“Oh look,” he said. “It’s Snowball!”
27. WEEDING
“You didn’t forget to look at the records,” said Tinkler. “Just because somebody tried to kill you?”
“No, actually,” I said, pouring him a coffee. “I looked at them.”
“That’s the spirit. Ignore these irrelevancies.”
“But it was a complete bust.” I poured myself a coffee. Tinkler’s face fell.
“Why? I thought Valerian’s crew would have left a load of stuff there.”
“They did. But this material was divided neatly into two categories. First, records that belonged to the blokes in the band and various hangers on, all of which were invariably completely trashed. It wasn’t just a case of them having rolled joints on the covers. In some cases it looked like someone had tried to smoke the vinyl itself. Pity, because there would have been some nice items otherwise.”
“Shit,” said Tinkler. “So what was the second category?”
“A collection of several hundred LPs that were in really nice shape. But all classical. If you were looking for the masterworks of some joker called Beethoven on a record label called Deutsche Grammophon, you would have been in luck.”
“Whose record collection was that?”
“Cecilia’s, of course.”
“Not Valerian’s?”
I said, “As far as I can tell, Valerian didn’t listen to records. Maybe she didn’t like music.”
“So you didn’t find anything at all?”
“I found a photo,” I said. “In the Evil Elf family album.” I showed it to him. It was a faded Polaroid of Valerian and Cecilia in bathing suits. They were splashing around in a kids’ paddling pool, but they were both clearly in their twenties—at the height of their brief fame and young power. The pool was full of inflatable toys and bobbing wine bottles. The sisters were laughing and larking about, and it was clear that it was the Summer of Love and certain substances had been smoked.
Tinkler studied it. “Bathing suit shot. So were the Evil Elfs perving over this? Is it Evil Elfs or Elves?”
“Elves,” called Nevada from the kitchen. “It’s like wolf and wolves.”
“It’s like wolf and wolves,” said Tinkler, handing me back the photo. He seemed a little despondent. Perhaps at the prospect of hundreds of records that weren’t early British R&B or rock but classical instead. What right did they have to exist? But then he perked up. “Boy was I relieved when it turned out there wasn’t a dead child in that box after all. Do you know why?”
“By ‘that box’ you mean your drinks cabinet.”
“Yes, it’s coming on nicely, by the way. I’m going to have strip lighting inside it. What was I saying?”
“You were really relieved.”
“That’s right. And not just for all the obvious reasons, but also because—”
“Because it meant you could distribute your tasteless t-shirts.”
Tinkler nodded happily. “That’s right!”
Nevada came in from the kitchen. “And by ‘distribute’ we mean give one to Clean Head.” She sat down beside me and I poured her a coffee.
“You two got yours!” said Tinkler. “And while we’re on the subject, I want to see you wearing them.”
“Not when we’re expecting Lucy and the Colonel,” I said.
“Maybe you’re right,” said Tinkler. “Not entirely appropriate.”
Nevada went to the window, sipping her coffee, and stared out, tapping her foot restlessly. “Where is Turk? Where has that girl got to?”
“She’s probably hunting for mice,” I said.
“But she does that at night. It’s daytime.”
I shrugged. “It’s a full-time job, I guess.”
“Why are you so worried about Turk’s comings and goings?” said Tinkler.
“We need her to take a message to Stinky.” I looked at Nevada. “A rather important message.” Nevada nodded and sat down again, but continued tapping her foot. I considered pouring her some more coffee, but concluded that was the last thing she needed.
“A very important message,” she said.
“You see,” I said, “we’ve concluded that someone is opposed to our line of research and is willing to kill us.” We didn’t know who that someone was, but Nevada and I had been discussing it, and one candidate who seemed increasingly plausible was Erik Make Loud. We had no idea why he might want us dead, but he was very well aware of us and our mission. And, crucially, he’d become chummy with Tinkler. Enough so to glean crucial information about us, and our vulnerabilities. So he could have, for example, set the trap for us in Canterbury.
