Herring in the Smoke

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Maybe we could leave that for a subsequent meeting?’ he asked. ‘Seeing Tim again, here in my own flat … it’s all still a bit raw. You see what I mean? He hurt me – and I don’t just mean physically …’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘But afterwards … after whatever happened … you somehow made it over the border into Laos?’

  Vane turned away from the view over England and blinked a couple of times.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t go there directly. Took a bit of a roundabout route. I went south at first, down to the coast. There are plenty of ways you can get across the border down there. For a couple of quid I hitched a ride on a fishing boat that had business at a secluded cove in Cambodia. I had my passport and some cash with me. You can live cheaply over there – or you could in those days. You could buy a whole cooked chicken for ten pence and they pretty much paid you to take the rice and vegetables away. Biggest expense was bottled water – couldn’t risk dysentery and having to see a doctor. Worked my way upcountry by easy stages and into Laos – not a difficult border crossing if you do it at night in a small boat. Got work in the first town I came to, as an English teacher then as a translator then as a copywriter. Moved around. Changed my name more than once. Became a Lao citizen. Did all right. More sex than you could believe. Bloody fantastic. How’s your coffee?’

  ‘You asked me that. It’s fine. I’m just taking it slowly. So which town did you live in?’

  ‘Here and there. Vientiane mainly – right on the Thai border and almost back to where I’d started. And other places you wouldn’t have heard of. Look, Ethelred, could you do me a favour?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘You see, my bank’s being a bit sticky about my identity.’

  ‘They don’t believe you either?’

  ‘Just bureaucracy. I don’t have all of the paperwork they’d like. Actually, I don’t have any of it.’

  ‘You must have your passport? You said you had it with you.’

  ‘Twenty years ago I did. And, as I say, I later changed my name and destroyed everything that might have connected me with Roger Norton Vane. It seemed wise at the time. Wasn’t planning to come back. So I don’t have anything with today’s date on it saying who I really am.’

  ‘Well, it must be possible to produce something … a driving licence?’

  ‘Lost in the jungle, old boy.’

  ‘What else do you have?’

  ‘Nothing at all. And don’t suggest dental records could settle it. My old dentist retired even before I went to Thailand. I was always planning to sign up with a new one … Don’t know where you’d even start to look for my old X-rays after twenty years. But if you were willing to swear that it was me – I mean, you are my biographer and all that. They’d trust you.’

  He smiled engagingly with his undocumented teeth. Jaundiced though his view was of the rest of humanity, I was his friend and he wanted me to know it. Somehow this did not make me as comfortable as was intended. I felt I was being pushed into a mess I ought to stay out of.

  ‘Wouldn’t Cynthia be better?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, there’s a thing. You see, Cynthia’s a fine girl, but she’s not been quite as open with you as she might.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She’s been pressing for a while for me to be declared dead so that she could inherit the pittance I possess and make poor Tim homeless.’

  Vane seemed to have done a quite good job of making poor Tim homeless himself. Perhaps his point was that in her case it was out of character.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘She doesn’t seem the sort …’

  ‘Don’t be fooled, Ethelred. One of the first things she said to me was that she wouldn’t be inheriting now. She made it sound like a joke, of course, but I happen to know she needs the money. So does her mother – and pretty urgently too. She’s a nice enough girl, Cynthia, but her mum’s putting pressure on her. It would suit Cynthia if everyone thought I was a fake and she could inherit the cash after all. And I’ve got no way of proving who I am – or at least not to the satisfaction of officialdom. So she may just succeed.’

  ‘Hang on – what about a DNA test? Cynthia’s a close relative. It would be conclusive.’

  ‘She’s scarcely going to cooperate with that, is she? Not in her interest.’

  ‘Other family?’

  ‘Blood relations? My brother’s dead. I’m not counting on Wilbert.’

  ‘What about your agent? He must have known you for years. He could vouch for you.’

