by Dan Kavanagh
‘He’s giving me lessons. It’s very useful.’
‘I’m glad to hear he’s good at something. He’s always seemed to me singularly useless at most things.’ Duffy glanced up at Henry, who wasn’t reacting. He’d obviously had this for years. ‘And you’re staying over at the Hall with that crook, what’s his name?’
‘Vic Crowther. It’s his tie, actually.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least. The only interesting question is whether he paid for it with his own money.’
‘Mother!’
‘Well, of course he’s a crook. Someone like him doesn’t end up owning the Hall unless he’s a crook, stands to reason.’
Duffy couldn’t work out whether Henry’s mother was as rude as this because she was posh, or because she was old, or a combination of both. Or maybe it wasn’t to do with either: she was just rude, and that’s all there was to it.
‘So you will have examined the gel who is shortly to make Henry the happiest man in the world?’
‘Angela. Yes.’
‘And what do you make of her?’
What did Duffy make of her? ‘I haven’t really seen much of her.’
‘How very diplomatic of you, particularly in front of your billiards tutor. She’s obviously neurotic.’
‘Mother!’
‘The only thing I couldn’t make out, because she was wearing such extraordinary clothes on the occasion I was permitted to meet her, was whether or not she has good child-bearing hips. Have you examined her hips?’
Duffy tried to remember. ‘I think they’ll do the business,’ he suggested cautiously.
‘Do the business? Do the business? I see what you mean. But will Henry be able to do the business?’
‘Mother, really.’
‘Perhaps it would be best if the line were just allowed to die out. Oh well,’ she said, re-crossing her pink running-shoes, ‘perhaps the gel will have her menopause before she gets to the altar. You definitely want another cup of tea.’
‘I need one,’ said Duffy.
‘I hear she had some kind of bad turn the other day?’
Look, what’s going on, Duffy thought. He couldn’t follow this mixture of over-statement and under-statement. ‘That’s right, she had a bit of a turn. Someone tried to rape her.’
‘Tried? What are the men coming to nowadays? When I was a gel they would have succeeded. It’s just another name for marriage, anyway, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.’
‘What, rape or marriage?’
‘Either.’
‘Mmm. Does that mean you’re a bachelor boy like my Henry?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You’re not one of those homosexuals, are you?’ She pronounced the word with no apparent distaste, though using the old-fashioned long o on the first syllable.
Duffy thought it was too complicated to explain, so he nodded and said, ‘That’s right.’
‘How fascinating. You know I’ve never met one who said he was. You must come to tea again and tell me what it is you do. I’ve always wondered what went where. Of course, that is, if you survive.’
‘Oh, I’ll survive.’
‘But you’re all dropping like flies, aren’t you? They tell me there’s this new disease which is going to purge the world of shirt-lifters, as my late husband used to refer to them. I hope you don’t find the term offensive.’
‘I think it’s a bit of an exaggeration.’
‘That’s what it says in the newspaper.’
‘The newspapers are full of homophobia,’ said Duffy. Well, why not? She thinks I’m just a common shirt-lifter in a nasty tie. Why not show her I know a few long words as well?
‘Never heard that term before,’ said Henry’s mum. ‘I suppose it’s a polite way of saying you don’t like fairies.’ Henry stood up and put his cup on the tray. ‘You will bring your friend back again, won’t you?’ was the parting line from the wicker chair. ‘I’m so looking forward to finding out what goes where after all these years.’
The gravel outside Winterton House seemed ever so slightly posher than the gravel over at the Hall. Perhaps you could even get upper-class gravel. Perhaps Vic’s had fallen off the back of a lorry. ‘She’s a real character, your mum.’
‘I don’t know how to apologize …’ Henry seemed to be almost blushing.
‘Forget it. She’s like a breath of fresh air compared to some I could mention. But if you want to apologize, you can give me another lesson. I don’t think I’m confident of thumping Damian yet.’
‘It’d be a pleasure.’
