Red Herrings (24 page)

‘Quite legal?' asked Bognor.

‘Well
quite
legal,' she said. ‘All we were doing was bringing these rich Americans over for a week or so and giving them a good time.'

‘Prostitution,' said Bognor. ‘Drugs. Obscene literature. Those things Miss Carlsbad writes are disgusting. And the pictures. Even you. Remember I saw one that Damian Macpherson took.'

‘I never did pornography,' she said vehemently. ‘It was all very tasteful. I always said that. I never posed with anyone or anything else. Just straightforward nudes. There's nothing wrong in that. The human body's very beautiful.'

‘And the books were being fiddled,' said Bognor, trying not to be distracted by the beautiful body's tantalising proximity.

‘That was all bloody Wilmslow's fault. Then he got greedy. Silly sod.'

‘He'd still be alive if he hadn't and no one would be interested in Dull Boy Productions, I suppose.' Bognor shook his head. ‘Who exactly killed him?'

‘It was Dandiprat and Doc Macpherson. The boys from the Pickled Herring helped carry him into Gallows Wood. Dandiprat and the doctor are the really bad ones. Norman and Felix do as they're told and they've got the wind up at the moment. Miss Carlsbad's just pathetic. And Perry and me … well … I mean we'd never do anything violent. That's why I'm telling you all this.'

Suddenly Bognor froze.

‘Shhh!' he said. ‘I heard something.'

They sat very still, listening. There was nothing.

‘Mouse, probably,' said Samantha. ‘But I'd better get back. They'll miss me otherwise. I just want you to remember the one to get is Dandiprat. Without him none of this would ever have happened.'

‘Shhh!'

This time there was no mistaking it. Footsteps outside; muffled voices; opening door. Bognor stood, turned, but too late. A diminutive figure in black coat and pin-striped trousers pointed something dull and metallic in their direction. Behind him three other figures could just be made out in the tenebrous dusk.

‘Hands above head, Mister Bognor. Also you, please, Mrs Contractor. And don't move at all. Felix, perhaps you'd be good enough to do a quick search. I don't imagine either will be armed but I'd like to be sure.'

‘You're crazy, Dandiprat,' said Bognor. ‘You'll never get away with this.'

‘I've got away with far worse than this in my time, Bognor. And I intend doing so again. And again.' He laughed. ‘Question is: how do we dispose of you. As you may have realised I like deaths to look ambiguous. It's a more British way of doing things. Confuses the cops, too. I think in your case a fall from the belfry might be quite neat. It must be about forty foot up. Should do the job nicely.'

Felix advanced on them stealthily. Bognor caught a nasty whiff of rancid eau-de-cologne.

‘Don't try anything, Mr Bognor,' he said, beginning to pat Bognor's jacket like a very tentative masseur. ‘Mr Dandiprat's gun is loaded and he used to shoot lots of people in the old days back home.'

It was gloomy in the church and Bognor reckoned that there was a sporting chance that Dandiprat would miss. The reverse side of such a sporting chance was that he might very well hit. Bognor was not disposed to take the risk although he had to acknowledge that the spot he was in seemed tightish. He and Samantha – always assuming he could rely on Sam, which was a dubious supposition – were outnumbered four to two and the other team had weaponry. If they wanted to push him off the tower he didn't see how he could prevent them.

Felix continued to pat and prod Bognor in an amateur and hesitant fashion.

‘Sir Nimrod left a message,' Bognor called across the aisle. ‘It was coded. Naomi gave it to us. The police know who you are. The game is up. Really. There's no point in killing me, however much satisfaction it gives you.'

‘All killing gives satisfaction,' Dandiprat replied. ‘And yours will give great satisfaction. You've been quite a pain. Also you went to a private school and I can't stand that sort of Englishman.'

‘Inverted snobbery …' began Bognor, and then paused. Felix ceased his search and listened too. Far away across the evening air came the unmistakable banshee wail of a police car in full flight.

‘Aha!' said Bognor. ‘Sounds like the cavalry.'

‘Jesus!' said a voice which Bognor identified as Doc Macpherson's. ‘They're coming this way.'

‘Don't be so dramatic.' Dandiprat was irritated. ‘It's just some over-zealous constable chasing after a drunken farmhand. They won't bother us.'

But the siren was coming closer. And fast.

‘Well I'm not hanging around to be caught in flagrante,' said Macpherson.

