by Dan Kavanagh
Duffy decided to slip down to the family room and borrow that glossy mag Lucretia had been reading. He obviously needed to put in some homework on restaurants. He crept gently down the stairs. Carpet all the way: no wonder Vic told him he wouldn’t need to borrow slippers. Moving quietly, for no particular reason except that it seemed polite, he made his way to the family room or lounge. He picked up the Tatler from a low glass-topped coffee table, then paused. You can be a bit smarter than that, he thought, put the magazine down again, looked around for the newspaper trough and went through it until he found an earlier month’s issue. Yes, that’s a lot less obvious.
He was about to put his foot on the stair when he thought he heard a noise. Yes, muffled, but a noise. He walked along the corridor and past the former butler’s pantry where the Hoovers slumbered and entered what had once been the gentlemen’s part of the house. As if nodding to this dead tradition, the carpet gave out at this point and was replaced by hessian matting which wasn’t so kind to Duffy’s bare feet. Ouch! He stood on one foot and rubbed the sole of his left foot against the swell of his right calf. As he did so, the lower halves of his dressing-gown pulled apart and he stood there exposed, like a flashing stork. Should have kept your pants on, Duffy. Yes, the noise was coming from the billiard room, definitely. Gently, he pushed open the heavy door and walked in.
There are many variations to the game of snooker, and Duffy knew a few of them. There were obscurer ones only played in London clubs by men with braying voices, and with these Duffy would have been understandably unfamiliar. But the game being played on the Braunscombe Hall table would not have been found in any snooker manual, however obscure. Immediately in front of Duffy a velvet-trousered figure was bent over the baulk end of the table, lining up on the blue. In the far corner away from him, and from Duffy, Sally was sitting on the table, her coccyx thrust into one of the bottom pockets. Her skirt was a mere frill around her waist; one leg was pressed against the side cushion, another against the end cushion, forming an angle of ninety degrees. This made it apparent, even from Duffy’s distance, that she wasn’t wearing any knickers. It also made it quite clear where Damian was trying to put the ball. Various previous attempts lay marooned against her thighs. Sally was on a roller-coaster of giggles. She also, Duffy couldn’t help noticing, had kept her shoes on, which were digging into the cloth.
Damian played the blue and made it cannon off a red that was close to Sally’s thigh. This deflection took it straight to its target. ‘In-off,’ he shouted.
‘Ooh, I wish you’d warmed the balls,’ she said.
‘Filthy girl,’ he said, fetching the white ball back and lining up another shot. ‘Filthy girl.’
It was clear to Duffy that both of them were aware of his presence, and both of them were determinedly ignoring it. He turned to go. Just as he was about to close the door, Duffy heard Damian murmur, ‘Hate the dressing-gown.’
Vic’s idea had been that Duffy should spend a few days at Braunscombe Hall pretending to repair the alarm system, while all the time keeping an eye and an ear open. The trouble was, if Duffy kept diligently taking up the floorboards to check the wiring and the pressure plates, it made it hard for him to pad round after Angela and see that nobody sandbagged her. On the other hand, if he nosed around too much, it wouldn’t look good professionally, and it would make old Vic look a bit of a wally: first he hires this old chum who installs a faulty system, then when it breaks down he hires him again to mend it, and what does he do? Starts wandering round the house like a tourist; starts enjoying the free breakfasts. Do you know, I caught that maintenance man nicking a copy of the Tatler from the family room at one in the morning? What is England coming to?
Duffy reckoned he’d have to spin out the repair dodge for as long as he could get away with it, and then they’d either have to think up another excuse or level with people. Still, it was Bank Holiday Monday, and perhaps the sight of anyone even vaguely working would impress some of those around. When he’d been at school it had always been said that you could stroll through any part of the buildings at any time of the day as long as you were carrying a note in your hand: all the teachers assumed that some other teacher had sent you on an errand, and you never had to explain yourself. Duffy hadn’t tried this line before; now he found, rather to his surprise, that if you wandered around looking thoughtful, with a piece of wire in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other, stopping occasionally to examine a wall or a window, people assumed that you were in some unfathomable way hard at work, and tried not to disturb you in case they broke your concentration. Perhaps that’s what professional electricians did all the time.
