Well right away I can see that this guy may have plenty of coconuts when it comes to business but he does not know anything about the course, so I commence to put him straight.
“All our students learn to practise medicine,” I say, “but the best will go further and discover new knowledge. To do this they need to know how to find information, design experiments, handle data, and write for publication. This is what they get out of our research year. But it is a very hard course,” I say, “and one we can only offer to the cream of the students. Your daughter Sally is one of the cream.” I can see where this last goes down well with Papa, so I continue. “Sally wishes the course as it is so different to anything she does before. And she will learn to work independently. I am sure you will be the first to agree,” I add, “that it is a fine thing for young people to learn to use their initiative.”
Papa makes a noise like “Hrrumph” which shows at least that he does not disagree, so I offer him a little Java, and as he takes the cup he says: “Well it seems I have a wrong idea or two about the set-up at that, but a student who does this course is going to be a year behind his fellows in making a mark for himself in this profession.”
“It may look that way,” I reply, “but most students who do this course catch up very nicely indeed once they are qualified, because when it comes to appointments these guys and dolls have the edge on the opposition. And I never yet meet a student who regrets it.”
“Well I am still far from happy about the idea,” says Papa Beamish, and at this his daughter lets out something between a sniffle and a sob, and Papa looks sideways at her with a dismayed expression and I perceive with no little interest that Papa is as reluctant as I am to see his daughter enter the crying stakes again. So I press my advantage as follows:
“Furthermore,” I say, “it is as clear as day that if someone gives you the chance when you are her age you also will do a very good job of this course. You do not have the chance, but she does and if you promote her for this year I am sure it is something she appreciates for the rest of her life.”
At this Papa seems to cave in with a sigh. “I know all along,” he says, “I cannot stop her from doing something she sets her heart on. She is just like her dear Mama,” he says. At this Sally leaps up and wraps both arms around his neck and plants a big smacker on his cheek, and I am wondering if maybe I am due for some of the same, as I work a good deal harder than her old man for this outcome, but I can see where it could be embarrassing at that with her Papa in the room and all.
Well after this everything goes very nicely. As we know all along Sally is as bright as a button, and qualifies with distinction. And when Papa comes up for the award ceremony he is so tickled that he is telling everyone who wishes to listen about his daughter, including a good many who would rather not. In fact he claps one old professor on the back so hearty it is a full ten minutes before the poor guy gets enough breath back to speak.
I never see Sally from that day to this, although the other day I am standing on the corner of University Road thinking of not much when who should come up but Dr Alistair MacDonald, who is a citizen much respected in these parts and is very well up on such matters as past medical students.
“I hear about an old student of yours,” he says, “a Dr Sally Beamish. It seems she is very nicely set up in a group practice out at Headley Heath. The other doctors think very well of her on account of her reorganising their computer system and making everything very efficient. It seems that what she does not know she can usually figure out, and if this does not work she has a great knack for finding the information. In fact,” he says, “the senior partner says he never plays as much golf in his life, and asks if we have any more like her.”
Naturally I am greatly pleased that things work out so well for Sally and I am wondering how all this goes down with her father. So I speak to a party I know who works for Papa Beamish, and he says the old guy is so proud of his daughter that he has her diploma framed and hangs it behind his desk in his office. It is from this guy that I learn that Papa Beamish’s first name is Selby, and I am never sure but what Papa’s real reasons for hanging the diploma might have something to do with the way his daughter’s name must look somewhat like his when it is written longhand on a diploma.
The Magic Marker Mystery
Norman Doughty placed his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands, and allowed his head to sink until his fingers interlaced through the moist stubble on the back of his neck.
I’m going to get one of those portable air-conditioners. One hot spell like this and the office is like an oven. I can’t bloody think straight.
Even as he grumbled to himself about the heat he knew it wasn’t the real problem. The truth of the matter was: Detective Chief Inspector Doughty was stumped.
“Where is it, Sammy?” he’d asked in the interview room. He’d been in this game too long to have any concerns about the tape that was running, or the skinny lawyer sitting with his knees together and a slim leather document case on his lap. His tone suggested that this was, after all, a confidence that could be shared between old friends.
“Where’s what?” the villain had responded, his face full of innocence.
He smiled. “You know what I’m talking about, Sam Hicks. The heist. Gold bullion. Six million quid’s worth, to be precise. Stolen at 3.10 p.m. on Thursday, 12th of June from the International Securities Bonded Warehouse at Stanstead. The job’s got your fingerprints all over it.”
“Oh, really, Inspector? And precisely where did you find my fingerprints, may I be so bold as to ask?”
“Speaking figuratively, Sammy, speaking figuratively. Your sort of caper. You were unlucky this time, though, weren’t you? That blue van you used, with the reinforced floor and stiffened suspension. They don’t grow on trees, do they? You couldn’t just steal one, you had to buy it and make mods so it looked like the official version. It was clever, Sammy, buying it through a false jewellery business, but we were onto you, Max Beers aka Sam Hicks. That van led straight up to your front door and rang the bell.”
