Amiss sighed. ‘Modern women are very demanding, aren’t they? Do you remember the old days, when they didn’t necessarily despise us?’
‘Too long ago for either of us to remember, surely.’ Milton sounded rather bitter.
‘Sometimes,’ said Amiss dreamily, ‘I think we should just sit back and let them take over the world, while we learn to sew and lie on chaise longues eating chocolates.’
‘We wouldn’t look good in negligees.’
‘Anyway, they won’t give us that option,’ said Amiss. ‘They want us to be chefs in the kitchen, wimps in the living room, studs in the bedroom and masters of the universe outside the home. Tell you what. Let’s get pissed. Ann’s ditched you, Rachel’s away doing important things and tomorrow’s Saturday.’
‘You’re on,’ said Milton, and signalled to the barman.
***
‘It’s a shame about Ann and Jim,’ said Rachel. ‘Though I suppose it’s inevitable when they view things so differently. Personally, I agree with her that he should have done the courageous thing.’
‘But he’s a good policeman, and, mostly, he loves the job.’
‘Perhaps so. But he’s never known anything else.’
‘You’re always complaining that the trouble with me is that I didn’t stick with a career.’
‘You took the career-flexibility path to extremes, however.’
‘I suppose that’s true. Anyway, the other thing is that Jim’s seeing if Henry’s case can be reopened.’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
Rachel stopped peeling potatoes and looked squarely at him. ‘Do I gather that you’re trying to make a murder out of an accident?’ She dried her hands and walked over to him. ‘Let’s sit down for a minute.’ They sat down at the kitchen table and she took his hands in hers.
‘Robert, I know you think I’m being very crabby recently and I know we’re looking at things differently. I’m sorry for my part in all that. But I’m angry now because it seems that when the conditions for a murder mystery don’t exist, you need to create them.’
‘Are you suggesting I murdered Henry in order to make my job more interesting?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t always be flippant. What I mean is that everybody seems to think Henry died as a result of an accident, but for some reason you are determined to prove otherwise.’
‘But there’s a chance it wasn’t an accident. And if it wasn’t, I want that known. I think that’s the least I can do for Henry.’
Rachel got up. ‘What’s the use?’ she asked, and went back to the sink.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Hmmm,’ said the baroness. ‘Maybe you’re right, but you’ll need a lot more evidence. You’ll have to sniff around. Now, do you want to know how I got on with Sharon McGregor?’
‘Should I? I hadn’t really thought about it. The last I saw of you both, you appeared to be in cahoots, but later events put that out of my mind.’
‘You should want to know about her. She’s going to matter to you.’
‘Tell me then.’
‘We went off to dinner and she thought I was wonderful, naturally. I’ve got her coming down to a St Martha’s feast soon. I’m hoping for great things—i.e. large cheques—from her if I play her right.’
‘What things? Who is she?’
‘Surely you’ve heard of her? She’s one of the richest women in Australia. Correction—one of the richest people.’
‘How did she get it? Inheritance? Divorce settlement?’
‘Well, well,’ said the baroness. ‘I never thought to use such a word to you, my lad, but I feel impelled to point out that you have made a deeply sexist assumption. Our friend Sharon owes nothing to any man, unless you count those she’s impoverished on her climb from the gutter to the penthouse. She’s some broad, I can tell you.’
‘I feel quite embarrassed,’ said Amiss. ‘I do apologize for my unwanted inference.’
‘God, you’re so malleable. And apologetic. Why can’t you just stand your corner and point out to me that until very recently it was a safe bet that rich women were rich because of their husbands or fathers and that it’s PC crap to accuse anyone of sexism for making such an assumption.’ She shook her head. ‘Let me have men about me that have balls.’
‘Oh, shut up and get on with it, Jack. Stop playing games.’
She beamed. ‘Have to keep you on the hop. Without plenty of mental gymnastics, how will we defeat the enemy?’
‘What enemy?’