‘Don't move!' snapped Dandiprat. But the doctor obviously did move because there was a sound of footsteps followed by a door being opened. Then there was a crack; a scream followed by prolonged moaning; then another crack; and silence.

‘Anybody else who moves gets a dose of the same,' said Dandiprat.

Nobody moved.

The siren was much closer now.

‘Don't you think we ought to move?' asked Felix. His voice was unnaturally high-pitched. ‘I don't think it would look too good if they found us in here. Especially if you've shot the doctor dead.'

‘It's too late now,' said Bognor. ‘It makes no odds whether they find you here or anywhere else. You've blown it. The evidence is too conclusive. You've had it no matter what happens.'

Suddenly the door of the vestry to Bognor's right crashed open and the Bengali-Oxford accents of the swami could be heard calling on everyone to put their hands up and their guns down. Seconds later gunfire erupted from both sides of the church. Bognor dived down on to the floor of the pew, pulling Samantha with him.

‘I'm frightened,' whimpered Samantha.

‘It's all right,' said Bognor, putting a protective arm around her and pulling her to him.

Which was how, a few minutes later, Monica, Mrs Bognor, found them.

‘You can come out now,' she said. ‘Coast is clear. Guy is here with hordes of fuzz armed to the teeth with stun grenades and Armalites; and the swami's lot have come with an armoury too. I think Guy's turning a blind eye to that. But not, Sammy dear, to you. You, I rather gather, are under arrest for something to do with indecency or running a brothel. Likewise your friend Amanda Mandible – who, according to Guy, was picked up in the middle of a black mass conducted by none other than our very own vicar, the Reverend Branwell Larch. The congregation consisted entirely of American attorneys from Tennessee. Remarkable.'

By the following morning all those in a position to ‘sing' had done so. In every case, like Samantha, they had delivered the simple message that everyone but them was guilty. Essentially it transpired that the dirty words were by Miss Carlsbad, and the naughty pictures by Damian Macpherson of Samantha and other uninhibited ladies supplied for the most part by Lady Amanda Mandible who also laid on stately settings for orgies. Rude food was cooked and presented by the Pickled Herring; grace was said by the Reverend Branwell Larch; managerial skills, frilly underwear and ‘sexual aids' (including manacles, whips and face masks) were Peregrine Contractor's province. He, together with the late Brian Wilmslow, had cooked the books.

The Pickled Herring boys did grudgingly admit to two attempts on Simon's life as well as being accessories in the demise of Wilmslow. The principal culprits, however, were generally agreed to be Doc Macpherson and Dandiprat. Macpherson was, in the time honoured phrase, ‘dead on arrival' at Whelk General Hospital. It was agreed that death was due to shooting by Dandiprat. There were, of course, witnesses. The doctor was not spoken well of even in death. He had supplied all drugs, from cannabis to cocaine and from hash to heroin. He, with Dandiprat, was unanimously agreed to be the main murderer of Wilmslow and Sir Nimrod Herring. He would almost certainly have got life had not Dandiprat given him death instead.

Dandiprat himself was the most bitter pill. The bogus butler had done a successful bunk. Somehow, in the confusion, he had managed to escape. Dodging among the gravestones he had reached Samantha's Mercedes unharmed and driven off at breakneck speed in the direction of Whelk. (Like any good butler he always carried a set of his mistress' car keys – just in case.) The Mercedes had been found abandoned on the outskirts of town and there the trail ended. There were regular trains to London and Guy believed he might have caught one of these. Three cars were reported stolen during the night. Any or all of them might have been taken by Dandiprat.

‘He won't get far,' averred Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe next morning at Herring Hall. ‘We've put out a red alert at all Channel ports and the international airports. There's a house to house search going on in Whelk as we speak. It's not possible for him to elude the net. This is 1985. You can't just disappear into thin air in 1985.'

‘What about Lord Lucan?' asked Bognor mournfully.

‘That was years ago,' said Guy. ‘This is 1985. Different ball game.'

Talking of ball games, they were walking along the gravel path towards the real tennis court where the swami was to introduce Bognor to the mysteries of that ancient and holy game.

‘He's supposed to be a master of disguise,' said Bognor, uncomfortable in a set of whites borrowed from the swami. The swami, though stoutish, was much much shorter than Bognor and the clothes were tight. ‘If you ask me he'll surface in Uruguay in a year or two running a rest home for retired Nazis.'