Back at the Hall D/S Vine had left for the day. He either had to charge Jimmy or release him in the next twelve hours or so not that the fellow seemed particularly interested in his rights and he might as well get on with it. The remains of Sally’s Datsun Cherry were cordoned off with a rope which wouldn’t have deterred a squirrel. As Duffy opened the front door he ran into Damian, who shook a finger at him. ‘Naughty boy. Naughty boy.’
‘Eh?’
‘The rozzers. Not very content, the rozzers. A policeman’s lot is not a happy one. Skipping off and leaving the scene of the crime. Had to tell them about rescuing the cars all by myself. Pulled them free with my bare teeth while thousands quailed.’
‘I bet he believed you.’
‘That was the trouble. He didn’t even believe me when I told him the truth. Just because I’m pretty that beastly Detective-Sergeant thought I didn’t know what an axle was. Said I’d get you to corroborate my deeds of heroism. And where were you? Skipped the country for all we knew.’
‘I was having …’ Duffy stopped. ‘Actually, I was having tea with Henry’s mum.’
‘And you survived? You must have been wearing asbestos close to the skin.’
‘No, I liked her. Not sure I could be married to her.’ Damian peered at Duffy as if to say, But who would have you anyway? ‘Incidentally, what happened to Henry’s dad?’
‘Keeled over from a punctured eardrum, I should imagine. No idea — it was all long before Damian’s time.’
Duffy chuckled. Thinking of Henry’s mum made him understand a bit more why posh people’s architects set aside certain parts of the house for gentlemen only. They were running away, that’s what the men were doing. And the Henry’s mums of this world were all kitted out in pink running-shoes so that they could chase after them and find out what goes where. ‘She seemed to be putting Henry down quite a bit.’
‘I don’t think he notices any more. Just gives that look of his — you know, like a fairly intelligent Aberdeen Angus — and occasionally a little smile, but he’s probably leagues away.’
‘You’re not a writer, by any chance, are you, Damian?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, you use these words nobody else uses.’
‘I do a bit of this and that,’ said Damian, in a manner worthy of his host. ‘I have … ambitions.’
‘Glad to hear it. No, cheers, mate.’ Duffy was almost not being ironic; it was a nice change for someone in this place to mention, however vaguely, that they might want to, well, have a job or something at some time in the future. ‘What does she think about Henry? About him getting married?’
‘His getting married. Well, she’s changed, of course. Spent at least forty years telling Henry it was his duty as an only son to keep the flag flying, and then as soon, or as late, as he brings a girl home and says this is the one for me, she starts taking the opposite line.’
‘Doesn’t she like Angela?’
‘Nothing much to do with Ange, I don’t think. She just likes keeping Henry on the run. I suppose the fact that Ange isn’t a teenager gives her something to go on about though. Says what’s the point of marrying someone you can’t breed from. Says Henry might as well shack up with some ewe in a stone barn.’
‘She said that?’
‘So Henry reported. Mind you, he seemed almost amused by it.’
‘Can’t Angela have ch
ildren?’
‘No reason why not. Not as far as anyone knows. She’ll probably get a couple in before the old drawbridge comes up.’
‘I’m surprised Henry hasn’t killed his mum,’ said Duffy. ‘Or at least left home.’
‘They tried that once, apparently. Shipped him out to Argentina, or “the Argentine” as they tend to refer to it. Some family connection with corned beef, I should think. He lasted three weeks. Took the next plane home.’
‘Things must be bad in Argentina.’
‘Couple of frames before dinner?’ suggested Damian.
‘Got a few things to do,’ Duffy replied. ‘Perhaps in a day or two.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
Damian went off towards the ploughed-field snooker table. Duffy wandered into the family room, where he found Belinda reading Horse and Hound; beside her, Vic was bent over a copy of Exchange and Mart. ‘Just looking up a good breakers’ for the Datsun.’
‘Breakers’? Is there anything left to break?’
‘There’s always something. Anyway, Sally says she’s a bit strapped for cash at the moment, so I said I’d see what I could do.’
‘She doesn’t behave as if she’s strapped for cash.’
‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘There are those funny old-fashioned things called jobs,’ said Duffy.
