Herring in the Smoke

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Then it would probably have been one of the other boys who had travelled down with me. Or somebody he’d picked up. One or the other. Not me – I’d remember if it was.’

  ‘Ogilvie was close by that evening,’ I said. ‘The night that Roger Vane was killed, he was driving back to London from his constituency.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it would have been him all those years ago. A very unlikely sexual partner for Vane, all things considered. Girls were his problem. No end of girls round him. His father had to pay one off – messy business.’

  ‘But would he have heard the story?’

  ‘Oh yes, Vane boasted of it all the time. I think most of the school knew. However, it does sound as if the killer was this actor fellow. So, if the police ask you, there’s no need for you to mention I was in Chichester. Or even that I was in Selsey. What I told you was in complete confidence. One gentleman to another. Not for the biography. Not for the police. Ogilvie knows, but I can trust him totally.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ I said. ‘Of course, not including it in my biography is within my power. But I can’t withhold anything from the police, if they ask me, much though I’d like to help you.’

  ‘So you’d like to help me?’

  It was difficult under the circumstances to retract my casually given assurance.

  ‘If I can,’ I said cautiously.

  He patted me on the arm. ‘Thank you. Then I’m sure you’ll find a way of keeping it quiet. I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, but nobody likes being a horrid little sneak, do they?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Excellent. I think I’ll have just one more of those delicious pains au chocolat, then I’ll leave you to pay the bill and I’ll get back to Selsey if you’ll excuse me. I don’t want to miss lunch.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve been much help.’

  I had spent two hours at the police station, going through CCTV footage with Joe. We’d looked at the records of one camera after another – different streets, different passers-by, but all with the same lonely, cold midnight air to them.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Joe. ‘You’ve been able to rule one or two people out. Let’s take another look at that one close to the Cross.’

  He brought up the relevant camera and we watched again. A tallish man in an overcoat and hat went past, collar up, head down.

  ‘It could be Davies,’ I said. ‘It’s not easy to tell, especially when you can see so little of the face.’

  ‘If so, he was about five minutes away from the alleyway at about the right time. He could have cut through one of the side streets … But we know that isn’t Ogilvie, because this is …’

  This time the screen showed a car park. There were only two or three cars visible, but somebody got out of one of them and took out his phone. For a while he seemed intent on his call. Then he got back in the car and drove slowly away.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s Ogilvie.’

  ‘Dressed completely differently from our man seen at the Cross. And we’ve traced the car to a hire company. Very clever him feeding you the registration details of a car he knew he wasn’t using.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Here are the call records from Vane’s phone,’ said Joe. ‘Quite a few calls that day. Any numbers you recognise?’

  ‘That’s my number,’ I said. ‘He phoned me during the morning to ask if he could stay with me.’

  ‘The next one’s his lawyer – Ogilvie. We googled the number. Vane phoned him at his office.’

  ‘Yes, Ogilvie said.’

  ‘And he told both of you there’d been an attempt on his life?’ asked Joe.

  ‘That’s what he led me to believe. Ogilvie said it was more of a threat than an actual attempt. He didn’t tell either of us exactly what had happened. He liked to hold things back for a dramatic reveal at the right moment – a crime writer to the bitter end.’

  ‘OK – then there’s another number here that we can’t trace at all. Two calls received by Vane – one in the morning. One about 11.00 that evening – the last call, in fact, before he died.’

  ‘So that’s the one inviting him to a rendezvous in the alleyway?’ I asked.

  ‘By the look of it. Then there’s this one – received around midnight and corresponding to the time of the call made by Ogilvie from the car park.’

  ‘Suggesting Ogilvie didn’t know he was dead?’

  ‘Or that’s what he’d like us to believe,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t forget that Ogilvie tried to lead us up the garden path with that number plate thing. So a call to a dead man that he knew would not be answered … That would be clever, wouldn’t it? But a more likely sequence of events is this. Vane has asked to see him. Around midnight he passes by Chichester. He stops to make a call – perhaps to check which hotel Vane is staying in. He gets no reply. He is not best pleased, but he simply carries on to London. Later he hears Vane has been killed at about the time he was passing through. He knows we’ll be looking at CCTV. He gives you the number of his car, which is safe in the garage in London, or wherever, and hopes we won’t spot him in the car park.’

  ‘Probably,’ I said.

  ‘So, the big question is this: is this mobile number that appears twice Johnston’s?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be.’

  ‘In that case – and this has been worrying me for a while – how did he get Vane’s number? When Johnston knew Vane twenty-odd years before, mobile phones scarcely existed. Even if Vane had a mobile then, it’s unlikely he would have still had the same number now. So, it’s improbable that Johnston simply had the number. In which case, who gave it to him? Nobody has admitted to ever seeing the man, let alone giving him Vane’s phone number.’

  I looked again at the digits on the paper. They were a bit familiar. I checked my own phone.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said pointing to it. ‘It’s not Johnston. It’s Dr Jonathan Slide. He’s staying down here. And he had the number because Ogilvie gave it to him.’

