation. He did not find it easy.

  Mercifully the speeches arrived early. The loyal toast had been proposed before the ice cream so that gentlemen could smoke. Passable cigars were circulated and Bognor settled down behind one, prepared to go quietly to sleep. Already he had had about half a bottle of champagne, some vermouth, a fair amount of hock and now a generous brandy. It was enough to make anyone sleepy, as was the Federation’s president, Lord Netherweather. His Lordship, who farmed most of Dorset and Wiltshire, knew a great deal about subsidies and milk yields, harrows and marrows, and silage and combine harvesters. He had not, however, mastered after dinner speaking. Bognor was gently dreaming about paper knives and port when he was nudged sharply by John Evelyn. To his amazement he saw that every other person at the table was taking a shorthand note of Lord Netherweather’s words. He was berating the Common Market agricultural policy and the medieval methods of the French peasantry. Bognor had no notebook. He took out the bits of paper that Gringe had given him and write down some words as fast as he could. After a few minutes he had written ‘Extremely silly, nay mendacious seven and three-quarter per cent butter mountain Johnny Onion men on bicycles (laughter).’ It made no more sense than Lord Netherweather. He looked at his colleague Bertie Harris and saw, as he had feared, that he was sitting with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes fixed firmly on Miss Natural Yoghurt’s ample, heaving bosom. Bognor was not amused. After what seemed an age the Minister stood up. He was crisp. Beginning with the joke about the Texan who boasted that it took two days to drive round his ranch and the Devonian who replied that he had a car like that too, he used it to defend the principle of the good little ’un being better than the bad big ’un, adding that the bigger they come the harder they fall. He assured his listeners that the Government were doing all in their power to make the Common Market work for the benefit of the British Farmer who was the best (cheers), most efficient (cheers) and above all most hard working (cheers) and cheerful (cheers) in the world. Whereupon, without more ado it gave him very great pleasure to present the first British Food Federation Award for Outstanding Services to British Food, to Lord Wharfedale.

  This award was made in recognition of his Lordship’s magnificent work on behalf of the industry, not only as a food producer himself and he thought it would offend no one if he said here and now that Lord Wharfedale’s farm at Wolding St Frideswide was without question the finest of its kind anywhere in the world but also because of the truly remarkable campaign of support and encouragement which he had waged through the columns of his great newspapers with which although he had to confess he did not always see eye to eye on everything (laughter) he always agreed when it came to matters agricultural. It was a great sadness to him that Lord Wharfedale was unable to be here to take advantage of this delicious lunch and to accept this absolutely magnificent trophy, but nevertheless he was absolutely delighted that the Hon Robert Harris, Lord Wharfedale’s son and heir, who was himself a countryman to his fingertips green fingertips you could say (more laughter) and who was of course also closely involved in the running of Wharfedale newspapers was here to accept on his father’s behalf. And so without more ado he would hand it over.

  The award appeared to take the press by surprise. No mention of it had been made among the sheaves of paper with which they had been provided. At least it explained Harris’s presence. He took the prize, which was a silver cow, being milked by a silver milkmaid on a silver stool and made a very brief apology of a speech. ‘I’m exceedingly pleased to accept this truly magnificent prize from you, sir, on behalf of my Father and I really feel it would be impertinent of me to add further to the words of wisdom we have heard already. I only hope that our future deeds will continue to find as much favour with you in the years to come and I promise you that some account of today’s proceedings will appear in tomorrow’s Samuel Pepys column of the Daily Globe, price three pence. Thank you all very much.’ There followed much laughter and applause in which the journalists pointedly refused to join.

  Immediately afterwards the party broke up. Bognor’s lunching companions announced their intention of going in search of more drink and Liberace while he himself riffled through his notes wondering whether he was seriously expected to write a story about such odd goings on when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning round sharply he nearly collided with the silver milking scene which Bertie Harris was holding rather sheepishly under one arm.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were coming,’ he said. ‘I told Derby the other day that I’d write a note myself but I suppose in the confusion …’ he cleared his throat. ‘Well, it can’t be helped. I hope your lunch was agreeable. I thought the food was perfectly bloody.’

  Bognor said his food had been perfectly agreeable but that the company had been poor. ‘I do wish they wouldn’t always put us at the press table,’ said Harris, ‘I mean we’re not press. Not that sort of press. And how they expect you to pick up any stories of the slightest interest sitting with that sort
of person God alone knows.’

  ‘Miss Natural Yoghurt didn’t look exactly scintillating.’

  Bertie wrinkled his nose. ‘Silly girl,’ he said, ‘but perfectly agreeable in a bovine sort of way. I have my car outside would you care for a lift? If you’re going back to the office that is.’

  Bognor accepted. Even on the expense allowance he was confidently expecting the thought of another taxi had been filling him with apprehension. On the other hand he had to get back fairly soon if he was to make a shot at writing some stories.

  ‘Will you really write that story?’ he asked Harris as they walked towards the parking meter where the car had been left.

  ‘Story?’ he asked.

  ‘About your father’s award and the lunch and everything.’

  ‘Oh Lord yes, I’ll knock some old rubbish out. No problem. Don’t worry. I expect you’ve got quite enough on your plate already.’ Bognor thought of the curious pieces of paper in his jacket and blanched. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘to be precise I have the Gloster Thespians, the Prince of Wales Own Midland Light Infantry, and an illegitimate child of the Countess of Cornwall.’

  Harris chuckled. ‘That’s not quite what I meant,’ he said.

  The car had a parking ticket on the windscreen when they found it and Harris tore it in half disdainfully and threw it in the gutter. ‘Fancy a quick Krug,’ he asked, ‘to remove the taste of lunch?’