Brought to Book (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 13

  Oddly, Megaword had never penetrated the British Isles. The general impression was that the UK was too small to be worth bothering with. Also too encumbered with Old Spanish Customs – archaic, dilettante bosses and bothersome, union-dominated employees. Much better concentrate your energies on growth areas like South East Asia.

  ‘As of Monday next,’ said Strobe, leering round his cigar, ‘I shall be President and Chief Operating Officer of Megaword Universal PLC (UK).’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Bognor, ‘though I rather doubt that will prove quite as cut and dried as you seem to think.’

  ‘The arrangement is predicated on a number of assumptions guaranteed to be infrastructurally sound and meaningful,’ said Strobe. ‘I don’t anticipate problems.’

  ‘HMG won’t like it,’ said Bognor with a touch of rather prissy self-importance. ‘The Government view is that British Publishing should stay British. It’s like helicopters or…ah…er…Land Rovers. Part of the heritage. We at the Board of Trade take a very dim view of that sort of thing. Government are most unlikely to let it through.’

  ‘Government, schgovernment,’ said Mr Strobe. ‘Megaword Universal is like what I said. Multi-national. The Megaword budget is bigger than most countries’ and unlike most countries it makes a profit. If we set up a deal we set up a deal. Period.’

  ‘And where exactly does that leave Big Books?’ asked Bognor innocently.

  ‘Like nowhere.’ Strobe smiled. An unlovely sight. ‘My friend Hemlock was negotiating with Megaword but he got greedy. Also we had Marlene on the team. Big help.’ He leered at Ms Glopff who still held her pretty toy pistol. She looked disconcertingly fit and ruthless along with her over conventional all-American good looks. Like an early Bond girl or a Junior Joan Collins kewpie doll. ‘And now we have Mr Capstick and Mr Warrington on our side, so the deal’s all sewn up. Megaword were anxious that I should be able to deliver at least some of the Big Book authors. I hate to tell you this but the contract that these two gentlemen had negotiated with Big Books was just awful. They would have been in hock to Hemlock just as long as they lived.’

  ‘Or he lived…’

  There was no mistaking the scarcely camouflaged meaning between the line.

  ‘Poor Hemlock,’ said Strobe. And now he laughed. It was not a very human sound – more like a lawnmower hitting stones. Bognor winced.

  ‘Hemlock was murdered,’ he said. ‘In view of what you’ve just told me, your motive is stronger than anyone’s.’

  Again the lawnmower hit grit.

  ‘Everyone but everyone wanted Vernon dead,’ he said; ‘matter of fact, I probably enjoyed him alive more than most. You need a sparring partner in life, and Vernon Hemlock was certainly that. Besides, I was nowhere near Hemlocks the night he died.’

  ‘But your woman Glopff was. And your man Hastings. Not to mention Capstick and Warrington here.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Strobe. ‘So many suspects and yet, most unhappily, no fingerprints on the control that sent those two library shelves on their final fatal mission. Too sad. One of the great unsolved mysteries…’

  This time Marlene and the butler joined in the laughter, though the two turncoat Big Book authors remained silent, shuffling their feet in embarrassment.

  ‘What about The First Lady?’ asked Bognor, shifting tack.

  ‘What indeed?’ said Strobe. ‘I’ve heard too much about The First Lady. The matter’s of no importance. What people like you would call a “red herring”. Hemlock would never have published it. No more would I.’

  ‘Megaword might, though,’ said Bognor.

  ‘I doubt that,’ said Strobe. ‘After all, the CIA does have a stake in the firm. Them and our Sicilian friends. So difficult, so often, to tell them apart I always think. Which parameters does Marlene come between, I ask myself. For which mob does she really work?’

  ‘The CIA has an interest in discrediting British Intelligence,’ said Bognor. ‘It means they can pull rank whenever they want. Ignore us, patronise us, trample all over us, indulge in the world’s most one-sided special relationship.’

