‘I thought it was home-made,’ Atherton said, amused.
Piers looked at him. ‘Not by me. Good Lord, I’m nothing of a cook! No, I have an absolute treasure who comes in. My “lady who does”. She cleans, cooks, soothes the brow when fevered, and looks after the doggies when I’m away travelling – doesn’t she, woofies? Doesn’t dear old Aunty Marjie look after my wuffle-buffles, then?’ The dogs looked adoring and waggled their bottoms ecstatically. ‘The trouble is,’ he added in a normal voice, ‘that she’s frightfully keen on wholemeal nourishment and regular bowel movements. Just like an old-fashioned nanny! So, let me whisk away this abrasive nourishment—’ He swept the soup bowl up, ‘and put on some nice, evil, caffeine-loaded coffee. How do you take it? Why don’t you two chaps go and make yourselves comfortable in the drawing-room, and I’ll bring it in. Too sordid, sitting in the kitchen with the left-overs!’
The change of room was not a change for the better, for the drawing-room was chill and smelled of mushrooms, but at least it was a chance to have a look round.
‘This bloke’s a babbling brook,’ Atherton complained when they were alone. ‘We’ll be lucky to get out of here before Easter.’
Slider raised his eyebrows. ‘In a hurry? Got some major appointment you’ve been keeping from me?’
‘I thought we had a date,’ Atherton said. ‘You, me and a couple of pints of the amber foaming.’ The dogs pattered in and stood just inside the doorway watching them. ‘Watch out, guv,’ Atherton hissed. ‘Two people in dog suits at twelve o’ clock. Don’t touch the silver.’
Slider was making a round of the framed photographs which decorated almost every surface. Here was a 1950s black and white snapshot of the Prentiss boys aged about ten and six, with, presumably, their mother and father, standing together on a windy clifftop. The children’s faces seemed a nice blend of the parents’ different features, with Josh perhaps favouring his spectacularly beautiful mother slightly more, and Piers his rather long-faced father. Even at that age Josh was the more physically attractive, and looked straight at the camera with the winning smile of one who had no doubts he would be liked. Piers seemed to be drawing back, pressing against his mother, his eyes sliding uncertainly sideways, his smile required and perfunctory. Always overshadowed by his brother, Slider thought. A slight rearrangement of the same genes, and you had less of everything – good looks, charm, confidence and success. A first-class and a second-class son. There were things to be said, after all, for being an only child.
Josh featured in lots of the photographs. Here was another of the two boys together, this time kneeling with their arms round two Weimaraners; now a formal picture of them, mid teens, standing behind their seated father with a hint of pillars and chandeliers behind them – some embassy or foreign palace? Another, in their late teens and leaning on the rail of a ship. Here was a wedding photograph, Josh in morning suit and Noni thin as a rail and vividly dark in full white fig, Piers with top hat in hand, head turned, looking out to the side of the picture as though he didn’t belong to the group.
Those that didn’t feature Josh were of Piers – alone, with dogs, or with various men; the various men alone; and the progress of some children who Slider assumed were Josh’s son and daughter. He was interested to note that there was no photograph of Phoebe Agnew anywhere – and also none of Peter Medmenham.
He was just working his way round to the piano and the last crop when Piers Prentiss came in with a tray, preceded by the smell of coffee. ‘Here we are! Now let’s sit down and be comfortable.’ He saw Atherton glance at the clock and said, ‘I’m not going to worry about opening the shop again. I hardly ever get passing trade on a weekday anyway, and everyone else knows to try here if the shop’s shut. So we can take our time.’
‘I was just looking at your photographs,’ Slider said. ‘I hoped you might have one of Phoebe Agnew.’
‘There’s one on the bookcase,’ Piers said. He put down the tray on the coffee table and crossed the room, and then paused, puzzled. ‘Well, that’s odd. There was one here. It’s gone. It was a rather nice one, of Phoebe, Josh and me in Josh’s garden. What on earth could have happened to it? I suppose Marjorie must have moved it.’ He made a rapid scan of the room, and shrugged. ‘I’ll have to ask her what she’s done with it. I’ve got lots of others, though, unframed. I’ll get the box out if you like. But first – coffee.’