She threw out her arms and hit a passing waiter a smart blow. He winced painfully, but she paid no attention. ‘There’s always an enemy. The important thing is to be fit and ready for him.’
‘Or her,’ said Amiss.
‘When it comes to enemies, I am, as they persist in putting it these days, gender-blind.’
‘Anyway, how did she make her money?’
‘Transport. Started out charging her schoolfellows a knockdown price for driving their cars from parties. Saved enough for a down payment on one of her own and had a fleet of sixty taxis within two years. By her early twenties she was leasing company cars and within five years had moved into buses, coaches, light aircraft and helicopters in the States as well as Australia. Personal fortune of three hundred million as of last count, but she’s greedy for more. I expect she’s moving in on the UK transport industry. There’s plenty of scope.’
‘Married?’
‘Thinking of ditching Rachel?’
‘No, I couldn’t marry a woman with fingernails that long. I’d go in fear of my life. She probably uses them to stab people in the back.’
‘May I take your order, sir? Madam?’ The waiter sounded irritable.
‘In due course,’ said the baroness firmly. ‘But first I need to know the answer to some questions. What fish have you in the bouillabaisse?’
‘The usual, I expect.’
She gazed at him reprovingly. ‘There’s no such thing as the usual ingredients. They change from location to location and chef to chef. If you don’t know the answer, go and ask.’ Scowling, the waiter departed.
‘Poor bugger,’ said Amiss. ‘What does it matter, Jack?’
‘We’re talking about food. When it comes to food, everything matters. Now where were we? Oh, yes. I was going to tell you that Sharon wants to buy The Wrangler.’
‘She what?’
‘You heard.’
‘Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Well, I can’t think she imagines she’s going to make money out of it, so she’s either dipping her toes into the newspaper business or she’s social-climbing. I’m inclined towards the latter, though I have to say…’
The waiter returned and took up his position beside her. ‘The bouillabaisse, madam. It consists this evening of crab, prawns, cod and salmon.’
‘That isn’t bouillabaisse. Bouillabaisse is made exclusively with seafish. What you are offering is fish soup. Tell the chef you could be sued under the Trades Descriptions Act.’
The waiter looked at her sullenly.
‘Is the salmon wild?’ she asked.
He attempted to stare her down. He lost. ‘I don’t know, madam. I’ll go and ask.’
‘Jack, why are you tormenting that man?’
‘What’s the point of being a waiter if you’re not interested in food? And besides, I don’t like him. He was patronizing me. And you patronize Jack Troutbeck at your peril. Where were we?’
‘You were telling me about Sharon McGregor. Surely, she isn’t fool enough to want to become seriously involved with newspapers? She hasn’t got the kind of money to take on the likes of Rupert Murdoch.’
‘She certainly isn’t a fool. And I’m sure she doesn’t want to take on Rupert Murdoch. What she cla
imed was that she has an affinity with England because of her immigrant father, so she wants to help preserve that essence of civilized England that is represented by the civilized virtues of The Wrangler. Which is obviously all cock. But she might be seeking to rub shoulders with the landed interests nonetheless. And why not? If American heiresses could buy up dukes and earls a hundred years ago, why shouldn’t self-made Aussies do the same today. She could become the Duchess of something-or-other and still buy up our railways.’
The waiter returned and stood by her elbow.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘The salmon, madam, is not wild.’
‘Tell the chef that in that case he shouldn’t be cooking it—not even in soup. Cultivated salmon is bland, tasteless and pointless. I’ll have the gravadlax and the dill sauce. But make sure the dill sauce comes in a separate jug. Now for the main course. Is the rabbit…?’
‘Wild, madam?’ The waiter was beginning to wear a defeated look. ‘I doubt it. Shall I ask the chef?’
‘Don’t bother. It won’t be. I’ll have a bloody rump steak with plenty of very hot chips.’
‘I’m afraid chips aren’t on the menu tonight, madam.’
