Crime Writers and Other Animals (15 page)

Needless to say, this company would keep their punters on the boat supplied with cocaine; but not only that, they also made a nice little business of taking the stuff back into England and flogging it to all the Sloane Rangers down the Chelsea discothèques.

I suppose it could have been a good little earner if you like that kind of thing, but these plonkers who was doing it hadn't got no sense of organization. The crew were usually as stoned as the punters, so it was only a matter of time before they come unstuck. Only third run they do, they moor in the harbour of this little island in the West Indies and, while they're all on shore getting well bobbled on the ethnic rum, local Bill goes and raids the yacht. Stuff's lying all over the place, like there's been a snow-storm blown through the cabins, and when the crew and punters come back, they all get nicked and shoved in the local slammer to unwind for a bit.

Not a nice place, the jail on this little island. They had to share their cells with a nasty lot of local fauna like cockroaches, snakes and mosquitoes, not to mention assorted incendiaries, gun-runners, rapists and axe-murderers.

Not at all what these merchant bankers and their Benenden-educated crumpet who had chartered the yacht was used to. So, because that's how things work at that level, pretty soon some British consular official gets contacted, and pretty soon a deal gets struck with the local authorities. No hassle, really, it comes down to a thousand quid per prisoner. All charges dropped, and home they go. Happened all the time, apparently. The prisons was one of the island's two most lucrative industries (the other being printing unperforated stamps). A yacht had only to come into the harbour to get raided. Squiffy's lot had just made it easy for the local police; usually the cocaine had to be planted.

Well, obviously, there was a lot of transatlantic telephoning, a lot of distraught daddies (barristers, MPs, what-have-you) cabling money across, but it gets sorted out pretty quick and all the Hoorays are flown back to England with a good story to tell at the next cocktail party.

They're all flown back, that is, except Squiffy.

And it wasn't that he couldn't raise the readies. He'd got a few stashes round about, and the odd blackmail victim who could be relied on to stump up a grand when needed.

No, he stayed because he'd met this bloke in the nick.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean he fancied him. Nothing Leaning Tower of Pisa about Squiffy.

No, he stayed because he'd met someone he thought could lead to big money.

Bloke's name was Masters. Alex Masters. But, it didn't take Squiffy long to find out, geezer was also known as the Marquess of Gorsley.

Now, I don't know how it is, but some people always land on their feet in the nick. I mean, I do all right. I get all the snout I want and if I feel like a steak or a bottle of whisky there's no problem. But I get that because I have a bit of reputation outside, and I have to work to keep those privileges. I mean, if there wasn't a good half-dozen heavies round the place who owe me the odd favour, I might find it more difficult.

But I tell you, I got nothing compared to what this marquess geezer'd got. Unlimited supplies of rum, so he's permanently smashed, quietly and happily drinking himself to death. All the food he wants, very best of the local cuisine. Nice cell to himself, air conditioning, fridge, video, compact-disc player, interior-sprung bed. Pick of the local talent to share that bed with, all these slim, brown-legged beauties, different one every night, so Squiffy said (though apparently the old marquess was usually too pissed to do much about it).

Now, prisons work the same all over the world, so you take my word that I know what I'm talking about. Only one thing gets those kind of privileges.

Money.

But pretty soon even Squiffy realizes there's something not quite kosher with the set-up. I mean, this Gorsley bloke's not inside for anything particularly criminal. Just some fraud on a holiday villa development scheme. Even if the island's authorities take property fiddling more seriously than cocaine, there's still got to be a price to get him released. I mean, say it's five grand, it's still going to be considerably less than what he's paying per annum for these special privileges.

Besides, when Squiffy raises the subject, it's clear that the old marquess doesn't know a blind thing about this ‘buy-out' system. But he does go on about how grateful he is to his old man, the Duke of Glammerton, for shelling out so much per month ‘to make the life sentence bearable'.