  ‘I think I’ve rather burnt my boats with George. Inadvisable with hindsight. Always be nice to your agent, Ethelred. That’s my advice. Never know when you’ll need one. Well, there it is; what’s done is done. But you, Ethelred … when we first met, you said straight away that you believed me. A man of discernment, I thought. The sort of chap you can trust. And as my biographer, you are the world expert on me.’

  ‘Well, yes …’ I said a little doubtfully. I couldn’t remember quite what I’d said. My tweet saying he was alive probably wasn’t legally binding. ‘I suppose …’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I may have some forms for you to sign shortly. If you’ll excuse me, though, I have to go and see my lawyer now. One or two things to discuss. Let’s meet up again in a day or two.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m based down in Sussex,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Not too far for you to come then. I’ll send you a text to say when we need you. Can you find your own way out?’

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all, my dear chap. Plenty more condensed milk where that came from.’

  The train rattled southwards, with rain streaming down the windows in diagonal lines. March had turned suddenly, as it so often does, from spring back into winter. I hoped that Roger Norton Vane had purchased an umbrella as well as an overcoat.

  I read through the notes that I had taken. There were undeniably still gaps in the narrative – especially concerning the day of his disappearance. But, when listening to Vane, I felt instinctively that he was the man I had heard speak at conferences twenty years before. His hair was greyer, his face more lined, he’d lost weight. But he was Vane, for all that – arrogant, alternately ingratiating and bullying, and always ready to pick a fight with anyone. And the voice was absolutely right. If he had forgotten the name of his dog it was because he didn’t really care for dogs any more than he cared for humans. Through the miasma, I could just see the distant outline of Arundel Castle, sitting in cold comfort on its hill above the flat, misty, willow-studded plain of the Arun. In a few minutes the train would stop at Barnham, then I would need to begin to get my things together. I closed my notebook and placed in it my bag. I got my coat down from the rack and carefully unfolded it.

  Ten minutes later I was getting off the train in Chichester, no clearer on the Roger Vane matter than I had been before. A few days ago, nobody knew that Roger Norton Vane might still be alive. Now, all over London, opinions were hardening one way or the other. Was it really him? I was amongst those who saw no good reason to disbelieve him. Those who had the greatest doubts were those who had personal reasons for doubting. Cynthia had lost an inheritance, or at least had an indefinite delay placed upon receipt. Tim Macdonald had lost his home prematurely. Vane’s agent, George, had suddenly been jolted out of a pleasant state of watching royalties pile up with little effort, and had been brusquely and perhaps unfairly called to account.

  It was all getting very complicated. It would have been interesting to know what Elsie really thought of it all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Elsie

  So, what I really think is this: flat chocolate is much easier to smuggle into the office than lumpy chocolate. You can slip it into your briefcase between two files. Which points to investing in a bar of Lindt hazelnut, for example, or maybe Montezuma’s salty Sea Dog or the nice Co-Op one with orange oil, which you should definitely try if you don’t know it. But, conversely, there’s n
othing more embarrassing than being caught with a herbal tea (no sugar) in one hand and a solid slab of high-calorie indulgence, with an awkwardly large bite taken out of it, in the other. So that indicates a need for smaller, scientifically targeted dosages that can, if necessary, be crammed into my mouth the moment I hear footsteps outside my door. The chocolate should preferably be unwrapped too, to avoid the danger of having to swallow a wrapping in an emergency, which is always unpleasant. M&M’s might fit the bill here. Or a large box of Maltesers. But then we’re back to how you get them in under the radar. As with climate change, there’s no simple solution.

  Like most people, I’ve toyed with the idea of hiding balls of chocolate inside grape skins. But then Tuesday might be tempted to help herself to one. And who has the time to stuff grapes with chocolate these days?

  Yes, yes – obviously it’s my agency and I can eat chocolate in it if I want to, but it’s the look more of sorrow than in anger on Tuesday’s face that causes me to employ, not subterfuge in any way, shape or form, but … let’s say … tact, whenever I reward myself with a small, thoroughly deserved snack.

