The Conspiracy Theorist

by Mark Raven

‘I would say there’s a very good chance it was.’

  ‘So you’re saying PiTech had its own boss under surveillance?’

  ‘Co-owner.’

  ‘You mean Carmody?’

  ‘It’s a theory.’

  ‘Because he was having an affair with his wife?’ I asked.

  ‘Or it was to do with the merger? Or both? Perhaps the two are linked.’

  ‘But you have no evidence.’

  Janovitz smiled again, sourly this time.

  ‘I think my expert testimony could be refuted. Put it that way.’

  I thought for a while. Janovitz watched the master at work.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘I still don’t understand two things: one, why you followed me from Lancing Chapel; and, two, why on earth you think I will be interested.’

  Janovitz paused and looked more uncomfortable than ever.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘Sir Simeon told me you would.’

  From Janovitz’s office I went straight to Chichester Police Station, a building that resembled a 1950s secondary modern. The investigating officer for the disappearance and subsequent death of Mr Sunil Prajapati was a Detective Sergeant Jasbir Singh. He was a thickset man in his late twenties, of Asian heritage and with a distinct Birmingham accent. If this did not make his life difficult enough in very white West Sussex, he also sported an orange turban and the sort of beard associated, in the public mind at least, with a certain type of terrorist. I wondered if I had been allocated the Prajapati case because of his background. But that would assume that the police service bothered itself with such details.

  He brought in a piece of paper, on which I saw scribbled the information I had given the desk clerk and a print out from the national database. At the bottom of the page there was a photograph of me—looking quite youthful. DS Singh had done his homework, and I had only been kept waiting half an hour. Impressive.

  After we shook hands, the unsmiling DS Singh said, ‘As I understand it, you have some information for me, Mr Becket. And this is pertaining to the disappearance of Mr Sunil Prajapati. You are an ex-Met officer currently working as a private investigator. Is that correct?’

  ‘Legal investigator,’ I said. ‘This is all very formal. Are we being recorded or something?’

  ‘No, we are not. This is a preliminary discussion,’ DS Singh said. ‘What’s the distinction?’

  ‘What distinction?’

  ‘You said legal investigator...’

  ‘I investigate cases, legal cases. Not people.’

  DS Singh shrugged as if it were a distinction, in his great wisdom, he considered irrelevant.

  ‘But you do have some information?’ he asked. ‘DCI Richie was of the opinion that you were just trying to recover some money for a client.’

  I wondered why Jenny Forbes-Marchant had told Richie. And why Singh had contacted Richie. So I asked.

  ‘Your file said I should,’ Singh replied.

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘And unusual, don’t you think?’ DS Singh asked. ‘So what is the information?’

  ‘I didn’t say I had information,’ I said. ‘I merely told your desk sergeant that I might have.’

  ‘You might have,’ Singh turned over the piece of paper, and pushed it away from him. ‘I see. No, I don’t see. Tell me.’

  ‘I was hoping to see the file in case I saw anything.’

  ‘And they let you do that in...’ he turned over the paper again, ‘...Canterbury?’

  ‘If I'm working for a legal firm that is representing a client.’

  ‘And are you in this instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What makes you think you will see anything when we have not. Is it arrogance on your part?’

  I smiled. I liked that.

  ‘No, but I might see a connection.’

  ‘So, you will see a connection where we have not. Is that right?’

  I said nothing. I spread my hands. Singh went on.

  ‘But, you suspect foul play? Is that right? If so, you need to make clear your suspicions to me.’

  ‘Did you know that Sunil Prajapati was under covert surveillance?’

  He paused.

  ‘That is none of your business, Mr Becket.’

  ‘So you do know?’

  Singh stood up. ‘I really do not have time for this.’

  ‘Do you not want to know how I know?’ I asked.

  ‘We all know about the activities of Mr Janovitz. I assume that is where you came across this information.’

  I was surprised. ‘So he told you too?’

  ‘To date, he has not come forward with any information. We got it from another source.’

  ‘Mr Vincent Carmody. Makes sense. Large local employer. Civic duty. Local jobs at risk. Politicians involved. All sorts of considerations for the Chief Constable.’