In the billiard room he found Mrs Colin pulling a fat industrial Hoover round after her. He looked at the table, wondering if what he’d seen last night had been some sick, chippy dream. ‘Hate the dressing-gown’ — the words came back to him. He looked at the small figure of Mrs Colin tugging at the large steel vacuum cleaner, and wondered why they didn’t make special ones for houses this size. When he’d been a kid and gone down the recreation ground he’d always been impressed by those motor-mowers which the parkies used to just sit on and drive; none of that sweaty pushing. They ought to make Hoovers like that. He imagined Mrs Colin driving across the rugs and parquet of Braunscombe Hall, occasionally hooting at you to get out of the way.
‘Mrs Colin. Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ Mrs Colin switched off the Hoover and waited. ‘Why are you called Mrs Colin?’ She smiled at him, looked away, switched the Hoover on again and went back to work. Perhaps that was a hint. Duffy continued his exploration of the house. He pushed open the cellar door and went down some concrete steps. He expected it to be damp down here, but it wasn’t; instead, there was a dry, musty smell. Rows of wine-bins, in which the not-quite Lord Mayor had cellared the vintages he had not lived to drink, stretched away underneath the house. Vic had made an unconfident attempt at emulation: in the two nearest bins there was a case of Vinho Verde and one of pink champagne. Duffy took out a bottle of the latter and examined the label. On the wall nearby hung a very old thermometer, presumably placed there by the not-quite Lord Mayor so that potentially harmful fluctuations of temperature could be monitored. Duffy reckoned that Vic’s wines wouldn’t be in the cellar long enough for potentially harmful fluctuations of temperature to get at them.
In the kitchen he found Belinda in her well-stocked jodhpurs, and Vic, to whom he suggested a potential modification of the alarm system which could best be discussed if they went out on to the terrace, down across the lawn, well away from the house and out of earshot of everybody else. Before they left, Duffy asked Belinda if she could spare him a word or two later in the day perhaps.
‘I’m afraid I leave the wiring to others,’ she replied. He looked at her as if to say, come on darling, you know what we’re talking about. She looked back at him as if to say, course I know what you’re talking about, but I couldn’t resist it, could I?
Down on the lawn with Vic, where no one could hear them unless Jimmy had already dug a series of tunnels as part of his assault course and installed listening devices (which was always a possibility), Duffy said, ‘You’ll have to give me more background.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Why do you let all those people sponge off you?’
‘Duffy, you watch your tongue, lad, or someone will cut it off and put it in a pie. Those are my friends, my guests.’
‘Belinda’s friends, your guests.’
‘Maybe. So what? I like people round the house. I’m not short of the odd penny. Anyway, we’ve got Angela to think about.’
‘Is that what they’re for?’
‘Well, no, not all. I mean, that’s Damian and Sally, really, they’re the ones I got to take her mind off it all.’ Duffy wondered where Angela was when Damian and Sally were taking their own minds off things on the snooker table.
‘What about Lucretia?’
‘She’s a friend of Angela’s. She’s been down quite a l
ot. I suppose she’s helping with the wedding dress … or whatever they do.’ Vic sounded vague.
‘Jimmy?’
‘Oh, Jimmy’s sort of … around. He doesn’t always stay here. He’s got a camp in the woods.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure. I mean, he’s got a house a couple of villages away, and he stays here a bit, but he’s got this sort of camp, you know, hide, up in the woods. He likes it there. Must remind him of the Army or something.’
‘Is that where he runs being an estate agent from?’
‘I don’t think Jimmy sells that many houses, to be perfectly level with you,’ said Vic.
‘And Taffy?’
‘Oh, Taffy’s a … house guest.’ Vic didn’t sound as if he was completely accustomed to using the phrase yet.
‘Well, it must make a nice change from being a house guest in Maidstone or the Scrubs.’
‘You’re so unforgiving, Duffy.’
‘No, I just think that if you’re harbouring a known criminal and the spoons go missing, then you ought to put two and two together.’