But I wanted a little more certainty about this theory before I effectively accused Tinkler of nearly getting his best friends killed. He was looking at me now, all smiling and innocent. I said, “This unknown party wants to prevent us finding something out. We don’t know what that something might be, but we know they’re willing to kill.”
“Well, duh,” said Tinkler.
“But you see,” said Nevada, “that creates quite a serious problem.”
“Apart from the fact that someone is trying to kill us,” I said.
“Apart from that, yes. You see, Tinkler, we’ve been blithely going around telling everyone that we’re doing this research on behalf of Stinky Stanmer. And they have no particular reason not to believe that.”
I saw the dawning comprehension on Tinkler’s face. “So you see,” said Nevada, “if they’re willing to try and kill us, how much more willing would they be to kill the person they believe is really responsible? The person who supposedly hired us.” Tinkler turned and stared out the window towards the Abbey.
“Stinky,” said Tinkler.
“Yes,” said Nevada.
He turned back to us and roared with laughter. “But that’s great!” he said. “You can just not tell him.”
“No, Tinkler,” said Nevada firmly. “We can’t do that.”
“No, I guess not,” said Tinkler wistfully.
I gave him back his car keys. He’d had to come over to collect them because yesterday, by the time we’d returned from the Trevertons’ house and our adventures with archery, we’d been feeling far too frazzled to drop his car in Putney and limp home on public transport.
Nevada saw Tinkler out, following him through the front door and hanging around by the gate for a moment. She came back, looking anxious. “Still no sign of Turk.” Her face brightened. “I know. I’ll give Fanny some biscuits.” Nevada had a theory that if one of the cats was having a nice meal the other one would sense it, no matter how far away she was, and come racing home. The nicer the meal, the quicker she’d come. I’d had to convince her on several occasions not to write a letter to Rupert Sheldrake, an expert on strange animal phenomena, describing this wonder of nature and inviting him to come and investigate. I was afraid he might agree.
Nevada opened the cupboard beside the sink and took out the bag of high-end cat biscuits. At the first telltale sounds Fanny came racing in from the sitting room where she’d been lolling. But there was a simultaneous stirring behind the kitchen curtain and Turk suddenly appeared.
“You sly girl!” said Nevada. “You were here all along. But you were hiding!” Nevada put the biscuits back in the cupboard, much to the frustration of Fanny, and instead slipped the note we had prepared under Turk’s collar. She knew what this meant. A fish dinner. She jumped down from the counter and hurried out the cat flap into the garden and over the back wall.
She was back in just over five minutes. Very slow by her standards. We fished out Stinky’s response.
HEY HIPSTERS,
THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WARNING. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU CARED! HA HA. I SPOKE TO BARNEY WHO IS IN CHARGE OF SECURITY HERE AT THE ABBEY AND TOLD HIM WHAT YOU SAID. BARNEY IS EX-POLICE AND HE IS GOING TO ARRANGE FOR A COUPLE OF HIS MATES TO TAKE A LEAVE OF ABSENCE FROM CO19 (THE BRIT EQUIVALENT OF SWAT) AND THEY WILL STAY IN A ROOM IN THE ABBEY AND KEEP AN EYE ON ME. MY OWN PERSONAL SWAT
TEAM! IT WILL BE HEINOUSLY EXPENSIVE, OF COURSE. BUT WE CAN WRITE IT OFF AGAINST THE BUDGET FOR THE DOCUMENTARY. THANKS AGAIN FOR THINKING OF ME. LOVE TO NIRVANA.
Nevada set the note down. “Documentary?” she said.
I shrugged. “Apparently he’s going to actually proceed with a programme about Valerian.”
“And steal all our ideas. Tinkler was right. We shouldn’t have warned him.”
Any debate about the morality of such a course of action was cut short by the doorbell announcing the arrival of the Colonel and Lucy. The Colonel was quite obviously more pissed off with Lucy than usual. As he strode in I saw a vein was throbbing dangerously in his forehead. The black eye, however, was completely gone. He had healed thoroughly. Good genes, I thought.