  ‘Mr Becket, we will really have to leave it there. An officer will come and collect you. Thank you for your time.’ He paused at the door. ‘And your own civic duty.’

  I returned to my budget hotel and booked in for another night. I went up to my room and lay on the bed. I felt drained, and was just dropping off when my phone buzzed.

  ‘Mr Becket. Peter Naismith. Just ringing to say that’s all gone through for you.’

  ‘Gone through?’

  ‘Yes the monies should be in your client’s account as of half an hour ago. I sorted it myself this afternoon.’

  I was stunned. However I knew it was not the wisest course of action to show it.

  ‘Good,’ as if I expected this outcome. ‘Many thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  He rang off, no doubt thinking I didn’t sound grateful enough. Tough. The phone buzzed again. It was Jenny Forbes-Marchant. She sounded elated.

  ‘Tom, whatever you said to them certainly worked its magic! I must admit I took what you said with a pinch of salt. I never really expected you to be successful.’

  I could almost hear the champagne corks popping in the background.

  ‘I should have asked for twenty percent, then.’

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ she said. ‘Now what are you doing for dinner, Tom? We are going out to celebrate.’

  ‘I'm afraid I have an appointment,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, where?’ She sounded cool, like she did not believe me. This only served to irritate me more.

  ‘Some pub called the George and Dragon,’ I said. It was where I had arranged to meet Mat Janovitz. ‘Know it?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not too far from where we are! At the Festival Theatre? We’re seeing Arturo Ui. Come over have a drink and I’ll give you the cheque.’

  ‘There really is no need. Just pop it in the post.’

  ‘No, no I insist. Sevenish? Curtain up is not until half past.’

  At least, I thought, it sounds like she’s not on her own.

  So I accepted the invitation, thinking I would be safe enough. I set the alarm for half-past six and closed my eyes. It really was too bad. I would have no excuse now to hang around and find out what Mr Mat Janovitz was up to. I was not sure I believed the man when he had said that Sir Simeon Marchant told him to expect me to come down to Chichester.

  I opened my eyes. It was no good I couldn’t sleep. I grabbed my notebook and read the notes of my interview with Janovitz.

  The day after the CSU & MAIB finished with the Cassandra, Janovitz goes down to HISC. J supposedly finds evidence of bugs removed. He has a contact in Sussex Police who says their CSU people had not picked up anything. Too specialist J says. While there he sees S Marchant who asks what’s going on. They get talking. J tells him about the bugs & SM interested. Says case not been investigated properly & going up to London to get an ex-Met copper called Becket to check out Prajapati case. He will send B to see J when he returns.

  If Janovitz was being straight with me then it meant that Marchant thought the ‘bugs’ were indications of foul play in some way. But when could they have been fitted? Presumably when the boat was being vale
ted? This was the sort of thing, Marchant was going to discuss with me.

  It felt like I was getting instructions from beyond the grave.

  I rang one more number. Wing Commander Kenilworth answered on the first ring.

  ‘Ah, the young fellow from earlier, the Warrant Officer from the Regiment.... Yes we all have them valeted at the same place... bit more to it than valeting, Simeon used Evershed’s. I don’t. Don’t like the cut of his jib as they say, Evershed, all Poles there these days... Funny they were up here today picking up the old Cassandra. Gather she’s been all paid for, now. Signed sealed and delivered. It took them half an hour to get her loaded. At one point I thought she would end up as matchsticks. Glad old Sim wasn’t around to see it. They made such a hash of it.’

  ‘You mean they’ve taken the boat away?’ I asked.

  ‘Every last bit of her. Mast, sails, the lot. They say they will restore her. But I’m not so sure the way she was treated. Very sad. Very sad indeed.’

  Finally I switched off my phone and closed my eyes. As I grow older, I find myself in need of what my father used to refer to as ‘forty winks.’ I could still see him after lunch sitting down in his armchair and removing his spectacles, his newspaper rising and falling as he dropped off.

  No doubt it would all make sense after a little nap. Although I was not sure forty winks would be enough.