‘You know, that’s a very posh word for you, Duffy, harbouring. I’ve never much liked it myself. And I don’t think Taffy’s much interested in nicking my cutlery. Never steal from your own, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘So Taffy’s your own, is he?’
‘Duffy, I’ll be straight with you. I’ve known Taffy some time. I knew him before he made the front page. And I’ll tell you, he’s changed. He’s a reformed character.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Sure. And I’ll give you the proof of it. He’s got boring.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s that sociology course he did when he was inside. He’s always trying to explain things nowadays. He used to just nick things because someone else had them and he wanted them. Now if you showed him a bank with an open vault he’d want to read a history of Wall Street before he made up his mind whether it was OK for him to help himself.’
‘It’s a good front, anyway.’
‘You’re too cynical, Duffy, that’s your trouble. I always knew coppers were more cynical than villains. I tell you something, I bet villains give a lot more to charity than coppers ever do.’
‘That’s because villains earn more.’
Vic laughed. ‘You see, I couldn’t have a chuckle with Taffy about this sort of stuff. He’d always be wanting to prove something or other.’
‘How long’s he been here?’
‘A month or two, I suppose.’ Duffy raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s hard for him to get a job at the moment. You’d be surprised how prejudiced some people get.’
‘Well, make sure he doesn’t get institutionalized. You know, can’t live anywhere except in country houses.’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘And your bank manager’s.’
‘I’m all right, Duffy. Don’t start worrying about me.’
‘OK. So tell me what drugs people are on.’
‘Nicotine, I’d say. Bit of alcohol, maybe.’ Duffy waited. ‘I don’t know, and I don’t ask. I don’t ask who’s sleeping in whose bed, and I don’t ask if they’re using funny tobacco.’
‘Permitting your premises …’ Duffy began, as if reciting a charge sheet.
‘Oh, fuck off, Duffy. I’m paying you, you’re not turning me over, right?’
‘Right. Then who’s had it off with Angela?’
‘Well, Henry I hope. But as I said …’
‘Come off it, Vic, saying you don’t ask doesn’t mean you don’t end up knowing.’
‘Right.’
‘So?’
‘Well, Jimmy had been very keen on Angela for years.’
‘Was he cut up when she got engaged to Henry?’
‘Hard to tell.’ Duffy snorted in irritation. ‘No, it is hard to tell with Jimmy. He did spend quite a bit of time in his camp in the woods afterwards, I remember. But … you know, it was a nice summer, and perhaps there were a lot of rabbits around.’
‘You’ve really convinced me. Anyone else?’
‘She’s been around, like I told you.’
‘Damian, Taffy?’
‘Do you think Damian’s that way inclined? Taffy? Not since she got engaged to Henry, I mean, she wouldn’t risk it, would she?’
‘You?’
‘Duffy, what’s this, flattery?’ Duffy waited. ‘Don’t you remember the old seaside postcard? When you’re twenty to thirty, tri-weekly. Thirty to forty, try weekly. Forty to fifty, try weakly. No? No, you’d have to see the card, I suppose.’ Duffy still waited. ‘You are serious, aren’t you? Listen, if you had Belinda, you wouldn’t need Angela, I can promise you that.’
‘Right,’ said Duffy. ‘That’ll be all for now, sir,’ he added, coming over all copper, ‘but don’t leave the area without informing us, will you? And we’d like you to surrender your passport.’
‘Cheers,’ said Vic.
‘Oh, and just a couple more questions while we’re about it. Why is Mrs Colin called Mrs Colin?’
Vic grinned. ‘When she was first with us there was a fellow she was keen on, well he was keen on her anyway, and we kept saying to her, “When are we going to be calling you Mrs Colin?” and it sort of stuck. She broke up with him — we never knew the details — and we sort of thought we ought to stop calling her that, but when we tried she got cross. Funny, that. She’s been Mrs Colin ever since.’
‘I see. And the other thing. That dressing-gown you lent me. What’s with the eagle on the back?’
‘It’s not an eagle, it’s a phoenix.’
