Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  An initial feeling of disappointment irked Hamish on hearing the evidence. It seemed between this twosome wherever one handled the other stuck their dabs on as well. There was no clear separation.

  ‘Right,’ said Jerzy writing under the photos attached to the whiteboard after Jimmy had left, ‘our supposition is two ACs. AC one Augustin Cox. AC two Aram Cufovsky. How long, Pat, before we have his prints from Uruguay?’

  She shrugged. ‘They’ve been great till now, but I googled this morning and it’s a public fiesta going on. Something we lack over here. About a bloke called Bolivar. So not immediate.’

  ‘Okay. Keep chasing it up. Our theory then. AC two flees from Montevideo to avoid arrest for sexual abuse of minors. He comes to UK on legitimate or false passport. We need to establish this through immigration. AC one and AC two share the Bedfont flat together or separately. They handle the paddle and the camcorder. AC one is a cameraman associated with Joan Oliphant, Blythe Fuller and LR, Lucy Rubin. AC two works at the Lincoln International hotel, I think we can surmise, has an affair with Milly Simpson, plays loud Latin music, likes or dislikes dogs, and also knows LR question mark. Hamish, let’s go back to Hayes, Wayland Packaging. We drew a blank before. Show them Aram’s photo. Invoke the wrath of HM Revenue. These two met somewhere, whether by chance in the area or through a common interest.’

  ‘Spanking,’ said Pat, smacking her wrist with the fingers of her other hand.

  ‘Possibly. So far, apart from the neighbours, no-one else has cited discrepancies which might lead us to suspect they had encountered AC two instead of AC one or vice-versa. Our search for LR needs to intensify. I’ll be keeping a weather eye out at Blythe’s cremation tomorrow. The devil casts his net, as they say, at these events.’

  ‘Do you think the same person murdered her as Augustin? Pat asked. ‘For instance, she came across Aram and he strangled her.’

  ‘Highly doubtful. No, I think it’s unconnected.’

  ‘Suppose there’s a body we’ve still to discover. AC two kills AC one and takes over his identity. Someone then murders him. AC one’s…’ Hamish stopped, seeing Pat’s raised eyebrows and Jerzy’s smile. ‘I’ll go to Hayes,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Focus. We’re on the trail. The fog is lifting provided AC two hasn’t already left the country, and even if he has he won’t escape.’ Jerzy ended the conference on an upbeat

  In the event Hamish’s trip to Hayes, thanks to the all powerful triumvirate of HM Revenue, Vat Inspection and National Insurance Contributions, confirmed Aram Cufovsky under the guise of Aurelio Constans, a supposed Spanish EU citizen who had worked for them briefly. He and three others had disappeared during a visit by Immigration officials and had not been seen since. Touring the pubs and cafés round about, Hamish struck, if not the mother lode itself, at least a prospector’s first gold nugget.

  The landlady of the Waggoner’s Rest nodded her recognition at the proffered Aram photo. ‘Used to come in. Fancied himself as a ladies’ man. Continental type. Introduced his brother to me. Alike as twins really. But shy, the other one. Yes, that’s him.’ Augustin’s photo completed the match. Not surprisingly she hadn’t seen them again. Hamish phoned through the glad tidings.

  Chapter 24

  Suspect Mourners

  Although naturally not unacquainted with death — a great aunt had died when she was eleven and a fellow student at Trinity had been killed in a road accident — Geraldine had never attended a burial or a cremation. Now with Norma temporarily hors de combat, as she would have said, it fell to her to snoop, her own term, at the funeral service of the late Blythe Fuller, voyeuse in waiting to middle-aged naughty boys. She knew from Hamish — another enticing night at Whitton — that Jerzy would be there along with those connected to Joan Oliphant and Augustin. Dare she hope Lucy Rubin would surface to pay her respects to a fellow toiler in the spanko field? Or — one of Alison’s long shots this — Aram Cufosky — his missing surname whispered beguilingly in her shell-like by Hamish — the ‘let me call myself, Augustin Cox’ of the William Wilson lead. Hamish had further declared that Jerzy didn’t believe Blythe’s killer was the same as Augustin’s, but most of the books said differently. One murder was never enough for their beleaguered villain.