  Chapter Twelve

  The performing arts were obviously alive and well in Chichester, West Sussex. Middle-class couples walked across the car park in the direction of the theatre. They had the grim determination of people who were intent on enjoying themselves in a thoroughly respectable way.

  The Minerva Theatre was being refurbished—scaffolding hanging off its trendy Sixties facade—and across Oaklands Park, I could see the space-age marquee that hosted the festival shows. Jenny Forbes-Marchant said she’d be in the theatre bar. I only hoped that she was not alone. It had crossed my mind that her friend might unaccountably not show up and that Becket would be honour bound to take the ticket. Although I am not adverse to a spot of Brecht, I don’t think I could have sat through The Life and Death of Arturo Ui in her distracting presence. No, the sooner I collected my cheque and got back to my hotel the better.

  Once again I was at a loose end. I had awoken from my forty winks thinking there was no way I could pursue the case any further. There was no reason to interview Carmody or anyone at PiTech, and if I did, there was no traction, nothing to grip onto. Any evidence Mat Janovitz had collected from the Cassandra was now compromised, if not destroyed. Of course, it was suspicious that PiTech had paid up so readily and collected the boat that afternoon. But that, in itself, did not mean anything. I could imagine how a conspiracy theorist like Sir Simeon Marchant might have thought it all very significant. And yet it still bothered me that he had predicted that I would turn up in Chichester. He had told Janovitz that. On the face of it, it meant nothing. If he had been still alive, it meant nothing. But a prediction from beyond the grave was somewhat spooky.

  Becket, you’re getting as bad as the rest of them, I told myself as I walked up to Jenny Forbes-Marchant.

  She was standing at the bar next to a tall man in a dark suit. He was ordering drinks, and she was gazing at him in admiration at him for performing this difficult and complex task. She saw me and came forward to offer her cheek. It was a nice cheek, which managed to smell both wholesome and of several gins. Then she spoiled it by speaking.

  ‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘Tom, Tom, Tom! Mark, this is clever man who got Daddy’s money back.’

  The tall man turned from the bar. Military, I thought. Probably army. He was tanned and had that wiry, whiplash type of build that comes from spending too much time in the Great Outdoors, all coiled aggression and thousand yard stares. His handshake was firm, very firm.

  ‘Mark Marchant,’ he said. ‘What’s your poison, Tom?’

  I said a beer would be nice. It was odd he hadn’t waited for me to introduce myself. Not quite English officer class. And the accent wasn’t quite right either.

  ‘You guys go and sit down. I will bring them over when I’ve sorted out the interval drinks.’

  Duly dismissed, Jenny and I went and sat down.

  ‘My big brother,’ she apologised. ‘Somewhat bossy.’

  ‘I didn’t read about him in your father’s obituaries.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t talk about that,’ she said, reaching into the purse and drawing out a chequebook. The last time I had seen it was in her father’s house and she hadn’t managed to complete the task that time. So I sat still and didn’t interrupt. I looked at the posters from past shows: actors declaiming, or fighting, or singing, or dancing, or weeping, or doing sundry other thespian things. They looked like they were thoroughly enjoying themselves while they were at it. Theatre posters always leave me feeling depressed and inadequate. As if my life should be like that, too. Significant.

  Mark Marchant came over with tray. He carefully laid the drinks on the table.

  ‘Paying up time,’ he observed.

  I felt embarrassed. Perhaps he thought I was the sort of man to doorstep his sister while still elated by her windfall. A seedy little private eye.

  ‘I'm sorry for your loss,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, the old man and I didn’t get on,’ he said. ‘But thanks anyway.’

  South African, I thought. Thinks anyway.

  ‘Mark’s just flown in from Jo’burg,’ Jenny said.

  Sir Simeon had been stationed in South Africa in the early Sixties, I recalled, just before they left the Commonwealth. This man didn’t look old enough.

  ‘Gatwick?’ I asked.

  He paused and said, ‘Correct.’

  That put an end to small talk. Jenny Forbes-Marchant signed the cheque and tore it from the book with a flourish.

  ‘Seven thousand pounds. I still don’t know how you did it!’