Nevada diplomatically hustled Lucy off, allegedly to show her some clothes she’d found in her trawl of the charity shops that she thought might appeal. I later found out that this actually wasn’t an inspired lie made up on the spur of the moment, but Nevada had in fact found some clothes for Lucy, and indeed made a number of cash sales to her.
Meanwhile I was left to report to the Colonel. “And I suppose it never crossed your mind to go to the police with any of this?” he said.
“Well, the Trevertons,” I said, making a conscious effort not to call them the Evil Elves, “were none too eager to do so. And there was the slight complicating factor that Nevada had fired an arrow into someone.”
He nodded. “Yes, that might cause some complications.” Fanny jumped up on the table in front of him and he tried to disguise his pleasure as he stroked her. “What else have you got for me?”
“This,” I said, switching on the laptop. “It’s one of the photos scanned in from the archive of documents we got from Lucy.”
“You can hardly say we got them from her,” he said. “Your friend did more than she did in terms of getting them for us. Do you know what she brought back from Dublin?” I realised that we were talking about Lucy again now. I shook my head. “Guinness,” he said. He didn’t bother lowering his voice. “She brought back Guinness. As though we don’t have it here. And she is swilling the stuff down. Sluicing it down her gullet.”
“Seems sober enough.”
He shook his head angrily. “Oh, she doesn’t get drunk. That’s not the problem. It makes her fart. Vile, reeking farts. So when I’m on public transport with her or, god help us, in a taxi—”
“Anyway,” I said, eager to stem any further disclosures, “this picture.” I showed it to him. It was a black and white shot from a magazine depicting Valerian at the piano. It was stylish and well composed, and it was hard to tell whether it was posed or a candid shot. There was no credit but I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it was by Nic Vardy.
The Colonel studied it. “What about it?” he said.
“I didn’t know she played the piano. Valerian.”
“Oh yes.”
“So it’s not just a pose for the sake of the picture? She could actually play?”
“Oh yes. She wasn’t quite in the same league as Cecilia but she still played to a professional standard. The old man saw to that.” He looked at me. “What are you driving at?”
I handed him the Polaroid I’d got from the Trevertons. He examined it with more curiosity than the other one, then looked up at me expectantly. “Yes?”
“That’s Valerian and Cecilia.”
“Yes.”
“Cecilia on the left.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a mark on Cecilia’s shoulder.” It was a brown mark, shaped like a crudely drawn hourglass. The swimsuit she wore clearly revealed it. “Do you think it’s some kind of stain or wound—”
“It’s a birthmark,” said the Colonel tersely. “Cecilia was always a little embarrassed about it. I’m surprised to see she has it on display here.” I hardly heard this last bit. I was savouring a warm flash of triumph. This was exactly what I’d been hoping. “Excellent,” I said.
“Why is it excellent?”
“You remember that DNA test you did? All it proved was that the test subject is your sister.”
He stared at me. He’d got it.
He said, “Not which sister it is.”
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time we reached Canterbury, but the sun was still shining into the little L-shaped garden. I opened the gate and followed Nevada and the Colonel inside. We’d been expecting to find Cecilia in her flat and were startled to see her outside. She was kneeling beside one of the flowerbeds, busy with a fork and trowel. There was a sack of compost at her elbow. Delving among the plants, there was a look of happy interest on her face, a lively engagement with the world, which vanished when she saw us—to be replaced by the frightened blankness that I had come to accept as her habitual expression.
She got to her feet, her big face staring at us, pinched with worry. “Do I have to go now?”
We explained that we hadn’t come to take her away from her new flat, and she began to relax. She gathered up her gardening things, picking up the sack of compost with one hand. It weighed twenty kilos, I knew because it said so on the side, but she picked it up as though it was nothing. Once again I was impressed by the strength lurking in that large, shapeless body.
We all went inside and, as soon as the gardening things were put away, Cecilia made a beeline for the piano.
“Wait a minute,” said the Colonel. “Please.” She stood and stared at us. She didn’t seem to know what to do with herself if she couldn’t play the piano and lose herself in the music. “Listen, Cessie,” said the Colonel. “Could you show us your birthmark?”
