When afterwards, Dwight Winterton chatted to him in a friendly way over champagne and suggested lunch or dinner sometime, Amiss realized he must be careful. He could see Lambie Crump gazing fixedly over at them. ‘Good to meet you, Dwight,’ he said quickly. ‘Let’s talk soon.’ And pausing only to curry favour with Lambie Crump by asking if he could spare some time later on to give him a word of advice, he headed for the door. As he was leaving, Potbury caught his eye and gave him an enormous wink, which Amiss prayed Lambie Crump had not noticed.
Chapter Eight
Detective Sergeant Ellis Pooley finished his cheese, placed his knife in the centre of the plate, picked a few crumbs off the tablecloth, dropped them beside the knife and took another small sip of claret. ‘Very nice indeed. Thank you very much.’
He looked around the room appreciatively. ‘I must say, Rachel, how delighted I am to see Robert at last living in a place that is both clean and comfortable. You’ve had a most civilizing effect on him.’
‘Suburbanizing, you mean,’ said Amiss, and then caught himself guiltily. ‘Sorry, Rach. You know I didn’t mean that.’
‘I’m not so sure you didn’t.’ Rachel collected the plates and carried them over to the sink. ‘There are moments, Ellis, when I fear that whether he knows it or not, deep down Robert is bored. Life’s too straightforward for him.’
‘For goodness sake.’ Pooley sounded irritated. ‘Ever since I first met you, Robert, you’ve been wailing because you didn’t like where you lived or you didn’t have a proper job or Rachel was out of reach or you didn’t have a penny. Do you mean that now you haven’t any of those problems you’re looking for new ones?’
Amiss interrupted hastily. ‘Rachel’s exaggerating. Everything’s fine.’ He scratched his ear. ‘I suppose I could just do with a little bit more excitement at work.’
‘Being manager of such a peculiar institution as The Wrangler sounds pretty interesting.’
‘It is, but in many respects, rather lacking in challenge. A journal as small as that shouldn’t need someone like me.’
‘Well, why have they got you then?’
‘Because things are in such a mess that they need me. Another proprietor would bring in accountants and management consultants. This one’s too gentlemanly for that. My job is simply to do accountants’ and consultants’ dirty work in a gentlemanly manner.’
Pooley looked at him dubiously. ‘But you’re absolutely useless with money.’
‘I’m useless,’ said Amiss stiffly, ‘with my money. But while I may be personally profligate, I am capable of exercising prudence and perspicacity…’ He stopped. ‘What a lot of “ps”.’
‘Try adding “pompous”,’ suggested Rachel.
Amiss ignored her. ‘…when I’m dealing with that of others. I’ll have you know I’ve cut costs substantially without firing people or lowering morale.’
Pooley looked incredulous. ‘I didn’t think such a thing was possible.’
‘When you go into a place that is still operating according to the customs and practices of the nineteen thirties that is not too difficult. For instance, simply by spending a few hundred pounds on a fax machine I’ve saved us a fortune.’
Pooley looked puzzled.
‘Ah, I forgot this was going to take a leap of the imagination.’ Amiss rose and thoughtfully began to open another bottle of claret. ‘Picture if you will—’ he said, having tried and failed to persuade his friend to accept a refill, ‘an office in which the most modern piece of equipment is a stout manual typewriter manufactured in nineteen sixty-seven, the telephones are splendid nineteen thirties Bakelite models with circular dials and the filing cabinets are ancient and wooden and creak a lot and are jammed with yellowing dusty files so tightly packed that it requires exceptional strength to get anything in or out. Indeed, Marcia Whitaker, who is inter alia a fact-checker, has biceps that put me to shame.
‘In the midst of this, Josiah Ricketts, who is known as the office clerk, conducts his business along the lines that he was taught when recruited in the nineteen forties by one Albert Flitter, who had joined the paper as an office boy in nineteen fifteen, had risen to the giddy heights of office manager and had a deep reverence for doing things the way the ladies and gentlemen had liked them.
