'Generally? Well, what I feel is, a man's entitled to his own beliefs and tastes, as long as they don't involve breaking the law, of course,' said Watmough. 'Personally, I don't much care for poofters, but I would never let that personal distaste prejudice my judgement on a legal matter, of course.'
'Of course not,' said Ogilby.
He paused, quietly savouring the moment, then resumed, 'But what I really meant, Nev, was - how do you feel about homosexual policemen? I only ask because the Evening Post got rung up the other day inquiring if they'd care to buy a story, about a gay copper in Mid-Yorkshire CID.'
Watmough's bout of coughing as he choked on his wine drew Dalziel's attention.
'He were weaned too early,' he said in explanation. 'Now, let me get this straight. You want me to help you check out this man's credentials? That's not police work, you know that. Hire a private eye. The estate can bear it.'
'Despite the television, as you well know, the competent and reliable private eye is a rare bird, hard to find outside Southern California, and more likely to be caged or shot at than assisted by the carabinieri. I need to check Signor Alessandro Pontelli's background in Florence. I need to know when he left Italy, when he came to this country, where he's staying, who he's seen. I need to compare his physical characteristics with any records that exist of Alexander Lomas. All these things can be done swiftly and easily by the police, whereas a poor solicitor . . .'
He smiled sadly and topped up Dalziel's Fleurie.
'It's the Co-ordinator for Interpol you should've asked for lunch, not me,' said Dalziel. 'My job's investigating crime, not running a where-are-they-now agency.'
'In a sense, this could be classed as a criminal investigation, surely,' murmured Thackeray.
'What sense is that?'
'If this man's making a fraudulent claim, surely that's a crime? Personation, forgery, fraud - all of these must be involved?'
'Mebbe,' said Dalziel. 'I'd need better grounds than you're giving me, though.'
'Yes. I realize that I shouldn't have asked. Still I thought, at a personal level perhaps . . . but never mind. I hope you've enjoyed your lunch.'
'It were grand. I always like it here,' said Dalziel.
'Time for a game of snooker after coffee, perhaps? Yes, we really need more members of your calibre, Andy.'
'Oh aye? There's at least one bugger doesn't think that!'
He glowered suspiciously towards Watmough.
'What? Oh yes. I assure you, the vast majority of the membership thought that blackballing business was a scandal. But what to do? Rules are rules, even when they're based on a silly and outmoded tradition. Have you ever thought of letting yourself be re-nominated?'
'I've a hard head,' said Dalziel grimly. 'And it doesn't bother me much if someone uses it once as a coconut-shy. But after that, I've sense enough to keep it down.'
'I appreciate that. But it seems such a shame. Incidentally, we've another rather silly tradition here which allows the President to have in his gift, as it were, a couple of memberships, virtually by invitation. Did you know that?'
'No.'
'Yes, it's so. I'm President-elect, by the way. My term of office starts next month. Andy, I'd be delighted if you'd give serious consideration to accepting my presidential nomination. The way it works is, the new President nominates, the new President-elect seconds, and after that it's a formality, read straight into the minutes. Indeed, it's such a formality the President-elect usually signs the forms at the start of his term with no idea who the President may nominate.'
'You know how to make a man feel wanted,' grunted Dalziel. 'Thanks, but I'll pass.'
'I'm sorry,' said Thackeray, alarmed. 'Good Lord, that did sound gratuitously offensive, didn't it? Unintentional, believe me. No, the point I was about to make is that my President-elect will be your friend Mr Watmough.'
His bland gaze met Dalziel's shrewd stare. After a while both men began to chuckle, then to laugh.
Dalziel raised his glass and through his chortles said, 'Cheers! And here's to Interpol!'
Watmough could see nothing to laugh at and felt his CID Chief's distant amusement as a personal affront.
'Of course,' Ogilby had said, 'It's not the kind of thing a local evening paper would run, but if there's a story there, the Challenger couldn't ignore it. I thought it only right to warn you, Nev, in view of our special relationship.'
He watched with hidden amusement as Watmough sipped his wine in an effort to lubricate his urbane chuckle. He's counting how many Sundays he's got to get through between now and the Board! he told himself.