The baroness beamed. ‘I’m sure if you tell the chef that Lady Troutbeck is relying on him to provide them, he’ll change his mind.’
The waiter clenched his teeth. ‘And other vegetables, madam? Shall I bring you a variety?’
‘What are they?’
‘Our selection includes broccoli, courgettes, cauliflower and carrots.’
‘Good God, no. I don’t want any of those. See if the chef’s got some cabbage. Otherwise I’ll just have the chips. And make sure the steak is very, very bloody.’
‘Yes, madam.’ He turned away.
‘Excuse me,’ said Amiss. ‘I’d like something to eat too.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir. I got confused for a moment. What would you like?’
‘French onion soup and the navarin of lamb, please.’
The waiter shot him a look of gratitude and tottered away.
The baroness shook her head. ‘You let them off too lightly, Robert. Now, where’s the wine waiter? I’ll torment him by demanding Australian wine. That always drives the Frogs crazy: it’s a refined—nay exquisite—form of torture.’
The wine waiter—older and wiser than his colleague—did not rise to the baroness’s bait, but enthused with her about her shortlist of wines, commended the vineyard she had selected and averred that he too on occasion felt that the French had something to learn from newer competitors. They beamed and chatted together for several minutes, to the evident bewilderment of the bearer of soup and gravadlax.
‘I wonder how they reconcile their impressions of you afterwards,’ said Amiss, as the baroness tucked a vast white napkin around her neck and proceeded to tuck in with gusto. ‘The first one thinks you’re an intolerable old bitch and the second evidently considers you a bit of all right.’
‘That’s fine with me. If everyone likes you, you’re not doing your job. I’m a reasonable woman and if everyone does what I tell them they’ll have nothing to complain about. Now eat up, you’re looking peaky. And make sure you finish it all up.’
‘Dining with you is a bit like having a nursery tea. Did you have a nanny?’
‘Of course I had a nanny. Splendid woman. Taught me all I know and stood for no nonsense. Which takes us back to Sharon. I think you’d better expect a bumpy ride if she gets to buy the paper.’
‘What can she do if Willie stands firm? He’s got the trust behind him.’
‘I’ll give you ten to one that Willie turns out to be an amoeba. And probably the trustees too. And if they don’t, take my word for it, there is no trust that can’t be broken. But I don’t even think she’ll have to try. For every one member of the great and good who’ll fight his corner, there are two who’ll skulk away with their white flags in the air. You’ll see.’
Amiss put down his spoon and sighed. ‘Oh dear. And things were going so well. On my side, at least.’
‘I think that’s usually the moment when it gets dangerous.’ She speared the last of the gravadlax, stuffed the remains of the roll in her mouth, chomped vigorously and took a hearty swig of Chardonnay. ‘Never mind,’ she said consolingly. ‘At least it’ll be interesting.’
She chuckled evilly and called for the waiter.
***
Amiss was missing Pooley badly. He could have relied on him to take the keenest interest in every aspect of the Potbury death. For even more than Amiss, Pooley was a man who did not consider a case closed until there was no further room for doubt. But he had disappeared off to staff training college and was out of reach.
As befitted a senior policeman who had been in the job for twenty-five years, Jim Milton was more of a realist. ‘You can forget about Henry Potbury as far as we’re concerned,’ he told Amiss a couple of days after their night out. ‘There’s nothing doing. I had a word with an old mate who’s the supervising superintendent and he showed no interest. Said it’s an open-and-shut case and the Met’s quite busy enough without following will-o’-the-wisps. I didn’t push it because I didn’t see any point. And in fact I agree with him. Why don’t you forget about it?’
Amiss tried interesting the baroness further, but she was busy and impatient with detail and speculation. And it was obvious that the less said to Rachel the better.