He poured and handed it, and then from a cupboard in the chimney corner produced a bottle of Caol Ila. ‘You’ll indulge in a little pousse-café? Do you care for malt whisky?’
‘I’m rather a fan,’ Slider said. Atherton refused, on the grounds that he was driving, and Piers poured two large ones, and then took an armchair facing them, with the dogs at his feet. ‘I didn’t see any photos of Peter Medmenham, either,’ Slider said, when they were settled. He sipped his malt, and noticed with mild satisfaction that Piers drank more deeply of his. ‘He told me that you had been friends for many years.’
‘Oh, poor Peter!’ Piers said, but sounded quite detached about it. ‘Did he tell you that our ways have parted?’
‘He seems to hope they haven’t really,’ Slider said.
‘Yes, that’s what Thursday’s little visit was all about. I’d spent Wednesday night with Richard, and we’d planned to have the weekend together, and I couldn’t risk Peter barging in on us, so I decided it was time to tell him it was over. Then he insisted on coming over on Thursday night to persuade me that my new love was just a fling, a will-o’-the-wisp leading me from the true path.’
‘And it isn’t?’
‘No,’ he said, quite serious for once. ‘If you’d seen how sorry Richard was to leave me on Thursday morning, you’d know. I’m sorry about Peter, because we’ve been together a long time, and I hate to hurt anyone, but the thing with Richard is on a different plane altogether. That’s why I took down the photos of Peter. Richard didn’t like them being there. I explained it to Peter and tried to be nice about it – I even offered him the photos, frames and all, which was generous because they were solid silver and rather nice – but he just got hysterical and started throwing things—’
‘The orange juice?’
Piers raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, he told you that, did he? It made an awful mess – orange juice is so sticky! I was furious. And then he just walked out.’ He finished his whisky and reached for the bottle. ‘Top-up?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
‘But Peter always was too emotional. He says it’s the artistic temperament but you can put that another way and say it’s pure theatrics. He plays to the gallery the whole time. Richard’s so different. He’s serious. You’d never believe he was only twenty-eight. He’s made me see how superficial Peter always was. And if we’re talking talent,’ he added emphatically, opening his eyes wide, ‘Richard’s in a whole different class. To have got as far as he has at such an early age—’ He stopped. ‘This is all confidential, isn’t it?’
‘Unless there’s anything that bears on the case.’
‘Oh, well I’m sure it doesn’t. But Richard doesn’t want anyone to know about him and me, and he made me swear not to tell anyone. And I haven’t, until now, but this is different, isn’t it? But we have to be discreet, because when I tell you that he’s Giles’s junior minister – do you know Giles Freeman?’
‘Only by name,’ Slider said.
‘Best way,’ Piers snorted. ‘He’s the most utterly poisonous toad in the whole Government! Career mad, like all of them, but he’s ruthless, and wildly jealous of Richard, naturally, since it’s obvious to the most meagre intelligence – a category Giles only just manages to scrape into – that Richard has more talent in his little finger than Giles has in his whole repulsive body! So naturally he’s afraid that Richard is going to oust him; and there’s a certain amount of homophobia involved – Giles makes a point of being Norman Normal. Anyway, he’s just longing for Richard to lose his footing. He daren’t move against him openly because Richard has the PM�
�s ear, but if there were a scandal …’ He looked anxiously from one to the other. ‘So we have to be discreet. I hope I can trust you?’
Atherton raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that sort of thing was a problem any more,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s not a crime. And there are lots of gay MPs, aren’t there – and several in the Cabinet, come to that. Why should Richard Tyler be worried about your relationship?’
Slider felt a surge of gratitude as Atherton slipped the surname in for his benefit. Now at last he knew who they were talking about. He didn’t manage to keep up with the intricacies of politics, the way Atherton did, but even he had heard of Richard Tyler, the party’s golden boy.
