Vicious Circle

by Douglas Clark

  “That sounds nice. I grow them in the garden.”

  “Up on top of the hill?”

  “That’s right. Where I was when you arrived.”

  “I’d like to see your garden.”

  “Would you really? It’s not in very good order yet. We’ve not had it a full year you see.”

  Whincap said: “Marian’s proud of the garden as she’s every right to be. She’s done it all herself.”

  “Except the heavy digging,” complained Rainford. “She roped me in for that.”

  “And mummy helped,” confessed Marian. “The bulbs are over, but she put them all in.” She moved towards the door. “But if you’d like to look . . .”

  Masters went along, too. He chatted to Whincap as they fetched up the rear of the procession.

  “Do you design your own pieces, or do you copy?”

  “I design, but I lean heavily on traditional examples.”

  “Not modern stuff?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It doesn’t happen to be my market. I’ve found there’s a definite return to the traditional after the flurry of modern stuff in the sixties. Youngsters—or some of them—like the newer stuff, but even the best of that is on traditional lines. All this very popular pine furniture—round tables, Welsh dressers and rush-bottomed chairs—all old stuff newly presented.”

  “Kitchens?”

  “Ah, yes. Very modern. That’s where the new caught on and has stayed. Quite right, too. It makes for easier work.”

  “George!” Green’s voice from the upper level caused Masters to look upwards as he climbed the steps slightly ahead of Whincap.

  “George, come and look at this.”

  As he reached the top, Masters imagined Green was referring to the general layout of the garden which certainly looked impressive though obviously, as yet, new and undergrown. The shrubs were not bushed-up, the perennials not yet massed into the cushions which declared a year of two of comfortable occupation of their beds, nor were the fruit trees more than spindly. But the grass—obviously old turf—had been mown so often—last year and this—that it was fast turning into a lawn with well trimmed edges and an interesting rolling unevenness to declare that it had not been laid for formality.

  “Very nice, indeed,” said Masters. “Your wife must have worked hard to turn this from paddock into garden in about one year.”

  “She’s determined to get everything just so. And fast.”

  “George, just look at this.” Green was becoming a little peremptory. Masters moved over towards one of the flower borders where Green was standing with Marian. They were looking down at lily of the valley plants, each one covered by a jam jar.

  “You use the jars as cloches, Mrs Whincap?”

  “They act as cloches, but the jars are better. Mr Kisiel taught me. This is how he brings on his lily of the valley for May Day. You know he has a big garden centre and grows thousands of plants?”

  “I had heard.”

  “He gave me these plants. In Poland and Russia and places like that, lilies of the valley are important flowers. Long before there was communism and labour days May Day was celebrated just as it was in England. Only where we had maypoles to go with the fairs and feasting, they gave each other little posies of lily of the valley for good luck. To make sure the blooms were ready in time and not knocked about by the weather, they always put jam jars over them. I suppose they were cheaper than cloches would have been for the peasants, but Mr Kisiel says they are better, too, because they are narrower and you can hold the leaves up straight inside.”

  “They do get rather floppy,” agreed Masters. “They’re so wide and heavy.”

  “Yes. And the plants come up all higgeldy—piggeldy and so close together that you need a narrow thing like a jam jar for each one, rather than those wide bell-cloches.”

  “I’ll remember this wheeze,” said Green. “When I see how nicely yours are flowering . . . well, when I left home there was just a hint of a flower or two on mine. But yours . . . lovely, and such fat flowers.”

  Marian turned to him shyly. “If you would like some to take to Mrs Green just before you go home, please ask me. There’ll be plenty left. Look, the stolons are still coming up all over the place.”

  “Thanks, love. I’ll remember that.”

  “And for Mrs Masters,” said Marian, as if suddenly remembering the presence of the man who had questioned her so closely a short time before.

  “Thank you. Wanda would like them. She always lived with a garden until we married. Now we have to make do with large pots dotted about a very small paved yard. The D.C.I. had to give me a sack of soil with which to fill them.”

  “What a pity. You can buy bags of peat and potting composts, you know.”

  “Don’t be fooled by him, love,” said Green. “His little missus has got it lovely.”

  Before Marian could reply, her husband joined them. “I’ve got a deadline to meet on an order, gentlemen, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my bench. If you have time and are interested, I’d be happy to show you over the shop before you return to London.”

  “Thank you, Mr Whincap. I’d like that. And we must be going, too, otherwise we shall be eating into your evening leisure time.”

  Chapter Six

  “Talking of eating,” said Green as soon as they were in the car, “I hope you’re not thinking of patronizing the HQ cafeteria again. There must be somewhere round here where we can get a decent meal.”

  Rainford was not guiding them. He had stayed behind with his daughter, so he was not likely to be available to recommend a good place for dinner.

  “We saw a couple of reasonable-looking places,” said Berger.

  “Pubs?” queried Green.

  “Restaurants. One Greek and the other British.”

  “Greek,” said Green in disgust. “Everything wrapped in vine leaves or cut to bits and stuck on a skewer. And the wine’s got cat-gut polish in it.”