Yet Amiss did not give up. First, he looked at Ben and Marcia closely until he was satisfied that their relationship seemed exactly as it always had been. Indeed, both of them clearly missed Henry a great deal. When Amiss dropped by they were often very happy to reminisce with him about Henry. And if Marcia shed the occasional tear, there was no indication that Ben saw this as anything but an understandable reaction to the sudden death of a valued colleague.
One evening Amaryllis Vercoe called in and Amiss invited her to the pub. She showed little interest in talking about Henry, preferring to flirt outrageously. While Amiss affected not to notice, he was secretly very pleased, though he had enough sense to grasp that a woman who might fancy Henry Potbury just possibly might fancy anyone.
‘Is Amaryllis involved with anyone?’ he asked Winterton the next day.
‘If you mean, “Is there someone who is—as it were—settled down with her?” then no; she lives alone and appears to have no regular escort. If you mean, “Is there a man in her life?” you’ve asked the wrong question. There are many men in Amaryllis’s life. In fact, it has to be said that she’s pretty generous with her favours. Why, has she been giving you the glad eye? I should go for it if she has. She’s very good value as well as being the trophy shag of the intellectual Right.’
A crestfallen Amiss tried to look dignified. ‘It was just idle curiosity, Dwight. I’m a settled man.’ And he withdrew before Winterton could evince his scepticism.
***
The only line of investigation left,’ he said to the baroness when she rang him at work a few days later, ‘is the Papworth one.’
‘Oh, that would be good. You mean you think Charlie Papworth rubbed Henry out so he could sell the journal.’
‘Piers Papworth’s my candidate.’
‘Um, maybe that’s possible. He certainly comes across as a ruthless little bugger.’
‘Maybe he’s in it with Sharon.’
‘How do you propose to find out?’
‘There’s damn-all I can do, Jack, as you well know. I’m completely stymied. The only people who have any chance of finding out who knocked off poor old Henry—if anyone did—are the cops. And they won’t. I can hardly go round all these people demanding to know if they can provide two independent witnesses to prove that they left the gathering while Henry was still alive.’
‘Too bad.’ She sounded rather bored. ‘I’ve had a run-in with Willie.’<
br />
‘About what?’
‘He made another attempt to persuade me to soften the line. Said I was being unreasonable. Outrageous! I’m the most reasonable woman in the world.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Told him to get stuffed. I’m not going to be pushed around by Willie Lambie Crump.’
‘He is your editor, Jack.’
‘I’m not prepared to be mucked about by an unprincipled little turd. And if you remember, I made damn sure that I couldn’t be. The contract’s watertight. Willie can’t do a thing until the year is up. I told him I’d sue the arse off him if he didn’t honour the agreement. And I would too. And since I’d enjoy a good court case and he’d crumble in the witness box and he knows it, that put paid to his small rebellion.’
‘I’ll make a point of avoiding him for a few days. He’ll be furious. He went up the wall at what you said about the only honourable class being the landed gentry.’
‘Good. Now put me through to Ben. I want to dictate this week’s.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘My proposal that henceforward the crown should be passed on to the dimmest and least sensitive of the monarch’s children—levels of general thickness to be assessed when they have all reached adulthood. The way the public, the government and the media behave these days, being king or queen’s no job for anyone with brains or finer feelings. What you really want is a blockhead as close as possible in IQ to Mr and Mrs Below-Average and with a hide as thick as Tyrannosaurus rex.’
‘Or Jack Troutbeck.’
‘Absolutely. Now stop gabbling and get Ben.’
***
‘Oh, Mr Amiss, Mr Amiss, come back, come back.’
The voice on the telephone trailed off into a collection of squeaks that Amiss accurately identified as the Ricketts distress call.
‘Steady, Mr Ricketts. Steady. I’ll be back soon. Now, tell me what’s wrong.’
‘This man is here and he’s looking at everything and shouting at me.’
‘What man?’
He heard in the background a nasal voice calling, ‘Cut the crap, Josh, and walk the talk. You heard me. Walk the talk.’
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