The Awful Truth About the Herbert Quarry Affair

by Marco Ocram

“You did.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. At Marcia’s place. Ten minutes ago.”

  I was starting to think they’d been right to bang-up Marcia in the loony bin, if she was half as nutty as her sister appeared to be.

  “But I’ve been here all morning…wait, have you just been to Marcia’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think I was there and told you to come here?”

  “Yes.”

  She put a hand to her nose to stifle a snort.

  “That was Marcia, Mister Ocram. She’s my twin. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be laughing, but…”

  But I’ll laugh anyway at what a dumbass you are, was what she thankfully didn’t say.

  “You’re saying we’ve come all this way for no reason?” said Como. “Don’t you know there’s a law against wasting police time? I could get you locked up for this.”

  I sprang to Jacqueline’s defense.

  “Come, Como, she was hardly to blame.”

  “It wasn’t her I was talking about.”

  LESSON SIXTEEN

  ‘Herbert, how can I be sure I will become a rich and famous novelist?’

  ‘You can never be certain, Marco, but you can feel the conviction within you.’

  ‘What signs can give me confidence I am going in the right direction?’

  ‘If your writing can be more than just the words you write, then you are heading in the right direction.’

  ‘When you say more than the words what do you mean?’

  ‘You should aim to be associated with a special word, so readers will always think of you when they hear it. For example, if you use the word 'seagull' in the right way, readers will associate it with you forever, so when they see seagulls they will say ‘Seagulls. I wonder what Marco Ocram would make of them’.’

  ‘Can the special word be any word at all? An adjective such as incompetent, for example?’

  ‘Yes, Marco. With your natural gifts, I am sure you can make people think of you whenever they hear the word incompetent.’

  CHAPTER CAN WE PLEASE GET BACK TO USING NUMBERS?

  In which a lie is swallowed, and Marco spots a possible clue.

  We drove back to the Hacienda Apartments and re-knocked on the door to 1007. I left the talking to Como. When Marcia answered the door, he flashed his badge and asked if we could go in.

  She led us inside, where my eye played like a powerful searchlight over the contents of her shabby apartment. Immediately apparent were recently purchased dresses from Faratali, Carpaluci, Tagliateli and half a dozen other top fashion houses—exclusive couture, entirely out of place in the home of a poor member of the Clarkesville working class. I nudged Como and twitched my head to draw his attention to them. He nudged me back to acknowledge receipt of my nudge and began to question Marcia as I nursed my ribs.

  “Miss Delgado, I know about your past involvement with Herbert Quarry.” At the mention of the name, Marcia’s eyes became like those of a cobra. “You know he’s been arrested in connection with the death of Lola Kellogg?”

  “Yes, and I hope he fries in hell for it.”

  “Well, we’re gonna make sure he gets the justice he deserves. But can I ask if you know anything about what happened? Anything that can help us?”

  “What more do you need to know? He was a sick pedophile, and he was caught red-handed. The sooner you get him in the chair, the better.”

  “You watch TV, don’t you? You’ve seen what happens when the fancy lawyers get involved. They could get Quarry off the hook unless we cover all the bases. We need to eliminate any reasonable doubt, so we’re just trying to see if anyone was around who might know anything that could add to the case. You weren’t around Quarry’s house that day, by any chance?”

  “No. I wasn’t even in Clarkesville.”

  Como waited for her to go on.

  “I…I was out of state at a game. The Clarkesville Giants were playing away. I was in the crowd watching. I can prove it—look. My friend saw me and sent me a clip.”

  She picked up a tablet and showed us a video. It was from the local TV coverage of the game. The sexist cameramen had been zooming in on various beautiful women in the crowd, one of their victims being Marcia. Her friend had spotted her on the replay and forwarded the clip.

  Como made a few notes.

  “OK. Thanks for your help, Miss Delgado. You’re very like your sister.”

  “We’re practically identical. The only way to tell us apart is she’s got a scar on her left hand by her thumb knuckle.”

  I wished she’d told us before—it would have saved us a trip to the abattoir.

  “No need to see us out,” said Como. He gave her a card. “Just make sure you call me if you remember anything.”

  We tipped our hats, or would have done had we been wearing any, and left her studying Como’s card in her living room. On our way out, I took the chance to flick a finger through a pile of open letters on a table near the front door.

  LESSON SEVENTEEN

  ‘Herbert.’

  ‘Yes, Marco?’

  ‘How important is the cover of a book?’

  ‘That depends, Marco.’

  ‘Upon what, Herbert?’

  ‘Upon whether the author is already famous. If so, the cover is of little importance. The millions the publisher has pumped into promoting the author will have conditioned the minds of purchasers to buy the product regardless of its intrinsic merits. For a new writer, however, the cover must appeal to the reader.’

  ‘But, Herbert, in these days when it is possible to read sample pages of a book before ordering it, surely the quality of the author’s writing will overcome any shortcomings of the cover.’

  ‘True, Marco. If the writing is superb, the cover need not be. I hope, Marco, you have engaged a superb cover designer.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In which Marco is threatened, meets a billionaire, remembers not to think, and encounters a spectacular clue.