‘The relationship isn’t the problem,’ Piers said sharply, as though he had been very much afraid that it was. ‘But any adverse publicity – you know what this Government’s like. So we’ve always been discreet. We make a point of not being seen in public places together. And Richard phoned me on Friday, the moment he heard about Phoebe’s death, and said that in view of my connection with her through Josh we must be doubly sure to keep our relationship an absolute secret. The slightest hint of being mixed up in anything undesirable could ruin his career – and Richard’s one of the real high-flyers,’ he added proudly. ‘He’ll be in the Cabinet if the next reshuffle goes the way it’s expected. And then – well, the sky’s the limit, provided he keeps his footing. He could be the youngest ever prime minister.’
Slider recalled that only a few weeks ago a Cabinet Minister had been sacked for what had been called an ‘error of judgement’ in a Birmingham knocking-shop. It was the same sort of euphemism as a footballer ‘bringing the game into disrepute’, meaning, when it came down to it, being mentioned in the newspapers in anything but a flattering context. Yes, the need for discretion was obvious, though Slider thought it a touch of paranoia too far to worry about merely knowing the brother of a man who had been questioned by the police about a murder.
But despite having been enjoined to absolute secrecy, Piers was only too eager to talk about his new love, and as he sipped his way down the malt, he grew more expansive and descriptive, hardly needing Slider’s little prompting questions to keep him going. He wanted to tell, and Slider saw something of the truth of what Peter Medmenham had told him, that Piers craved company, and was not happy with his own. The opportunity was all the justification he needed to unpocket himself.
In fact, as the story unrolled, Slider began to feel sorry for Piers Prentiss. He had met Richard Tyler through his brother’s involvement with the DOE – some political drinkie-do or other – and it was clear that he had been bowled over by the dynamic young man with the friends in high places. What Tyler had seen in Piers was naturally pure conjecture, but Atherton, with more knowledge of the protagonists than Slider, suspected that it had less to do with the heart than the head. Piers was brother to Josh, who, at the time of first meeting, had been very hot in Government circles; Piers knew a great many showbiz personalities, which could be useful to an ambitious politician; Piers was independently wealthy, and political success never came cheaply.
Slider’s different knowledge, of the way these affairs went, read between the lines and gathered that Piers had been Peter Medmenham’s boy for a long time, and was now enjoying the heady sensation of having a boy of his own. He had been the junior partner and was now the senior, the one flattered and looked up to for his greater knowledge and experience. There was pride in having been chosen by such a demigod; and, it had to be suspected, there was some satisfaction in having swapped Peter’s ageing flesh for Richard’s young firm stuff.
But Richard was not going to be constant and available as Peter had been. Already the change of partner had left Piers lonely and rather lost, and being sworn to secrecy was depressing him, when he longed to publish his success and be seen arm in arm with Apollo at opening nights and fashionable restaurants. When the time came and the golden boy dropped him, as he had dropped Peter, he was going to be very lonely indeed. The number of times he assured them that the new relationship was the real thing and would last for ever, suggested that Piers knew that time was not far round the corner.
It was all very sad; but apart from confirming Medmenham’s alibi, it didn’t get them any further forward on the case, so as soon as a pause presented itself, Slider said, ‘You were going to show me a photograph of Phoebe Agnew.’
‘Oh, Lord, yes – d’you know, I’d completely forgotten what you came here for,’ he said lightly. ‘Poor Phoebe.’
Poor Phoebe indeed, Slider thought. He hadn’t yet met anyone who seemed genuinely devastated by her loss. Perhaps that was her own fault, but his natural bent was to side with the underdog, and he didn’t like to think that anyone should leave the fretted globe without some tears shed for them, even if they had made policemen’s lives a burden during their tenancy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Half an oaf is better than low bred
Piers Prentiss went away to fetch photographs, and when they were alone, Atherton said, ‘Obviously it’s bye-bye lunch. I assume you are going somewhere with this?’
‘Nice of you to assume that,’ Slider said.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it the way it came out.’
‘We’ve got him talking now. You never know what will emerge,’ Slider said. ‘I just feel that somewhere in the silt at the bottom of the Prentiss pond is the information we need to understand what happened. We can’t ask Josh because we can’t trust what he tells us, but if we stir Piers’s mud—’
‘I see,’ Atherton said. ‘You’re draining the moat to catch a mackerel.’
