The Reginald Perrin Omnibus

by David Nobbs

  He sat on the beach and tried to think if there was anything that he’d forgotten. God, he was bad at this. He’d never have made a master crook. When he had convinced himself that there were no more precautions he could take, he set off along the beach for the fourth time. Again he forgot that the suitcase was almost empty, and again he overbalanced. This time he didn’t fall, but he almost twisted his ankle. His nerves were at their raw ends. He felt sure that somebody must have seen his comings and goings, some loving couple or insomniac coastguard.

  He trudged back to the car park. There was the lorry shaped like a jelly, all alone now. There was the sleeping village.

  He walked as casually as he could. His heart was pumping fast. It was absurd to feel so nervous. Murderers evaded detection for weeks on end, with the whole police force hunting them, and their photographs in every paper. And he had an advantage over them. They weren’t masters of disguise, stars of the annual dramatic offerings of Sunshine Desserts.

  He climbed slowly through this windswept ragbag of a place, even its diminutive flint pub lifeless and darkened.

  There was a faint breeze just stirring the notice board outside the tiny chapel of green corrugated iron.

  The houses were thinning out, just a few chalets and bungalows now. Still nobody about. Reggie was terrified of meeting anyone. He was afraid that his beard and wig were hopelessly askew.

  He passed the last house, and began to climb the hill. His clothes were stiff, his new shoes were pinching and his skin felt damp and salty, but he walked more confidently now.

  He heard footsteps and flung himself into the hedge. A drunk passed down the hill, barely five feet from him, weaving unsteadily, singing a monotonous and unrecognizable dirge.

  Reggie set off again, more cautiously, ears alert. Soon the moon came up and its beam lit up a higher range of hills ahead of him.

  He felt ridiculous. The grey trousers were narrow fitting and slightly flared. The shoes were brown suede. The jacket was green with gold buttons. The shirt was orange and had large lapels, and the kipper tie had a Gold Paisley pattern. Everything was too tight. Modern clothes were made for slimfit men with girlish waists, tapered bodies and flared calves.

  What must I look like, he thought, as he plodded along between the windswept hedges in the moonlight. I aimed at something rather distinguished, a sort of respectable Bohemianism. I must look like a trendy quantity surveyor.

  The eastern sky began to pale. Vague shapes turned into trees. The hills ahead of him seemed to grow smaller. Sheep stared at him as if they had never seen a trendy quantity surveyor before.

  He was very tired. His eyes were heavy, his legs ached. He felt cold, despite the mildness of the night.

  He occupied his mind as he walked towards the hills by trying to think of a name for himself. Alastair McTavish? Lionel Penfold? Cedric de Vere Fitzpatrick-Thorneycroft?

  Visibility was good. Every detail of the hills stood out with great clarity, and the sky was shot with high white cloud, tinged faintly with pink. Reggie sensed that the weather was on the blink. Arnold Blink? Barney Rustington? Charles Windsor? He couldn’t go around calling himself Charles Windsor.

  He came to a junction, where the lane forked. Could the signpost give him a clue to his new name? David Dorchester? Barry Bridport? Timothy Lyme-Regis?

  He took the left-hand fork. Ahead of him he could see the narrow lane climbing up the range of hills. The tops of the hills were bare and chalky but their lower slopes were clothed in trees and he decided that he would rest for a while on their carpet of leaves.

  Daniel Leaf? Beerbohm Tree? Colin Hedge?

  Colin. He quite liked that. He felt an incipient Colinnish-ness.

  But Colin what? Colin Watt?

  He approached a gate, and decided to call himself Colin the first thing he saw when he looked over the gate.

  Colin Cowpat?

  He climbed over the gate into the wood, a place of low trees cowering before the south-westerly winds. As soon as he was out of sight of the road, he sank down on to the ground and fell asleep.

  He woke up with a start, listening to the screeching of alarmed jays. For a moment he didn’t know who he was. He was a strange man in strange clothes with a ticklish face, lying on a bed of old leaves. Then it all came back to him.

  God, he was tired. And hungry. How long had he been asleep? The sun was high in the sky.

  He scooped a hollow out of the earth and buried his banker’s card there. It should be safe from everything except moles and truffle hounds.

