‘Thanks for all that, Robert. Right, I’d better prepare myself mentally for Dervla. In some ways she’s going to be worse than Hurlingham. At least he speaks English.’
‘Be kind to her, Ellis. She’s not a bad kid. And keep your dirty hands off her.’
Sniggering, he put down the receiver and applied himself to his computer and the knotty problem of how to conceal a twenty-stone body in a roof garden.
***
Dervla sprawled full-length along the sofa, a can of Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her cropped pink top revealed to the north much breast and to the south a flashing diamond in her navel. Pooley kept his eyes rigidly on her little face, which underneath all the make-up was woebegone. ‘I’m, like, stressed out,’ she said. ‘And I’m talking totally.’
‘Is it Lady Babcock’s death that’s upsetting you, Miss Dervla?’
She turned and propped herself on her elbow and gave him a watery smile. ‘“Miss Dervla.” That’s, like, so cool, but it’s a bit, y’know.’
‘Shall I call you Dervla and you call me Ellis?’
She nodded with evident relief.
‘So, Lady Babcock’s death is upsetting you, Dervla?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s more I’m, like, bummed out.’
‘Fed up in general, do you mean?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Yeah, like I said, totally bummed.’
‘Because?’
‘I’m y’know, happy. Not.’
He said nothing, but put on his best enquiring look.
‘It’s not like I just had all the usual crap,’ she said in a rush of articulacy. ‘And I’m, like, OK with media stuff, right. But when I saw…I thought Oh! My! God!’
Pooley stayed silent and then, suddenly, she pulled from under her body a tabloid newspaper and thrust it at him. A whole page was given to a photograph of a dishevelled-looking Dervla flashing a pair of diminutive knickers from under her microskirt as she was pushed into a car by a youth in ragged jeans and a T-shirt saying ‘KNACKERS’. ‘DERVLA’S KNICKERED AND KNACKERED BY KNASTY KNICK’ was the headline over a story that suggested she was a) drunk, b) drugged, c) had betrayed her loyal boyfriend Conor (pictured overleaf looking clean-cut) for a well-known bed-hopper called Nick from a heavy metal band, d) was a snob with pretensions who claimed to read books, e) was a joke among the nobs on the posh Knapper-Warburton committee and e) was so heartless she went out partying the night she learned Lady Hermione Babcock had sensationally been murdered.
‘Nasty is right,’ said Pooley. ‘The story, I mean. I don’t know about the chap.’
Dervla began to cry. ‘I look, like, such a total slut. And it’s, like, so not true.’ From the disjoined words and sobs that ensued, Pooley put together the story of how Dervla had been fulfilling a long-standing engagement to open a club, how Nick and his band had been the supporting act, how she had had no drugs and very little to drink and was dishevelled because the driver had had to park around the corner and she’d had to run through wind and rain and how Nick had gone off in a separate car when he’d seen her into hers.
‘Isn’t this routine for someone in your position?’
‘Yeah, you know but this was like, I’m, like, out of my brain, and, like, such a Samantha, and, as well, I’m, like, a total airhead everyone’s laughing at and…’ She started to sob again. ‘And that’s, like, true. Lady Babcock and the others, they all think I’m, like, two tracks short of an album.’
‘You’ve been very successful very young,’ said Pooley, ‘which is more than the other members of the committee were. And when it comes to the Warburton you’re in a world that’s strange to you but is normality to them. Of course you’re at a disadvantage. Doesn’t mean they’re clever and you’re stupid.’
Dervla sat upright and looked at him with incredulity. ‘You’re, like, amazing.’
‘Thanks. So will you try to forget about this malicious nonsense and help me?’
She managed a wan smile. ‘OK. I read somewhere that if you sit on the pity pot too long you get nothing out of it but a ring on your butt.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
She giggled.
‘The truth is, Dervla, that it looks as if it had to be one of the committee who poisoned Hermione Babcock.’
‘Ohmygahd. You cannot be serious! That’s unreal.’
‘I’m serious. But I suggest you shouldn’t tell the press about this.’
‘Oh, pul-ease. Like it wasn’t already so…’ She searched for the mot juste. ‘So totally…aaaaggghhh!’