‘True, the phones were slightly modernized, admittedly, Ricketts was prevailed upon to allow senior members of staff to have one each and when equipment like the typewriter collapsed did perforce purchase a more or less up-to-date model, but “newfangled” was a dirty word, so with anything newfangled, Ricketts would not have to do. And the idle sods of editors couldn’t be bothered intervening.’
‘Goodness,’ said Pooley, absentmindedly holding out his glass for a refill. ‘But how do they communicate with printers and the rest of it?’
‘Essentially by recreating the postal system of long ago through the use of couriers. Until after the war, Ricketts explained to me nostalgically, it used to be possible for a contributor to post his copy at nine o’clock in the evening. It would be on the desk of the editor at eight the following morning, amendments were sent to the printers by the nine o’clock post, received by them at midday and the proof would be with the contributor by late afternoon. The major concession since then has been that the proofreader-cum-fact-checker, Ben Baines, is also available to take copy over the phone.’
‘Come on,’ said Pooley, ‘you’re not seriously telling me that contributors are prepared to put up with having to read their stuff out loud rather than send a fax.’
‘Listen, Ellis, I don’t think you understand the status of The Wrangler. They pay contributors a pittance, but in fact have no need to pay them at all. Politicians and journalists would pay to be published in The Wrangler because of the luster of the name and the fact that anyone who is anyone on the Right has been reading it for almost two centuries. All this daftness merely adds to its appeal.’
‘What made anyone choose you to modernize this outfit? I mean, dammit it, you’re a technological moron.’
‘By the standards of The Wrangler, I’m right at the cutting edge of technology. They don’t want somebody like you, Ellis, with your Internet and websites and access to ninety-five billion pieces of worthless information that you waste your time over. They want somebody to take them by the hand slowly and gently and lead them into the mid-twentieth century. It is my skills as a communicator that are enabling me tenderly to make Marcia, Ben and the rest of the staff love gentle change. The proprietor wants to reduce his losses—not give his paper a corporate nervous breakdown.
‘I’ve taken as my motto a cartoon I once saw of a demonstration by the Moderate Party, who were marching down the street chanting, “What do we want? Gradual change. When do we want it? In due course.”’
The doorbell rang loudly and did not stop. As Amiss ran to answer it, Rachel put her hand to her head. ‘Does she have to do that?’
‘No,’ said Pooley. ‘But she always does.’
‘I quite like Jack,’ said Rachel, ‘but sometimes I wonder why.’
The baroness entered at speed, pulled off her black cloak and threw it into the corner. Rachel stood up, retrieved it and went out and hung it up in the hall.
‘What’s the matter with that girl?’ asked the baroness. ‘She’s not on duty now. I’m not a foreigner. Rachel! Rachel! Stop fussing around and come back here.’
Pausing only to clap Pooley hard on the back, she fell into the chair beside him. ‘What have you had to eat?’
‘Cassoulet,’ said Amiss.
‘And very good it was too,’ observed Pooley.
‘Thank you,’ said Rachel as she returned and nodded at her visitor. ‘There’s plenty left, Jack. Want some?’
‘Is it made with goose fat?’
‘We’re not telling you,’ said Amiss. ‘Do you want some or not?’
; ‘Not. I had the fattest of fat lunches today, so I’ll settle for claret and cheese. What have you got?’
‘Since I knew you might drop in, I trekked off to the health food shop and bought extremely aged organically produced cheddar.’
‘Hmmmm. I’ll give it a try. How old’s the claret?’
‘Nineteen ninety-four.’
‘That’s so young, drinking it’s almost child abuse.’
‘Jack, I don’t give a fuck if you eat and drink nothing. Yes or no to the claret.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to make do.’
She gazed at her companions. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you so quiet?’
‘Because you’re so noisy,’ said Pooley. ‘It’s good to see you, Jack. Now listen to Robert’s account of how he’s modernizing The Wrangler.’
