by Tim Heald
Bognor was tempted to make a facetious remark but thought better of it. Instead he said, ‘And the headquarters of this dubious organisation is here in Herring St George.’
‘It’s registered in Miami as I said this morning. But all the evidence points to the real centre being Herring St George,’ agreed Parkinson.
‘A sort of cottage industry,’ said Bognor.
‘You could put it like that. Obviously Wilmslow was getting too close for their comfort and so he was eliminated. Equally obviously Sir Nimrod was on the verge of turning Queen’s evidence and had to be shut up.’
Bognor wondered whether now was the time to voice his suspicions about Wilmslow being an over-greedy accomplice rather than a successful sleuth. He decided not to. Parkinson had had enough shocks for one day, and the revelation was no longer particularly relevant.
‘And the Americans insist that the boss of all this is Peregrine Contractor?’
‘His is the name on the masthead,’ said Parkinson, not unreasonably.
‘Could be a front like Sir Nimrod Herring.’ Bognor had a soft spot for Perry Contractor. If things were leading where they seemed to be leading his friend was about to go down with a life sentence. Bognor didn’t want that.
‘There’s no reason,’ said Parkinson. ‘A name like that doesn’t suggest anything much one way or another. If his name is on the masthead it’s because he’s what it says he is. There is one thing that’s slightly bothering the Yanks though. Apparently in the old days of the cut price tours to the Far East the boss was a man called Manuel Henrici. A very nasty piece of work indeed. Shortly before Contractor took over Henrici vanished. A few weeks later the police got a tip-off and were pointed towards a swamp just north of Miami. They found a body. Or remains of a body. Seems the alligators had got there first. No way of identifying him for certain.’
‘Dental records?’
‘When I say body, Bognor, I mean body. Perhaps torso would be more accurate. Evidently he had a naked lady tattooed on his right buttock. There were traces of that but they were regarded as inconclusive. Anybody might have such a tattoo. In parts of Florida I understand they’re positively commonplace.’
‘And if they were trying to make it look as if it was this man, Henrici the Mob could have got hold of any old corpse and stuck a tattoo on its bottom.’
‘The thought did cross a number of minds,’ said Parkinson. ‘Not least because this Henrici had done a vanishing trick once before, years back in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. He’d been called Jimmy Montano and he was wanted for a bank robbery. Next thing anyone knew he was a mobster in Miami, specialising in vice and narcotics.’
‘So some people think he could still be the mastermind behind Dull Boy?’
‘It’s regarded in some quarters as being conceivable,’ said Parkinson. ‘However, as you should know by now I’m not much of a one for melodrama and conspiracy. My guess is that the body in the swamp belonged to Jimmy Montano, alias Manuel Henrici.’
‘I see,’ said Bognor. ‘So the Americans expect us to arrest Peregrine Contractor?’
‘In the past they’ve found it impossible to nail Dull Boy down. Partly because they’re operating over here, and partly because of the influential names involved. Another problem is that a lot of the girls are enthusiastic amateurs recruited by some high class Madam called Lady Amanda Mandible. At least that’s the story. Now that there’s the possibility of a murder charge the cousins are very excited.’
‘Does Guy Rotherhithe know all this?’
‘I understand he’s being informed even as we speak.’
‘Oh.’ Bognor pondered. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Stay out of trouble,’ said Parkinson. ‘And report back here when Chief Inspector Rotherhithe has cleared it all up.’
‘Yes,’ said Bognor. He felt properly snubbed, as he so often did after talking to Parkinson. However, he also felt better informed.
‘I do feel guilty about the Contractors,’ he said uneasily to Monica. At the back of his mind the compromising photographs of himself and Samantha were nagging relentlessly. He felt hamstrung by them. As the hours passed it became more and more difficult to say anything about them to Monica. The longer he delayed the more guilty he felt. He could not say why, nor could he tell what the loathsome Dandiprat would do if Guy, not he, were to continue with a certain line of enquiry. He would soon find out because it now seemed inevitable that Guy would be arriving at the manor not just with a list of difficult questions but also with a pair of handcuffs. If Dandiprat were to produce the photographs then it would be nothing but malice. They certainly would not prevent Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe from going about his duty.