‘I’m going to be very unprofessional and tell you that you are not a likely suspect.’
She giggled again.
‘So I’d like to hear your opinion of your fellow committee members. Start by telling me how you became involved in the Warburton.’
‘Joe called. My agent. He goes, “Hey, you like reading books, Dervla. And I could get you big bucks to do a chicklit book. So raise your profile with the publishers. Be a judge. Here’s your chance to show you’re more than just a singer with a good ass.” And I was like, maybe. So then I meet Georgie Prothero for, like, dinner and he goes, “You’re just what we need to give us a fresh image blah, blah, blah,” and I go, “But isn’t this majorly serious? Like awesome. Can I do it?” and he goes, “Jerry Hall did the Whitbread and she’s not Einstein,” and I’m, like, a bit rat-arsed from the vodka and Red Bull and I go, “Why the feck not?”’
‘So you agreed after that evening with Georgie Prothero?’
‘Seemed cool.’ She sounded defensive. ‘It’s not like I don’t read. But then it went totally…duuuhhh.’
‘How?’
‘I meet the others and they’re nearly all old and cross and I’m Ohmygahd what have I got into but it’s too late. And then they say anything I like is so not serious and nearly everything we’ve got to read is totally ughhhhhhhhh.’
‘What do you like to read?’
‘Stories. Bridget Jones. Jane Austen. Maeve Binchy. Zadie Smith. And mysteries. I love mysteries. But Hermione. Not. Anything like that was out. I’m like, hello? We can’t have it ’cos people like it? And they’re, “What do you know?” So nearly everything I’ve got to, y’know, read, is either horrible or boring. Sends me straight to sleep when it doesn’t give me nightmares.’
‘So what did you think about the other members of the committee?’
‘Horrible. I know it’s, like, bad to speak ill of the dead, but that Hermione Babcock, she made me feel like a complete loser. Totally. When I said “I’m, like, I can’t believe you won’t have any book I like.” she goes…’ Dervla made a creditable attempt at a frosty English accent, ‘“Dervla, I think you should leave such decisions to people who know what they’re talking about.” And so there’s more blah, blah, blah from the others and they’re all, like, Hermione’s so right.’ She paused. ‘’Cept for Robert Amiss. He’s all right, Robert. I could fancy him. He’s, like funny. Human.’ She thought for a second. ‘Especially compared to them.’
‘Robert Amiss was on your side?’
‘Yeah. But Hermione, she’s “Who do you think you are?” to him too.’
‘Tell me something about the others. Geraint Griffiths, for instance?’
‘He’s like weird. Totally. He’s got, like, one idea he’s always going bla-de-bla-de-bla about. Like it’s us against Muslims, and I’m like, well that’s whatever, but we’re supposed to be, like, judging books. Not, like, fighting a war. So then he shouts at me about how there won’t be books if the Muslims, like, win and is that what I want.’ She lit another cigarette gloomily.
‘Did you argue with him?’
‘How could I? I mean!’
‘Did he bully you?’
‘Yeah. A bit. But at least, like, he means it. I don’t think he’s, like, horrible just to be horrible.’ She took a big draught of Coke, choked on the bubbles and dropped the can, which sprayed liquid all ov
er her and the sofa and doused her cigarette. After several ohmygahds and more spluttering and wiping up, she lit up again and stretched out.
‘You were talking about how Geraint Griffiths wasn’t horrible just to be horrible.’
‘Oh, yeah. Now Den Smith, he’s horrible to be horrible. He’s so not real, but always roaring anyway. About crap if you ask me. Intellectuals! More like cornerboys. Den going “You’re a fuckin’ bigot, Geraint” and Geraint going “And you’re a blind fuckin’ fool.”’
‘Rosa Karp?’
Dervla leaned over confidingly. ‘Ellis, I’m not, like, educated. Left school at sixteen when I won that talent contest. But, y’know, education’s not, like, everything. If you ask me, Rosa Karp hasn’t a brain in her head. Just a rule book. Like nuns used to be in the olden days.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘I’m, like, struggling to know what’s going on. Everyone using words I don’t know. And arguing about ideas I don’t, like, understand. But Rosa, if you really listen, she doesn’t have a single opinion of her own. It’s all that pc stuff that’s supposed to make you think like you don’t. I mean, I’m cool about race and gays and stuff, but Rosa, she’s out-of-it. Unreal.’
