by L. C. Tyler
‘There are photos of most of us on the Internet these days – Facebook, Twitter and all the new ones I’ve no plans to sign up to. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out what you looked like now.’
‘That’s true. There were other things, though, that he seemed to have inexplicably forgotten.’
Cynthia looked at me as if inviting the question. I obliged.
‘Such as?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he and my father had a terrier called Bramble when they were younger, but when I mentioned Bramble he just looked completely blank. Then, claiming to recall the animal after all, he referred to Bramble as “he”, when he would have known she was a bitch. You don’t forget things like that. It would be like thinking you had a son when you had a daughter.’
‘A slip of the tongue.’
‘I suppose it could be. It’s easily done. You think of dogs as “he” don’t you? And cats as “she”. But even then …’
‘Do you mean you think it isn’t him?’
‘It looks pretty much like him, and certainly sounds like him … I’d like it to be him. Really I would. Uncle Roger is the only close member of family I have left, apart from my mother. But even so … What do you think, Ethelred?’
‘I never really knew him before,’ I said. ‘Certainly not like you did. But I saw him plenty of times on television and once or twice on the stage. There’s nothing to make me think he’s an imposter.’
It was, I had to admit, not the most ringing of endorsements. But surely nobody would attempt to impersonate a figure as famous as Vane – especially when there were two close members of his family still around?
‘He knew who cousin Wilbert was,’ said Cynthia thoughtfully.
‘There you are, then. I haven’t come across Wilbert. Distant relation?’
‘Non-existent relation. Possibly on my father’s side. I made him up on the spur of the moment. “Cousin Wilbert will be pleased to see you again,” I said. “I’ve always liked Wilbert,” he replied.’
‘So he failed the Wilbert test?’
‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you?’
‘Maybe he misheard?’
‘That’s charitable of you, Ethelred. Your good nature shines through in a generally shitty world. But no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his hearing. It’s more to do with the fact that … how can I put this? … I think there’s just a chance he’s a total fake.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t look at me like that. The money has nothing to do with it at all. Except that I wouldn’t want Uncle Roger’s money going to a gold-plated shyster. Whatever’s going on, I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Then quite possibly I’m going to kick some ass.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yes, that was what I thought too. I have a plan, Ethelred. There are still plenty of people around who will remember him well. I won’t be the only one with doubts.’
‘Probably not. I’ll need to write a slightly different book, of course, if he is an imposter.’
‘Not really. Just a different postscript. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed. He may still prove to be a genuine uncle with a poor recollection of dogs. What can I do for you in the meantime?’
‘Just one or two queries about his time at university,’ I said. ‘Then I’d like you to run over the last time you saw him – before the memorial service, that is.’
‘OK, try me,’ she said.
It was an hour or so later that she suggested a break for coffee. She switched on the television because Roger Norton Vane’s reappearance was still news. The previous evening, crime writers had queued up to say how delighted they were that he was still alive. Bookshop owners were interviewed, saying that their shelves had been stripped of anything by Vane or by anyone remotely resembling him. It was likely there would be more of the same this afternoon, though perhaps only as a brief final item. In fact he was second on, after something on the US presidential election.
The announcer switched from the bemused smile appropriate to the previous item to a disapproving frown and said: ‘And now over to our arts editor for some surprising developments in the Roger Norton Vane affair.’
Cynthia placed a mug of coffee in front of me, but her eyes were glued to the television. She sat down beside me without a glance in my direction. On the screen we could see a great deal of the arts editor’s back. The face we saw beyond it was Tim Macdonald’s. The camera slowly panned in on him.
‘You’ve known Roger Norton Vane for some time, I think?’
‘For almost thirty years,’ said Tim, with some feeling.
‘And you are very close to him?’
‘To Roger, yes. Of course, I was. But not to this imposter who has suddenly emerged from nowhere.’
‘So, you don’t think that the man who claims to be Roger Vane is in fact him?’
