Going to the Dogs

by Dan Kavanagh

  ‘So you’re out on licence?’ Duffy asked quietly. Taffy closed Theories of Social Revolt and turned to him. ‘You know, you may drive that poxy van and put in alarm systems that don’t work, but you still stink of copper.’

  ‘Normal, isn’t it?’ said Duffy, getting up. ‘And what makes you think I can’t smell the con on you?’

  D/S Barry Vine, who couldn’t have cared a monkey’s whether or not he stank of copper, hadn’t expected to return to Braunscombe Hall until later in the afternoon, but he didn’t mind arriving early. At least it meant a break from going round in circles with Jimmy Beckford. Most of it had been easy — except for the difficult part. Yes, that was his camp in the woods. Yes, everything in it did belong to him. Yes, he had known the woman in question for some time. Yes, he did have feelings for her. No, those feelings weren’t reciprocated. Would it be an exaggeration, sir, to suggest that you were in love with her and she did not care for your attentions? No, that wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration. It was just, he said, that he hadn’t done it. Where had he been between lunch and dinner? Well, he’d been around the grounds, but not up near his camp; in fact in the woods and the fields on the other side of the house. He’d been playing Army games. I see, sir, and while you were playing these Army games did you see anyone? Oh yes, he’d seen Taffy and Vic and Belinda and Lucretia. They could vouch for these meetings, could they? Oh no, they weren’t meetings, I saw them. But they didn’t see you? That’s right, that’s the point of Army games. Stealth, concealment, that sort of thing. Look, put it this way, sir, if you were me, would you believe what I’m hearing? Jimmy Beckford, who had been arrested but not yet charged, thought for a long time over this question, and his reply, when it came, had rather impressed D/S Vine. If you believed how I loved Angela, he said, you’d know I couldn’t have done it. Barry Vine was a family man of some years’ standing, and he was also a copper; but he found himself curiously affected by Jimmy’s words.

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ said Duffy.

  ‘Yes?’ Detective-Sergeant Vine wasn’t prejudiced against ex-coppers, though he was well-aware that some of the means by which they acquired that ‘ex-’ were a bit naughty. He hadn’t properly talked to this chap who’d directed him to Jimmy Beckford’s camp; but that action put him in credit so far.

  ‘You’ll have looked in Jimmy’s tins. You’ll have found that newspaper photo with bits burnt out of it.’

  ‘When did you see it?’

  ‘Oh, I was poking around. I came to mend the alarm system.’

  ‘What, has Jimmy got a bell on his camp?’

  ‘Not exactly. Look, I thought you ought to know Jimmy doesn’t smoke.’

  ‘I know. I asked him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘But he admits burning the photo. With a piece of stick from his fire, he said. So it’s not what you think.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you in a bit.’

  Duffy went out on to the terrace with Vic. A clean, fresh breeze, lightly scented with roses, made them both cough.

  ‘Wish I smoked,’ said Vic.

  ‘It keeps the wasps away as well.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  ‘You miss the old days, Vic?’ He didn’t just mean the old days: also the old places, the old smells, the old rackets, the old racketeers. Duffy had known quite a few villains, and most of them, even when they’d made it to the big house and had the cabin cruiser moored down at the marina, even when they were big enough to bribe a junior cabinet minister and develop a taste for vintage claret, still felt attached to some particular square mile of territory. Some anonymous patch of a sprawling city sparkled in their memory like a little village — with its friendly vicar (sent down for his friendliness with juveniles), its beaming butcher (caught with his thumb on the scales) and its picturesque green (where the grass was carpet-bombed with dog turds). But this ‘village’ was where they first grew up, where they first learned to nick things and it made them tearfully sentimental. Perhaps their mum still lived in the same street, and some of their mates, whose careers hadn’t prospered quite so well, could still be found in the council flats, except for when they were doing spells with Her Majesty. Vic’s particular patch had been a little corner of Catford backing on to the railway line and the dog stadium. Of course, this was going back all the way: before he’d finally made the big jump to the Buckinghamshire/Bedfordshire borders he’d had a few years in Lewisham; and by the time he met Belinda he was up in ritzy Blackheath, which apart from anything else was handier for the offices of Laski & Lejeune.