‘And that affects her choice of books, does it?’
‘She shouldn’t be let near books. She’s the sort thinks Harry Potter shouldn’t be allowed on the shelves ’cos he isn’t a disabled female and Hogwarts only caters for wizards and there’s, like, no inclusion programme for muggles. There wouldn’t be any literature if people like Rosa Karp were in charge. And none of us would be let think.’
(‘It was interesting,’ Pooley would say later, ‘how as she began to talk about something substantial, “like” and “ohmygahd,” and “so” and all the rest of it receded a bit. Maybe there’s hope.’)
‘What did you think about Professor Ferriter?’
‘Pillock. He’s old, but he tries to talk to me like he was my age. Not, like, to communicate with me better. But to impress me. He, like, tries to be Professor Peter Pan.’
‘Wysteria Wilcox?’
‘Aaarrrgggghhhh! So aaarrrgggghhhh! I’ve a grannie like her. All sooooo sweet and delicate on the outside and, like, hard as nails on the inside. Looks like a strawberry cream but inside she’s so toffee.’ She snorted. ‘She’d rip the shirt off your back, Wysteria Wilcox, if she wanted it. And then she’d complain the cloth was so rough it irritated her sensitive skin. Like it was your fault. Totally.’
Pooley was by now entranced. ‘Do tell me what you thought of Hugo Hurlingham?’
‘I thought of him in a posh restaurant last week. Y’know he’s so Europe’s-where-it’s-all-at and England’s-so-over? But I think he’s on the gravy train they’re always saying Brussels is. So there I was reading this menu full of stuff I don’t understand and I ask someone what’s “jus” and they say “gravy” and I think, “That’s Hugo. He’s on the jus train. To Brussels.”’
Pooley looked at her and laughed. ‘Dervla, don’t ever let anyone ever again make you think you’re stupid.’
She grinned. ‘I’m feeling better. You English policemen are wonderful. That’s what my English grannie always told me. She was the nice one. Not the Wysteria one. Have we finished?’
‘I think Robert Amiss is the only committee member left. Anything to add to what you said about him earlier?’
‘Nope. He was, like, so out-of-it. Like me. No agenda, know what-I-mean? Think he likes books.’ She giggled. ‘Shouldn’t be on a literary committee.’
‘Georgie Prothero?’
‘Gimmeabreak. Georgie’s a hired gun. Wouldn’t know a book from a T-shirt.’
‘Have you any idea who would have wanted to kill Lady Babcock?’
‘Totally not. I mean, she was, like, terrible. But some of the others were worse. Can’t think why her when they could of murdered Den.’
11
‘So what do you reckon, Jim?’
‘That I’d like a change from Chinese food.’
Amiss felt slightly miffed. ‘You seemed very keen on it last night, so it seemed a safe option. The local Indian take-away is foul and the chipper is worse.’ As he spoke, Plutarch, who had clambered to the top of his armchair, launched herself at the table and landed just beside a large container, which overturned, scattering rice in all directions. Ignoring Amiss’ curses and loud imprecations from Milton and Pooley, she paused briefly to grab a sparerib and then leaped with her booty to the top of a nearby bookcase.
‘It’s my fault,’ said Amiss bitterly, as he started cleaning up. ‘I forgot to proffer the Danegeld before we began to eat.’ He paused to look at the enormous cat, now gnawing loudly and triumphantly. ‘You could have asked, Plutarch.’
‘I’ve never known Plutarch to ask,’ said Milton. ‘In fact, I’m rather reassured that she’s behaving badly again. I thought she was getting old before her time. Like me.’
‘Oh, Jim, you’re not,’ said Pooley. ‘You’re just over-worked.’
‘And disillusioned. I’m too old to adapt to the new pc world of the Metropolitan Police. It’s not just that you’re not supposed to be racist or sexist or any of the other ists. That’s fair enough. It’s that regardless of the truth you’re supposed to confess you were all those bad things and agree to be born again. I have this big problem. I think I was always encouraging to women and Asians and blacks and anyone I thought was worth a damn, but I’m told I can’t have been because I’m white and a man.’
