Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  He had seldom felt worse. Fruitless to catalogue those occasions which might compete. In the past he had nearly always had the opportunity to sleep off the worst of this kind of disaster, but now he was to be jerked in an untimely manner from his sleep and forced to contemplate a corpse. Thank heaven he had remembered the Alka Seltzer. It was on the glass shelf above the washbasin, and with another superhuman effort he staggered to it and switched on the fluorescent strip light above the shaving mirror. A mistake. The face that blinked back at him was a deeply distressing apparition. Blood had run down one side and stained the skin. His hair around the temple was clotted with the stuff, and tufts of carpet adhered to his cheek and chin.

  Apart from the dried red blood, some broken veins and the odd pimple, his face was a drained yellow colour. Seeing such a face on another man’s body, Bognor would have crossed the road and passed by on the other side. As it was, he squinted at it through half-closed, puffy-lidded eyes. There was nothing he could say about it, he decided after a moment’s frantic contemplation, and so very carefully, in order not to jerk and thereby risk further harm, he decanted a handful of white Alka Seltzer tablets into a glass of water. Leaving them to fizz for a few seconds, he turned the cold tap on full blast and, still moving with the deliberation of a man on his penultimate legs, he lowered his head into the basin and let it remain there, sighing spasmodically as the cold water splashed about it. Eventually he straightened and quaffed the Alka Seltzer, trying not to look himself in the eye. Then, thinking that perhaps he was feeling marginally less ghastly, he ventured a glance at the image in the glass. Less blood than before, but otherwise enough to turn the least squeamish stomach. He pulled at the knot of his Arkwright and Blennerhasset tie, then dabbed at the blood with a dampened face towel. His head was still leaking under the hair, but the blood which must have flowed quite freely at first was now merely oozing. Everything still hurt like hell, but before long the Alka Seltzer might take some of the edge off the damage. He wondered if he needed stitches. Probably. Would he be able to stay conscious? Perhaps. Who was the second corpse? Molly Mortimer? Hermione Frinton? Waldy Mitten? Maybe an Apocrypha scholarship candidate, thwarted by the examining body, was going to knock off the Senior Common Room one by one. Oh for Codes and Ciphers! Oh for home and Monica! If the police were going to be ten minutes arriving he might just have time for a quick lie-down. He made his way back to the bed and sprawled on it, face down. …

  He was woken immediately, though so deep was the oblivion to which he succumbed as soon as his head touched the counterpane that he felt as if he had been asleep for weeks. The banging on the door provoked a dream at first and, waking, Bognor was surprised to find himself protesting in Shakespearean tones he had not used since his last term at school: ‘Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there in the name of Beelzebub?’

  At which there was a pause before a voice, at once officious and subordinate, shouted back, ‘Police, sir. Constable Atkinson. Come from Inspector Smith.’

  Bognor frowned. The inspector had said he was sending a car round, but he had also warned Bognor against opening the door to any but his own men. How could he know whether this Constable Atkinson was the real thing, or the failed assassin returned to finish the job off properly?

  ‘Who do you want?’ asked Bognor cautiously.

  ‘Mr Bognor of the Board of Trade, sir. Is that you, Mr Bognor?’

  Bognor’s head throbbed. This was silly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Even if it is me, your Inspector Smith warned me not to let anyone in except you. If you are you. Do you have any ID?’

  Another pause. A shuffling, a rustling and then the sound of someone fiddling with the bottom of the door. A moment later a plastic-coated card slid underneath it and lay on the carpet. ‘ID, sir,’ said the voice. ‘I think you’ll find it in order.’

  Bognor knelt, not without difficulty and discomfort, and managed to scoop the card off the floor. It revealed, as expected, that its owner was, Detective-Constable Atkinson of the local CID. Bognor accordingly opened up, to find himself staring at a burly, red-faced man with bushy eyebrows, a Donegal tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers and brown brogues.

  On seeing Bognor this worthy took two smart steps back and removed his hands from his pockets. ‘Crippen!’ he exclaimed, evidently using the famous murderer’s name as an expression of astonishment. He did not seem to Bognor to be suggesting that he was Crippen, nor even that Bognor was a latter-day victim of the doctor. It was simply an expletive.