‘God, how boring. You make him sound like one of those dreary ministers who keep telling us to shape up for the new millennium.’
She took a draught of wine, smacked her lips and greedily tucked into the cheese. ‘Not bad. All right, then. Get on with it.’
Amiss gave her a two-paragraph update and continued. ‘So my approach is to make progress by gentleness and stealth. I’ve only been there two months and already the staff have come to terms with a simple photocopying machine, a fax and an efficient, up-to-date and cheap telephone system. I’ve changed nothing that didn’t absolutely have to be changed, their jobs are made easier and I’ve persuaded them that they are being freed from drudgery to concentrate on more important areas such as—in the case of Ben and Marcia—making the journal ever more accurate.’
‘That’s all very well, but so far you can’t even have saved enough to pay your own salary,’ pointed out Pooley.
‘I’ve saved it three times over already just by getting rid of the supervisor and four of the five typists (or typewriters, as the editor calls them), giving the other one a simple word processor that she loves as intensely as Adam did his liddle mop in Cold Comfort Farm and persuading Sabrina Trustler-Stomp—’
‘Who?’
‘Sabrina Trustler-Stomp, who works for Lambie Crump. I’ve been told he’s never had a secretary who was not well in with the aristocracy and had at least a double-barrelled name. Anyway, I took Sabrina out for a jolly dinner one evening and persuaded her that her life would be more rewarding if she learned a) to type and b) to use a computer. She isn’t with us much, having a contract that allows her time off for Ascot, Henley and God knows what, but now, when she’s around, she helps out quite enthusiastically. Thinks it’s all ever so much fun.’
‘But you got rid of the old ladies. I thought there were to be no redundancies.’
‘They were all happy to leave, being in their seventies and hanging on there really out of a sense of duty, knowing they were the only people left in London who knew how to use manual typewriters and carbon paper and who didn’t mind retyping the same document with amendments fifteen times over, which, with all the staff wrangling about changes in the articles, often happened: with a word processor, four or five hours can be saved. So I wooed them with soft words and a generous pay-off. Miss Grumshaw, the supervisor, told me she’d been putting off her retirement for years because no one else could have done her job.’
Rachel knew the story and was thinking of something else, but the others were rapt. ‘Bugger me,’ said the baroness. ‘This makes me look like Bill Gates.’ She seized the bottle and poured claret into her own glass. Pointedly, but without her noticing, Amiss topped up everyone else’s.
‘Then, too, there was the little matter of keeping a master-list of subscribers without ever bothering to check on expiry dates. Every month subscribers were asked to renew their subscriptions if they had run out and were relied upon to be efficient, honest and loyal enough to send money if it was owed. As a guess, I think we’ve been giving away at least three thousand free subscriptions a year.’
‘This is ridiculous, Robert,’ said Pooley. ‘You must be making it up. Just because the methods were old-fashioned doesn’t have to mean that they were completely incompetent.’
‘They were. We had a labour-intensive, out-of-date system combined with administrative incompetence of a kind which the civil service never dreamed of.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Pooley loftily.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said the baroness indignantly. ‘I knew halfwits in the civil service, but they were never as thick as cops. What about the antiquated filing methods that allowed the Yorkshire Ripper to run amok with impunity for so long?’
‘I’ve been daring enough to get a computer into the subscription department,’ went on Amiss. ‘Young Jason mastered it within a few days. So now he’s happy and the savings are spectacular. Naggiar, the subscriptions manager, doesn’t give a toss as long as he’s allowed to go on doing bugger-all.’
‘Any cigars?’ enquired the baroness.
‘No.’
‘Pity.’ She felt around in a pocket, extracted pipe and tobacco and began to fill the one with the other.
‘Advertising was a bigger struggle. Scudmore is a nice man but as much as a disaster as the malingering Naggiar and much harder to do anything about. It was my good fortune that he collapsed with a heart attack four weeks ago and will not be back. I brought in someone at a third of the salary, who doubled the advertising in his first month.’