  There was a knock on the door. I flicked the half-eaten Mars Bar into an open drawer with a well-practised movement, rammed it shut with my knee, swallowed hard and called out: ‘Come in!’

  Tuesday’s face appeared. ‘Are you free to see Lucinda?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Tuesday gave me a strange look. ‘You weren’t having lunch or anything?’

  I passed my tongue over my top lip. Mmmm … chocolate … good in one way but maybe not so good in another way.

  ‘No, it won’t be lunchtime for a while yet.’

  Tuesday said nothing, as befits her status as a mere lackey in the Elsie Thirkettle Agency, doubtless silenced by my icy stare. Or maybe she just felt she’d made her point. Whatever.

  ‘I’ll show her in, then,’ she said primly. ‘She wants to talk to you about the Vane biography. You’ll need to lick your chin, too, if you want to get rid of all the chocolate.’

  I looked towards the drawer and wondered if I had time for another bite before having to face Lucinda, but she must have been hovering at Tuesday’s shoulder because she shot into the office the moment Tuesday stepped back. As publishers go, she certainly fell into the small and nippy category.

  ‘So, when will it be ready?’ she demanded.

  ‘Ethelred’s only been working on it for a couple of months,’ I said.

  ‘What does he need to find out, for goodness’ sake? He’s read all Vane’s books, or so you told me. The rest is probably on Wikipedia or somewhere.’

  ‘He’s talking to people who knew him. And to the formerly dead Roger Norton Vane. Vane turning up was a stroke of luck, when you think about it. A real plus. Look, Lucinda, Ethelred can still be rude about him – just enough to really upset him – but without giving Vane any cause to sue you.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said.

  Lucinda considered this. ‘OK. But Ethelred’s not going to make himself too popular.’

  ‘He’s not that popular, anyway. He really isn’t at risk of losing a lot of friends. And frankly, one more person who thinks he’s a tosser won’t make a lot of difference to anything.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. The main thing is speed. Quality isn’t important or we’d have got somebody else to do it. We’ll just do one paperback print run. Interestingly, though, I’ve heard there’s a rival biography on its way – from Tim Macdonald.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Is there?’ I enquired with genuine interest.

  ‘You bloody represent him, Elsie. You represent both of them. You’ve sold the same book to two publishers. What the shit’s going on?’

  It was a good point and deserved due consideration.

  ‘Hmmmm … let me think … Tim … is he writing a biography? … of Roger Norton Vane? For somebody else? I suppose he might be. Just a bit.’

  ‘How much of a bit?’

  ‘The whole of a bit,’ I conceded.

  ‘Well, we’re going to get Ethelred’s out first. Aren’t we, Elsie?’

  That could be tricky since I’d promised Tim’s publisher the same thing and for much the same reason. Still, one of the books was bound to come out first. I couldn’t be wrong in both cases. ‘Yes, of course, Lucinda,’ I said. ‘We shall absolutely get your book finished before the other one.’

  She breathed in, possibly for the first time since she had entered the office, and suddenly sat back in the chair. ‘So what do you make of this guy claiming to actually be Vane? Fake? Or the real deal?’

  ‘Ethelred says real, but then he still believes in Father Christmas. Tim says fake, but he doesn’t believe in anything much.’

  ‘Tim only saw him for a couple of minutes while he was having his speech thrown in his face, and then later when he was being shown the door of his flat. And on the latter occasion he was weeping many bitter tears, according to at least one version of the story. So, how could he tell?’

  ‘Well, what do you think? You knew him. You were his editor for a while, though not for very long, of course.’ I smiled at her sympathetically.

  ‘He’s Roger Norton Vane as I remember him. Smug. Abrasive. Unconcerned about anyone’s interests except his own. The big question is why he chose to come back now.’

  ‘And,’ I said, ‘why he disappeared in the first place. That’s also the big question.’