‘Isn’t that what I said?’
‘I’m just clarifying. For the viewers.’
‘Why? Are they slow on the uptake?’
The interviewer paused slightly too long before replying: ‘Of course not. I just meant, why do you think that?’
‘The Roger I knew was caring, loving … The man who burst into my flat yesterday and ejected me into the street does not resemble him in the slightest.’
‘You say your flat …’
‘Oh, Roger’s flat, if you insist. My home for almost thirty years. That’s the point.’
‘But most other people do seem to have accepted that this is Roger Norton Vane.’
‘Do you think I don’t know my own partner?’
‘It has been twenty years.’
Tim drew himself to his full height. ‘Did Penelope not know Odysseus after twenty years?’ he demanded.
‘I thought it was Argos the dog who recognised Odysseus? Penelope demanded improbable feats of strength. But perhaps we are straying from—’
‘I was hardly given time to demand anything. This strange man charged in and told me to pack and be gone. As for feats of strength, he didn’t even help me carry my bags.’
‘So, if he is an imposter as you say, why do you think that so many people believe him?’
Tim looked straight into the camera lens. ‘It’s a conspiracy. The forces of evil are gathering around us. But I shall fight them with the sword of Truth and the shield of … something else … Cunning, possibly. Whatever. Right will triumph!’
There was a stunned silence and then the arts editor said: ‘Thank you, Mr Macdonald. That was very … And so, it’s back to the studio. Er … Sophie.’
It was at least half a minute before either of us picked up our coffee and took a thoughtful sip.
‘I’m not sure any of that proves Roger really is an imposter,’ I said. ‘Quite the reverse when you think about it. All he’s done so far is to show up in a blue overcoat and evict Tim from Canonbury Square. If Tim did try to kill him, all those years ago, then of course Roger would want him out of the flat. I mean, you wouldn’t want to spend a night with your assailant sleeping in the next room, or indeed the same bed.’
‘Equally, if Tim Macdonald knew he had killed Uncle Roger that would explain why he is so convinced it couldn’t be him. I mean, Tim would be the one person who’d know for sure if it could be Uncle Roger. And he did seem very certain it couldn’t …’ Cynthia looked at me significantly.
‘He was never charged,’ I said.
‘A lot of people thought he did do it, though,’ said Cynthia.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Everyone within a ten-mile radius of Fitzroy Square, apparently.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Cynthia.
The television now showed a famous athlete who was trying to explain why she had been on a particular prescription drug for most of her career. It was not, she said, for any purported performance-enhancing reasons, a little-known side effect of which she had been made aware only within the last few days. It had all been a terrible mistake and she hoped this apology would draw a line under things. That seemed unl
ikely.
‘Twenty years is a long time,’ I said, finally turning to Cynthia. ‘People change. People forget things.’
‘Maybe. I still wouldn’t forget the name of my dog, though.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t forget the name of your dog.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘So, that’s a flat white for me and a chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream for you,’ I said.
For the second time in two days I was having coffee with my agent.
‘Was mine the chocolate, though?’ asked Elsie. ‘I thought I’d said a small skinny something … But you’ve got it now, so I suppose I’ll have to drink it. Shame to waste good chocolate. My turn to buy next time. Shouldn’t there be at least four marshmallows, by the way? They’ve only given me three.’
‘I thought you said yesterday it was your turn to get the coffees next time,’ I said, taking my seat.
‘And so it is,’ said Elsie. ‘Next time. What?’
‘Nothing. It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I was only joking.’
‘Look,’ said Elsie, ‘I can hardly hand in a receipt to Tuesday listing a hot chocolate with whipped cream and a contractual minimum of four marshmallows.’
‘You could tell her that I had the chocolate and you had the small flat white.’
Elsie considered this and then shook her head. ‘No, she’d know,’ she said darkly. ‘She always does.’