  ‘Thing about the old days,’ said Vic philosophically, ‘is that at the time they didn’t seem like the old days.’

  ‘They wouldn’t, would they?’

  ‘But you don’t think that at the time, do you? You don’t think, one day these are gonna be the old days. I mean, today for instance, you’ll look back on today at some point in the future and say that was the old days. It gives the brain a bit of a spin, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re a deep one and no mistake,’ said Duffy. He gazed across at Vic: a stocky, red-faced man settling into late middle-age who didn’t dress as if he’d ever been to the country, let alone lived there. Duffy wondered if Belinda had had a go at him about his clothes. You’d still take him for a mildly successful street trader, a barrow boy who’d made it big and could now afford to pay someone to run his stall on Saturday afternoons while he went down the football. ‘See much of the first Mrs Crowther?’

  ‘I keep in touch. Don’t let on to Bel, though.’ Duffy nodded a promise. ‘Well, you can’t just tear up your life like that, can you? And she’s got these legs now, you know.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Vic.’ Didn’t she have legs before? Duffy remembered Bessie Crowther as having pretty vigorous legs, with one of which she’d attempted to separate his wedding tackle from the rest of his body one evening in the old days when he’d popped round and tried to arrest Vic.

  ‘Something to do with the circulation, they say. Anyway, she has to have these check-ups. She’s back in that little house we had when we were first married. I sort of never got rid of it, you know, and when we broke up I said she could live in it if she wanted to.’

  ‘Bel doesn’t know that either?’

  ‘That I’ve still got the house? No, she’d hit the roof if she knew. See, it’s a bit complicated. I mean, Bel’s always believed that when we met my marriage was on the rocks. Well it was, but only because the rocks, if you get my drift, was Bel. Otherwise I suppose Bessie and me would still be together now. I was gone potty on Bel from the moment I clapped eyes on her. But I’m only flesh and blood; I couldn’t just throw Bessie over like that. Every so often, when I’m down in London, I take her out like in the old days. Schooner of sherry, scampi and chips, that’s what she likes, that’s what she gets.’

  Must make a nice change from all the posh scoff he gets around here, Duffy thought. And it all sounded just like Vic: walking both sides of the street, even in his marriages. Perhaps it gave him a funny sort of thrill, to kiss his second wife goodbye and go off for an illicit night out with his first wife. Made him feel like a salamander walking through fire or something.

  Apart from how he juggled his marriages, how did he juggle his finances? Two establishments, the horses, all those house guests, the servants. ‘Do you still have the launderettes?’ Duffy asked suddenly.

  ‘Why? You got any complaints?’

  ‘No. Well, now you mention it … No, forget it.’ That was hardly central to the current business. ‘And the video shops?’

  ‘I’m on social security, Duffy, what do you think?’

  ‘What about the others, do they have jobs?’

  ‘You mean, do they pay rent here or are they squatters?’ Vic was beginning to get testy.

  ‘No, just curiosity. That Sally, for instance, what does she do for a living? She an estate agent as well?’

  ‘Those are real copper’s questions, you know. Or maybe they�
��re just London questions. We don’t ask things like that down in the country. Do you want to marry her or something?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Duffy. Then she wouldn’t have so far to go whenever she wanted to have a whole load of fun and let his van tyres down.

  ‘Her dad’s got a spot of cash. She was married when she was about twenty and picked up something from that. She does some of that art. She sells the odd drawing, if you must know. Don’t ask me how much she gets, I haven’t bought one.’

  ‘I’m surprised she can draw straight.’ Surprised she can find the crayons to start with.

  ‘Well, she doesn’t as a matter of fact. It’s got a name.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘Not drawing straight. You know, paint a dog and it comes out looking like a monkey. It’s got a posh name in the right circles, that has.’

  ‘Check. And what about Bel?’

  ‘What about her? You want to see her bank statements?’

  ‘No. Just wondering if she missed the old days as well.’