  ‘His last couple of books were crap,’ said Lucinda, with relish. ‘After he switched publishers he was complete rubbish. Maybe he knew he’d done all he could …’

  I shook my head. ‘Writers never know that,’ I said. ‘Sit them at a desk with a laptop in front of them and they can’t help themselves. Tap, tap, tap. It’s an addiction …’ Which reminded me. I opened the chocolate drawer and took out one I’d begun earlier. I peeled back the wrapper. Chocolate, nougat and caramel caressed my tastebuds. ‘Sorry – would you like one of these? I’ve got another somewhere – a fresh one, obviously.’

  Lucinda shook her head. She was size minus six or something and could have fitted in any number of Mars Bars without noticing it. Maybe her attention was elsewhere. Her loss, not mine. I checked the drawer to see if the other one was indeed within easy reach. It might seem rude if I had to rummage through every single hiding place while Lucinda was talking. Nope, there was one visible. I wouldn’t need to.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ said Lucinda, leaning forward confidentially. ‘I think he realised his career was on the slide and decided to vanish, like Agatha Christie did, for the publicity. But, unlike Christie, there was no banjo player around to recognise him and tip off the press, so he was stuck with what he’d done. He had to stay put in the jungle or look like a complete idiot. Which he was, anyway.’

  ‘Christie had certainly had a row with her other half prior to vanishing,’ I said. ‘Just like Vane and Tim Macdonald. People can do strange things when they’re really pissed off. Christie only got as far as Harrogate, though. Vientiane is a bit extreme. So’s twenty years. It’s too long to be believable in any context except real life. Anyway, why does he come back now? Has he finally written a masterpiece?’

  ‘As if. Plenty of writers go from genius to shite in three books, but nobody goes from shite to genius. Can’t be done. No, he’d just had enough of sweet iced coffee. I tried it in Vietnam. Fun to begin with – a bit like Facebook. Then the nausea sets in. He also might have heard that it was his last chance to come back before he was declared dead and his accumulated royalties were divvied up amongst the undeserving. That must focus your mind a bit.’

  ‘True,’ I said.

  ‘It’s absolutely true,’ she said.

  ‘Totally true.’

  ‘One hundred per cent true.’

  There didn’t seem to be too much I could add to that. A hundred per cent always seems conclusive. A hundred and one per cent, theoretically better, just seems like the first small step
on the long road to infinity and one per cent, a quotient usually recognised only by ten-year-olds.

  Then Lucinda looked straight at me and gave the only good reason to date for wanting Vane to be the real deal. ‘It would have been fun screwing him over when he was dead. But, now I think about it, if we play our cards right, we can have even more fun if he’s actually alive.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Ethelred, with totally unjustified annoyance. I couldn’t see his face, because he was phoning, but it would have been much like Tuesday’s if she’d caught me in the pick-and-mix section when I said I’d popped out to buy stationery.

  ‘Two months,’ I said. ‘I told her you’d have it all tied up by then. Five thousand words a day – you’ll finish with a week or so to spare. You weren’t planning to go anywhere, were you?’

  ‘I might have all sorts of other things to do.’

  ‘Except you don’t,’ I said.

  ‘And what about the quality of what I’m writing?’

  ‘Oh, she’s not worried about that,’ I said. ‘She’d have got Barry Forshaw or Martin Edwards or somebody to do it if she’d wanted it well written.’

  ‘That’s very comforting,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I’m here for, Ethelred,’ I said. ‘To support you and give you that extra little bit of confidence that all second-rate writers need.’

  He told me how grateful he was. Or at least he used those words. He may have meant something else.

  ‘Lucinda wants you to say that the person claiming to be Vane really is him,’ I said. ‘I agreed there would be more money in it that way.’

  ‘More money for whom?’ asked Ethelred.

  ‘Mainly for her but, don’t worry, there’s a bit more for me as well.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I think, anyway. It’s him.’