Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  ‘I know,’ she said, controlling her crying. ‘I know you can’t drop it, and that is partly why I can’t go on like this. I need a break. I support you in what you’re doing, but I need a break from it. We need a break from each other.’

  Grant was astounded and felt as if the air was being sucked out of the room. He had only just returned from time away from Brigit. He threw on a jacket and collected up his mobile, glasses case, wallet and keys and stormed out of the house, slamming the front door behind him. Once outside he called for a cab and phoned Justyn, choosing him mainly because he had demonstrated the most interest in his investigation.

  ‘What’s up, M’Lord?’ asked Justyn, in that jocular but slightly patronizing style he reserved for Grant.

  ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘Sure, as it happens I am at a loose end tonight. Let’s meet at my club in Mayfair. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just give my name and they’ll let you in.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Grant in an enthusiastic tone that surprised himself. Justyn’s carefree manner had lifted him off the floor – but now he wanted to fall back on to it. He felt like getting completely legless. He hadn’t felt so reckless in years. All the tension of recent weeks needed to burst, and he felt powerless to stop it.

  He arrived at the club before his host and settled down in the bar with a whisky sour. He was already on his second when Justyn arrived. He immediately detected a deterioration in his old friend since their last meeting a few weeks earlier.

  ‘What gives?’ asked Justyn, more seriously than usual.

  ‘It’s Brigit. She … she’s asked for time out,’ Grant blurted.

  ‘Ah. I think it rhymes with “clucking bell”,’ Justyn observed, taking in Grant’s surprising news.

  ‘Yes – and all of that. It’s a huge shock, a bolt from the blue.’ Grant stared straight ahead.

  Justyn consoled his friend as best he could, ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and suggested that they share a dozen oysters. He outlined the agenda for the evening as it suddenly formed in his head. They would dine at his casino – ‘quails’ eggs, fresh lobster; they’ve got the lot’ – have a flutter at blackjack and then they would go on to a lap-dancing club. Despite his red, swollen eyes and scrambled mind Grant comprehended the normally forbidden path his friend was suggesting, but his usual caution had been anaesthetized.

  ‘How do you know all these places?’ he asked, warming to the prospect ahead.

  ‘It goes with the territory. Some Chinese clients love the gambling – it’s illegal in Hong Kong – and the Russians love pretty young girls. Communist thinking and doctrine are a pre-Stone-Age concept now. And, of course, they all have the wedge.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The wedge, the wonga, the dosh,’ continued Justyn. ‘They have great big cruise liners of the stuff, aircraft-hanger quantities of it. The old order has gone, Grantie, the Empires of Europe and even the USA are being replaced by …’

  At that moment Grant heard his phone ring and spotted that the missed call was from Brigit. He hesitated and ignored it. A few moments later he saw he had a voicemail message that he also ignored and within another few minutes a text message. ‘I know you are angry but can we talk tomorrow? By the way a package has turned up for you to sign.’ He shared this information with Justyn, who suggested it might be a good idea to call back, but Grant had no appetite for arbitration with Brigit there and then, and he decided to call in the morning. He knew he had rather overreacted by storming out, but he needed time to think things through.

  Justyn set one rule for the evening: there would be no ranting about Brigit. Nevertheless he listened patiently to Grant’s tale of woe, but by the time they had left the club and were enjoying a lavish, expensive dinner at the casino the two men had begun to analyse Grant’s attempts at playing sleuth.

  ‘I told you Suzie was important,’ proclaimed Justyn, allowing himself some self-satisfaction.

  ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t open up about the Galvins. That was a complete no-go area.’

  ‘But you did hear about the film footage.’

  ‘That Henry took in 1972?’ replied Grant. ‘Did you know he was filming just about the whole of that last holiday?’

  ‘My brother was rather quiet back then. He had his problems with Dad, too. He just went into a shell when he was with the family. Nobody took much notice of his constant filming. He was a bit nerdy really, a bit of an anorak. He was also quite left wing, had been involved in student marches at Oxford – CND and all that malarkey. Whenever he mentioned politics at home there would be a fearful row, so he just sort of shut up shop around that time and stalked around after everyone instead, spending all his time filming on that final holiday. He had done the same thing during the previous years there, so no one took much notice. Of course, in hindsight, we should have done. Those events in 1972 were radically different from all the other years. Even I didn’t think to watch what he’d caught on camera, though.’