  ‘We do that already,’ said Marlene, snickering. ‘Mr Strobe’s right. We’d like to see the manuscript. Ace item to hold over you Brits. But we have no interest in going public on it. Ivan’s the only guy who has any non-commercial interest in seeing it published.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Then get wise, Mr Bognor,’ said Strobe. ‘Be sure.’

  Bognor shrugged. ‘If you say so,’ he said.

  ‘I say so,’ said Strobe. He placed the smouldering cigar in a chipped Groucho Club ashtray by his elbow and fished something that looked like a contract from the zip pocket on his tracksuit top. For a moment he studied it, lips puckered. Bognor noticed that they moved a little as he read – puckered or not.

  ‘Right,’ he said, when he’d done reading. ‘To business. Delightful as this visit is, its purpose is not entirely social. To facilitate the finalisation of my current commercial undertakings, I need your signature on this.’

  He handed the document to Bognor who read it, taking care to keep both lips stiff and immobile – a demonstration both of phlegm and of literacy.

  It was a contract, and a detailed, punitive one at that. In effect it promised that the British Board of Trade would in no way interfere with the proposed takeover of Strobe’s company by Megaword Universal nor would it prevent any British author who wished selling his services to the new company, notwithstanding any existing commercial arrangements. The real sting was in the preamble. This was a solemn undertaking that he Simon Bognor had fully investigated the affairs of both companies and given it as his considered opinion that there could be no sustainable objection to the newly proposed arrangement. ‘I understand’, said Strobe, ‘that technically speaking you cannot speak for the Board. On the other hand it’s going to be exceedingly difficult for the Board to overrule the findings of one of its most senior and experienced investigators. Particularly when he has been working on a paper on publishing these past few months. You’re the expert, Bognor. Privately your superiors at the Board and in the Government may not give a toss what you say but if it’s publicly known that you’ve given us the OK on the basis of your expert knowledge and privileged information then they have no alternative. “Government overrules its own report.” Oh, I hardly think so.’ He picked up the cigar and re-lit it, smiling all the time.

  ‘I can’t sign this,’ said Bognor. ‘More than my job’s worth.’

  ‘More than your life’s worth if you don’t,’ said Strobe. ‘I don’t wish to seem unreasonable, Bognor, but you can see there’s a lot at stake here. This deal is going through whether you like it or not. But if you do like it life will be a lot easier for me personally. I’ll even guarantee that we publish a book of yours. Doesn’t have to be your work on the Board of Trade. Could be anything at all. But if you don’t sign I’m afraid you’re going the way of Mr and Mrs Hemlock. A car accident tomorrow morning. A conflagration. Not wearing seat belts. Still drunk after the night before.’ Mr Strobe made a show of examining the palms of his hands. ‘You know the sort of thing,’ he said.

  ‘I need to think about it,’ said Bognor. He was feeling chilly. ‘How long do I have?’

  Strobe consulted a heavy diver’s watch which looked as near the state of the art as his wheelchair.

  ‘You have till breakfast,’ he said, ‘which is always served at the civilised hour of nine o’clock. Choice of cereal, bacon and eggs, toast, tea or coffee. Isn’t that right, Major? The Major has this place running like clockwork. Comes as a pleasant surprise to all the sloppy writing types who come here.’ He paused and sighed. ‘You’re not going to sign now?’

  Bognor shook his head. ‘’Fraid not,’ he said. ‘At least, I have to read the small print.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Strobe, ‘I was hoping you’d join us for dinner, but as you’ve got so much to think about…well…there it is…the Major will show you back to your room
. And please…no Scarlet Pimpernel heroics. There’s electric fencing around the perimeter and Hodder and Stoughton are only the tip of the iceberg. There’s a quartet of Dobermanns – Sidgwick and Jackson, Seeker and Warburg – who’ll do you a very nasty mischief given half a chance. And if they don’t get you there’s a bull-mastiff called Knopf who’s only allowed out on very special occasions. I do assure you a nice neat car crash would be infinitely preferable.’ Mr Strobe pressed a button on the arm of his chair and executed a neat 360-degree pirouette. ‘If you do want a word before the night is through you’ll find a bell push in your room. I shall be available at all times.’ That laugh again, and a speedy departure as rubber tyres burned across the parquet.