  “There was a compliments slip in her post, Como. It said Please find our check attached. Don’t you think that was suspicious, especially given all the expensive new things in her apartment?”

  “There could be a million and one reasons why someone like Delgado gets a check.”

  “Well can’t we at least check the check, and trace who paid it?”

  “Not without a whole load of paperwork and justification. This is a free country, Writer. The police can’t just pry into people’s financial affairs.”

  I stared out of the untinted window of Como’s police car. Yet again his pedantic preoccupation with proper police procedure was preventing me from developing my narrative in a freeform, mold-breaking, Jackson Pollock manner.

  “If you feel, Como, that observing petty police rules is more important than fanning the flame of Truth, then I will just have to investigate that particular lead myself.”

  “That lead’s not strong enough for a nano-poodle, Writer. But maybe it won’t hurt for you to be off chasing rainbows—I’ve got some admin to do back at HQ, so it’ll keep you out of trouble until I’m finished.”

  Como kindly dropped me back at Herbert’s place, or wherever it was I said I’d left my black Range Rover. As I went to unlock the car, I saw a folded card tucked under one of the wipers. I untucked and unfolded the card. It was a handwritten note…

  We don’t like snoopers in this town.

  I called Como.

  “Galahad.”

  “Como, it’s me.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Writer, I only just dropped you off.”

  “I know, but someone’s left a threatening note on my car.”

  Even through the tinny quality of the phone’s speaker, I could hear the tone of Como’s voice change to one of concern.

  “What’s it say?”

  I told him what it said.

  “OK. It’s probably someone harmless havin’ fun. But keep the note s
afe. Don’t touch it more than you need to. We can get it dusted for prints, just to check it’s not linked to anyone serious.”

  “OK.”

  “And Writer…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep yourself safe too.”

  Having finished the call and blipped down a tinted window or two to let out some heat, I sat inside my black Range Rover to Google the business whose letterhead appeared atop the suspicious compliments slip I had spotted in Marcia’s hallway. According to the official Clarkesville County business register, the company was privately owned by Elijah Bow, a secretive and reclusive billionaire industrialist with a huge ranch-style property, otherwise known as a ranch, about ten miles from Clarkesville on the N66. The business was a holding company, performing no trading in its own right; it had one director—Bow—and no other declared staff.

  I entered the coordinates of Bow's ranch in my satnav and drove in accordance with her instructions.

  En route, I called Como.

  “Christ, Writer, am I ever gonna get ten minutes’ peace?”

  “Do you know Elijah Bow?”

  “The reclusive billionaire industrialist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “He owns the company that sent the check to Marcia Delgado. I have reason to believe he may be implicated in framing Herbert. I'm on my way to see him right now and will be relentless in my examination of his affairs.”

  “You're crazy, Writer, but that's what I love about you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I hung up, as I was getting close, and needed to muster all my powers to write a short scene of unsurpassed corniness.

  “Turn left towards the billionaire's ranch,” said the satnav.

  Bow's grand front door was opened by a maid who motioned me into a vast circular hall tastelessly adorned with garish works of art. In the center of the hall a large bronze of a naked young girl surmounted a pool, water spouting from the figure's pouting lips. Having taken my card, the maid beckoned me to follow him and lumbered along a corridor before showing me into Elijah Bow's study where the billionaire was at work. Bow dismissed the maid and read my card.

  “We don’t like snoopers in this town?” he said.

  Ooops, wrong card. I swapped it for the right one, which he scanned before asking the purpose of my visit.

  “I am investigating the gruesome murder of Lola Kellogg.”

  I observed him closely through narrowed eyelids as I made my announcement. I could see at once my words had unsettled him. His eyelids narrowed too, as if in answer to my steely gaze.

  “I would have thought,” he said, in measured tones (he was speaking into a frequency analyzer), “such an investigation was entirely unnecessary, since the police have caught the perpetrator knife-in-hand.”

  “So the media would have it,” I replied with an unwavering gaze. “However, I know Herbert Quarry to be incapable of such a heinous crime. He must therefore have been framed. Moreover, he must have been framed by someone with significant resources and infinite cunning, the sort of person who might have founded an industrial empire centered in Clarkesville.”

  “And you are stupid enough to imagine Elijah Bow tied up in all this?

  “I do not imagine so. I know so.”

  “This interview is at an end.” Bow’s hand reached to a richly bejeweled Turkish bell-pull, prompting the entrance of another maid. “Mister Ocram is leaving. Please see him out.”

  “Don't think you've seen the last of me,” was my parting cliché.

  I bowed at Bow, clicked my heels, turned on them, and followed the maid out of the room.

  My mind raced feverishly as we walked back through the maze of corridors to the front door. Other than uncovering Bow's defensiveness, I had not acquired any tangible proof from my visit. I knew Como could not act on my suspicions alone, however well-founded he believed them to be. I had to find concrete proof. But how? Think, Marco, think.

  As we neared the entrance hall, I had an inspiration. Then an expiration. In fact, I was breathing quite deeply, when I remembered Herbert's advice: Don’t think, Marco, don’t think.