“My birthmark?” She looked at us helplessly.
“Yes, please. Just show us your shoulder. Please.”
Big tears began to well up in her eyes and roll down her plump cheeks. But she lifted her hand to the strap of her dress and loosened it. She slipped the strap down and exposed a big roll of smooth, white flesh.
In the middle of it, a brown mark in the shape of an hourglass.
The Colonel sighed. “All right, Cessie. Thank you. You can put your dress back on now. Thank you.” Cecilia obeyed. As she did so there was a small, rapid drumming sound and the kitten came racing into the room. It headed straight for Cecilia, came to a dramatic halt and looked up at her, squeaking peremptorily. A smile lit up her face and she bent down to scoop the creature up, holding it to her extensive bosom. The kitten squeaked again, acknowledging that things were ordered according to its satisfaction.
The Colonel looked at me. “So much for that theory,” he murmured. He glanced at his watch. “If we get a move on, we can catch the fast train back to London.” Nevada cleared her throat loudly. We looked at her.
“I think Cecilia wants to say something,” she said.
Cecilia had set the kitten down on the piano where it was washing itself. She was looking at us, wringing her hands. Then she peered fearfully at the ceiling as if she was trying to remember some complex formulation in a foreign tongue. “Would you like,” she said hesitantly, “to stay for a cup of tea?”
The Colonel stared at her, then sat down abruptly in the nearest chair.
“Yes, Cecilia,” he said. “We’d like to stay for a cup of tea.”
28. THE SIDE ENTRANCE
Strange as it sounds, with everything that had happened, my greatest concern around this time was that Osterloh’s secretary Adela—the Scandinavian Stalker—might ring me up again asking for a date before I had a chance to head her off at the pass, and that Nevada would find out about it. I knew that she had only given me a conditional discharge, so to speak.
Worryingly, despite all my good intentions I hadn’t actually managed to speak to Adela, Osterloh himself having inconveniently decided to start answering his own phone. So I went back to Bayswater and did the charity shops—finding nothing—and then just happened to drop in at Osterloh’s place, since I was in the neighbourhood.
I approached the pink house with apprehensi
on, wondering if the doctor himself would open the door. My fear of having to explain my errand to him was matched only by the possibility of being asked once more to buy his book.
I started up the steps, but before I reached the front door a voice called to me. I looked around to see Adela standing below me in a kind of sunken concrete alleyway that ran around the side of the house. She looked pleased to see me, which made my heart sink. I came down and joined her.
I felt a further pang of guilt when I saw that she was holding a cardboard cup of takeaway coffee.
“Is that for the doctor?” I asked.
“No, for me,” she grinned. “And these too.” She held up a bag of pastries. “But I can share them with you.” She turned and walked along the alleyway, obviously expecting me to follow. I followed. “The doctor is out,” she said. “He is lecturing at Queen Mary’s University today.” She stopped. We had come to a small alcove containing a side door, which evidently led into the basement of the house.
There was a light in an art-nouveau glass shade beside the door and Adela now reached into this, fished out a key and opened the door with it. This seemed to me a terribly lax arrangement, especially in light of recent events.
I said, “So he hasn’t got the new security system installed yet?”
She turned and looked at me in the open doorway. “Security system?”
“You know, there was the break-in…”
“Oh, yes, that.” She went inside and I followed. “He moaned about that for a few days and then forgot all about it.”
This sounded dangerously careless to me but not uncharacteristic of the good doctor, from what little I knew of him. Maybe he’d decided the intruder had indeed pinched some copies of his book and was therefore a person to be cultivated. We walked past a small, tiled room with a gleaming new washing machine and dryer standing in it and went through an inner door into a large and surprisingly bright kitchen that seemed to occupy about half of the basement of the big house.
To our left there was a long pine table with placemats on it depicting engravings of Victorian London. Adela set the coffee and the bag of pastries down between Crystal Palace and the Houses of Parliament. I could smell the pastries now. They smelled good. She turned to me and smiled and I began to wish I hadn’t come in with her. But I didn’t feel I could have made my little speech outside.
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