  He brushed himself clean of leaves and twigs and ladybirds, and set off towards the lane. His legs were like lead.

  He heard a car climbing up the lane, and stood behind a tree, pretending to pee, until it had passed. Then he clambered over the gate.

  The lane climbed between high hedges. It was very hot. Brown birds flitted from bush to bush ahead of him. Sheep peered at him through brambles. The bright blue sky was flecked with confused mares’ tails, as if a squadron of giant aeroplanes had been looping the loop. There was wind up there.

  Who should he claim to be? A salesman? The suitcase suggested that. But what could he be selling, with his case empty? A suitcase salesman, with only one suitcase left to sell?

  At last he reached the main road. He walked along it towards the west, until he came to a bus stop, set in a little lay-by. There was no time-table, and in any case he didn’t know what time it was.

  The holiday traffic whizzed past in both directions, an endless stream of caravans, roof racks, boats on tow, every now and then a plain ordinary car.

  There was an ominous aura of buslessness. Reggie stood at the entrance to the lay-by and tried to thumb a lift. Most of the cars were full of kids, dogs, grannies and snorkelling equipment, but at last a buff Humber slid to an aristocratic halt. Inside were a well-dressed couple, with two chihuahuas.

  ‘Can we take you somewhere?’ asked the man.

  Well, what do you think I was doing, thought Reggie. Thumb-slimming exercises?

  ‘Yes, please. I’m making for Exeter,’ he said.

  ‘Hop in the back.’

  Reggie hopped in the back. The car smelt of cigars, scent and chihuahuas. The control panel was made of varnished wood, and there was an arm-rest in the middle of the back seat.

  ‘I nearly didn’t stop. You looked too hairy,’ said the man.

  ‘We don’t approve of hitch-hikers,’ said the woman. ‘Spongers, we call them.’

  The road dipped and rose among the sharp Dorset hills. On the verges people were erecting elaborate picnics.

  ‘What time is it?’ Reggie asked.

  ‘Quarter to twelve,’ said the woman.

  The chihuahuas barked at him.

  ‘Don’t mind Pyramus and Thisbe,’ said the woman.

  ‘Some kind of artist, are you?’ said the man.

  Reggie’s spirits lifted. Well done, Reggie’s disguise, he thought.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ he said.

  ‘Ah. I thought so,’ said the man.

  ‘What kind of things do you write?’ said the woman.

  ‘Books,’ said Reggie.

  ‘What sort of books?’ said the man.

  ‘Stories,’ said Reggie.

  ‘What are you called? Would we know you?’ said the woman.

  ‘Charles Windsor,’ said Reggie.

  ‘That rings a bell,’ said the woman. ‘We must borrow one of your books from the library.’

  ‘I’ve never written a book,’ said the man. ‘Often thought of it, but I’ve never got around to it.’

  They stopped for a drink at the Smugglers’ Inn, a low thatched pub on top of a hill, surrounded by a vast car park. At the side of the pub was a stall selling teas and ices. They left Pyramus and Thisbe in the car.

  The landlord put on canned music in honour of their arrival. The pub was full of horse-brasses and hunting prints, and a notice above the ‘gents’ announced ‘Here ‘tis’.

  They sat at a table
by the open window. There was a fine view of the car park. Reggie was worried that they would find his appearance odd. It was the first time his beard and wig had been put to the test.

  ‘How do you get the ideas for your books?’ said the man.

  ‘I don’t know. They just come,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it, dear?’ said the man.

  They had two rounds of crab sandwiches each, and then they drove on. There were wisps of grey in the sky.

  Now they were in Devon. Every cottage advertised ‘Devon cream teas’ and every guest house was called ‘The Devonian’. The road wound and twisted through a tangle of wooded hills. There were frequent glimpses of the sea.

  ‘Are you going on holiday?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Boating,’ said the man. ‘Golf. There’s a lot of boating in Devon.’

  ‘There’s a lot of writing in Devon too,’ said Reggie.

  ‘I suppose there would be,’ said the woman.

  It didn’t seem very long before they reached the Exeter by-pass.