  The immediate problem was what to wear. Norma, no doubt, would have donned full penny black, but her only concession to the colour was a pair of generally redundant jeans. No longer having La Oliphant on call for funerary etiquette she called Alison for advice

  ‘Do you intend to be seen or inconspicuous?’

  ‘Seen.’

  ‘Then follow your old Greek’s example. Let your clothes be your burning torch.’

  Geraldine laughed. ‘You only want me to cause a scandal.’

  ‘Why not, my dear, youth can do no wrong and heads are made to turn.’

  In the end, deciding between peahen and peacock, she chose muted parakeet. Lacenaire, otherwise engaged in water taking and nibbling assorted seeds, paid her no heed. Sundry items of clothing were well within his vocal remit. A full pastel ensemble, however, lay quite beyond his expertise.

  An azure, cloudless sky burnished by recurring sun greeted her as she walked to the Tube station. A faint, intermittent breeze, a veritable poetic zephyr riffled the hem of her dress. In the shadow of death her gait was brisk and jaunty, her thoughts serene. Edgar Allan, gloomy and raven-like, though he might have been, was shining a powerful light on the Bedfont puzzle, and where mourners gathered in murder cases suspects were likely to abound.

  The paved path inside the gates of Enfield Crematorium was narrow but well maintained. Clipped grass verges on either side gave way to shrubs and more grass between young silver birches. Ahead water sprinklers played over beds of flowers she failed to identify. Alongside on the road cars passed, one even giving her a discreet toot, the occupants as unknown to her as the sprayed blooms. A hearse now empty of its coffin returned the other way. She rounded the bend and there beyond the parking bays stood the low red brick buildings, journey’s end for some, ritual observances for others. A considerable number of people, conversing in discrete groups, gathered outside the chapel. They were a sombre lot. The men clad in surely unaccustomed dark suits. The women subdued in blacks, navy blues and greys. Some even wore hats. In this sober conclave, muted parakeet drew lingering, furtive looks and much whispered questions. There was nobody Geraldine knew. Checking the notice board to make sure she’d got the right service she crossed the threshold and installed herself in an empty pew at the back. Up front, the coffin was on display, bedecked with floral wreaths. Young bone inside not old, Geraldine reflected, suddenly feeling she had no right to be here. She bore no grief, nor had she true reason to mourn. Barely perceptible music lurked in the background. Six people, heads bent, two of the women weeping quietly, Geraldine surmised, were Blythe’s father and mother, boyfriend and relatives. Across the aisle from them Joan Oliphant and Mireille McClelland conversed demurely, the latter’s bulk throwing the trim figure and delicate porcelain-like features of the other into sharp contrast. Both wore black, befitting two Trojan women come to lament a slain compatriot.

  The pews now were beginning to fill as those from outside drifted in. All of them, it seemed, choosing to give Geraldine a wide berth. She picked up the paper sheet giving the order of service, and to her surprise noted that among the expected hymns and Bible-reading, Joan would deliver the eulogy. She fought hard to stifle an incipient outburst of the giggles as one scabrous image after another looped through her brain. Did the vicar know? Was the church tolerant of adult consensual spanking and voyeurism? The Daily Mail and Sun, no doubt, would wallow in the resulting schism. Lucy Revell, or to use her real identity, Lucy Rubin remained elusive. No youngish woman on her own fitted the bill. Three men together, two of whom gave her a long, searching look, settled themselves down in the middle rows. Fuzz, Geraldine guessed confidently — for she was no longer the complete neophyte tec — come from Enfield CID to pay their respects. The stouter
man by their side was undoubtedly Jerzy, fitting Hamish’s description to the letter. The vicar in his robes entered from a side door. The service was about to begin when a hand briefly touched hers, and a voice said, ‘Kallimera, Geraldine. What a delightful surprise.’ She had been joined by the urbane, Euan Donald, clad like herself in casual mode. They rose to find the correct page in the hymnal for the first offering. ‘Planning to picnic?’ he asked amid the ragged singing, that ebbed and flowed in faltering confidence around them. ‘How should we two cynics behave in the temple of Pallas Athene? Why not let us rejoice that we are alive and let the dead take care of themselves?’ He gave an exuberant descant to the final line and sat down. ‘O tempora! O mores!’ he sighed switching to Latin. ‘But what brings you here? Is it simple cremation-following in the style of the movie, Harold And Maude, or were you acquainted with the lovesome, Blythe?’