As the baroness lit an enormous lighter and aimed it at her tobacco, Pooley hastily moved his chair a couple of feet away. She sucked noisily for a few moments, grunted with satisfaction and then looked up at Amiss. ‘Well, I’ll say for you, my lad, that you’ve certainly followed to the ultimate the great old precept that the way to be a success is to succeed a failure. What more has to be done before you put yourself out of business?’
‘Plenty, but I won’t bore you with an accounts clerk who thinks it impertinent to ask anyone for a receipt, or a system of perks that ensures that no journalist ever travels other than first class—even by air—not to speak of the editor’s habit of hiring a first-class cook and butler several times a week to entertain people to what he calls luncheon, or even the distinguished wine cellar which is augmented annually to the tune of five or ten thou a year.’
‘How soon can I come to lunch?’ asked the baroness.
‘I’ll ask Willie and ring you tomorrow: he’s been at me to ask you. But are you sure you can put up with him for the sake of the food?’
‘I want to meet him properly.’
‘Why?’ asked Amiss suspiciously.
‘Never you mind. Now, have there been any mutterings against you yet?’
‘Most of them realize they’re lucky not to have got some ghastly whizz-kid intent on wholesale revolution.’
‘And the gentle owner?’
‘Very happy. Since he doesn’t mind losing money as long as it doesn’t run into six figures, I’ve already exceeded his expectations. Indeed, he gave me a pay rise the other week.’
‘But no contract,’ said Rachel.
‘It wasn’t appropriate to ask, Rach. You know that.’
‘You haven’t dealt with the really crucial problem yet,’ said the baroness.
‘What’s that?’ asked Pooley.
‘Willie Crump’s lack of intellectual rigour.’
‘Jesus, Jack. That isn’t part of my job description.’
‘Well, you must make it so.’
‘You should talk to Henry Potbury. He goes on about that a lot.’
‘He’s right. The Wrangler is too valuable to be allowed to coast. That young whatshisname…’
‘Dwight Winterton?’
‘Yes. He’s OK. And Potbury when he’s good is good. But I’m worried that there’s a loss of direction. If you ask me, Willie Crump’s sucking up to New Labour.’
‘You might be right. He’s been shifting
ground. There have been a lot of fights about that.’
‘Willie isn’t going to stay in the wilderness for perhaps ten years. Courtiers need courts. And I’ll bet Willie Crump wants a peerage.’
‘Hadn’t thought of that, Jack. You could just be right.’
‘What’s the circulation of The Wrangler anyway?’ asked Pooley.
‘Only about thirty thousand. I want to have a modest advertising campaign but Willie thinks that would be vulgar. “We speak to the crème de la crème” he explained. “We have no need of the rest.” As indeed he doesn’t, while Papworth foots the bill. But I have no remit to do anything about this. Henry’s doing what he can to work on him.’
‘I know Henry Potbury,’ said the baroness. ‘Knew him well at one time. Had a bit of a fling, indeed. He’ll never be able to do anything now. Past it. So you’ll have to.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Then I may have to myself. Someone has to challenge this bloody government.’
‘Don’t you dare get involved.’
‘Try stopping me,’ said the baroness.
***
‘Disaffected.’
‘What?’ said Pooley, who was nervously watching the road. ‘Who? Which?’
‘Rachel. Didn’t you notice?’
‘No.’ Pooley winced as the baroness accelerated through a changing traffic light. ‘I think everything’s going terribly well for them both. It’s very encouraging that Robert’s got a real job and is taking it seriously and Rachel’s doing so well…’
‘Ellis Pooley, are you blind or just so crazed with lust for Mary Lou Denslow that you can’t see what’s happening to our friends?’
‘Well, what do you think is happening?’
‘Rachel’s become too serious for him. You mark my words, she wants somebody who’s going to make a name for himself and forge a brilliant career and all those other things. She doesn’t want a drifter.’
‘He’s not drifting any more. Surely that’s the point. He’s enjoying sorting out this mad disorder…’
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