by John Elliott
Halcyon Features via Google proved relatively simple to find. They produced DVDs targeted at a niche adult market of — she searched for an appropriate word — spankophiles. Yes that would fit their fetishistic subset nicely. It all made sense regarding Augustin.
At first, on discovering what they were about, she had instinctively thought of Soho. She visualised a dingy office up a poorly lit narrow staircase its walls lined with framed saucy pics of busty girls sticking out their panty-clad bums while glancing coquettishly back over their shoulders at the camera. Presiding behind the executive desk a jowly, unshaven middle-aged man with an estuary accent chomped on a King Edward cigar and flicked its ash as, he gesticulated, down on the sticky carpet. Sudden memories of her father returning home from a Rotarian smoker interrupted her paperback imaginings. There had been loud questions from her mother. Herself — at what age? probably seven — lurking outside the sitting room door. What had taken place? Blue movie videos? Maybe even a live stripper: a woman brought in specially from elsewhere, an exotic stranger. Very reprehensible, in the tone of her mother’s voice. Simply part of the lads’ innocent enjoyment, in the urbanity of her father’s replies. Respectable professional citizens by day but boys together once a month and forget Irish guilt and the priestish tattle over the cups of tea, business was business and De Valera killjoys were a thing of the past.
Halcyon’s real address, however, was neither in Soho nor in prim and proper Kilkenny. No, they were situated in Bracknell of all places, snug in the heart of what had been called Berkshire’s silicon valley.
Later that morning after boarding the Reading-bound train from Waterloo, the passing landscape, not withstanding the unexpected thrill of a stop at Feltham — glorious high-rise Feltham followed by the outer security fence and wall of the young offenders institution oft used in Pat Kirkland’s vocabulary according to Hamish — was more Miss Marple territory than Sam Spade’s. Increasingly manicured fields gave way to open heath, groves of silver birch, clumps of beech trees and select golf courses interspersing halts that reeked of class: Virginia Water, Sunningdale, Ascot, Martins Heron. Around here the silhouette of the body of the murder victim would be chalked out in the library, while bucolic policemen combed the shrubbery for footprints and the statutory choleric major instructed the chauffeur to meticulously valet the Lagonda. Everyone encountered in these purlieus was suspect and chock-full of motives until proved otherwise. Whereas the killer of Augustin Cox, Geraldine thought ruefully, had yet to emerge from the shadows.
Bracknell in contrast, as she exited from the station, was much more workaday. After consulting a convenient town map in order to determine her necessary itinerary, the usual high street chains — devoid as far as she was aware of recondite sex toys, dubious mags and implements of bondage — enclosed the first part of her walk. In the distance the dark, sleek upper facades of well-known multinationals rose from their business park foundations to the soft Berkshire sky. Halcyon Features occupied a much more modest corner of a two-storey development set on the far side of the A329. Faced with a crossing either by tunnel or further down by an elevated bridge she chose the aerial option.
A man’s voice quickly answered her pressing of the outer door buzzer. ‘Geraldine Mycroft.’ She bit back the temptation to add, reporting for Channel 4 News. ‘I called earlier. I’ve come as arranged to interview someone about one of your ex-cameraman, Augustin Cox.’
There was a slight pause then the voice said ‘Why not come up, invited Geraldine Mycroft. We’re on the second floor right. Seek and ye may find.’
The door swung open to her gentle push. She went up the concrete stairs and entered the Halcyon office foyer. A young man with bleached blond hair rose from a tubular red leather chair and ambled smilingly towards her. For a moment Geraldine thought he was going to enfold her in a bear hug, but he stopped just short of her personal space and thrust out his hand. A small amber crucifix earring jiggled on his right ear lobe. ‘Toby Anstruther, Halcyon Boss Lady’s PA. You’re in luck. She has a window at the moment and she desires to take the fortuitous opportunity to see you.’ He paused and laughed, showing his even teeth, which were worthy of transatlantic orthodontics. ‘Don’t look so surprised. We’re being orotund, or is it otiose, today in the outer office. We play these silly games to pass the fertile, or do I mean futile, hour.’ Whether the ‘we’ was royal or referred to others at the moment absent Geraldine couldn’t tell for he took her by the hand and said, ‘This way please. Now look sharp. We mustn’t be late. Oh my fur and whiskers!’