  “Meaning you would prefer the British one?”

  “Too right. You’ve heard of Montezuma’s revenge, Malta Dog and Gippy Tummy?”

  “Go on.”

  “The equivalent on the other side of the Adriatic from Italy is called Agamemnon’s Agony. It catches you in the middle of the third hour after you’ve eaten . . .”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Bill? If it caught you in the middle of anything, it wouldn’t be the third hour after you’d eaten.”

  “No?”

  “No, such things are never specific as to time, only to place. It might catch you in the middle of nowhere, which might not be too bad, but generally it strikes when you are three miles from what are coyly referred to as mod cons.”

  “Chief,” said Reed, puzzled at what was going on, “have you solved this case?”

  “No.”

  “You’re acting as if you had.”

  “In that case I apologize for misleading you.”

  Green lit a Kensitas from a battered packet. “As long,” he said, “as any misleading there is doesn’t result in us missing the first proper sit-down meal we’ll have had since we got here, I don’t mind.”

  “I’d prefer to have a bath before we eat,” said Masters. “The day has been long and sticky.”

  “Sticky, Chief? I thought we were going to have a few hysterics from that girl. Fortunately she calmed down a bit.”

  “They’re all strung up to top doh,” said Green. “You’ve got a group of nice, hard-working people, getting on with living their ordinary lives, coping with a damn nuisance like this old Carlow bird and then wham! Sudden death and cops all over the place. Any young lass could be forgiven for feeling herself entangled when his nibs here starts his questions.”

  “You put in your pennorth.”

  “That’s what I’m paid for, lad.”

  “Then why blame the Chief exclusively?”

  “Because he’s more sinister than I am.”

&n
bsp; “He’s what?”

  “You heard. Upmarket voice churning out remorseless logic. Deadly. When I chip in—usually—I talk the sort of stuff that people can answer in the same sort of way. Like you do. Colloquially, I suppose you’d call it. And they’re more comfortable because it’s like conversations they have every day.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Reed. “I could never tell the Chief he was talking rubbish, like I can you.”

  “Now you’re getting sassy, lad.”

  “For agreeing with you?”

  “There you are. That proves my point.”

  “Which is what?” demanded Berger.

  “If I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on.”

  Masters grinned. “Do you know, Bill, I reckon they’ve caught you out.”

  “Will you put a fiver on it?”

  “On what?”

  “That I’ve forgotten the quotation I was going to spout?”

  “Never. Not on your forgetting.”

  “‘In things that are tender and unpleasing, it is good to break the ice by some whose words are of less weight, and to reserve the more weighty voice to come in as by chance.’ There, then! How’s that?”

  “Full marks. Mr Bacon, I presume?”

  “That’s him. I learned that bit because I thought it was a good description of the way to run an interrogation. I’ve been reading bits of Bacon ever since your pal, Sir Frank, used that bit about roast eggs. I like him. The bit I quoted comes from Of Cunning.”

  “I see. Thanks for the lesson. I shall leave our next interview to you at least to start with.”

  “Who’s it going to be, Chief?”

  “I think we must make a point of talking to Mr Josef Kisiel first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Why not tonight, Chief?”

  “I think tomorrow would be better.” The car turned into the grounds of the HQ buildings. “By the way, when you took the suitcases in, did you take in my personal briefcase, Reed?”

  “Yes, Chief. Everything except the two murder bags. I put your briefcase in your room and the case file in the office.”

  “Thanks.”

  “A bit of light reading tonight?” asked Green.

  “I didn’t have time to read up before we set out, so I brought Martindale and one or two other bits and pieces along, just for laughs.”

  “I’ll bet. That nice toxicology book of yours. The one you call the recipe book.”

  Masters laughed. “I like reading in bed.”

  *

  “Now this restaurant . . .” began Green.

  “Actually it’s a bistro called Punters.”

  “You’re joking. I thought you said it was British?”

  “When you see who’s waiting at table you’ll not care,” retorted Reed.

  Green didn’t reply. Masters asked: “Can we get a reasonable meal there? Something more than a hamburger or pasta?”

  “There’s a full menu, Chief. And it’s pretty good. We had a quick look in at lunchtime . . .”

  Green snorted. “I’ll bet you did. And got your eyes on a bit of capurtle, too, from the sound of it.”

  “What was it he said just now?” asked Berger airily. “In things that are tender . . .”

  “We don’t want to hear about young women in maudlin tones.”

  “I wasn’t talking about women, I was talking about the minute steak.”

  The car drew up at Punters. It had obviously been a shop at one time. Now it had been opened out by the simple expedient of knocking a back room into the sales area to make space for perhaps a dozen tables of varying sizes.

  The front door of the shop had been permanently fastened. Painted across it was the name, and below that a cartoon of a man clinging to a punt pole while his vessel drifted away on blue wavy lines of water to leave him stranded. The large plate glass window had been decorated with a more decorous punting party who seemed to be managing their affairs more skilfully. A large red blind, with white binding to its scalloped edges, lent a touch of gaiety to the little establishment.