‘Exactly: setting a sprat to catch a thief. But actually I’m trawling rather than fishing. I don’t know what I want to catch, but I hope I’ll know it when I see it.’
‘You have been listening to What’s My Metaphor,’ Atherton announced. ‘Tune in next week for—’
He broke off as Piers’s footsteps sounded outside the door. He came back in with a large cigar box in his hands. ‘Here we are.’ He glanced from one to the other as if to guess what they had been doing while he was away. ‘Can I get you some more coffee before I sit down? Sure? Right, well, let’s see what we’ve got here.’
The box was full of photographs, and Atherton felt a doomed premonition that they were going to have to look at every one; but Piers shuffled through them as if looking for specifics. He handed one across to Slider. ‘That was in the spring of ’69. On our way to an anti-Vietnam rally. Goodness, we were young!’
Atherton leaned across and Slider held it between them. Both Prentiss boys, familiar now from other photos, sitting on a wall; Josh in the middle with his arms round the thin, dark Noni on one side, and on the other what must be Phoebe Agnew, with Piers at the end of the row beside Noni, looking as if he wasn’t sure how he’d got there. Tagging along, just tolerated – the fate of younger brothers.
All four were wearing jeans, and the boys had girly haircuts like embryo busbies, as was the fashion then. Noni, neat and tidy, with short-cut hair, make-up, and a smart jacket over her jeans, sat with her knees together and her hands in her lap, looking like an office worker rather than a student. Phoebe had a magnificent, if unkempt, mane of curls which seemed to blow in a wind all her own; her many-layered clothes looked shabby and untidy, and Slider would have bet that her fingernails were dirty; but she stared out into the world with the bright-eyed challenge of Xena the Warrior Princess, and the others paled into insignificance beside her – even Josh. While his arm round Noni’s shoulders looked possessive and protective, the one round Phoebe’s looked as if he was trying to hold down a wild horse with a piece of garden twine.
‘They were all in their first year at university. I was still at Eton, of course. Father was furious that they got me involved – I was only sixteen. But of course it was Phoebe’s idea first and last – everything always was. She was the political one. Whether it was Vietnam or Chile or nuclear weapons, there she was, protesting. Josh went along
for the fun, and because it was the done thing for students – and to annoy Father, which was practically his mission in life in those days. Noni was never really interested in politics at all, but where Phoebe led, she followed.’ He brought out another photo. ‘Here they are – best friends. I think that must have been at the Notting Hill Carnival.’
The two women with a crowd in the background; Phoebe’s arm round Noni’s shoulders, bowing her a little as she leaned forward to the camera, her mouth wide open in a shout or exaggerated laughter, the other arm in the air with the fist closed round a can – only Coca-Cola, though. The wild corkscrew curls waved around the vivid face in sharp contrast to the neat dark head and reserved expression of her companion.
‘I wonder what brought them together?’ Slider said. ‘Was it a case of “opposites attract”, do you think?’
‘Yes, poor Noni, she does look a bit overshadowed, doesn’t she?’ Piers said, taking the photo back. ‘And when you look at what’s happened since, Phoebe’s always outshone her. Her acting career never really took off, in spite of everything Josh could do. When they were first married, he made a point of courting producers and directors – though between ourselves he enjoyed every minute of it,’ he added archly. ‘He always loved the luvvies – still does. And of course, they love him – which is why he’s got an award for set designing, while Noni’s got nothing.’
‘When did they marry?’
‘April 1970. Straight after graduating, Josh got himself into a firm of architects and started making friends with the world, and Noni got herself into LAMDA, and then they got married. Father was furious. He wanted Josh to marry one of our set: Noni was a suburban nobody. He’d always planned to buy Josh a house when he married, but that was all off when he married Noni. Josh didn’t care – he liked showing he could do everything by his own power. So they lived in a dreadful little rented flat in Earl’s Court to begin with – not that I thought it dreadful at the time, of course. I’d just started at Oxford and spent my weekends and every hour I could with them. My dear, the glamour of that pair, to a callow, pimply student!’
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