Her hand relinquished she followed his back not down a rabbit hole — was it on a Berkshire river bank that Alice Liddell had started her adventure or was it somewhere in Oxfordshire? Norma would know — but through the foyer and through another long room divided into cubicles behind whose screens she heard raised admonishing voices, resounding smacks and sundry ows, ahs and oohs. Afterwards came a hallway at the end of which a panelled door bore the legend ‘Mireille McClelland CEO’ against which Toby knocked then opened with a flourish. ‘Here we are. Quite painless really. Welcome to Spankerland and thank you for your visit.’
‘Come and join me.’ The voice was cultured. The accent vaguely French. The speaker was a large, dark-haired woman, clad in a loose-fitting caftan. Several bangles and bracelets dangled and jangled at her wrists. She lounged against the back of a cream white leather chair. On the occasional table in front of her stood two cups and saucers and a teapot on a wooden stand. ‘I’m having some herbal tea,’ she said when Geraldine sat down on the similar but smaller chair opposite. ‘Or if you prefer something else say and it’s easily ordered.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
Her hostess smiled and poured out a faintly golden stream of liquid. ‘Not tilleul I’m afraid but hyssop. Here’s to memories anyway.’ She clinked her cup gently against Geraldine’s.
‘Time regained.’
‘Exactly. I put you down as a bookish type. To the halcyon days! The kingfisher days gone by when naughty misses and young gentlemen deserving of a sound thrashing got one.’ She tilted back her head and laughed. ‘Please don’t think I’m appraising you, my dear but, of course, I am. It goes with the trade. A trim figure. Hair up as now. Hair down very appealing. Your main asset not as yet sufficiently studied.’ She took a delicate sip of tea, her lips pursing to retain the flavour. ‘No, I must stop teasing. It’s not fair, but it’s empowerment that lets me do it. You’ll find that out when you empower yourself, Gerald,’ she paused slightly before adding, ‘ine.’ But enough chit-chat. Please speak and tell me what I can do for you.’
Despite given her extraordinary introduction to Halcyon Features, which would have rendered many an ordinary investigator speechless, Geraldine still spoke. She spoke of Augustin Cox. She spoke of herself as following the case. She spoke of the Bones Detective agency and its nameless client, and while she spoke Mireille McClelland listened, eyes half shut, eyes at other times wide open, jangling hand reaching out to lift and lower her cup. Geraldine, returning to the theme of Alice, had a vision of the caterpillar seated imperiously on a large mushroom in front of her silently saying, ‘Yes, that’s all very well, but who are you? Who... are… you?’ All that was missing was the hookah instead of the teapot. Mireille, French. McClelland, Scottish. Presumably her real name. Certainly not one chosen as a working title. She stopped speaking. The caterpillar returned to human form.
‘Girl detective,’ Mireille said ruminatively. ‘There could be some mileage in it. Our heroine getting into scrapes and dangerous situations. You never know, we might use the scenario. A one-off perhaps. Another cup?’
Geraldine shook her head. The taste of hyssop had been distinctly unappealing.
‘So Augustin is dead. Murdered, poor lamb. Not an unusual occurrence in the violent world out there beyond our control, and you’ve been hired to investigate his killing by someone whose name you deliberately withhold. The police I suppose are on the case, but here you are ahead of them. C
ongratulations. Well, to tell the truth I was scarcely aware of his existence.’ She got up and brought over the laptop from her desk. ‘He was mostly here before I took over. Back in the days of grainy product with blotchy definition and minimal mise-en-scene. We didn’t use him much afterwards. Have a look for yourself.’ She turned the screen round. Participants and crew members were listed beneath video titles: Teenage Mandy’s First Spanking — Augustin Cox, camera lighting. Chalet Girls Part Two — Augustin Cox, camera — Ungrateful Brides — Augustin Cox, camera. ‘May I?’ Boss Lady aka the caterpillar nodded. Geraldine scrolled down and found four more where Augustin had been involved. The last one was dated fifteen months ago. She made a mental note of as many of the performers as she could. ‘You say you scarcely knew him. Is there someone here who did?’
‘Toby probably. Fluffy bunny knows everyone. Kind of photographic memory. I’ll call him in.’ She crossed to her phone and invited him to rejoin them.
‘These women in your videos. How many are there?’