  The words ‘horrid little sneak’ crossed my mind, but if Dr Slide wished me to play fair with him, then he might have told me that he phoned the deceased shortly before he was coshed to death in an alleyway. It was not a completely irrelevant fact.

  ‘Two calls from Slide, then. That’s the old boy that Vane wrote about in his books?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Dr Slide was in fact in a bar in Chichester that evening. He also told me that Vane had lost his virginity in an alleyway in Chichester.’

  ‘And that had some connection with the murder?’

  ‘He implied it might.’

  ‘But he had no evidence of that?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Odd thing to say, then.’

  ‘He’s an odd man.’

  ‘So, Slide had Vane’s number. He phoned him in the morning – is that the death threat? Then he arranged to meet Vane that evening …’

  ‘If it was a death threat, why would Vane agree to meet him in a dark alleyway just before midnight?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Vane wasn’t frightened of him?’

  ‘He was concerned enough to leave London at short notice,’ I said.

  ‘And go to Sussex, where he knew Slide was? That does seem to be taking unnecessary risks.’

  I tried to remember what Vane had told me. Somebody had tried to kill him, so he had to come down to Sussex. But had he specifically said he was running scared? He said he needed to do something straight away. Something that wouldn’t wait. Then the thought occurred to me: had Vane lured Slide to the alleyway rather than the other way round?

  ‘It sounds as if we should speak to Dr Slide sooner rather than later,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’ve got his mobile number,’ I said. ‘If you can’t hear him properly, just tell him to turn the phone the other way up and speak into the mouthpiece.’

  ‘You haven’t heard from Vane’s niece, Cynthia, I sup
pose?’ said Joe.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll track her down too. She’d obviously followed him to Sussex. We think she may have been spying on him before that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘One of Vane’s neighbours reported a small, plump woman acting suspiciously outside Vane’s flat – she sat around in the square gardens for a long time, then, as soon as Vane left, she let herself into the building. Very unsubtle. She later left carrying what appeared to be a bag of CDs.’

  ‘That was my agent,’ I said. ‘She has a key.’

  ‘Well, I hope she doesn’t plan further visits until we’ve finished searching the flat. It’s pretty obvious to the meanest intelligence that that wouldn’t be advisable, of course …’

  ‘I’d better give her a call and tell her,’ I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Elsie

  ‘So, what next?’ Tim asked.

  ‘You search the bedroom, I’ll take the living room,’ I said. ‘This place has to be packed with clues.’

  My phone rang. I checked it. It was Ethelred. I ignored it. There are some things that you know instinctively will wait an hour or two. I switched the phone to silent, because Ethelred can sometimes be quite irritating if you don’t respond and will phone you every few minutes until you do.

  ‘I’m not sure we should be here,’ said Tim. ‘The policeman said not to. And technically it isn’t mine until probate has been obtained.’

  ‘It’s your home, Tim,’ I assured him. ‘You have every right to be here and, as your agent, I have fifteen per cent of the same right. Plus VAT where applicable.’

  We looked round the room.

  ‘Who put that hideous picture there?’ asked Tim, pointing to Roger Vane in his uncredited TV role.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I’d assumed you had.’

  ‘Me? Put a picture of that dreadful man up on the wall? You must be joking.’

  ‘OK, it wasn’t you, then. So Roger must have done it. What was there before?’

  ‘One of me, of course. Collecting an award. Best-illustrated children’s book.’

  Fair enough. Roger Vane had returned to the flat to discover a photo of his former lover and confessed assailant beaming down from the wall, tacky statuette in hand, and had substituted one of himself. I might have done the same.

  ‘We’ll bin it,’ I said. ‘The picture of you can’t have gone far.’

  ‘If he’s thrown it away, I’ll kill him,’ said Tim.

  ‘When the police question you …’ I said.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. I’ll be careful what I say. I bore him no ill will. His death came as a complete shock.’

  ‘Keep repeating that.’ I said. ‘You can write the book in prison. Loads of people do. But you’d be more comfortable writing it here. Now the flat is legally yours … or will be very shortly … it would be a shame to write anywhere else. You no longer get all the cash, of course, but the flat at least is left completely to you.’

  ‘Why did he give Cynthia that money?’ asked Tim. ‘Just before he died. It’s so unfair.’

  ‘In the sense that you’d split up with Roger Vane and had done your best to kill him, but you still feel entitled to a hundred per cent of his stuff?’

  ‘Put like that …’

  ‘Of course, if the payment was in some way fraudulent, you’d have a case for getting it back.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, brightening up. ‘I would.’

  Eventually we agreed that I’d take the bedroom while he took the sitting room and hunted for his awards picture. That was fine by me. I knew my way round the wardrobe quite well already.