  ‘Oh. What, the modelling? Don’t think so. She’s all horsey nowadays. And mumsy as well, of course, with little Nikki. By the way, Duffy, congratulations.’

  ‘Come again.’

  ‘You did good with the spoons. Real good. Nothing like hiring a minder to look after one of your house guests and after she’s got kidnapped and nearly raped he manages to screw a confession out of your own daughter that she’s planted a few worthless spoons on one of your servants. I mean, how did you manage it, Duffy? Rubber hoses, water treatment, sensory deprivation?’

  ‘See what you mean. Told her that her dabs were all over them.’

  ‘That old lie?’

  ‘It still works.’

  ‘It never worked with me.’

  Duffy thought back to the days of threatening calls from Laski & Lejeune. ‘No, it didn’t. By the way, if Nikki starts asking for a pair of gloves, I should lock your stuff away.’

  ‘So what have we got now, Duffy? Moving up a league or two from Toytown crime.’

  ‘Well, the car proves we haven’t just got Jimmy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Assuming it wasn’t a squirrel.’

  ‘Which we assume. So if we go along with Jimmy being rightly locked up, we’ve got one other something. If we don’t go along with the Jimmy line, we might still have one other something. Or we could, of course, have two different somethings which happen to have coincided.’

  ‘I like a bit of clear thinking,’ said Vic ironically. ‘You could put that in writing and start charging guineas.’

  ‘With headed notepaper. I’ve thought of it, but I couldn’t handle the VAT. The point is, who’s being naughty around here? Are we dealing with strangers or are we dealing with your distinguished house guests? For instance, what about Angela and Taffy as a number?’

  ‘Eh? I shouldn’t think so. Poor old Taff. All these aspersions.’

  ‘For instance, it was you who threw Ricky in the lake, wasn’t it?’

  This was perfectly timed. Vic was starting to say ‘No’ when he realized that only the person who’d thrown him in and the person who’d fished him out would know Ricky had spent some time under water, so he stopped, changed gear, and said, ‘What, you mean they’ve found Ricky?’

  Duffy laughed. ‘I think you’re about as unconvinced by yourself as I am, Vic.’

  ‘Why on earth should I want to do a thing like that?’ Vic demanded, all honest-citizen, all get-me-Laski-&-Lejeune.

  ‘The dog’s one of the main problems in this whole business. I think I’ve worked out a bit of the dog, but I haven’t worked out the whole dog.’

  ‘Where is Ricky?’

  ‘Up in London with his guts on a slab.’

  ‘So Jimmy found him?’

  ‘Jimmy found him. The problem was, who killed him and who threw him in the water? Why should anyone want to do first one and then the other? Why not just throw him in the water to start off with if that’s what you wanted? So, the only sensible conclusion is, it was two different people, not connected with one another. Someone who we presume wanted to fuck up Angela, and then you.’

  ‘Me.’ It wasn’t a question, or a protestation of innocence; it was more of a prompt.

  ‘No body, no crime. No crime, no coppers. Sensible, really. The other side of it goes: no body, no criminal; no criminal, no justice. But it’s all a matter of priorities.’

  ‘So if I’m number two, who’s number one?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Telephone, Mr Duffy.’ It was Mrs Colin, beaming at him. She continued beaming as he followed her into the house and along a corridor. She didn’t say a word, but then she didn’t need to.

  When Duffy emerged again into the unhealthy air, he was shaking his head. ‘I think I’ve had enough for the moment,’ he said to Vic. ‘The old brain’s racing. I’m going to have a snooker lesson. Give my regards to the Detective-Sergeant if he needs me.’

  ‘Who was the call from?’

  ‘And can I borrow a tie? Preferably without too much heraldry on it.’

  Duffy took the five miles to Winterton House at a conservative speed. Off the M1 things were just as dangerous. There was a lot of inbreeding in the countryside, he knew, and everyone drove like lunatics whether they were or not. Carefully, he turned into the driveway of Winterton House, past some entrance pillars of genuinely weathered stone. He made the gentlest of rustles on the gravel, in case Henry’s mother was taking an afternoon nap. As he got out of his van, Duffy adjusted the brown kipper tie Vic had lent him. This sartorial touch wasn’t just a matter of courtesy; it was also to help with his cueing. Brush the knot lightly as you slide through on the shot: that was one of the things he had to remember.