‘Is that heraldry again?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever crack heraldry.’
‘Well, the phoenix …’
‘Don’t tell me, Vic. I don’t want to know.’
Duffy walked back up the lawn, round the side of the house, and crunched across the gravel towards the stable block. The Elizabethan-style half-timbering was a bit skimpier here, but the block still seemed to Duffy about the size of a very large detached house in the London suburbs which was being lived in by posh people. The stables at Braunscombe Hall were occupied by two horses, three cars, plus Mr and Mrs Hard-castle. The horses had the best of the accommodation, and no doubt saw the gentler side of Belinda, such as it was; but the Hardcastles still had two up, two down and as much parking space as they liked. Duffy hadn’t yet set eyes on Ron Hardcastle, who apparently functioned as gardener, handyman and stable lad; and he didn’t set eyes on him now, either. Mrs Hardcastle answered his knock.
‘Oh, I’m going over the alarm system, and Mr Crowther was wondering whether it ought to be extended to the stable block. Do you mind if…’
‘Poke around,’ said Mrs Hardcastle. ‘I’m just off over to the house to do the lunch. Ron’s off somewhere. I don’t think we’ve got anything worth stealing.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know, maybe it’s the horses …’ Duffy realized this sounded a bit feeble. Or maybe it didn’t: protect the horses against thieves, but not Mr and Mrs Hardcastle. Yes, that would probably be Belinda’s line.
He walked round the stable block, steering well clear of the part where the horses were. Horses bit. They had these sort of half-doors on where they lived, and they lurked among their straw until you put your nose in and looked for them, and then Snap! they had your nose off and probably half your face with it. Instead, Duffy looked into the garage, where he saw a cream Range Rover, a red MG and a Datsun Cherry of some purply colour he couldn’t put a name to. He continued until he came to the Hardcastles’ end of the building. They also had one of those two-part front doors like the horses had. He reached inside and unbolted the bottom half.
It was a neat little house: kitchen and telly room downstairs, bathroom and two small bedrooms upstairs. Duffy poked around in a professional way; that’s to say, he didn’t enjoy it much. There were some people’s places you enjoyed poking round in: these were usually people who were richer th
an you, or nastier. Oh, so that’s what you do with all the money you made by fiddling the books, is it? And you’d pick up some horrible tapestry cushion as if with tongs. But with ordinary people, or poor people, or nice people, you didn’t get that sort of pleasure. You felt what it would be like if someone was rifling through your own stuff. Duffy looked briefly into the two bedrooms, then went downstairs and out of the front door. Just in case anyone was watching him from the house, he stepped back a few paces, scanned the upper windows and the roof, then nodded his head. He walked round to the back, past a neat little kitchen garden. Behind the house was a coal bunker, a wood store and a small lean-to shed. Automatically, Duffy put his hand to the door; it was locked. Just as automatically, Duffy looked around for the key. There was always a rule about keys: if they weren’t in the obvious place, they were in the second most obvious place. Not under the big stone? Try under the little stone. Or, in the present case, not under the big flowerpot? Try the small flowerpot. Duffy picked up the rusting key and pulled open the shed door. Various forks and spades and diggers and whatsits that people who had gardens needed were arrayed in front of him, but Duffy didn’t really look at them. He reached in to the back of the shed and pulled a large piece of sacking off a square mound. Well, well. He hadn’t met Ron Hardcastle, yet, of course, and he might indeed turn out to be a man who knew his Asti from his Spumante; but just for the moment Duffy registered the fact that Ron’s wine-cellar was twice as big as Vic’s. Two cases of Vinho Verde, to be precise, and two cases of the same pink champagne that Vic had a fancy for.
He locked up, and as he did so thought he registered a slight movement at the periphery of his vision. Nonchalantly, he put the key back underneath the small flowerpot, turned and began to saunter towards the end of the Hardcastles’ garden. A small path led across a corner of the wood and back towards the lawn. He followed the path, treading as lightly as he could, listening out and wishing he’d been in the Boy Scouts. When he reached the edge of the lawn, he sat on a bench and continued listening. Just at the appropriate moment, he said,