  ‘Great,’ said Grant. This was the best news he had heard all day. ‘I can’t wait to see the film.’

  They finished their meal and went downstairs to the blackjack table. Grant had set himself a float of £200 and was not, even in his current reckless state, prepared to lose any more. Within twenty minutes and two ‘shoes’ he had lost it, not helped by the minimum stake being £25.

  Justyn, meanwhile, appeared to be losing rather more heavily, but when Grant suggested leaving he said, ‘I know this game, Grantie. I’ll win it back in time. The odds are only twenty to twenty-one in favour of the dealer.’ He snapped his fingers to order more whisky sours. True enough, the cards started turning in his favour, and he turned a loss of some £400 into a gain of over £1,000 as picture after picture flowed for him. He even got a double blackjack by splitting aces. ‘Right. I’m out of here,’ he finally announced.

  In the taxi on the way to their next destination, Grant asked Justyn how he had turned his luck at blackjack around so dramatically. ‘I count the cards,’ he revealed. ‘I know how many tens or pictures and other cards there are in a shoe, and I counted them carefully before placing my bets towards the end of each shoe. It’s something a Chinese client taught me many moons ago in Macau.’

  ‘I think you’re from Planet Zog,’ replied Grant, now beginning to feel much the worse for wear. ‘And where are we going?’

  ‘Stringfellows, Spearmint Rhino – who knows?’ announced Justyn triumphantly.

  Suddenly Grant was engulfed by a rising panic. He had no idea how much alcohol he had consumed, but he was sure he had already exceeded the weekly recommended medical intake of units of alcohol for men. In his control-freakish, precise mind such considerations were never entirely ignored, no matter what his circumstances. He became more daunted about their next destination.

  ‘Look, I think I’d better turn in. Let’s head back to your pad, Justyn. I think where we’re heading is forbidden fruit in my world, .’

  ‘Chill out, Grantie. Nobody will attack you. In fact, you are not even allowed to touch; just look.’

  Grant acquiesced and alighted from the taxi with Justyn hoping that no one would recognize him. The first person they encountered walking out of the nightclub was a vicar. Wearing a dog collar, the man looked somewhat out of place. Grant then did a double-take as a procession of lookalike clergy followed behind.

  ‘That’ll be a stag night,’ Justyn announced cheerfully.

  27

  PRESENT DAY

  Grant didn’t know which club they were in, and he didn’t much care. He was mesmerized by the dancer in front of him. Justyn had given him £200 of his winnings, and Grant kept thrusting £20 notes into whatever garments he could find on his scantily clad new lady friend. After some ten minutes of this sublime entertainment he was rudely interrupted by a call from Brigit. He excused himself, deciding to retire to the gents to call back, amid protestations of affection from Roxy ‘from Rio’ who was murmuring, ‘I lurve you. I want you to meet my mother in
Brazil.’

  Wow, they move fast in the love game these days, he thought.

  Once ensconced in the cubicle, he saw that Brigit had not left a message. Sobering up quickly, he decided against a trip to Latin America to make Roxy’s mother’s acquaintance. He thought his time would be better served going in search of Justyn, who had evaded the private dancers and who was chatting from a stool at the bar to a small entourage.

  ‘Grantie, what gives?’

  ‘I’ve a missed call from Brigit and I think I had better return it.’ Despite the temporary respite of a clearer head, Grant slurred his words and looked as if he was about to keel over.

  Justyn moved to prop him up. ‘I think it might be better not to ring Brigit at this time, old mate. It’s after midnight, and you are pretty Brahms and Liszt. She might detect some of the background noise here and realize you’re not working late at the office!’

  ‘Yeah. Guess you are right. Now where’s my Roxy?’ He couldn’t see her through the maze of beautiful bodies confronting his rather blurred vision.

  ‘Hi, I’m Chardonnay,’ said a sparky Cockney voice, ‘and I have an idea involving you, me and that booth over there. Yes?’ She led Grant firmly by the hand, and before he knew it she was gyrating in front of him, smiling seductively, while shedding what little clothing she had on. Despite Chardonnay’s best efforts, far from being aroused he became overwrought with emotion and started to break down in tears, which alarmed his private dancer and stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,’ said Grant. ‘I’ve had a very difficult day.’