Now Squiffy's not the greatest intellect since Einstein, but even he's capable of putting two and two together. He checks out this Gorsley geezer's form and discovers the property fraud's not the first bit of bovver he's been in. In fact, the bloke is a walking disaster area, his past littered with bounced cheques, petty theft, convictions for drunkenness, you name it. (I don't, incidentally, mean
real
crimes, the ones that involve skill; I refer to the sort people get into by incompetence.)

Squiffy does a bit more research. He's still got some cocaine stashed away and for that the prison governor's more than ready to spill the odd bean. Turns out the marquess's dad pays up regular, never objects when the price goes up, encourages the governor to keep increasing the supply of rum, states quite categorically he's not interested in pardons, anything like that. Seems he's got a nephew who's a real Mr Goody-Goody. And if the marquess dies in an alcoholic stupor in some obscure foreign jail, it's all very handy. The prissy nephew inherits the title, and the Family Name remains untarnished. Duke's prepared to pay a lot to keep that untarnished.

So it's soon clear to Squiffy that the duke is not only paying a monthly sum to keep his son in the style to which he's accustomed; it's also to keep his son out of the country. In fact, he's paying the island to let the Marquess of Gorsley die quietly in prison.

It's when he realizes this that Squiffy Yoxborough decides he'll stick around for a while.

Now, except for the aforementioned incendiaries, gun-runners, rapists and axe-murderers . . . oh, and the local talent (not that that talked much), the marquess has been a bit starved of civilized conversation, so he's pretty chuffed to be joined by someone who's English and talks with the right sort of accent. He doesn't notice that Squiffy's not the genuine article. Too smashed most of the time to notice anything and, since the marquess's idea of a conversation is him rambling on and someone else listening, Squiffy doesn't get too much chance to give himself away.

Anyway, he's quite content to listen, thank you very much. The more he finds out about the Marquess of Gorsley's background, the happier he is. It all ties in with a sort of plan that's slowly emerging in his head.

Particularly he wants to know about the marquess's school-days. So, lots of warm, tropical evenings get whiled away over bottles of rum while the marquess drunkenly reminisces and Squiffy listens hard. It's really just an extension of how he started in the business, pretending to get plastered with the Hoorays. But this time he's after considerably more than the odd fifty.

The Marquess of Gorsley was, needless to say, at one of these really posh schools. Like his father before him, he had gone to Raspington in Wiltshire (near where your grandfather was arrested for the first time, Son). And as he listens, Squiffy learns all about it.

He learns that there was four houses, Thurrocks, Wilmington, Stuke and Fothergill. He learns that the marquess was in Stuke, that kids just starting in Stuke was called ‘tads' and on their first night in the dorm they underwent ‘scrogging'. He learns that prefects was called ‘whisks', that in their common room, called ‘the Treacle Tin', they was allowed to administer a punishment called ‘spluggers'; that they could wear the top buttons of their jackets undone, and was the only members of the school allowed to walk on ‘Straggler's Hump'.

He learns that the teachers was called ‘dommies', that the sweet shop was called the ‘Binn', that a cricket cap was a ‘skiplid', that the bogs was called ‘fruitbowls', that studies was called ‘nitboxes', that lunch was called ‘slops', and that a minor sports colours tie was called a ‘slagnoose'.

He hears the marquess sing the school songs. After a time, he starts joining in with them. Eventually, he even gets a bit good at doing a solo on the School Cricket Song, traditionally sung in Big Hall on the evening after the Old Raspurian Match. It begins,

Don't think you have that one at Eton, do you, Son?

I tell you, after two months in that prison, Squiffy Yoxborough knows as much about being at Raspington as the Marquess of Gorsley does himself. He stays on a couple more weeks, to check there's nothing more, but by now the marquess is just rambling and repeating himself, sinking deeper and deeper into an alcoholic coma. So Squiffy quickly organizes his own thousand quid release money, and scarpers back to England.

First thing he does when he gets back home, Squiffy forms a company. Well, he doesn't actually literally form a company, but he, like, gets all the papers forged so it looks like he's formed a company. He calls this company ‘Only Real Granite House-Building Construction Techniques' (ORGHBCT) and he gets enough forged paperwork for him to be able to open a bank account in that name.