  ‘This’ll do me nicely,’ said Reggie.

  He caught a bus into the city centre. There were fine old houses and a modern quarter. He tried several hotels before he found a room.

  Inside the hotel it was deafeningly quiet. He signed his name ‘Charles Windsor’. The desk clerk picked up his case and was so surprised at its lightness that he lost his footing, tripped and hit the gong with the suitcase. When he had picked himself up he looked at Reggie accusingly.

  ‘I’m travelling light,’ said Reggie.

  The man led the way up the stairs. On the first floor landing they met a group of puzzled elderly people coming down to dinner.

  ‘It can’t be dinner, Hubert. We’ve only just had lunch,’ said one of the women.

  ‘I heard the gong, I tell you,’ said a white-haired old man.

  ‘I tripped and banged it by mistake,’ explained the desk clerk.

  He led Reggie to his room. Reggie heard the man say, ‘I told you I heard the gong,’ and the woman said, ‘I knew it wasn’t dinner,’ and someone else said, ‘Did you see that funny man with the beard?’

  Reggie barely noticed his room. He was too tired and too hungry. He went out into the town and had egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, chips and peas, bread and butter and four cups of tea.

  ‘Mr Windsor,’ said the desk clerk on his return.

  Reggie took no notice.

  ‘Mr Windsor!’ called the desk clerk.

  Reggie turned and went up to the desk.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot that was me.’

  The desk clerk gave him a strange look.

  ‘Will you be taking dinner, Mr Windsor?’ he said.

  ‘No. I’m not feeling well,’ said Reggie.

  He went straight upstairs to bed and slept for fourteen hours.

  Monday

  It was shortly after tea-time when the last bus delivered the distinguished architect Mr Wensley Amhurst into the charming Wiltshire village of Chilhampton Ambo. Mr Amhurst was a bearded man with long black hair and a slow, dignified walk. He looked round the little square with every appearance of pleasure, and then disappeared into the Market Inn.

  At the exact moment when Mr Amhurst was making his acquaintance with the comfortable recesses of the aforementioned hostelry. Chief Inspector Gate was conferring with his new assistant. Constable Barker. Mr Amhurst might not have been so happy if he had heard their conversation.

  ‘The fact remains, sir,’ Constable Barker was saying, ‘that we don’t have a body.’

  ‘Maybe we never will. The currents round there are very variable,’ said his superior. ‘Look, Barker, we know he was a sick man. He’d stolen a lorry full of loganberry essence. He’d made a fool of himself at an important conference. He was drinking heavily. A lot of cheques had been stolen from his account.’

  Chief Inspector Gate was a big, florid man whose hobby was double whiskies. Constable Barker was a few inches shorter, and his hobby was detection. Chief Inspector Gate’s qualifications were that he was six foot tall. Constable Barker’s were nine ‘O’ Levels and three ‘A’ levels.

  ‘Couldn’t he have written those cheques himself?’ said Constable Barker, who was pacing nervously round Chief Inspector Gate’s file-infested office.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘As the only way he could get some money to live on, without arousing suspicion. Off he goes, dumps the clothes on the beach, away to a new life.’

  ‘But he has aroused suspicion – yours.’

  Constable Barker blushed.

  ‘Maybe I’ve been too clever for him, sir,’ he said, as the rising wind rattled the window frames. ‘Don’t you agree, sir? Couldn’t he have done that?’

  ‘Of course he could. My auntie could have had balls, and then she’d have been my uncle. We have no evidence. Barker.’

  ‘We have no body.’

  ‘True. Sit down, lad. You’re tiring me out.’

  Constable Barker sat down and faced Chief Inspector Gate across his desk.

  ‘Look, Barker,’ said Chief Inspector Gate pompously, for he had no sons of his own. ‘You’ve been reading too many books. Things like that only happen in books. In books the murder is committed by the least likely person – usually the detective. In life it’s committed by the most likely person –usually the husband or wife. In books it’s always the least likely person who commits suicide. In real life it’s always the dead man himself.’

  Constable Barker stood up, apologized, and sat down again.

  ‘Couldn’t this be the exception that proves the rule, sir?’ he said.