  ‘It’s all right, mate. We get all sorts in ’ere,’ consoled Char-donnay as she gathered up her minimal clothing and hurried out of the booth as quickly as she could.

  Grant felt hugely embarrassed and sought out Justyn, who suggested a taxi back to his place in Maida Vale, where his friend could spend the night in his spare room.

  The evening’s events left Grant feeling foolish. It had been a long day since he came off the night flight back from Cape Town, and a roller-coaster of emotions had swirled around inside him, turning his normally well-ordered life upside down. Following his breakdown in the club, he resolved not to drop his guard again; he would get a grip. As they left the nightclub Grant was alarmed to see a doctor barge past him wearing a stethoscope around his neck. Why do they need a doctor? he thought anxiously. He soon relaxed as scores of doctors emerged from cabs chanting, ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go!’ As Justyn and Grant waited for their own taxi, they were not surprised to see that a great number of ersatz medics were refused entry.

  ‘That Roxy from Rio. You know, I think she rather fancied me.’

  By this stage they were back at the Maida Vale flat where Justyn was preparing two strong espressos.

  ‘Oh, really,’ Justyn teased. ‘Nothing to do with those £20 notes you were placing in her G-string then?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it could sort of be connected,’ replied Grant slowly, sounding like a character lifted straight from the pages of a P.G. Wodehouse novel. ‘But I think she carried a bit of a torch.’

  ‘I didn’t notice her carrying much at all, but at least Roxy from Rio cheered you up. A tart with a heart.’

  Grant was distracted, looking at the text from Brigit. ‘Oh my God. The second part of her message says a package arrived for me to sign. I didn’t think … It must be the DVD.’ Justyn nodded. ‘I’ll have to go home tomorrow, but I’m not sure whether it was delivered or not.’ He decided to text his wife: ‘Please advise whether package was delivered. Yours G.’

  ‘Bit formal, isn’t that?’ Justyn said. ‘But I don’t blame you. D’you know, I never saw any of the film footage Henry took. I just assumed it was holiday-brochure-type stuff, which was how his previous years’ efforts struck me. But presumably this must have had some incriminating stuff on it for the Galvins – or at least Danny – to want to get hold of it.’

  ‘It must have also contained stuff that would have rattled Richard Hughes-Webb, or why else did Suzie protect him by not letting him see it?’

  At this point, Grant was startled by Brigit’s swift text response: ‘Yes, arrived. Love B’. So she had not only signed for the package on his behalf but was still awake at that unearthly hour. She was also communicating in a more friendly way – a fact not lost on Grant and Justyn.

  ‘Don’t react,’ urged Justyn. ‘Little good can come from a conversation at this time of night, if you ask me. Just draw comfort from her more mellow tone. It gives us something to work on tomorrow.’

  Grant hadn’t planned on asking him but thought it sensible advice anyway. As neither seemed ready for sleep, he thought that now might be a good time to discuss the progress he had made since he had embarked on his three-month sabbatical. But this suggestion was met with a less than enthusiastic response from Justyn.

  ‘Oh, and I hoped we were going to review our favourite albums and singer songwriters of all time,’ he countered in a voice that betrayed both disappointment and lack of interest.

  ‘Another time perhaps,’ suggested Grant, now determined to pursue his agenda.

  ‘OK, well, here goes.’ Justyn seized the initiative, realizing that he had no chance of the type of conversation he felt like having. ‘Let’s make a list of potential suspects, starting with non-hotel folk. First, Ivan Youlen. Dead dodgy, almost certainly stole the money from his uncle Tom and could have been behind Danny’s burglary – which you mentioned earlier. Also, what was he doing talking to Ken Holford in the National Trust café that Wednesday, and what was the reason behind his altercation with Paul Galvin outside the newsagent in Zennor that last Sunday?’

  Grant chipped in. ‘And why was he so aggressive to me in Cornwall last month, and who did he speak to on his mobile the moment I left?’

  ‘Grade A candidate,’ Justyn concluded.