‘Why do you feel guilty about the Contractors?’ Monica wanted to know. ‘If they’re guilty then they’re the only ones who should be feeling guilty.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Bognor lamely. ‘I just find it hard to believe they’d get involved in killing people. Frilly knickers are one thing but murder is a bit different. Orgies … I mean I’d forgive them for organising orgies, even for rich American tourists, but I am inclined to draw the line at murder. I think I might ring them up.’
‘With what object in view?’
‘I don’t know. I just have a hunch.’
‘And what form does your hunch take?’
Bognor shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. That’s the point about hunches. I just have a feeling that while Perry and Sam may be bad they’re not wicked. Do you know what I mean?’
Slightly to his surprise his wife nodded.
‘I have slightly the same feeling myself,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet they’re fully paid up members of Dull Boy Productions but I don’t think they’d kill people, not even Brian Wilmslow, who sounds a horror. And certainly not Sir Nimrod, who was rather a dear.’
‘But Guy is so ham-fisted, leaden-footed, and pea-brained that he’ll accuse them of God knows what and let the real culprit get off scot-free.’
Monica smiled. ‘You mustn’t let your manifest jealousy of Guy’s undoubtedly scrummy appearance get the better of you. He’s not as stupid as you think.’
‘You mean he’s not as stupid as he looks.’
‘Husband, dear, you demean yourself. But I’m not going to argue about it. By all means have another go at them if you want. By the way, that stuff about Dandiprat and numismatics. Does Parkinson know anything about coins?’
‘I think it’s a hobby of his,’ said Bognor. ‘But I’m never sure. It’s coins or stamps or matchboxes. Very boring whichever it is.’
‘I have a hunch, too,’ said Monica.’ You phone the Contractors. I’m going to see if Bhagwan Josht has a decent dictionary.’
And she loped off mysteriously to the swami and his library, leaving Bognor scratching an ear in some perplexity. He had known his wife for longer than he cared to remember but she was still an astonishing enigma, a constant surprise, and even, when he stopped to think about it, an abiding passion.
Not that this affectionate curiosity about Mrs Bognor interfered with a wide ranging, if lethargic, interest in other women. There was no denying that Bognor was seriously attracted to Samantha Contractor and had been dangerously aroused by her performance in the swimming pool earlier in the day. Phoning the manor at this late hour, when guilt was on the verge of being finally established, was a dangerous and probably unprofessional action. When the chips were down Bognor would have to confess that he was only doing it because he fancied Mrs Contractor enormously and, despite her betrayal this morning, still sensed that this fancying was in some small way reciprocated. A ludicrous conceit when you considered Bognor’s physical appearance but, he told himself, not utterly without justification, he was not without a certain charm. In his experience there were women, often quite beautiful ones, who actually preferred the plainer man.
He was greatly relieved therefore when the odious little butler did not answer the telephone; still more pleased to hear the breathy, sexy, v
oice of his fancy woman herself.
‘Simon!’ she said, gratifyingly. ‘Thank heaven you called. Where have you been? I tried everywhere. I must talk to you and explain. I’ve got the film back. You can have it. But we must talk before it gets any worse. It’s urgent. Where are you?’
‘It’s not important,’ said Bognor, disturbed by the panic in Samantha’s voice. ‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘Not here,’ she said quickly. ‘Somewhere safe and anonymous. What about the church?’
‘The church?’
‘In the village. There’ll be no one there. I must talk.’
Bognor frowned. The church sounded a touch melodramatic, but on the other hand it was almost certain to be empty. And there would be somewhere to sit down. Where better? The Pickled Herring was out of the question and he didn’t want her coming up to Herring Hall where Monica would be party to the conversation. If Samantha had really retrieved the film from Dandiprat that particular episode could be hushed up completely. But he didn’t want Monica to see Samantha handing it to him.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘Herring St George church. I can be there in five minutes.’
‘See you there,’ said Samantha.