  ‘In books the exception that proves the rule is the rule. In life it’s the exception. No, Barker. Forget it. Save us all a lot of trouble. Damn, it’s raining!’

  ‘I can’t forget it, sir.’

  ‘You’re different from me, Barker. I joined the force because I was six foot tall. My cousin was four foot eleven. He became a jockey. He rode seven hundred and sixty-three winners on the flat. I’d have been a jockey if I’d been four foot eleven. I’d have ridden seven hundred and sixty-three winners on the flat. Life is all a matter of height.’

  Chief Inspector Gate walked over to the window and looked out over the emptying main street of the seaside town. Nobody had brought umbrellas.

  ‘But you’ve got a sense of vocation,’ he said. ‘That’s why you always wear green socks and drink pernod.’

  ‘I like green socks and pernod,’ said Constable Barker.

  ‘No. You’re creating your mystique. They’re Maigret’s pipe and Hercule Poirot’s moustache. You dream of the day when you’ll be Barker of the Yard. I knew I could never reach the top, not with my name. Gate of the Yard. You try too hard. You see things that aren’t there. British detection is based upon a sound principle – things are as they seem until proved otherwise.’

  Chief Inspector Gate sat down again. Constable Barker sighed and stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I have a hunch that he’s still alive.’

  ‘A hunch? Your nine ‘O’ levels and your three ‘A’ levels and all your books on criminology, and you have a hunch?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s different. A good policeman never ignores a hunch. All right, Barker. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.’ It had grown unnaturally dark in the office as the storm deepened. ‘We’ll see if anyone can give us a description of the man who signed those cheques. We’ll consult a handwriting expert. We’ll go over that bloody beach with a toothcomb. If there’s anything to find out, we’ll find it out. All right? Satisfied?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Come on, Barker of the Yard. It’s going to piss down in a minute. I’ll buy you a double pernod.’

  The Market Inn was full but Reggie managed to get a room at the Crown.

  it’s the last one, sir. Right at the back, I’m afraid. We’re absolutely choc-a-bloc,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Why are you so ful
l?’ said Reggie.

  ‘We’re always full, sir. This is a show place.’

  is it?’

  The receptionist looked surprised.

  ‘Of course it is, sir. Name?’

  ‘Wensley Amhurst,’ said Reggie.

  His room was small and impersonal. The carpet and bedspread were bright yellow and the walls were white. There was a green telephone beside the bed.

  He washed, opened the window wide, breathed in the warm Wiltshire air. There was a fresh breeze, and it smelt of rain. To the left, tucked away from the village, was a council estate, grey pebble-dash houses. They hadn’t been there when he was a boy. In the background was farming country and beech woods.

  He went for a walk around the village, working up his thirst, trying to walk like a distinguished architect. He didn’t feel at all like a Wensley Amhurst yet.

  It was all much smaller than he remembered. Stone houses, mainly, and a few half-timbered. Lots of thatch, immaculately kept.

  He was drawn up Sheep Lane, towards the house where Angela Borrowdale had lived. He could still picture her riding breeches but not her face.

  The house was an antique shop now. Chilhampton Ambo boasted three pubs, five antique shops, one grocers-cum-post office, and a boutique. Monstrous china dogs gazed out where once Angela Borrowdale, the unattainable, had sat.

  Reggie had once sent her an anonymous note: ‘Meet me behind Boulter’s Barn. Tuesday. Nine p.m. An admirer.’ She hadn’t come, of course, and it gave him the hot flushes to think of that note now.

  He wandered back down Sheep Lane, somewhat saddened. The old buildings were covered now with the little accessories of modern life – television aerials, junction boxes, burglar alarms. The little street was filled with middle-class married couples, walking slowly, wives slightly in front of husbands, admiring the antiques, popping into the little grocer’s and buying a pot of local jam for only twopence more than the same jam would have cost in London.

  Swifts and swallows flew high up in their grey paradise of insects. Reggie entered the Market Inn, where he had drunk his very first pint of bitter, long ago.

  The public bar had gone, along with its darts and skittles. It was one big lounge, filled with reproduction antiques. The Italian barmen wore red jackets. Reggie ordered a pint of bitter and stood at the bar.