  ‘Grade A plus.’

  ‘Second, Ken Holford,’ continued Justyn. ‘It’s hard to talk about him without having to hold your nose at the putrid smell of his obnoxious behaviour.’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Grant, ‘and he had a habit of turning up at significant times, at the pub at St Buryan and the National Trust café at the end of the beach, both of which are a long way from Tintagel. But your dad’s and Clive’s report doesn’t point to any criminal activity. However, he could have been in the pub the night Hector drowned. It’ll be interesting to see if that’s captured on Henry’s film.’

  ‘Circumstantial, Rodney, circumstantial, but I agree we need to see the cine film before deciding where we grade him precisely, so at present B plus. Also it’s a bit of a drag that he’s now joined the choir invisible himself, as far as we know.’

  ‘But has he?’ asked Grant. Justyn ignored the question. ‘Three, Trevor Mullings,’ Grant continued, ‘who both reported Hector’s death and was in the pub with him. No suggestion he had anything to do with Tom, and he did give me an indication of Ivan’s whereabouts. Hard to see him as particularly relevant. C plus, I feel.’

  Justyn looked doubtful but decided to keep further thoughts on Trevor Mullings to himself.

  So two living candidates and one apparently dead one from the locals list, the two friends concluded. They then moved on to the subject of the families, the hotel guests. They started with the Hughes-Webbs, and Justyn was surprised at Grant’s refusal to eliminate Richard.

  ‘You know he was having an affair with my mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ came a quiet reply. ‘I can see why that still upsets you, Grant, but affairs and the murder of innocent people are dots I can’t join up. I think we should disregard him and, while we are at it, my father, too.’

  ‘I’d certainly go with the second part, but let’s park Richard H.-W. for the time being,’ Grant said with more than a hint of bitterness. Justyn shrugged. ‘And I think we have to look again at the message from the deathbed of Ted Jessops, as recounted by Arnie Charnley.’

  ‘I liked those guys,’ interrupted Justyn. ‘Arnie a
lways made me chuckle, and Ted could tell the most amazing stories.’

  ‘Yes, I bet they would never have imagined we’d be sitting here, some forty years later, talking about them and that last holiday, although I guess both would have wished they had never gone to Cornwall that time.’

  ‘Unless, of course, they really did take some dark secrets to their graves?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Grant, who had given considerable thought to all five of the hotel suspects. ‘I’ve reached the end of a cul-de-sac with the message-on-the-deathbed bit. Arnie claims Ted said it, while Caroline says it’s highly unlikely as her father was mute by the time he died. But we do have Arnie discovering a message in a bottle from Hector twenty-four hours after he was found drowned and Ted drawing a mermaid – surely a pointer to the church in Zennor.’

  ‘So that just leaves Paul Galvin,’ interrupted Justyn, scarcely listening to his friend.

  ‘And Richard Hughes-Webb.’

  ‘Whatever. Do you know why the Galvin family alarmed Suzie so much?’

  ‘So much so that she cancelled her wedding the week before? No, any queries about the Galvins seemed to provoke a brick-wall response. She did seem very wary of the family, and Danny hasn’t wanted me investigating any of this.’

  ‘Let’s hope the film reveals more. Paul definitely had a split personality, and it was financial issues that caused him to switch. I don’t know what caused Danny’s personality to change; in those days he was always one of the most laid-back people you could meet. Anyway, Grantie, the clock has just struck four. You’re still alive, but shut-eye drives me.’

  ‘Just one thing, Justyn. How come you didn’t go to a booth with one of the young ladies?’

  ‘It all rather bores me, to be honest. I have been there too many times with clients to find it exciting, let alone erotic any more, but I do enjoy talking to the lovelies. No, it may surprise you to hear this, but I discovered a long time ago that it’s only real relationships that provide fulfilment and are worth while.’ Grant arched an eyebrow in surprise but was still too inebriated and exhausted to discuss matters further. Justyn, observing his friend’s haze, continued, ‘And on that score, we’re going to have to work out how to get you back with your old lady …’ With that he pointed out Grant’s bedroom. ‘Switch that mobile off. You’re in mortal danger. Look at it tomorrow with a clear head.’