‘It's possible,' said Guy seriously, as they entered the tennis court and said good morning to the swami who had just finished an energetic hour with his private professional, a young Australian from Hampton Court. The swami was sweating.

‘Stop worrying about Mr Dandiprat,' said the swami. ‘He'll turn up, just like any other bad penny ha'penny.' He laughed immoderately for this was a joke. Parkinson had inadvertently triggered the answer to Sir Nimrod's clue. Monica had found the definition of Dandiprat in the dictionary. It was a coin of Henry VII's reign and it was this discovery which had set her charging off with the swami in search of her threatened spouse.

In the event it had proved to be a clue too late but it was gratifying to have solved it at last.

Bognor accepted a racket from the professional as he came off the court and joined the swami who was standing near a line marked five at the service end.

‘He's probably hiding in some ditch,' said the swami, beaming up at the high balcony above the wall at the far end. A gaggle of beautiful brides were leaning against the balustrade and watching play. They were all colours and shapes but mostly very beautiful. Bognor noticed Blessed Orchid smiling beatifically at one end of the row.

‘Take your eyes off my brides,' said the swami, ‘and pay attention. This is the ball. Same size as a lawn tennis ball but underneath the felt it is hard as a cricket ball. Feel.'

Bognor did as he was told, leaned close towards the swami and said, ‘Don't look now, but that bride standing on Blessed Orchid's left isn't a bride at all. Unless I'm a swami too it's none other than our friend Dandiprat cleverly made up and wearing a sheet. Perfect disguise.'

The swami was unversed in the ways of the intelligence services, incapable of the cool, implacable response to sudden disaster and dramatic revelation. He looked straight up at the bride on Orchid's left and gasped. ‘My God, you're right,' he said. ‘It's Dandiprat.'

Dandiprat realised he had been spotted and reached immediately under his robe for the gun which Bognor knew must be there. But the swami was too quick for him. With a lazy graceful swing of the racket he struck the ball high up towards the gallery. Dandiprat was still struggling to extricate the revolver when the ball struck him full in the chest and knocked him to the ground. In seconds Blessed Orchid had the Mafioso butler in a full nelson, and Chief Inspector the Earl of Rotherhithe was mounting the stairs three at a time in order to make the final arrest.

‘Good shot, Bhagwan!' said Bognor appreciatively as the audience applauded. ‘That's what I call
real
tennis.'

Preview of the next in the
Simon Bognor Mystery
series

Before retiring for the night, Vernon Hemlock pours a brandy, lights a cigar, and takes a look at his cache of pornography. Far more than a wad of dirty magazines stashed under a mattress, this is a collection of some of the world's finest erotica, dating back as far as a dirty doodle drawn by da Vinci. The millionaire publisher is perusing the Swedish section when the shelves begin to move. By the time he notices the walls closing in on him, it is too late. Vernon Hemlock has been flattened by filth.

This would not normally bother Simon Bognor, but he fears it will be bad news for his book deal. A stridently lazy Board of Trade investigator, Bognor stumbled his way into a handshake deal with Hemlock to write a kind of memoir. With his publisher dead, Bognor has no choice but to find the man who squashed the king of porn and confront his own greatest fear: hard work.

Vernon Hemlock caressed the bulbous base of his brandy balloon with almost as much lascivious pleasure as he devoted to the sublimely erotic bottom of his mistress, Romany Flange. The grey-blue coil of smoke from his enormous Romeo y Julieta eddied towards the deliciously rude ceiling painted for the house's original owner in 1864. Hemlock gazed wistfully at the sportive nymphs, shepherds and satyrs frolicking about a Tuscan countryside in which every piece of topography seemed to be a phallic symbol of one kind or another.

Vernon Hemlock smiled. It had been a good day at the office. The six-monthly sales conference of Big Books PLC, the publishing giant he had created with a ten thousand pound loan from his old chum Barrington-Fingest, was an occasion of ever-increasing self-satisfaction. Big Books grew bigger and bigger. As the books got bigger the cheques got bigger and so did the American sales and the film options and the enormous co-produced TV series. Hemlock published fewer and fewer titles every year, but such titles! Today had seen the announcement of
The Royal Family Cookbook,
a certain bestseller for Christmas with the astonishing innovation of edible pages. Biochemists in Taiwan had come up with a revolutionary form of rice paper which could be impregnated with whatever flavour you wanted. An edible Royal Family! Hemlock purred.