Two, thought Watmough. Two peaceful Sabbaths, ten tranquil bloody days, that was all he asked. It was one thing to point out the smooth perfections of a well-disciplined Force and say modestly, These are down to me; quite another to appear as the self-advertised controller of a force split by hints of corruption and rumours of scandal.
He managed his urbane chuckle.
'There are no regulations forbidding the employment of gays as policemen,' he said. 'On the contrary, any attempt to prevent such employment could itself be a contravention of the law under the Sexual Discrimination Act.'
'Of course,' said Ogilby. 'But the implication is that there'd be a story to sell. Gays are open to blackmail, undue influence, that sort of thing. That's why the KGB are so keen to suss 'em out in the British Embassy over there. You can be caught in bed with a girl and laugh it off, but a boy's still something different. Despite Mrs Whitehouse, this is still a Puritan country.'
'You think so, do you?' said Watmough. 'What would you like, mum's trifle or Spotted Dick?'
'I think I'll skip the pudding,' said Ogilby. 'Off the record, I'll keep you posted if anything else comes up, Nev. On the record, I take it you've no idea if there is any truth in this?'
'I'm sure there's none whatsoever,' said Watmough firmly.
But I'll bloody well soon find out, he assured himself. And God help the nasty little pervert if there is!
At the far end of the room, Dalziel was still laughing.
Chapter 10
Neville Watmough was not the only one to be served shocks with his luncheon.
When Rod Lomas arrived at the Howard Arms to eat with his mother, he was amazed to find her on a bar stool in company with John Huby.
'Hello, darling,' said Stephanie Windibanks, offering her cheek. 'You know John, of course.'
'Of course. Hello, er, John.'
'How do,' growled Huby. 'You'll want a drink, I expect?'
'That would be kind of you,' said Lomas.
'Half a bitter,' interposed Huby rapidly. 'By God, if I had the nerve to charge these prices, I'd not have been bothered about the old girl's brass!'
As Huby paid for the beer, Lomas glanced interrogatively at his mother, who said brightly, 'Fetch that through into the dining-room with you, dear. John, I must give this child his lunch as I know he only gets the teeniest of breaks. You'll wait here and keep your eyes skinned? Let me know the moment he arrives. 'Bye for now.'
As they made their way to the dining-room, Lomas said, 'Strange bedfellows you're finding these days, Mummy.'
'Don't be vulgar. That approach I reserve for last resorts and large resources. Incidentally, I hope you haven't been having your wicked way with that anorexic child of his?'
'No fear,' grinned Lomas. 'I'm not into paedophilia.
She's a strange creature, though. Not half so dumb as you might imagine.'
'That means you're getting nowhere with her and nothing out of her, I suppose. Well, keep at her. I think we're probably in the clear, but it would be useful to have an early warning system in Thackeray's office. Meanwhile, as I anticipated, the charity people are moving. I had a visit yesterday morning from a man called Goodenough who works for the animal welfare lot. He's one of those shrewd Scots terriers who will worry their way through solid rock once they get the smell of money in their nostrils. He's planning to organize a concerted action to overthrow the will as
far as the time element goes. But he needs me, and the incredible hulk there, to sign affidavits renouncing any interest in the estate. The point is we're the nearest relatives, and any action, or even threat of action, on our behalf would take precedence over the action he is proposing to bring. He wants to buy us off. The service here is not what it should be, considering its bloated prices.'
She looked around the crowded dining-room and said, 'God, you can smell the expense accounts, can't you?'
'Not on me you can't, darling,' murmured Lomas. 'Does the expectation of plenty entitle me to order the smoked salmon?'
'Plenty it won't be,' said his mother sharply. 'You'll have the prawn cocktail and be grateful.'
'How much will you screw him for, then?'
'I suggested ten per cent, but he just laughed and offered five hundred in cash. I was greatly offended. I said I was contemplating a legal action on my own behalf. He said perhaps I would like to talk to my legal adviser again. I said I certainly would. We parted.'
'And what did your legal adviser say?'
'Oh, I knew what he would say. I'd had Billy Fordham round to dinner a couple of nights earlier.'
'Aha. Free consultation time!'