  Actually, the wardrobe was fairly empty. The section I’d hidden in before had a number of suits, which, now I had time to consider them properly, were mainly old ones, dating back to his pre-disappearance days. Men’s suits have changed surprisingly little over the past twenty years – only the odd detail gave them away. There were one or two Savile Row ones – worth keeping. One or two from various chain stores. An old rowing blazer with green piping and a red dragon on the pocket. A sports jacket. Trousers to match. Jeans. A leather jacket. Some sweaters. There was also a new, blue overcoat. On the shelves were a variety of shirts, including about six new ones from M&S, four still in their wrappers. Pants and socks – all new as far as I could see, also M&S. In the other half of the wardrobe there were several bulging black plastic sacks. Otherwise it was empty. A work in progress, one might say.

  I called Tim in.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I never touched Roger’s half of the wardrobe. I had this thing that, if I threw anything out, he might suddenly come back and ask where all his clothes were. So, I just made do with my half. Occasionally I’d get things out and brush them or shake them or refold them. I have to say that I think it’s a bit much I looked after his things so nicely and he just dumps mine in plastic bags.’

  ‘So Roger’s half is much as it was?’

  ‘I don’t recognise those shirts. Oh, and he seems to have thrown out all his old socks and underwear. I can’t quite see why. They were scarcely out of fashion.’

  ‘So, there’s the old stuff he had before you went to Thailand and new stuff he’s bought since his return?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘That seems to cover it. One or the other.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  ‘No,’ said Tim. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the living room,’ I said.

  Tim had assembled one or two of his own things on the floor, ready to take them back to my flat. The picture of Roger had, I noticed, been replaced by one of himself.

  ‘So, any sign of a passport or driving licence?’ I asked.

  ‘Not here. He might have taken them to Chichester with him.’

  ‘Yes, he might.’

  I wandered round the room, checking bookshelves, opening drawers.

  ‘I’ve done all that,’ said Tim.

  ‘So, in that case, you’ll finally have to agree it’s odd?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Think of his wardrobe – clothes from before he left, clothes from after he got back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s been twenty years in Laos. Did he buy nothing there? I went to Vietnam for a couple of weeks. Came back with my suitcase stuffed with clothes – all well made, cheap, classy. Dresses. Jackets. Skirts. Trousers, made to measure. Shoes made to measure. It’s one of the things you do there – clothes shopping. Tailors touting for business all over. Fake designer stuff everywhere. Laos ought to be much the same. Even if it’s a pale shadow of the shops in Hội An, you’d have at least expected a few shirts, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. Maybe he was just travelling light.’

  ‘Why would he do that if he was coming back here to live?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And then no passport with any Lao visas, no Lao driving licence, no paperback with a price in Lao dollars or Baht or Dong or whatever they have. No airport taxi receipts in a strange script? No plastic bags with the name of some Lao department store on the side. No Lao loose change in his bedside table. I’ve checked. In short, nothing – absolutely nothing – to suggest Roger Vane ever went to Laos.’

  ‘So, where was he all that time?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I wonder if Cynthia knows and whether what she knew was worth a million pounds.’

  ‘To what do I owe this honour, Elsie?’ asked George.

  ‘I just thought I’d drop by. Chew the fat. Hang out. It’s been a while.’

  ‘No it hasn’t. Always delighted to see you, of course, but this isn’t a casual chat.’

  ‘You are as astute as ever, George.’

  ‘I detected no trace of sarcasm at all in that last remark. Now I’m really worried. What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about Roger Norton Vane,’ I said. ‘You represent him. You are his agent.’

  ‘I now represent his estate,’ said
George. ‘Much preferable in many ways to representing a living author.’

  ‘Was he still giving you grief over missing royalties?’

  ‘No. We seemed to have resolved that one. He came round, we went through the figures. He saw that it all added up. He was annoyed I’d paid some tax he thought we could have avoided, but you can’t hold off the Revenue for twenty years, assuring them that you’ll put in a tax return as soon as your client shows up again.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘His only concern was that I should chase up some foreign royalties that were due. One or two publishers had taken liberties with our cash flow. He said he needed the money. I couldn’t quite see it myself – he had a couple of million clear. Still, I said I’d get in anything that was owing – it probably amounted to ten or fifteen thousand – not peanuts but less than he thought. He didn’t seem to realise – or maybe I should say didn’t seem to remember – how the royalty system works. A publisher may account for sales for a period from March to October but that doesn’t mean you get paid for that period on November the first. Far from it.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘Still, once an author has seen their first royalty statement they work it all out. They go back and read their contracts and are sadder but wiser.’

  ‘True. But he’d apparently forgotten it all during his stay in the jungle. So I explained it all over again. All he wanted, he said when I’d finished, was as much as I could get as fast as I could get it. I could see he’d want everything he was owed, but I couldn’t see why a week or two made that much difference to him. Unless there was some demand on his finances I knew nothing about.’

  ‘Was he also pushing you to get an advance on his next book?’

  ‘Not at all. If he needed money it would have been an obvious source of funds, but he never suggested that.’

  ‘Had he written anything in his time in Laos?’

  ‘Not that he ever mentioned.’

  ‘Did he say that he had plans for future books?’