‘DVDs now. Fifty-eight. We’re a growing company with two solid formats: Malarkey Towers. English old-fashioned strict discipline. Mostly female on female and Doctor’s Practice milder over the knee stuff.’
‘And they’re real beatings?’
‘Of course. Our customers wouldn’t join otherwise. The women are professionals. Mostly already submissives. We help them to get hardened to meet the more extreme desires of the punters. Now some of them are real cultural celebrities with their own sites and blogs. Our spankos are carefully trained by us as well. Minors, however, needless to underline, are taboo. They’re strictly off limits. Child spanking is a despicable thing we all abhor. As for amateurs. Well we don’t waste our time with them. We leave that genre to the more schlocky end of the trade.’
A grinning Toby slalomed into the room on imaginary skis, his hands resting on pretend poles. He executed a sharp stop with his heels brought together. ‘Mesdames,’ he bowed profusely. ‘You require my assistance.’
‘Take no notice,’ Mireille said. ‘Showing off is an innate part of his personality, but it seems today the lady of misrule has cast her spell once too far over the cuckoo’s nest. Geraldine wants to know about Augustin Cox. His whys, his wheres, his reason for being. I’m sure you have it all filed away,’ she tapped her brow, ‘in that bunny brain of yours.’
Toby stepped out of his imaginary skis and assumed the classic thinker’s pose of thumb and forefinger stroking chin. Then he raised his right palm upwards. ‘Voila. I have him in full focus. A techie, mes chères. Always discussing thingy things of lenses, lighting effects, vaseline smears. Given even, in my ever so humble submission, to exasperatingly quoting camera equipment numbers to anyone within earshot. Eheu! Poor Yorick, for I understand he is no longer of this existence, a fellow of infinite yawnability. Knowledgeable enough, to be scrupulously fair to the departed, so tolerated by most of our directors, and to be even less partisan, invariably always asked for by some.’
‘It’s so important to get the colour gradations spot on. Lighting is of the essence,’ Mireille interrupted. ‘White cheeks to first flushes of pink, deepening towards red. Spank fans like it all to take its proper time and suffusion. Poor production values mean disappointed subscribers and that’s against our work ethic.’
‘Speaking of spanked behinds,’ Toby momentarily dropped his camp persona, ‘there’s something that will need your attention soon, Boss Lady. I bring it up now so you won’t forget.’ He fished out a DVD case and laid it on the table.
Geraldine cast a surreptitious eye towards it but was unable to read its contents. ‘You were telling me about Augustin,’ she said. ‘Please go on.’
Toby bowed again. ‘Scruffy dresser. Abysmal taste. Baseball cap back to front. Hideous au courant sneakers.’ He shuddered. ‘Not one of the gang. Distinct lack of humour. A bore as I’ve already indicated, and not as hygienic as one had the right to expect.’
‘Exactly why we used him less and less. As you’ve heard he obviously didn’t fit the brand image I was determined to build.’ Mireille rose to her feet and picked up the DVD. ‘Geraldine, it’s been lovely meeting you. I must leave you now. Stay and chat to Toby by all means. We have nothing to hide. Spank aficionados are people with a legitimate right to source respectful product and we are here to provide just that. We welcome people taking an interest in, I’m glad to say, our ever-growing enterprise. No, don’t get up.’ She took Geraldine’s hand and shook it firmly before exiting in a not so imaginary caterpillary slide.
‘Gust of fresh air,’ said Toby when the door had closed. He sat down and felt the belly of the teapot. ‘Cold. Never mind. And you, perky girl detective, I wonder how warm you are inside such an exciting occupation?’
Geraldine stifled the thought curious and curiouser. A fit of the giggles threatened to inundate her composed exterior. She said quickly in order to preserve the necessary acuity of a Bones Agency investigator, ‘Augustin — that’s why I’m here. To find out more. It’s work and nothing else. How did he get on with the girls?’
‘No such thing as nothing else. But if we must. Well, there was one who seemed not to mind him. Odd really. They used to unpack and eat their sandwiches together. Exchange the occasional dreamy look like spotty adolescents. I even heard someone saw them in flagrante eating ice cream sundaes at Marine Ices, Haverstock Hill, of all places. No accounting for other people’s depravity.’
‘Her name?’