“Don’t know what you’re on about.”
“No point in denying it, Sammy. We’re going to prove it in court.”
“I own a lot of vehicles. If, and I say if, this vehicle turns out to be mine then someone must’ve nicked it, that’s all I can say. There are a lot of villains around these days, nicking cars and such-like, Inspector. Tch, tch. The police never seem to do nothing about it either.”
Any semblance of good humour drained from Doughty’s face, but the smile remained suspended from ear to ear like a line of washing.
“What about the driver, then, Sammy? Caught on camera at the perimeter, taking his hood off. Must’ve been uncomfortable, poor man, it being such a hot day and all. Georgie Martinosi – your wheelman, Sammy.”
“Never ’eard of ’im.”
“Come on, Sam, be sensible. You’re going down for a long stretch for this one. Save us some trouble and the judge may go easier on you. Where’d you hide it?”
His lawyer had intervened then.
“This has gone far enough, Chief Inspector. You’re clearly on a fishing expedition. You have no evidence to connect my client with this crime and you are not going to intimidate him with groundless allegations. The judge has seen fit to remand him in custody without bail for seven days, and when he walks away from here a free man we are going to sue for wrongful arrest.”
The lawyer had bestowed a bleak smile on him, secure in the knowledge that his position, his profession, enabled him to impose his authority over someone who, in other circumstances, might have snapped him in two like a dry twig.
Doughty grimaced at the recollection. Seven days, except five had passed already and he was no nearer to locating the gold and with it, he knew, the chain of evidence he needed to make the charges stick.
There was a knock on the half-open door. Doughty lifted his head. “Come in, Colin.”
*
Detective-Inspect
or Colin Melton peered into the dimly lit room. The Chief Inspector was hunched over his desk, his broad forearms resting on the leather inset, the sleeves of his regulation shirt turned back with military precision into neat cuffs. Melton saw that the venetian blinds had been lowered and half turned. One of the slats had broken loose and was resting on its neighbour below, lending a curiously dishevelled appearance to the otherwise scrupulously ordered room. He started to close the door.
“No, leave the door, Colin. I’m trying to get a draught through.”
Melton opened the door again. The venetian blind shivered, and the rogue slat buzzed and chattered briefly in the feeble breeze that had been coaxed into the room.
“Anything?” The Chief Inspector’s voice was not hopeful.
“Not since we found the van.”
“What did forensic say?”
“Couldn’t get anything off it. Too badly burned. They must have transferred the gold to another vehicle. Perhaps it’s left the country already.”
“I can’t see it. Every port’s being watched. They couldn’t export a bloody housebrick, let alone half a ton of gold bricks, without me getting to hear of it.”
Melton crossed to the window and peered out between the slats. “Well, then, it’s stashed in some lock-up somewhere till the heat’s off.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think, too. Time’s running out, Colin. Another couple of days and Sam Hicks Esquire will be sunning himself on the Costa Brava. We were lucky with the bail hearing once but it’s not going to happen again. Did Georgie say anything?”
“No, nor any of the others. I got the feeling they didn’t know.”
“They probably don’t. Sam’s too clever for that. If we can prove he’s behind this he’ll go down longer than the others. He doesn’t want to come out and find the cupboard is bare, does he? No, there’s someone else on the outside. Someone he can trust.”
Melton turned to look at his colleague.
“Trust? Sammy?”
“Yeah, in a way. He could trust someone who wasn’t too ambitious; someone happy enough to get a good hand-out, like a few hundred thousand; someone who doesn’t want all the hassle of passing hot gold on the market. So that someone hides the stuff for him and takes off.”
“So how will Sam know where to find it?”
“I don’t know. The outsider’s got to get the message back to Sam somehow, but he can’t make direct contact, not with us watching his every move.”
“Could have been a prearranged drop.”
Doughty pinched his lower lip.
“Somehow I don’t think so. It’s too inflexible. In any case Sam probably feels safer if he doesn’t know right now. On a heist as big as this word gets around, and his cell mates could start taking an uncomfortably close interest in him. No, Colin, I reckon he’s going to pick up the message when he gets out of here.”
They both looked round. Nancy Wilson was standing in the doorway.
“Excuse me, Chief,” she said. “Can I borrow your car?”
“No you bloody well can not,” Doughty replied in a gruff, aggrieved tone. “What’s wrong with the rest of the pool?”
“That motorway pile-up took out two, one’s in for servicing and the others are out on patrol. And I’ve got to go visit a library.”
“A library? Oh, now I understand the urgency! Detective-Sergeant Nancy Wilson can’t wait to explore the world of literature, so she has to borrow my car. What is it this time, love, Harry Potter?”
Nancy heaved an exasperated sigh, and both men noted with admiration the further strain this placed on her taut white shirt.
“Oh come on, Chief. The ADC’s got some librarian woman plaguing him about books being defaced. He wants us to get her off his back. Look, I know you don’t like other people driving your car, so why don’t you come with?”