There were those who thought of Bognor as slothful and indolent, the antithesis of man of action. True, he was by inclination the apotheosis of armchair man, but when the need arose he could shift with remarkable speed. It would be stretching a point to say that he did so with feline grace. If it was poetry in motion it was pretty blank verse, but nonetheless effective. It took him under a minute to be at the wheel of his Mini, heading down the drive and into the sunset.
Monica, hurrying back from the library with the Shorter Oxford Dictionary open at page 452 missed him by a full three minutes. She swore loudly when she realised, then dialled 999 and asked for Guy urgently.
He reached the church in four minutes forty-five seconds and found the scarlet Mercedes parked by the wicket gate. It was a horribly ostentatious car for a clandestine meeting, unlike the anonymous Mini. It was also visible from the windows of the Pickled Herring. He cursed under his breath. Too late now. Better make it quick though. He trotted breathlessly up the path between the yews and tombstones effaced by centuries of English weather, let himself in and stood peering round in the gloom.
‘Over here!’ she hissed in a church whisper.
She was sitting in the front pew under the pulpit and an ornate, horizontal effigy of a knight in armour – Sir Nymrode Herring who had been one of the few English dead at Agincourt. Bognor went over and sat next to her, inhaling a seductive blast of scent from Jean Patou.
‘Here!’ she said, and pressed a small saffron Kodachrome roll into his hand. ‘And I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?’
Such big eyes, thought Bognor. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ she said. ‘Nothing ever is and now it’s all gone horribly wrong. It was bad enough when they killed that horrible Wilmslow, but Sir Nimrod?’ She dabbed at one of her enormous mascara rimmed eyes. ‘He was such a poppet.’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe it. And then I heard they tried to kill you and they’ll try again. I told him. I said it was too late and the game was up but he wouldn’t listen. He’s mad. He thinks he’s immortal. He thinks he can get away with anything. I think he’s the most evil man I’ve ever known.’
‘What? Perry?!’ Bognor was quite shocked. He had expected more loyalty. Besides whatever his shortcomings and misdemeanours Peregrine had always seemed so agreeable. A cad maybe but agreeable. Rather like Nigel Dempster. You disapproved of the deeds but were surprisingly fond of the doer.
‘No, you fool, not Perry. Dandiprat!’
‘Dandiprat?!’
‘Dandiprat.’ Samantha seemed exasperated. ‘Or Henrici. Or Montano. Or whatever he calls himself.’
‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Bognor. ‘Does he have a naked lady on his bottom?’
It was Samantha’s turn to be astonished.
‘He what?!’ she asked.
‘If Dandiprat is Henrici and Montano then he has a naked lady tattooed on his bottom.’
‘I’ve never seen his bottom,’ said Samantha. ‘Thank God, that’s one demand he never made.’
Bognor passed a hand over his sweaty forehead and sighed.
‘Would you awfully mind beginning at the beginning?’ he asked. ‘I’m not terribly clever with stream of consciousness confessions. If this is a confession. Is it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ she said, sadly. ‘It’s the killing. Neither Perry nor I had anything to do with that. You do believe that, don’t you?’
‘Just start at the beginning,’ said Bognor with a professional detachment he was far from feeling.
‘Perry’s never been very clever with money,’ she said. ‘And I suppose I’m an expensive taste. That’s where the trouble started. It was when he tried to break into the American market. It seemed to go quite well at first and then, oh, I don’t know exactly what happened … Perry got in with a whole lot of rotten eggs. The bills weren’t getting paid, and then this man Henrici made a proposition. The FBI were after him and he wanted to disappear. He decided that working as our butler was the perfect cover. Perry would take over the company. The debts would be paid off and … it all seemed quite legal then.’
‘Quite legal?’ asked Bognor.
‘Well quite legal,’ she said. ‘All we were doing was bringing these rich Americans over for a week or so and giving them a good time.’
‘Prostitution,’ said Bognor. ‘Drugs. Obscene literature. Those things Miss Carlsbad writes are disgusting. And the pictures. Even you. Remember I saw one that Damian Macpherson took.’
‘I never did pornography,’ she said vehemently. ‘It was all very tasteful. I always said that. I never posed with anyone or anything else. Just straightforward nudes. There’s nothing wrong in that. The human body’s very beautiful.’