'There is no such thing as a free consultation,' she said icily. 'Billy said if I had large funds, it might be worthwhile trying to throw the whole thing over on the grounds of Gwen's incompetence, but it was very risky and as I don't have large funds, I'd need to get someone to act for an extremely large percentage, and frankly he himself wouldn't touch it with a bargepole. But he also made the point that Goodenough's advisers must have made, that any action on my - or Huby's - part could drag on for ages, and might, just might, succeed.'
'So it's a real bargaining counter?'
'Indeed. I rang Goodenough back in mid-afternoon and discovered that he'd set off for deepest Yorkshire. I just had time to catch the next train myself. I've come with positively nothing to wear!'
Lomas looked at his mother's immaculate turnout and smiled admiringly.
'But why have you come?' he asked.
'Because I knew he would be seeing that awful man Huby and I was worried in case he settled for a large Scotch and a fiver and ruined the market. I phoned him as soon as I arrived, and sure enough, Goodenough had been round. But I needn't have worried. I'd forgotten how hard-nosed about "brass" they are up here! Huby's low peasant cunning had produced the same answer as my sophisticated intelligence - wait and see. So we've joined forces. A matched pair is always worth far more than merely double a broken set. I invited Huby to consult with me here this morning. Meanwhile I discovered that Goodenough was staying here too, so after we had worked out our strategy, I thought we might as well
confront him with it as soon as possible. Frankly, I'd rather do it alone, but Huby doesn't seem to trust me to look after his interests.'
'Oh, I can't imagine why!' cried Lomas. 'You who are so good at looking after other people's interests!'
He saw his mother's expression harden and realized he'd gone too far in his filial mockery. He did not doubt she would soon strike back.
'I've had practice looking after yours,' she said.
'And don't think I don't appreciate it, Mother. I need looking after. Oh, I am Fortune's fool!'
'And that, if I recall aright, is one of Romeo's lines,' said Mrs Windibanks. 'Spoken after you in your minor role are dead and left with nothing to do but snooze in your dressing-room till the curtain-calls, always assuming there are any curtain-calls!'
Lomas shook his head in reluctant admiration.
'Oh, you don't hang about, do you, Mother?' he mocked. 'One, two, and the third in your bosom. Ah!'
He affected to stab himself with a fork and flipped back in his chair, eyes closed. When he opened them he found John Huby and a bearded stranger looking down at him with a waiter bobbing anxiously in the background.
'Rod, stop playing the fool,' ordered Mrs Windibanks. 'Mr Goodenough, may I present my son. Rod, this is Andrew Goodenough from CLAWS.'
'PAWS,' corrected the Scot. 'I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Windibanks.'
'Lomas, actually. Stage name, but I'm used to answering to it now.'
'Indeed. Mrs Windibanks, I didn't expect to find you up here too, but it falls very handy to have you and Mr Huby together. Can we talk for a moment?'
It amused Rod to see Goodenough adroitly remove the initiative from his mother.
But she's a bonny wee counter-puncher, he thought. She'll have another thou out of you for that, Mr Secretary!
'I'm just about to have my lunch,' said Mrs Windibanks. 'Perhaps in the lounge in, say, forty-five minutes?'
'I'd prefer now,' said Goodenough. 'I have a busy afternoon. And I'm driving across to Ilkley later.'
'To see the WFE woman? You have my sympathy. I gather she's as mad as a hatter. But how thorough you are, Mr Goodenough. Never a step forward without making sure your back's well covered.'
'If it's inconvenient, however, I'll get in touch when we're both back in London,' continued Goodenough, as if Mrs Windibanks had never spoken.
'I can't be hanging around here all bloody day,' exclaimed John Huby. 'I've got a pub to look after.'
Carefully Stephanie Windibanks folded her napkin and set it down.
'Very well,' she said. 'Rod, darling, do order and start without me. I shall have a slice of rare beef and a tossed green salad.'
It was more than half an hour before the woman returned with Huby lowering behind her, but no sign of Goodenough.
Lomas was drinking his coffee.
'I've left some wine,' he said. 'To toast your triumph or drown your sorrows. Which is it?'
'Both,' she said tersely.