  Bognor smiled weakly, glad of creating such an instant and dramatic effect. It did not often happen. In fact quite often he was not noticed at all until things started to go wrong and Parkinson produced him as a scapegoat. The smile was not much of a success. Scarcely worth the effort.

  ‘Stone the crows!’ continued the constable. ‘What you been doing?’

  Bognor indicated his head, dabbing at the wound just above the temple. His fingers came away bloody and he gazed at them thoughtfully for a moment before showing them to the policeman.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Constable Atkinson, glancing rapidly to left and right, and at the same time slipping a hand to his hip and producing an ugly black revolver. With his other hand he pushed Bognor back into the room. Once inside he replaced the gun and examined Bognor’s injury. ‘That’s not at all nice, sir, if I might say so. Whoever did that was taking quite a risk, or he didn’t know what he was about. Could have killed you, that could. Can you walk?’

  ‘I can try,’ muttered Bognor.

  ‘Ought to take you straight round to Casualty,’ said Atkinson sympathetically. ‘Only I’m afraid that’s a little luxury the chief isn’t going to allow us.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Donner und Blitzen,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘We’re late as it is. But we’ve got a first-aid kit in the car and I’ll find something to put on it, even if it’s only some antiseptic and a strip of Band-Aid. Who did it? Any idea?’

  ‘None,’ said Bognor ruefully. ‘Jumped me the second I opened the door.’

  Atkinson glanced round the room. ‘Looking for something,’ he said, gesturing towards the drawers and cupboards, all of which were open.

  Bognor simply had not noticed. Even now he was not sure whether the whirlwind effect, the scattered clothing, the ransacked drawers and the confetti of papers were the result of interlopers or of his own untidiness.

  ‘Any idea what?’

  ‘What what?’

  ‘What they were looking for?’

  ‘None. Nor who.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘Yes, “who”. Who hit me on the head. No idea who.’

  ‘Oh.’ Atkinson rubbed his chin and stared around him at the debris. ‘Anything missing?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Bognor, truthfully but unhelpfully.

  Atkinson glanced at him sharply and decided that this was best pursued at some later date. ‘May be some brandy in the car,’ he said, pleasantly.

  ‘Ugh.’ Bognor retched and shuddered. ‘Anything but brandy,’ he said.

  The detective-constable frowned. ‘Best be going, sir, if you can manage it.’

  Bognor told him, unconvincingly, that he could manage perfectly well, but after a few steps it was clear that he needed official support. They made most of the journey arm in arm and passed through the lobby like a couple in post-coital euphoria, causing the hall porter to raise his eyebrows, suck his teeth, shake his head and observe, sotto voce, that he didn’t know what the place was coming to and that young gentlemen had ceased being young gentlemen many years ago.

  Outside, the white police Rover was parked on the double yellow line, engine running, blue light flashing. Atkinson guided Bognor into the back seat, then got in alongside the driver. The car shot forward like a greyhound from the traps, ramming Bognor’s stomach against his spine.

  ‘Oh well,’ he gasped as he slumped into the upholstery. ‘Better than Bolislav.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Atkinson turned, sympathetically. He had found the first-aid kit and was
rummaging about in it, searching for sticking plaster.

  ‘Motorbike,’ said Bognor, grinning queasily. ‘I was on one earlier. Took the breath away.’

  Atkinson smiled uneasily. ‘I see, sir. Now, if you wouldn’t mind just leaning forward a bit, I’ll have a go at cleaning up that cut and sticking something over it.’

  But even as he said it Bognor’s eyes closed, his mouth fell open and he slipped away into the release of sleep. Atkinson regarded him briefly to see if he was breathing, was reassured by the onslaught of stentorian snores, and turned back to face the front.

  ‘Not in a good way, poor sod,’ he said to his colleague.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Had a skinful, went home to bed and got hit on the head with a blunt instrument. Not so blunt it didn’t cut him, though. Table lamp probably, unless whoever done it was carrying a cosh. Amateur, whoever it was. Messy.’