  She handed it to me. I looked at it. I was about to say something, but big brother jumped in.

  ‘Jen, you’ve made it for the wrong amount, you dope! Ten percent of £75k is seven thousand five hundred.’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I gave him a retainer’—him being me—‘five hundred wasn’t it, Tom?’

  ‘Well, you never actually handed it over. You took a call.’

  ‘Typical!’ Mark Marchant laughed.

  Although I agreed with the sentiment, I was beginning to dislike him. There was a nastiness about his humour, like a little boy who enjoyed pulling the wings off bluebottles.

  ‘Oh, so I did!’ his sister exclaimed. ‘And look it’s my last cheque too.’

  I said it didn’t matter and sipped my beer. It wasn’t bad for bottled stuff—Adnams or Theakstons, I suspected—yeasty, and quite a kick to it. All in all, it was preferable to family dramas.

  Mark Marchant got out his wallet and counted out ten fifties. He handed them to me, saying, ‘Apologies for my dimwit sister.’

  I was about to object, but she seemed delighted by the compliment, so I decided the best thing to do was to leave them to it. Big brother flashing his cash, not so little sister simpering. Besides, getting another cheque off Jenny Forbes-Marchant might require seeing her again and I wasn’t sure I was quite up to that. I put the notes away. One of the posters caught my eye. A blonde actress addressed a skull in the palm of her outstretched hand. Perhaps a woman playing Hamlet, I thought, or Ophelia with a twist in the plot? Something about the actor reminded me of Clara.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Tom?’

  She was looking at me strangely. She was alone. Her brother was back at the bar. I wasn’t sure what had happened.

  ‘You looked miles away.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t think I slept very well. Just now,’ I added.

  She put her hand on mine. The bell rang and said there was fifteen minutes to curtain. Mark Marchant came back. This time with just two gins. Once again, it was clear I was being dismissed. And I was glad of it.

  We met, as arranged, at the George
and Dragon, despite there being no point to it. No point at all.

  ‘What’s more I think I am being followed,’ Mat Janovitz was saying.

  I did not reply. I looked around the empty pub, nursing my beer. It was a nice pint, but for some reason I had no thirst on me, no appetite. Perhaps I was coming down with something. Perhaps Sir Simeon Marchant’s conspiratorialism was catching. Mat Janovitz seemed to have caught it. I could see no one who could possibly be following him or anyone.

  The George and Dragon was half empty. No one looked suspicious to me. Everyone looked like locals. Midweek drinkers. I wondered how long Janovitz had been waiting. There were a number of empty glasses in front of him. British lager used to be a weak gassy beer deserving nobody’s respect or indeed caution, but not these days. Perhaps he was pissed. He certainly sounded it.

  ‘Well, I know I am being followed—after all it is my specialist subject,’ Janovitz went on. ‘I just don’t know who is doing the following. Perhaps I'm just paranoid.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,’ I joked.

  Somehow he refrained from laughing.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But have you thought of trying another profession? It is not as if this one is particularly well-paid.’

  ‘Don’t you wonder what happened to Sir Simeon Marchant?’

  ‘What I think—and the police do not share this view, incidentally—is that someone made it look like a mugging. Why they did it, I do not know. What I do know is that now we don’t have access to the boat, there’s no way we can prove anything. As I told you earlier, I tried the witnesses in London, but it was no good.’

  ‘So you are just going to leave it?’ Janovitz asked. ‘Just like that?’

  He looked at me, as if I had gone down in his estimation.

  ‘I’m like you. I have no client. No one has asked me to do anything.’

  He stood up. ‘I’m going for a piss,’ he said. ‘No, I’m not, I’m leaving.’ He held out his hand formally. ‘Goodbye, Mr Becket. It was nice nearly working with you.’

  It was a crap line, so I didn’t respond. I stared at the hand until it disappeared. I tried to shake the cobwebs from my head. I watched Janovitz lurch across the room to the door. After thirty seconds, two guys downed their pints and followed him. I stood up, feeling unsteady on my legs. I felt like I had the flu. People cheered as I left the George and Dragon, leaving my half-full pint behind.