'Nay, lass, but we'll be all right. I must say, you're a dab hand at sorting out these money matters,' said Huby with reluctant admiration.
'That sounds promising,' said Lomas. 'What's the deal?'
'Five hundred advance payment for our waivers,' said Mrs Windibanks.
'What?'
'Each.'
'Even so,' said Lomas. 'It's not much, is it? I mean, I must confess that in anticipation of your success, I rather went to town on the wine, and I decided on the smoked salmon after all.'
'I said advance payment. Against five per cent of the estate at its present value.'
'Each?'
'Each!'
'Good lord. That must come to, let me see, about seventy thousand pounds. Mother, you're a marvel!'
He rose to embrace her. She pushed him back in his seat.
'Sit still till I finish,' she said sharply.
'Oh dear. There's something else.'
'Nowt to worry about as far as I can see,' said Huby uncertainly.
'But how far can you see, John?' snapped Mrs Windibanks.
'Tell me, what is it?' cried Lomas. 'You're worse than Juliet's nurse!'
His mother fixed him with an angry eye.
'It seems,' she said, 'that some lunatic has appeared in Thackeray's office claiming fairly convincingly to be the missing heir, Alexander Lomas Huby.'
'It'll be nowt, you'll see, we'll get him sorted,' said John Huby grimly.
But Rod Lomas subsided in his chair and waved a limp hand at a distant waiter.
'Oh shit,' he said. 'I think we're going to need another bottle.'
Chapter 11
'Have I done well? Have I done right?'
So Andrew Goodenough addressed the twin penates of his Presbyterian upbringing, canniness and conscience, in search of their approval for the deal he had just struck with the wily Windibanks and the horrible Huby.
Obtaining no firm answer, he pragmatically shelved the questions and concentrated his mind on his immediate mission.
He was driving westwards to see Mrs Laetitia Falkingham, founder and perpetual president of Women For Empire. All he knew of WFE he had picked up from Eden Thackeray, whose old-fashioned liberalism had unlocked his lawyer's discretion.
'Pathetic rather than sinister, but none the less
deplorable,' he had categorized them. 'Basically a correspondence circle of colonial widows, nostalgic for ayahs and chota pegs, plus a handful of home-grown fascists like Mrs Huby. Their political platform, if so it could be called, is that Enoch Powell's a little soft on immigration, South Africa is an earthly paradise, and the nice, jolly and exceedingly cheap blacks have been lured off the straight and narrow by nasty communists, which is to say trade-unionists and all points left.'
'Large membership?' Goodenough had asked.
'Rapidly declining and no recruitment,' said Thackeray. 'The nasty right prefers less genteel outlets for its nastinesses. No, until recently I'd have said WFE looked set to die off with Mrs Falkingham.' 'Where would the money have gone, in that case?' wondered Goodenough.
'You mean, could PAWS have got hold of it?' laughed Thackeray. 'I doubt if we shall ever know. It seems that Mrs Falkingham has got herself what sounds like a young and vigorous assistant, name of Brodsworth. Ms Sarah Brodsworth. I fear a new generation of WFE members may be spawned, and they won't be so pathetically ineffectual as the last, not with half a million under their belts.'
Well, that was not his problem, thought Goodenough. If getting PAWS' third of the Huby fortune involved dropping an equal amount into the lap of the loonie Right, that was how it had to be.
A signpost told him he was within a couple of miles of Ilkley. Combining his sole foreknowledge of the place, which was that it had a moor, with what Thackeray had told him, he realized he was expecting Maldive Cottage to be a cross between Wuthering Heights and the Berghof at Berchtesgaden.
The reality was very different.
Ilkley turned out to be a bustling, prosperous and handsome little market town and Maldive Cottage was straight off a biscuit tin lid, with grey Yorkstone walls, red tiles and leaded lights, nestling in an English cottage garden alight with the colours of late summer and early autumn.
He went up the path, raised the lion's head knocker and knocked.
The door opened immediately. A man in his late twenties stood there. He was of medium build with rather short, neatly trimmed fair hair. He wore a well cut grey suit, white shirt and striped tie. He smiled interrogatively, showing strong, even, white teeth. He looked a little like Robert Redford.
Dalziel 09 Child's Play Page 9