‘You know, it’s odd. Those kids don’t seem to have heard of them.’
Belinda laughed. ‘You two sound like you’ve got big grey beards.’
‘Come on, Bel, you say it yourself. About when you were working. How it changed in the few years you were in it.’
‘Sure,’ said Belinda cautiously, not sure if the analogy was fair.
‘How d’you mean?’ asked Duffy.
‘When I went into modelling, back in the Seventies’ — Belinda made it sound as if Queen Victoria had been on the throne at the time — ‘I did all the training. Paid out a lot of cash. How to walk, how to hold yourself, how to show the clothes to the best advantage.’ And how best to show the bits of you that burst out of the clothes like trains from a tunnel, thought Duffy. ‘You know, the whole bit. Model school. Even taught you how to speak proper. Ly,’ she added with a grin. ‘Anyway, you went along to your first job, you knew more or less what you were in for, what was expected. And even then you sometimes got treated like a pushy tart.’
‘Really?’ Duffy tried to sound as straight-voiced as possible.
‘Christ, yes. I mean, I was one of the new wave of models. I was sort of real. There were one or two others around at the same time, sure, I don’t take any credit away from them, but it was mainly me. Before, the glamour models were sort of artificial, like packet custard. Wanting to have it both ways — taking off their clothes and pretending they weren’t. And then they tried putting me down. Used to look down their nose-jobs at me and say I didn’t have the “classic chassis”. That was their phrase. All ’cause they had little ones. Bitches.’ Her tone was friendly, though, as if she’d won by ending up in the big house.
‘I quite like packet custard,’ said Vic. Belinda slapped him playfully.
‘And now?’
‘Now? Christ, you get everyone thinking they can do it now. Girls of sixteen off the train from Leeds and Bradford, all squidgy with puppy-fat, dropping their blouses as soon as their foot touches the platform. They don’t think it takes work. They think anyone can do it.’
‘Maybe the country’s going to the dogs,’ suggested Duffy.
There was a ruminative silence. Belinda put down Horse and Hound with a sigh and headed off towards the kitchen. Vic turned confidingly to Duffy. ‘By the way, our Detective-Sergeant is cross with you.’
‘I heard. Still, he’s bound to be back, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, I think he went off to charge Jimmy.’
‘Well, I’ll wash behind my ears for him tomorrow.’
‘I suppose,’ said Vic musingly, ‘I suppose it’s just possible that Ricky died a natural death and that some yobbo who happened to be passing chucked him through the window.’
‘You get many yobbos around here?’
‘There are yobbos everywhere, Duffy. State of the country.’ Of course, if they were around, your yobbos could mix with your Vics who were cuddling up with your Damians who were brown-nosing your Hugos, and everyone could join hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘Bit of an outside runner, I’d say, Vic.’
Duffy could see Vic’s line of thought, and it was natural in someone with Vic’s background. Close down as much of this business as possible, that was his instinct. We’ve got a near-rape and we’ve got an exploding car and the coppers are crawling all over the place, why throw them a dead dog as well? Natural causes, a passing yobbo, and no body to show for it, that would sort things out. Vic was ever so quietly suggesting that Duffy didn’t mention the dog business to the coppers when it came to his turn with the thumbscrews. Perhaps he was also fishing a bit, and wondering about the phone-call Duffy had had that afternoon.
But if Vic had kept quiet about dumping Ricky in the lake, Duffy felt he could reply with a bit of hush on his own account; even if Vic was paying him. So he merely repeated, ‘Bit of an outside runner, I’d say,’ and let Vic go back to his Exchange and Mart. The phone-call had changed things; had changed things quite a bit, and Duffy had to think carefully. He liked old Vic, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go on confiding in him. If you showed Vic a knife with blood on it, he’d put it in the dishwasher and turn the knob. If you showed Vic a dismembered corpse left in brown-paper parcels in six different luggage lockers, he’d say it was shocking how people kept thinking up new ways to kill themselves. Duffy understood this instinct, but it wasn’t always entirely helpful, except in giving Vic a quiet time. So he thought that for the moment he’d keep a few things to himself; especially the thing Jim Pringle had told him on the telephone.