  “The door’s down the side,” said Berger, leading the way along a wide passage.

  Green entered and looked about him. The fact that he made no comment seemed to indicate that he liked what he saw. It was a bit of a quart-in-a-pint-pot set-up. The bar, built of bricks topped with a polished wooden plank was at the back and obviously not meant for standing at. Barely six feet long, it was backed by a goodly array of bottles with in-and-out doors for the kitchen at the ends. Presiding over it was a young man whom Masters mentally categorized as a recent student.

  “A table for four, please?”

  There was a short conversation between the young man and an equally young and very personable girl. It seemed there was a question as to which table could be used before the arrival of those who had booked for later. Eventually the matter was decided and they were seated and given menus.

  “Italian job?” demanded Green of another girl who came to take the order. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a steak with a special tomato and mushroom sauce.”

  “And Punter’s job?”

  “The same with cheese and onion.”

  “Good, are they?”

  “We think so.”

  “Right. I’ll have the Punter’s. But first I’m going to have some French onion soup.”

  The others decided to follow his lead. The girl brought a newly sliced bloomer and pot of butter to the table, followed by two half-litre carafes of the house wine.

  “Not bad at all,” said Green, eating bread and butter and looking around. “They’ve used plenty of scarlet paint.”

  The chairs and tables were all brilliant red, the walls cream. Low above each table was a hanging light in a dark brown, loosely woven shade made of stiffened hessian in the shape of a large, upturned bowl. On the walls were enlarged pictures of punting parties, interspersed with regatta notices from Edwardian days. The table-cloths were chocolate coloured, and the napkins scarlet. Suspended on the ceiling was a punt with poles alongside it.

  The soup, when it came, found immediate favour with Green. The bowls were deep, and the croûton laden with cheese seemed just to fit the narrowed tops.

  “Not stingy with it, are they? You can’t get at the jizzer-rizzer without cutting through . . . ah! Lovely.” A strand of brown onion hung on Green’s chin. He wiped it off and bent low to take another spoonful. “Strong cheese, too. That’s what I like.”

  “It’s what the people on television call ‘talking us through’ an event,” said Reed. “Rather boring and self-evident, really.”

  “Just showing appreciation,” said Green. He was having a little difficulty with a thin thread of molten cheese which had somehow escaped his mouth and was causing him a certain amount of irritation. He turned to Masters. “Have you noticed how these days the young have no proper sense of gratitude?”

  “I have, indeed,” said Masters, remembering that not so long before Green himself had found difficulty in saying a direct thank you.

  Green showed his appreciation of this support by noisily finishing the soup. Reed said to Berger: “And I thought you told me they didn’t have music in here.”

  *

  “Some spread,” said Green, soon after nine o’clock the next morning.

  He was referring to the Kisiel Garden Centre and allied plant growing area.

  The Centre itself was a modern building surrounded by plants ready boxed or potted for the amateur gardener to come in and buy. Small plants, like alpines and heathers, were on long tables. Taller plants were displayed in rectangles, each four or five metres square, delineated by concrete curbs and separated by paved paths. The front end of the building had two sliding panels up to which customers could draw trolleys for assistants to add up the charges and take the money. Inside, the building was a gardeners’ supermarket with every type of tool, implement, spray, compost,
packeted seed, and flower pot—clay and china—imaginable. Garden gnomes stood assembled in tiered ranks. Plastic pool shells were neighboured by electric pumps and fountains. Garden rope, garden twine, garden wire, garden ties, canes, rustic arches, benches, tables, sun umbrellas . . . they were all there. A door from the side of the shop led into a greenhouse reserved for exotic plants, water lilies and cacti. A central pillar was surrounded by a wide collar of cut blooms, bunched ready for sale. Behind the building the sheds, the greenhouses, paving blocks, sundials, epergnes . . .

  “Some spread.”

  Masters, having made a leisurely tour of the building, went outside to survey the surrounding fields. Row upon row of marshalled plants, some already in bloom, others waiting for later to show their true colours. Two or three workers, armed with hoes, moved about the fields. One area was covered in vast greenhouses, the top lights open to let in the air. As he moved round to the side of the building opposite the exotic planthouse, Masters saw the more practical aids to gardening—heaps of paving slabs, grey, yellow and red; piles of broken stone for crazy paving; bags of sand, of gravel, bone meal, lime, and giant sacks of compressed peat.

  “A thriving business, apparently,” he said to Green who joined him.

  “He’s got a raft of retail customers even this early in the morning. And I see he has a mail-order section. I reckon he must supply seedsmen for miles around.”

  Masters nodded. “He obviously does the thing properly. Grows new strains and propagates. I get the feeling that it is a self-satisfied business. One that gives as much pleasure as profit.”

  Green grunted his agreement. “I’d even work Sundays if this was mine,” he added.

  Reed came up to them.

  “We’ve found a Mr Tony Kisiel, Chief. He’s the old boy’s son. He’s marketing director of this set up.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Talking to Sergeant Berger in the office.”

  “That glassed-off bit in the main building?”