‘Are you afraid of your own assistant?’ I asked. ‘You don’t have to diet if you don’t want to. You could just say you fancied a hot chocolate. Or you could simply not reclaim the money from the agency budget.’
She shook her head. ‘That would be so wrong on so many levels,’ she said vaguely. ‘How did the meeting with Cynthia go?’
‘She seems to have very real doubts that Roger Vane is the genuine article,’ I said. ‘A bit like Tim in that respect, but without resorting to the Shield of Cunning.’
‘Yes, good wasn’t it, that interview? That will help sell a few books. Just needed to get onto one of my contacts at the BBC and, bingo, there we were. Doubts sown in the minds of the public.’
I looked at her across my coffee. ‘Elsie, you didn’t put him up to it?’
‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘He might have done it anyway. And I quite specifically said the Shield of Justice. What on earth would a Shield of Cunning look like?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if people will believe him. I mean, since he’s been thrown out of the flat, he’s hardly impartial.’
‘He’d have known better than anyone,’ said Elsie.
‘So – let’s say you’re right, just to save ten minutes of my day – why did Tim let this imposter throw him out?’
‘He said to avoid an unseemly row. It’s Tim’s greatest fear for some reason – unseemly rows. In which case, God knows what he ever saw in Roger Norton Vane. Also the Pseudo-Vane threatened him with lawyers and the police if he didn’t get his sorry arse and his colouring set out of there.’
‘But Tim must have had some reason to think it really was Vane at the time or he would have called the police.’
‘Well, he’s sure enough about it all now. After talking to his agent, who explained things.’
‘If Roger Vane is not genuine, there are a lot of people who will spot it. His own agent, for example.’
‘Ah yes, George, his own agent. There’s another interesting development.’
‘In the sense that …’
‘In the sense that Roger Vane has just accused him of fraud, duplicity and false accounting. George just phoned me up. He’s very upset. He’s been paying all of the royalties, less perfectly reasonable agency deductions, into an account he’d set up in Vane’s absence. It amounts to a tidy sum, I can tell you, after twenty years. More than you’ll ever see.’
‘Are the deductions excessive?’
‘They’re less than I’m charging you.’
‘Why not pay directly into Vane’s own account?’
‘Initially George was advised not to. Vane’s wallet and credit cards were missing. There was a chance that somebody could move in and clean out his entire bank balance. It was a wise precaution. He carried on because it was simpler to do so. All the money was in one place, earning good interest – easy to account for to Vane or to his executors.’
‘But Vane thinks there’s not enough there?’
‘A slander against a highly respected agent.’
‘I’m seeing Roger Vane tomorrow,’ I said.
‘The person claiming to be Roger Vane.’
‘The person claiming to be Roger Vane, if you insist. He’s promised me some interesting stories.’
‘I bet. If it proves to be Roger – and I’m not saying it will – he won’t hold anything back just to save anyone’s hurt feelings. The list of people regretting his return must be growing by the hour.’
‘I’ll tell you if he has anything to say about you,’ I joked.
Elsie considered then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’d have had no way of finding out. I’m safe enough. If it’s him. Which it isn’t.’
‘That’ll wake you up,’ said Roger Norton Vane, as I took a tentative sip of the thick brown liquid. ‘Very strong coffee and condensed milk. Plonk it in the cup. Give it a quick stir. That’s all there is to it. Usually drink it iced in Laos, of course. They serve it everywhere. By the cup in restaurants. In plastic bags with a straw sticking out of them at the roadside stalls. That way you can drink it while you drive your moped with the other hand, so long as you’re not too worried about braking.’
I placed the small cup back on the table. ‘Very nice,’ I said politely.
‘Of course, you can’t have it after about six in the evening, or you’ll never sleep. Fine if you want to write all night.’
‘Have you done much writing while you were … away?’
Vane looked me in the eye and gave me a crooked smile. ‘Now and then. Plenty of books left to write. Plenty of stories left to tell. I’ve done the research, unlike a lot of my colleagues. I’m one of the few crime writers who was actually a practising criminal.’