  They drove on in silence, speeding along the deserted road through north Oxford, along the bypass, turning off on a minor road and then, still travelling at a reckless clip which would have terrified Bognor had he been awake, they passed through a trio of dormant, picturesque country villages of the type favoured by weekenders from London and the richer, trendier Oxford dons. In a fourth, even more picturesquely postcard than the others, they turned left by the church and down a lane which, after a mile or so, became little more than a muddy track. They climbed for a few minutes, rattled over a cattle grid, and parked a hundred yards further on where several vehicles already stood and where the night was illuminated by lights and torches. As they halted, the be-mackintoshed figure of Inspector Smith was caught in the beam of the headlights, and Bognor woke.

  His first coherent vision was of the inspector easing into the rear seat alongside him.

  ‘Bad business,’ he said.

  Bognor did not reply.

  ‘Anyway, can’t be helped. Just have to hope there’s a silver lining. How are you?’ He snapped on the interior light and caught his breath as he saw Bognor properly. ‘Sorry I asked,’ he said after a moment. He felt in the pocket of his mac and pulled out a hip flask. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Brandy. You look as if you could use it.’

  Bognor gagged and turned his head away.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said the inspector, taking a swig himself before putting the flask back in his pocket. ‘So someone had a go at you, eh?’

  Bognor nodded.

  ‘Any idea who?’

  Bognor shook his head.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  Bognor said he couldn’t be sure, but it must have been between eleven and twelve. Or so he supposed. The inspector nodded at this and gave an impression of thought. When he had finished he said, ‘Perfectly possible for whoever did for our friend over there to have got back in time to have a go at you, too.’

  ‘When … ?’ began Bognor, then checked himself. ‘I mean who was it?’

  ‘Time of death estimated at somewhere around seven or eight yesterday evening,’ replied Smith, ‘in answer to the first part of your question. As for the second, you’d better come and have a look. He hasn’t been moved yet and the only identification so far is from his driving licence and credit cards. Since he was a friend of yours you’d better do the honours. Can you walk?’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘It’s not far.’

  They both got out of the car and Bognor stood for a second, testing the springy upland turf.

  ‘Bit of luck finding him this quick,’ said Smith conversationally. ‘This couple came up for a quick spot of how’s your father and just fell over him. Bad luck on them, I’m afraid. Both of them playing away from home, if you know what I mean. Not that there’s anything unusual about that in this day and age. There’ll be trouble, though. University types they were. Told their respective spouses they were going to choir practice. Ha!’ He laughed coldly. ‘The Almighty moves in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform, don’t you think?’

  There was a heavy dew underfoot and it soaked through Bognor’s suedes, moistening his socks. To his already frightful physical condition he now added a dryness of the throat and a tightening of the stomach. Something to do with apprehension. Collecting his thoughts was out of the question. He could not even begin to guess whose body was lying out here on the hillside, stumbled upon by an adulterous courting couple. What a way to go. For himself he wanted to die in bed, preferably at once.

  Some sort of bivouac had been placed over the dead person, and as they reached it Smith pulled aside the end and shone his torch in, illuminating the man’s face. Bognor, braced for the shock, stared in, gulped, swallowed hard and turned away. Smith caught him as he half fell and forced some of the contents of his flask down his throat. This time Bognor was almost grateful for it, but after taking it he broke away from Smith and took a few steps into the darkness. He wanted to be alone and for a short while the policeman granted the unspoken wish. Then, all too soon, he was at his elbow again.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Friend of yours, was he?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Bognor. ‘Only I’m afraid that in a manner of speaking it’s my fault. I should have bloody well listened. Damn! Damn! Damn!’ He pulled out a spotted handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

  ‘The documents,’ said Inspector Smith, ‘lead us to suppose that the deceased is one Sebastian Vole.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor softly. ‘That’s Vole all right.’