Amiss looked at Pooley. ‘Is it that bad?’
‘It’s not good. You certainly have to think twice before you tear a strip off anyone but a WASP.’
‘A male WASP at that,’ added Milton.
‘And I was very annoyed when told by a drunken colleague at a recent party that it was a smart career move of mine to take up with a black woman.’
‘But that was a classic racist response, surely?’ said Amiss.
‘It might have been. But this particular racist was West Indian.’
Amiss groaned. ‘Even Rosa Karp might be intellectually challenged by these complexities. But what I’m sure of is that you have to hang in there; without people like you, the lunatics really will take over the asylum. Now have some more food and I’ll pour you more wine and you’ll feel better. But first, a safety precaution.’ Before Plutarch realised he was hovering, Amiss grabbed her, rushed her into the kitchen and slammed the door. As the cries of rage and the sound of a substantial body crashing against the door began, he picked up three spareribs, opened the door a couple of inches, pushed the bones through and slammed it again. Silence descended as he mopped the blood off his hand with a paper napkin. He looked at his guests and grinned. ‘It’s OK. Honour is satisfied. She’s not actually hungry, she’s got plenty to nibble on and she’ll probably take a stroll when she’s finished and see if she can find some harmless little creature of the night to whack. Meanwhile, we can get back to wherever we were. Oh, yes, I was giving Jim some more wine.’
‘And I was about to apologise for complaining about having Chinese again,’ said Milton, as he helped himself to some beef in black bean sauce. ‘I’m just grumpy tonight. Pay no attention and let’s get back to business.’
‘OK,’ said Amiss, wielding the wine bottle. ‘Now I’m a bit confused and would be really grateful for a summary of what your conclusions are to date.’
‘I don’t know. We’ve been over and over the ground and it really seems truly unlikely that Babcock was killed for any reason to do with the Warburton. And yet it seems unquestionable that the ricin was administered some time between around six a.m. that morning and three that afternoon. According to Sir William Rawlinson and Alina, Hermione had her usual breakfast of muesli, yoghurt, coffee and a vitamin pill at seven-forty-five and, as he left at eight, went to her study to read the Guardian and possibly make phone calls. Her diary has an entry for nine-fifteen with the word Ed opposite but nothing more. She hadn’t mentioned any appointm
ent to her husband, but then he says there would be no reason to do so. According to Alina, she left at about eight-thirty, which would have given her time to meet someone for twenty minutes or so and still reach Warburton House, as she did, at nine-forty-five.’
‘But no one has any idea about Ed?’
‘Not yet. Could be a person. Could be a place. Could be a product. I’ve a good girl working on it.’
‘Slapped wrist, Ellis,’ observed Milton.
‘Huh?’ said Amiss.
Pooley groaned. ‘To say girl is technically discriminatory and could earn an official rebuke. Anyway, the only possible suspects for now are Warburton committee members and Rawlinson?’
‘And Alina.’
‘Really? Did Hermione leave her money or something?’
‘No,’ said Pooley, ‘but I doubt if Alina was a fan of Madam’s.’
‘I don’t want to be prim about this,’ said Amiss, ‘but if you don’t like your employer, isn’t the done thing to get another job?’
Milton shook his head. ‘More to it than that. We had a tip-off that she might be involved with Sir William.’
‘A tip-off from whom?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, of course you can.’
‘Of course we can,’ said Milton. ‘The spectre of disciplinary action for breathing is beginning to get to me. Tell him, Ellis.’
‘It was Wysteria. Just before I left, she suddenly burst into tears, talked of how she hadn’t slept a wink since Hermione’s death, made a terrific fuss about how she had wrestled with her conscience all day about breaking a confidence and was also terrified that if she told me what she was going to tell me, her life would be in danger. I made reassuring noises, but she put up her hand to silence me and explained that she had communed with Hermione’s spirit and had been told to go ahead and report that Hermione had told her that a couple of weeks ago she’d come in earlier than expected from an evening engagement and had caught her husband coming down the stairs from Alina’s quarters.’
‘Did he admit anything?’
Carnage on the Committee: A Robert Amiss/Baroness Jack Troutbeck Mystery Page 12