  A woman of indeterminate age and status answered the door, and after a brief discussion agreed not to send him round to the back despite his appearance. Henry seemed pleased to see him, and offered a large hand.

  ‘Glad you telephoned. Mother says we are both to join her after our lesson. Tea is at four-thirty in the conservatory.’

  ‘Did you hear about Sally’s car?’

  ‘Mmm. Ange telephoned. Dreadful. Didn’t come over as Mother had a slight turn and … anyway, I wouldn’t have been any help.’

  Winterton House went back to 1730; it had been inhabited at one time by a fully paid-up, long-lasting Lord Mayor of London; it had a wine-cellar with properly dusty bottles; it had never been lived in by a rock musician who played with a feather up his bum; and its billiard room, though post-dating 1730 by at least a century, remained as it had been originally designed — a quiet enclave of mahogany and old leather, with a tang of yesterday’s cigar smoke in the air. Duffy sniffed, and pretended to be reminded of something.

  ‘Henry, tell me, is there a lot of drugging over at the Hall?’

  ‘Drugging?’

  ‘Yes. Taking drugs. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’m just not sure that I … I … how can one tell? I don’t think I’d be very good at telling. Who are you thinking of?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know them very well.’

  ‘I don’t think Ange would do anything like that,’ said Henry. He drew the heavy plum curtains, pulled the cover off the table and, while folding it, pointed to the cue rack. Duffy put a white on the table and played it firmly round the cushions. Then he did so again, in the opposite direction. Compared to this, the table at Braunscombe Hall was like a ploughed field.

  ‘Lovely and true, Henry.’

  ‘It’s an 1866 Thurston. Looked after by them ever since. Can’t get slate like that nowadays. There’s a real chunk of Wales under there.’

  ‘New cloth?’

  ‘Five years ago, actually. Mother thought the old one was quite good enough because it was still green, so I had it done on the sly. Bit of a row and all that. Didn’t tell her I had new cushions at the same time.’

  Henry was a fine player; indeed, he looked much more relaxed lean
ing over a snooker table than he did standing up and being normal. He was also a good teacher, patient yet firm. It was a revision course as much as anything; Duffy in theory knew all about not coming up on the shot, about follow-through, about matching your tactics to your capabilities; he just had to be constantly reminded about them. Henry was particularly keen on getting Duffy’s stance right. ‘If you don’t stand right, you don’t cue right, and if you don’t cue right, you can’t control the ball.’ He demonstrated; Duffy tried to copy. ‘Doesn’t matter about the feet not being parallel as long as you’re comfortable. What makes the difference is locking the hips.’ Duffy was slow to get this bit. ‘Look, get in position, and, excuse me, keep your feet exactly where they are, now, sorry about this bit.’ In the crepuscular atmosphere of this Victorian gentlemen’s room, Henry put his hands on Duffy’s hips and tugged at him gently, like a sweet-palmed osteopath. Duffy’s hips swivelled and locked. Henry took his hands away. Be my guest, murmured Duffy under his breath.

  At four twenty-five the lesson stopped, and Henry went away to brush his hair before tea with Mother. Duffy didn’t need to brush his hair. Instead, he adjusted Vic’s kipper tie.

  ‘How do you do, young man. What a very unattractive tie,’ said Henry’s mother. She was sitting on a wicker chair in the conservatory, surrounded by plants which Duffy might just have been able to identify if he’d done a ten-year course at Kew Gardens.

  ‘It’s not mine, actually.’

  ‘Then why on earth do you wear it?’ She was about eighty, an erect, bony figure, with sharp blue eyes and white hair cut short; she wore a pale green silk dress which Duffy reckoned had been very expensive about ten years before he was born, and pink running-shoes. ‘So you’re my son’s new billiards partner?’