Next thing he gets his clothes together. Moves carefully here. Got to get the right gear or the whole thing falls apart.

Dark blue pinstripe suit. Donegal tweed suit. Beale and Inmans corduroy trousers. Cavalry twills. Turnbull and Asser striped shirts. Viyella Tattersall checked shirts. Church's Oxford shoes. Barbour jacket. Herbert Johnson trilby.

He steals or borrows this lot. Can't just buy them in the shops. Got to look old, you see.

Has trouble with the Old Raspurian tie. Doesn't know anyone who went there – except of course for the marquess, and he's rather a long way away.

So he has to buy a tie new and distress it a bit. Washes it so's it shrinks. Rubs in a bit of grease. Looks all right.

(You may be wondering, Son, how I come to know all this detail. Not my usual special subject, I agree. Don't worry, all will be revealed.)

Right, so having got the gear, he packs it all in a battered old leather suitcase, rents a Volvo estate and drives up to Scotland.

He's checked out where the Duke of Glammerton's estate is, he's checked that the old boy's actually in residence, and he just drives up to the front of Glammerton House. Leaves the Volvo on the gravel, goes up to the main door and pulls this great ring for the bell.

Door's opened by some flunkey.

‘Hello,' says Squiffy, doing the right voice of course. ‘I'm a chum of Alex's. Just happened to be in the area. Wondered if the old devil was about.'

‘Alex?' says the flunkey, bit suspicious.

‘Yes. The Marquess of Gorsley. I was at school with him.'

‘Ah. I'm afraid the marquess is abroad.'

‘Oh, really? What a swiz,' says Squiffy. ‘Still, I travel a lot. Whereabouts is the old devil?'

Flunkey hesitates a bit, then says he'll go off and try to find out. Comes back with the butler. Butler confirms the marquess is abroad. Cannot be certain where.

‘What, hasn't left a forwarding address? Always was bloody inefficient. Never mind, I'm sure some of my chums could give me a lead. Don't worry, I'll track him down.'

This makes the butler hesitate, too. ‘If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll just go and see if his Grace is available. He might have more information about the marquess's whereabouts than I have.'

Few minutes later, Squiffy gets called into this big lounge-type room, you know, all deers' heads and gilt frames, and there's the Duke of Glammerton sitting over a tray of tea. Duke sees the tie straight away.

‘Good Lord, are you an Old Raspurian?'

‘Yes, your Grace,' says Squiffy.

‘Which house?'

‘Stuke.'

‘So was I.'

‘Well, of course, Duke, I knew you must have been. That's where I met Alex, you see. Members of the same family in the same house, what?'

Duke doesn't look so happy now he knows Squiffy's a friend of his son. No doubt the old boy's met a few unsuitable ones in his time, so Squiffy says quickly, ‘Haven't seen Alex for yonks. Virtually since school.'

‘Oh.' Duke looks relieved. ‘As Moulton said, I'm afraid he's abroad.'

‘Living there?'

‘Yes. For the time being,' duke says carefully.

‘Oh dear. You don't by any chance have an address, do you?'

‘Erm . . . Not at the moment, no.'

Now all this is suiting Squiffy very nicely. The more the duke's determined to keep quiet about his son's real circumstances, the better.

‘That's a nuisance,' says Squiffy. ‘Wanted to sting the old devil for a bit of money.'

‘Oh?' Duke looks careful again.

‘Well, not for me, of course. For the old school.'

‘Oh yes?' Duke looks interested.

‘Absolutely.' (Squiffy knows he should say this every now and then instead of ‘Yes'.) ‘For my sins I've got involved in some fund-raising for the old place.'

‘Again? What are they up to this time?'

‘Building a new Great Hall to replace Big Hall.'

Duke's shocked by this. ‘They're not going to knock Big Hall down?'

‘Good Lord, no. No, Big Hall'll still be used. The Great Hall will be for school plays, that sort of thing.'