  6

  BOGNOR SAT ON THE back seat of the Rover with his head between his knees and moaned softly. It was idle to pretend that he had ever numbered the dead man among his nearest and dearest, but their acquaintanceship went back to days of callow youth, wine and roses, salad days, carefree this and that and what have you. And that meant something. Bognor did not exactly weep for Vole, but he did allow himself a little stiff-upper-lipped keening. Of all his contemporaries, Vole was the only one who remembered Christmas. Every year the card came without fail: ‘Season’s Greetings from Prendergast History Faculty’ and, in green ink, the spikily executed words ‘Sebastian Vole’. Of all his brilliant contemporaries Vole had been the most, well, human. Vole stayed up all night playing poker. Vole liked a drink. Vole had been sick over the Junior Proctor one night after an Arkwright and Blennerhasset meeting. Vole was all right. And now, alas, poor Vole, he lay stiff and cold on an Oxfordshire hillside. This had been a professional job. Hands tied, blindfolded. A single shot from close range in the back of the neck.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ moaned Bognor again. ‘If only I’d listened.’ Smith, who was standing outside, leaning against the open window, sympathized with his colleague’s pain and grief but was becoming bored by this incomprehensible refrain. Now that he had heard it half a dozen times he decided he could seek elucidation without seeming callous.

  ‘What was it,’ he asked kindly, ‘that he told you?’

  ‘About his book,’ moaned Bognor. ‘He was right all the time. Just because he made such an ass of himself with Mussolini I didn’t believe him. But he was right. Dammit, he was right, and look where it got him. Shot in the back by that Kremlin sociologist. God, this country’s going to the dogs!’

  The inspector took another swig from his flask and frowned. He had lost the thread of his colleague’s remarks.

  ‘Come again,’ he said helpfully. ‘I’m not quite with you.’

  ‘We all mocked him,’ said Bognor. ‘But he was right and we were wrong.’

  ‘But what did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me he was on to Professor Aveline.’

  ‘What, the Professor Aveline? Professor Max Aveline? The Regius Professor of Sociology?’

  ‘The same.’

  The inspector cleared his throat noisily. An ambulance had arrived and they were taking Vole away. Bognor watched in the grey half-light of early morning. There was a damp mist shrouding the hillside. The men’s breath steamed. He was reminded of the last dawn he had seen, no time at all ago, the morning after the
gaudy, the morning Lord Beckenham walked home to his death. And now Vole.

  ‘And what do you mean when you say he was “on” to Aveline? You’re too quick for me, I’m afraid. I’m only a poor policeman. Don’t have the benefits of a varsity education like you.’

  Bognor didn’t like people who said varsity. It reminded him of Betjeman: ‘I’m afraid the fellows in Putney rather wish they had/The social ease and manners of a varsity undergrad.’ And thinking of Betjeman Bognor remembered another of the Laureate’s verses, bleaker lines on the death of some old fellow of Pembroke: ‘The body waits in Pembroke College where the ivy taps the panes/All night.’ And then: ‘Those old cheeks that faintly flushed as the port suffused the veins/Drain’d white.’ Beckenham, Vole … no more port for either of them. Both drained whiter than white. Vanished as if they had never been. Would Vole’s manuscript be published after death? Could you be awarded a posthumous All Souls Fellowship? Would justice be done? And seen to be done?

  ‘I hate to hurry you.’ The policeman meant the exact opposite of what he said. Chivvying people along was what he liked best in all the world. If Bognor had been a suspect and not a colleague he might have hit him about a bit in the cause of truth. The thought passed through both men’s minds.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor, not meaning it either. ‘I had a long talk with Vole yesterday. He made me promise not to say anything about it for forty-eight hours.’

  ‘As the result of which …’ said the inspector. Unnecessarily, Bognor thought.

  ‘It was supremely important to him,’ he snapped. ‘You could say that his life’s work depended on it.’

  ‘Life too, come to that.’

  ‘Yes, well.’

  Another protracted silence ensued, and then Bognor told Inspector Smith about his conversation with Vole. Smith did not comment until the story was complete, and even then he waited while he dragged out a battered briar pipe, stuffed it full of shag and lit it clumsily. ‘Can’t say,’ he said at last, between spluttering puffs, ‘I’m surprised you took it with a pinch of salt. Not a likely story.’