‘And the books were being fiddled,’ said Bognor, trying not to be distracted by the beautiful body’s tantalising proximity.
‘That was all bloody Wilmslow’s fault. Then he got greedy. Silly sod.’
‘He’d still be alive if he hadn’t and no one would be interested in Dull Boy Productions, I suppose.’ Bognor shook his head. ‘Who exactly killed him?’
‘It was Dandiprat and Doc Macpherson. The boys from the Pickled Herring helped carry him into Gallows Wood. Dandiprat and the doctor are the really bad ones. Norman and Felix do as they’re told and they’ve got the wind up at the moment. Miss Carlsbad’s just pathetic. And Perry and me … well … I mean we’d never do anything violent. That’s why I’m telling you all this.’
Suddenly Bognor froze.
‘Shhh!’ he said. ‘I heard something.’
They sat very still, listening. There was nothing.
‘Mouse, probably,’ said Samantha. ‘But I’d better get back. They’ll miss me otherwise. I just want you to remember the one to get is Dandiprat. Without him none of this would ever have happened.’
‘Shhh!’
This time there was no mistaking it. Footsteps outside; muffled voices; opening door. Bognor stood, turned, but too late. A diminutive figure in black coat and pin-striped trousers pointed something dull and metallic in their direction. Behind him three other figures could just be made out in the tenebrous dusk.
‘Hands above head, Mister Bognor. Also you, please, Mrs Contractor. And don’t move at all. Felix, perhaps you’d be good enough to do a quick search. I don’t imagine either will be armed but I’d like to be sure.’
‘You’re crazy, Dandiprat,’ said Bognor. ‘You’ll never get away with this.’
‘I’ve got away with far worse than this in my time, Bognor. And I intend doing so again. And again.’ He laughed. ‘Question is: how do we dispose of you. As you may have realised I like deaths to look ambiguous. It’s a more British way of doing things. Confuses the cops, too. I think in your case a fall from the belfry might be quite neat. It must be about forty foot up. Should
do the job nicely.’
Felix advanced on them stealthily. Bognor caught a nasty whiff of rancid eau-de-cologne.
‘Don’t try anything, Mr Bognor,’ he said, beginning to pat Bognor’s jacket like a very tentative masseur. ‘Mr Dandiprat’s gun is loaded and he used to shoot lots of people in the old days back home.’
It was gloomy in the church and Bognor reckoned that there was a sporting chance that Dandiprat would miss. The reverse side of such a sporting chance was that he might very well hit. Bognor was not disposed to take the risk although he had to acknowledge that the spot he was in seemed tightish. He and Samantha – always assuming he could rely on Sam, which was a dubious supposition – were outnumbered four to two and the other team had weaponry. If they wanted to push him off the tower he didn’t see how he could prevent them.
Felix continued to pat and prod Bognor in an amateur and hesitant fashion.
‘Sir Nimrod left a message,’ Bognor called across the aisle. ‘It was coded. Naomi gave it to us. The police know who you are. The game is up. Really. There’s no point in killing me, however much satisfaction it gives you.’
‘All killing gives satisfaction,’ Dandiprat replied. ‘And yours will give great satisfaction. You’ve been quite a pain. Also you went to a private school and I can’t stand that sort of Englishman.’
‘Inverted snobbery …’ began Bognor, and then paused. Felix ceased his search and listened too. Far away across the evening air came the unmistakable banshee wail of a police car in full flight.
‘Aha!’ said Bognor. ‘Sounds like the cavalry.’
‘Jesus!’ said a voice which Bognor identified as Doc Macpherson’s. ‘They’re coming this way.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic.’ Dandiprat was irritated. ‘It’s just some over-zealous constable chasing after a drunken farmhand. They won’t bother us.’
But the siren was coming closer. And fast.
‘Well I’m not hanging around to be caught in flagrante,’ said Macpherson.
‘Don’t move!’ snapped Dandiprat. But the doctor obviously did move because there was a sound of footsteps followed by a door being opened. Then there was a crack; a scream followed by prolonged moaning; then another crack; and silence.