  Like an automaton in a trance, I let my subconscious take over, and stared at the huge bronze statue spouting a fountain from its lips. At once I recognized the face from the picture in Herbert’s study—could it be? There was a plaque on the low wall surrounding the fountain. I pretended to tie a loose shoelace, hoping I hadn’t mentioned I was wearing sandals, and bent down where I could read the inscription on the plaque.

  Lola, I will love you always, Elijah Bow.

  LESSON EIGHTEEN

  ‘Herbert, how should a writer develop the plot of a bestseller?’

  ‘Without trying, Marco.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You must not deliberate, Marco—you must let the plot come out of you organically. The human mind, Marco, is the most complex structure in the known universe. The plot is already in your mind, like a seed in the soil. The seed does not consciously develop the idea of a plant; it becomes one through a preordained process. You must let the plot grow out of your mind like a vegetable from the soil.’

  ‘Like a vegetable…’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In which four opportunities for padding are lost through bad luck.

  I drove back to Herbert’s, hoping the readers would forget it was meant to be a sealed-off crime scene, and flopped on a settee. I called Como.

  “Galahad.”

  From the background noise I could tell he was driving.

  “Como, it’s me. You okay to talk?”

  “Sure. What happened at Bow’s—he have you thrown out on your ear?”

  I heard Como chuckle.

  “No. I found some evidence. Bow has a giant statue of Lola in his hall.”

  I heard a long screech of tires and the noise of Como’s engine stop.

  “You what?”

  I told him about the fountain and the inscription on the plaque.

  “Does he know you recognized it?”

  “I don’t think so—he wasn’t there, by the statue, I mean. What shall we do? Shall we go and arrest Bow? Shall we tell Herbert’s defense team? Should we call a press conference? Shall we confront McGee? Do we need to…”

  “Writer, just shut the fuck up—I need to think.”

  I shut the fuck up in compliance with Como’s suggestion and waited for the fruits of his thinking.

  “I’m out of town. McGee’s got me on some crap case that isn’t going anywhere, just to keep me busy. Don’t say anything about this to anyone else until I get back.”

  “How long will you be?”

  “Fuck knows. I’ll text you.”

  After fond farewells I killed the call, wondering how I was meant to sustain a breakneck narrative pace while my main character was out of action. Deciding to indulge in formulaic padding, I walked along the beach reflecting upon the lot of the writer, I cooked an imaginative and healthy snack from the few ingredients in Herbert’s fridge that had yet to go off, I performed an hour of meditation, I showered, I sat on the toilet reading Herbert’s copy of Autotrader, and I trimmed my toenails. Thus refreshed, I sat at Herbert’s desk and drew-up a list of suspects who might have a sufficient grudge against my mentor to want to frame him for the grisly murder. It read as follows:

  Professor Sushing—lost a court case brought by Herbert.

  Marcia Delgado—extremely scorned by Herbert.

  Elijah Bow—possible rival for the affections of Lola.

  It wasn’t much of a list—perhaps an interview with Lola’s father might identify some other names I could add to it. From news reports I forgot to mention earlier, I knew the Kelloggs lived within walking distance of Herbert’s place. I picked up the Clarkesville City Gazetteer and flicked through it, wondering whether to write that there was only a single entry for the surname Kellogg in Herbert’s area, or whether I’d be better
off with several, thus giving me the opportunity to visit various spurious addresses before finding the right one. I was just trying to decide whether thirty would be too many spurious addresses to visit, when my finger finished tracing down through the Kellermans, the Kellerways, the Kelletts, the Kellet-Clarkes, the Kellibers, the Kellighers, the Kelliwells, and the Kellochs, to find five entries under Kellogg near Herbert’s zip code. Hmmm, not as many as I’d hoped, but I supposed five opportunities for padding were better than none.

  I got into my black Range Rover, forgetting to mention its tinted windows for once, and punched one of the Kellogg addresses into the satnav. As I rounded a corner to reach my destination, I saw a house submerged in commemorative bouquets. Cursing my luck, I yanked on the parking brake, locked the car with an embittered blip of its remote control, and trudged over. The bouquets were of every size and shape, with cards bearing the sentiments of well-wishers, sentiments which left no room for doubt: this was Lola’s father’s place. So much for my opportunities for padding. I straightened my cravat and tapped respectfully on the door. No answer. I tapped respectfully a second time. No answer. I respectfully hammered on the door, respectfully rattled the handle, and respectfully shouted through the mail slot. No answer.

  I looked around. The Kellogg place was in the woods near a lake. There was only one other house nearby, so I sauntered over to it, hoping the neighbors might have some interesting beans to spill. As I approached the house, I heard Wagner being played at full blast inside. When I got closer, I heard above the music a heated argument between two of the occupants. Without wishing to reveal my presence, I edged to the jamb of the door. These were the very words I overheard:

  Woman's voice, full of rage: “You sick perverted bastard. If it hadn't been for you, Lola would never have run to that creep.”

  Man's voice, indignant: “How dare you accuse me of being a sick perverted bastard? If you and those witches you call your friends hadn't dabbled in satanic rituals with those bloody Kelloggs, we wouldn't have been in this shit-hole in the first place.”