  Geraldine whispered a brief resumé of her detecting commitments including Norma spotting him at Joan’s, by which time the congregation was well into their responses to the first prayer. Some curious heads turned in her direction. Undeterred she asked, ‘Did you ever meet him? I mean Augustin.’

  ‘Yes. On occasion Joan and I would socialise. She had a misguided view of the rigours of the Scottish education system probably fostered by her days with Halcyon. The famous Lochgelly tawse, used to strap misbehaviour, I told her, was an instrument of the past. My own days at Stonehaven Academy were unblighted by its use. Augustin dropped in during one of our chats. A melancholy young man, unendowed with social graces.’ He spoke at normal volume causing several mutterings of disapprobation. All of which he sunnily ignored.

  ‘So it wasn’t being beaten as a child that turned you towards your special interest?’

  He shook his head. ‘Pain and pleasure are close neighbours. We’re adults regressing to a childish state.’

  ‘And Augustin?’

  ‘Not his bag, as they used to say. He was more regressive. It did upset poor Joan.’

  More regressive. Could it mean the key to the relationship with Lucy Rubin? They ate ice creams together. She was the only one he spent time with.

  They got to their feet for the second hymn. ‘Joan wanted him and Blythe to get together, but she was savvy it was a non-starter. I don’t suppose I can manage to persuade you to wield the wand? That would truly be an Arcadian delight. No. I didn’t think so. We’re not quite singing from the same song sheet.’ With his finger finding the appropriate place he raised his voice in what Geraldine had to admit was a pleasant tenor musicality.

  The first and only Bible reading was next on the vicar’s agenda. Suffer ye little children, Geraldine thought impiously, but it was Saint Paul on Caritas, an attribute, especially in its Greek version Agape, of which she heartily approved. The man, however, was a cup of sour retsina full of curmudgeonly strictures on hat-wearing and women bashing. The reading over, the vicar introduced Joan and stood aside as she took pride of place. For a moment Geraldine felt she would have to stuff her hankie in her mouth to staunch the gale of laughter bubbling in her solar plexus. She saw the-about-to-be oratress tired and weary, unable to raise her arm after the mass spanking she had delivered to the irreverent assembly. Instead, of course, far from instructions to bend over, one banality after another issued from her lips. ‘A precious young life cruelly extinguished. A short life but an exemplary one. Dutiful daughter. Eager and inquisitive pupil. Loving partner. Diligent worker. A source of joy to all whose path she crossed.’

  ‘Indomitable,’ said Euan admiringly. ‘Unperturbed by any vestige of reality.’

  Obediently uplifted by the merits of the dear departed, the congregation now bowed their heads in prayer for a second time, while the coffin discreetly slid from view to await the purging fire of Nevermore. Geraldine had Poe on the brain, and an unsettling image of Augustin — or was it Aram? — involved in some recondite, regressive ritual with Lucy. The vicar’s benediction cast upon them, music swelled and the doors were opened. Euan kissed her cheek. ‘Go by day or night without fear. Honest men are few, but remember honesty may still exist.’ With a waved salute to Joan, who was now proceeding up the aisle, he left.

  ‘Girl detective,’ Mireille’s amused greeting caught up with Geraldine in the vestibule. ‘You know, my dear, now that Joan here tells me you’re quite redundant in that department, you should think of a change of occupation. Following you I couldn’t help thinking many of our clients would find your rear enticing. What do you think, Joan?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ said Joan frostily. ‘Your presence is intrusive, Geraldine. This is a day for those who mourn Blythe’s passing not for unwanted sightseers. I bid you good day.’ She moved off to murmurs of, ‘Well done, fine tribute, sorry for your loss,’ emanating from those on either side.

  ‘Don’t take it too much to heart. She’s suffering. First Augustin, now Blythe. No matter what we end up doing we’re human underneath. Are you still investigating?’