“Why don’t I come with? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than…”
Melton interrupted him. “Why don’t you, Chief?” he asked. “You could do with a break. Maybe you’ll come back to it with a fresh mind.”
Doughty looked about to unleash another torrent of sarcasm. Instead he stopped short, shrugged and said, “Why not? I’m not doing any bloody good round here. And at least the car’s air-conditioned.”
*
Marjorie Fremantle greeted them unsmilingly at the door. In spite of the heat she wore the jacket that matched her tweed skirt, and her cream-coloured blouse was fastened high at the neck with an antique brooch. With her prim manner and round tortoise-shell spectacle frames she would not have looked out of place in the 1930s. You might even picture her in one of those films where the hero takes off her glasses, unpins the tight bun to unlock cascades of gleaming hair and exclaims, “Why, Marjorie, you’re beautiful!” But you would need a hell of an imagination.
Doughty introduced himself and his colleague and began, “Now, Mrs. Fremantle, what’s this all about?”
“Miss Fremantle,” she responded stiffly. “Follow me and you can see for yourself, Chief Inspector.”
They entered a side room, lined on every side with books. There was a faint musty odour mingled with the smell of floor polish, and it was warm enough for Doughty to pick again at his collar.
“There,” the librarian exclaimed. “And there, and there!”
At first they couldn’t see what she was talking about. Then they noticed that each book had a small yellow patch at the bottom right-hand corner of the spine.
Nancy read the expression on Doughty’s face and hurriedly took the initiative.
“Looks like it was done with a fluorescent magic marker or a highlighter,” she said. “When did you first notice these marks, Miss Fremantle?”
The librarian stared at her like an affronted eagle. “Immediately, of course.”
“I think what my colleague means, Miss Fremantle,” Doughty rumbled with exaggerated patience, “is that there are a lot of books in this library and these marks are what, for want of a better word, you might call subtle. So how long do you think, realistically, they could have been there before you noticed them?”
The raptor’s gaze swivelled to him. “I know my books, Inspector. Those marks were not there on Thursday and they were there on Friday afternoon.”
“Last Friday, thirteenth of June?”
“Yes.”
Doughty was suddenly thoughtful. He took one of the books and, bending the pages in a way that made the librarian wince, flicked slowly through it. Then he did it again, stopped and leafed back a few pages. He showed it to Nancy. On this page one word had been highlighted with the same magic marker: “close”.
The librarian was horrified. “Disgraceful!” she exclaimed. “Really!”
Doughty’s eyes narrowed. “How many books were marked on the spine?” he asked her.
“Eight, I think.”
“Let’s see all of them. Sergeant, you take four and I’ll take four.”
Before long they had written down a list. In three books only page numbers had been highlighted and in two more just single letters.
close
2
E
B
13
Stratford
T
63
They pored over the list. Nancy looked at Doughty. “What does it mean?” she said. “What’s going to ‘close’? Or what’s ‘close’ to what?”
Doughty’s mind was working. Suddenly he looked up at her. “Wait a minute…it’s not ‘close’, it’s ‘Close’! It’s a London address. Look: 63, Stratford Close, E13 2BT. And that’s exactly where we’re going right now. We can call in the swat squad on the way. Thanks very much, Miss Fremantle, you’ve been very helpful.” He was already at the front door.
“Just a minute, Inspector! What about my books?”
He turned and grinned at her. “There’s a nice reward for information leading to the recovery of six million pounds worth of stolen gold, Miss. If my hunch is right you’ll be able to replace those books a thou
sand times over. Come on, Sergeant, we’ve got work to do.”
[First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]
The Assistant
“Where in hell did you pop up from?”
“Excuse me. Are you saying you didn’t order GunsaWorks, the only voice-operated, fully interactive, office software suite, from the Technicon Corporation of Tel Aviv?”
“Yes, I mean no, I did order it…”
“And now you’ve installed it, and started it up and entered the serial number…?”
“Yes.”
“So here I am. I’ll be resident on your screen. My name is Zelda. I’m your Office Assistant.”
“I’m not sure I need an Office Assistant.”
“What do you mean ‘I’m not sure I need an Office Assistant’? Everyone needs an Office Assistant! Is there a manual? Did you find a manual in the box?”
“No. But there’s a pdf manual with the installation.”
“A pdf manual, he says! Have you looked at it? Believe me, you need an Office Assistant.”
“All right. Look, I was just doing some correspondence. You can help me with that. Where’s the word processor?”
“You just say ‘Letter’ and we start.”
“Now that’s smart. ‘Letter!’”
“You don’t have to shout. Who to?”
“Mr. Arthur Benjamin, Awesome Enterprises, 1024 Red Cedar Street, Philadelphia…”
“Is he a nice man, this Mr. Benjamin?”
“Eh? I don’t know, I’ve never met him. Why?”
“I just wondered. Go ahead.”
“Dear Sir, I would like to invite you to attend the forthcoming launch of our new range, when there will be an opportunity…”
The Tomb and Other Stories Page 3