It had all begun with the dog. The dog was in two parts (well, it was probably in even more parts now after featuring on Jim Pringle’s slab). Duffy had solved the second part of the dog; solving the first part of the dog might be the key to the whole business. And just as there were two parts to the dog, there might turn out to be two parts to the business. One domestic, say, and one professional. Or two domestics that didn’t know about one another. Or two professionals … The riddling combinations made Duffy realize how far he currently was from solving anything. He needed help. Of two kinds, in fact: domestic and professional.
The domestic help might be obtained from … well, the domestic help. Mrs Colin attributed her recent salvation in the matter of the missing cutlery to two causes: the power of prayer and the intervention of the man from London in the white van. It was, indeed, the power of prayer which had brought the man in the white van down to the Buckinghamshire/Bedfordshire borders to help her. If someone had pointed out to Mrs Colin that Nikki had in fact planted the spoons on her only after Duffy’s arrival, this would have disturbed neither her faith nor her sense of logic. The Lord knew in advance the wickedness in little Nikki’s mind, and Duffy was the temporal answer to it; the fact that he got to Braunscombe Hall before the sin was perpetrated was neither here nor there. This did not cast doubt on the efficacy of prayer; all it cast doubt on was the reliability of the man in the white van.
Mrs Colin’s room was as bare as it had been on Duffy’s previous visit. The process of packing, and soon afterwards unpacking again, hadn’t affected the look of the place; not that these operations could have taken much time. Mrs Colin smiled broadly as Duffy knocked on the half-open door, came in, and sat down on the bed. There had been opportunities for Mrs Colin to thank Duffy verbally for her salvation, but she had not yet mentioned the matter, and she didn’t do so now; she merely beamed at him. Perhaps she thought that a gesture, a smile, a series of smiles, was a truer way of showing gratitude than a few words in a foreign and untrustworthy language; or perhaps she thought that Duffy was merely an agent of help: spoken words of gratitude sho
uld all be divided between Our Lord and the holy sisters at the Church of Our Lady of Penitence, who prayed for the moral safety of those in service overseas.
‘Mrs Colin,’ Duffy began, ‘we’re in a spot of trouble.’
‘We?’ Mrs Colin, sitting erect on a hard chair in front of one of Belinda’s cast-off dressing-tables, was alarmed. Not more trouble already?
‘No, not us. Not you, not me.’
‘Ah.’ But if it wasn’t him and her, why had he said ‘we’? Mrs Colin was confirmed in her belief that most of the time the face can speak more truly than the tongue.
‘No, I mean the trouble at the Hall, here.’
‘Trouble here?’ More trouble, did he mean?
‘The trouble about the dog, Mrs Colin. The trouble about Miss Angela in the woods. The trouble about Miss Sally’s car.’ Mrs Colin nodded. She knew all about that trouble. Why was he telling her what she knew already? Why did he come to her room, sit on her bed, smile at her, and tell her things that were familiar to both of them? An interesting thought crossed Mrs Colin’s mind, and she smiled back at Duffy, though a little more shyly this time. He was short with darkish hair and quite powerfully built. He was much more the physical type she was used to in her own country; here this strange damp climate sprouted tall blond men with pot-bellies and dripping noses. That, at any rate, was Mrs Colin’s generalized impression of the race she worked amongst. Perhaps this man in the white van …
‘The point is, Mrs Colin, that Mr Crowther has asked me to help him. To help him find out what happened.’
‘The policeman …’
‘Mr Crowther is very grateful for the help the policemen are giving, and he is of course co-operating in every way with them, but he feels that any help I might be able to give them, with, well, the specialist knowledge I might be able to bring …’ Duffy was waffling, and he knew it.
‘Mr Crowther, he pays you for this?’ It was not the question that Duffy had expected. Mrs Colin was looking sharply at him. One of the side-mirrors of Belinda’s cast-off dressing-table gave Duffy a simultaneous view of her profile. She was looking just as sharply at him in profile.