I nodded. It was a story he’d told many times, on television chat shows and newspaper interviews and panels at conferences. ‘Hot-wiring a car,’ I said. ‘Theft of an automobile. Driving at seventy miles an hour in a thirty mile an hour zone. Attempting to pervert the course of justice.’
He nodded. ‘Me and a mate at school. Not Eton, like most of the Cabinet – just an inner-city joint with a bit of a drug problem. Learnt how to hot-wire from the metalwork teacher – he’d been a getaway driver for the Kray brothers. Schooldays – happiest days of my life. So, how far have you got with this book of yours? The one about me. Not the science fiction, or whatever it is you normally do.’
‘I took over from another writer called Bill Stanstead …’
‘Really?’ Vane nodded, impressed. He had clearly heard of him. ‘I always thought Bill had a lot of integrity. Good man. You can’t push him around. Wouldn’t have been able to get him to turn out whatever crap the editor wanted.’
‘You can’t entirely ignore what your publisher wants,’ I said.
‘Depends if you’re capable of standing up for yourself,’ said Vane.
‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘Bill couldn’t do it in the end and we’re not as far advanced as we should be. I think Lucinda wanted the book out by now, but I’m still finishing the research. There are plenty of gaps that I hope you can fill in. Such as exactly what happened in Thailand. And why.’
‘Ah yes, that. I thought you might ask. You’ve spoken to Tim Macdonald, I take it?’
‘He has declined to be interviewed. He wouldn’t speak to Bill, either.’
‘Bet he wouldn’t. You know Tim claims I’m an imposter?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He said so on the BBC News.’
‘Wouldn’t know the Sword of Truth if it came up and slapped him on the face. As for the Shield of Cunning … But I’m not certain dear li
ttle Cynthia’s entirely convinced of my bona fides, either. Bless her.’
‘Really?’
‘Don’t try to sound surprised, Ethelred. I’m sure she’s said something of the sort to you.’
‘She said something about your not knowing the name of some dog you and your brother had.’
‘That’s Bramble?’
‘Yes.’
‘No such animal. She’s getting things mixed up. Long before her time, of course. No reason why she should remember. My brother had a bitch named Briar Rose – always called her Briar. Lakeland terrier. He doted on her, but I would have been about three or four when Briar died. Scarcely remember her myself. Then we had a dog called Bracken, who was pretty much a joint enterprise. Cynthia’s adding two and two and coming up with Bramble. Took me a while to work out what she was on about. Then she started on about Wilbert for some reason.’
‘The distant cousin?’
‘So she mentioned that too? Thought she might. Thanks for confirming what she’s up to.’
‘Well, I mean, she did, sort of ….’
‘Your blushes do you credit, but I’m not stupid, Ethelred. I could see what she meant all along. Another little test for Uncle Roger, eh?’ He paused and then smiled. ‘Actually I’m amazed she knew. That really was A-level family history. You see, Wilbert was just a nickname he had for a couple of years at school. Dropped that forty years ago, at least. No idea how Cynthia even found out. She’d have known him as Graham. All credit to her, though. Bit of a card, Graham – which is another word for a pain in the arse. Good to know he’s still alive, anyway – must be almost ninety now. Didn’t get many Christmas cards in Laos, you see? Especially when they all hope you’re pushing up daisies. You don’t get the latest news on births, marriages and deaths. Half the family could be six feet under for all I know or care. I’ll find out when this year’s cards turn up. How’s your coffee?’
‘Fine. Very … sweet. And milky. And strong. So, what did happen on the afternoon you went missing?’
Vane looked out the window. Out in the square, the daffodils were making a fine display. Forsythia was about to bloom. The early afternoon traffic rumbled untroubled, ever onwards towards newly gentrified Hackney and Hoxton. It was all a long way from the primeval green wilderness into which he had disappeared.