‘One of the soi-disant teenage spankees,’ he paused and did the chin stroking routine once more. ‘Lucy Revell.’
‘Still here?’ A silent eureka — this is the moment flash — burst in her head. Dear Hamish naked. LR the initials. The contents of the Bedfont flat confided so sweetly.
He shook his head. ‘She drifted downmarket. Amateur stuff. By now probably wife with attitude that needs correcting or pernickety hausfrau getting tanned by Jim the Joiner. Depressing. No imagination.’
‘And you mentioned Haverstock Hill. So the filming didn’t take place here in Bracknell.’
‘No. We plan to move it here soon, but as of yet it’s a travelling caravanserai. Boss Lady is ace at finding interesting interiors. Favours from the great and not so good. You’d be surprised by what can be achieved with the promise of an onlooker’s privileges.’
A vision of Augustin holding up a light-meter in a Georgian mansion interior or against the formal landscape of a Chinese lacquered screen drifted into a possibly intriguing scenario in Geraldine’s head. Supposing. Just supposing. ‘Did Augustin ever do work of a private nature? Say for one of these people who offered their premises. And perhaps Lucy Revell was part of the deal.’
Toby smiled. ‘You know nothing of the psychology of bottoms, as they’re known in the trade, my innocent detective. Augustin might have if there were technical challenges he wished to overcome. Oh! I see. You’re considering blackmail as a possible motive for his murder, but I would think Bedfont — thank the Lord I’ve never been there or really been aware of its existence — would have provided sufficient low life to be the actual cause of his demise. Bottoms usually only submit to skilled professionals. Apart from their private love life, of course. Now I must be offski as the poet, Shelley says, or was it the TV character of the same name?’ Toby rose, blew her a kiss and swayed his outstretched arms in imitation of childish aeroplane wings. ‘I must scoot up, up and away. Make work play and play even more so.’
‘Wait,’ said Geraldine, feeling once again like Alice, ‘I want to get hold of the DVDs Augustin worked on.’
‘Subscribe like anyone else. You know our website, munchkin. Now you must follow me. Your peeking into the enchanted kingdom is over. I’ll give you three titles like three wishes from a fairy godmother but that’s all. Things to do. So many things still to do.’
Following his buzzing aeroplane mouth and tilting arms she re-traversed the corridor behind the screened cubicles where now some heads were raised to watch the passing cavalcade. Mom
ents later with three titles provided by Toby confirming those on the laptop screen she was back outside in the sedate and mundane Bracknell air.
‘To tell the truth I scarcely knew him.’ Boss Lady’s particular words came back to her as this time she chose the tunnel under the dual carriageway. One always felt on guard when someone said ‘to tell the truth,’ and the way the caterpillar had blinked then looked her questioner fully in the eye when choosing the adverb ‘scarcely’ still reverberated suspiciously. There was more to investigate here. Much more. Not least that Toby had disparaged Lucy Revell’s subsequent career as amateur but later had stated she would only submit to professionals. Neophyte she might be, but with the probable LR firmly in her sights she was now well and truly on the trail.
*
Once returned to West Hampstead, Geraldine filled in the Halcyon subscription details feeling more and more grubby as she did so. It was all in the line of duty, but it still retained the whiff of sleazy Soho backrooms and brown paper wrappers redolent with the atmosphere of a Peter Cheyney shocker. Beginning the further Augustin Cox download she fancied she could see the smiling face of Mireille McClelland — now half Cheshire Cat half caterpillar, demanding ironically, ‘And who do you think you are, girl detective, now that you’re opening the secret door?’
Downloads completed, she first watched Ungrateful Brides, one of the DVDs she’d been given, trying to discern the unseen presence of the murdered man behind the camera movements of set up, pan and close-up. The flimsy story-line of three recent brides was as banal as she had anticipated. The important thing was that sooner or later they would be spanked for spurious misdemeanours: overspending, motoring offences, answering hubby back or trying to change his sacrosanct male pastimes. Bride number one was actually punished on her wedding day, before she changed out of her bridal gown and to her apparent gratification once it was over, by a husband determined to curb and control her previous cavalier way with store cards. Much play was made of the lifting of the multi layers of her dress when she was straddled across his knee. So much for love and marriage. Geraldine thanked her lucky stars, enticing though Hamish might be, that it didn’t figure in her future plans.