  The mask had temporarily slipped from Mireille’s outward breeziness. Geraldine for a moment glimpsed a pain within, a stoicism not always easily borne. The Caterpillar Lady had shrunk from Tenniel proportions to those of Alice herself. Intuitively, rather than answer directly, she asked, ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t see them, or nearer the truth, they don’t see me. We make mistakes, girl detective. We think it’s never too late then find it is.’

  ‘When I talked to you before I’d a feeling you weren’t telling me the whole truth.’

  ‘The whole truth,’ Mireille smiled ruefully. ‘You’re young, Geraldine. The whole truth is no easy matter. No, I knew Augustin longer and better than I said. He caused Joan considerable grief. She thought of him as a son. He played along to some extent. She was always bailing him out of tricky situations. He took advantage of her. Then there was Lucy Rubin. I suppose I’m to blame for introducing her to the trade. Joan enjoyed that. It was one in the eye for Micky Rubin, who was involved in punishing Joan’s husband long ago. Gangland ethics and all that crap. Anyway, she fascinated Augustin instead of Blythe. The collapse of happy families. Then Augustin buggers off to Bedfont and oblivion.’ She spread her hands open in a what-more-can-I-say gesture.

  ‘Thanks. I am still investigating. This may sound strange. Was Augustin always the same? Did you ever feel he was someone else?’

  Mireille shielded her eyes with her hand from glaring sunlight flashing off car roofs when they emerged from the shade. ‘Always the same. Irredeemably so. Change might have saved him. Who knows? I must go, Geraldine. Bracknell awaits, and Fluffy Bunny without me is not such a merry soul.’

  They shook hands. Geraldine felt differently about her. She was human in her own way. The same was true of Euan Donald. They weren’t simply suspect mourners, figures from an Alice In Wonderland pack of cards. They had their foibles. Foibles she found unalluring if not downright distasteful, and come to that, what exactly had Hamish done at the briefly mentioned party with Milly Simpson? Her favourite DC had been evasive and tight-lipped on the subject. Something about retrieving a spanking paddle.

  ‘Geraldine?’

  ‘Yes.’ The chubby man who had been conversing with people at the array of floral wreaths was at her side.

  ‘Jerzy Turostowski. I’m glad to meet you at last.’

  Biting back a temptation to probe in the Milly neck of the woods, Geraldine contented herself with, ‘And I you.’

  ‘How is Norma? I believe that’s how initiates refer to Mr Bones.’

  ‘Not merely initiates. On the mend. She should be home either tomorrow or the day after. We went to see Micky Rubin. It seems he has a longer arm than the law.’

  ‘Geraldine, I’ve nothing against private investigators as long as.’

  ‘As long as?’ Over his shoulder Geraldine noticed Joan now standing on her own and regarding them closely.

  ‘They don’t interfere in police business.’

  ‘Are you telling me to drop the case
as happens in detective novels?’

  ‘Ah yes. The book approach. Hamish has told me about it. I wish you good reading. I’m not over-possessive of what you call the case. Just remember amateurs can get hurt. We have legitimate resources and methods.’

  ‘Inspector, may I have a word?’ Joan interrupted them. ‘In private.’

  ‘I’m just going,’ Geraldine said. ‘Sorry for your loss, Joan. Private away.’

  ‘Impertinent like a lot of young people.’ She heard Joan say as she walked back to the exit pathway. Jerzy’s reply, if there was one, was out of earshot.

  *

  When the call came Alison had been watering and talking — quite sternly in a pep up way — to a couple of variegated indoor plants at Norma’s, gladly reflecting on the fact that the senior citizeness, as befitting her status, had been shifted from a male ward to a mixed.

  ‘Alison Petrie on behalf of the Bones Agency,’ she said on answering the persistent ring.

  There was a long pause at the other end filled with background chatter and muzak in Vangelis mode then a voice finally said, ‘Will Norma come to the phone?’

  In spite of the clearly male adult tones, the curious phrasing of the question made Alison think of a child requesting if another child could come out to play. ‘She’s still in hospital. I can give you the number.’

  Another pause, shorter this time, ensued. The background music quivered in Enya fashion. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How is she?’