  The others followed him, leaving the Bognors with the Major. The Major coughed. Perhaps he was not used to being a gaoler. He seemed ill at ease, a small, put-upon person with a British soldier’s version of a Hitler moustache, only ginger.

  ‘Sorry about all this,’ he said, ‘but orders are orders. I can send up beer and sandwiches if you’d like. Or cocoa. The Haven’s famous for its cocoa. Our own cows and we always make it with proper chocolate – Bournville plain – none of your synthetic muck!’

  ‘That would be very nice, Major,’ said Monica, dimpling. ‘Thank you so much. We’ll make our own way back, thank you.’

  ‘Corned beef? Spam? Cheese and chutney?’ he chuntered, standing in the doorway, only carrying out orders. ‘Beer or cocoa?’

  ‘A selection, I think, Major,’ said Monica. She was at her most serene under threat and the way she swept up the stairs was magnificent, causing the Major to catch his breath and acknowledge that there went a remarkably fine woman, of the sort that had become sadly scarce in modern Britain.

  Back in their room some of the Force Five went out of Monica’s spinnaker.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, leaning against the door, deflating before her husband’s very eyes.

  ‘No point trying to escape,’ he said.

  ‘None.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ He went to the window and looked out. A luminous cordon encircled the house under the pretext, he supposed, of illuminating the historic exterior for the benefit of aesthetes, authors and others. He guessed there would be other lights ready to snap on as soon as the alarm was triggered. Somewhere out in the park a dog howled, a low, back-of-the-throat moan, guaranteed to turn blood to vermilion sorbet. Hodder, Sidgwick or even Knopf. An owl hooted, followed a second later by an answering call, soft and sinister in the velvet night.

  ‘I could just sign it,’ he said, turning back to face Monica.

  ‘Parkinson would never forgive you.’ She had kicked her shoes off and was lying on the bed, hands clasped behind her head, staring at the ceiling. ‘End of your career.’

  ‘Better than the end of one’s life in some CIA-rigged car crash, doused in whisky and kerosene. Even after one of the Major’s breakfasts.’

  ‘True,’ Monica mused, ‘and I suppose you could always say it was signed under duress. That Andover Strobe threatened to pull your fingernails out.’

  ‘No one’s likely to believe that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if I don’t sign it,’ Bognor caressed the edge of a rug with the toe of his brogues, ‘we won’t live to see tomorrow morning’s tea break.’

  ‘No option,’ said Monica, ‘so the question becomes essentially gastronomic. Do you sign at once and have a decent dinner with Mr Strobe and friends or do we wait until tomorrow, in which case we dine on Spam sandwiches and pale ale?’

  ‘Socio-gastronomic rather than just gastronomic,’ said Bognor; ‘I’m sure the food would be better chez Strobe, but the company here is infinitely preferable.’

  ‘Darling,’ smiled Mrs Bognor, ‘still gallant after all these years.’

  ‘Not gallant at all,’ said her husband. ‘Merely the truth.’ He was still, after all these years, embarrassed and uneasy when it came to compliments. Not at home with the romantic gesture, even at home. He would like to have been a male chauvinist pig but he did not have it in him.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Sandwiches,’ he said, walking across and opening it.

  Room service turned out to be provided by Danvers Warrington.

  ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed in a stage hiss, ‘I persuaded the Major to part with a perfectly decent claret – the Chateau Magnol ’eighty-one. Only a Cru Bourgeois but an Haut-Medoc. I think you’ll be amused by it. I can’t say the same for the sandwiches.’

  They look like pretty serious sandwiches,’ said Monica, eyeing the curl of the crust with blunt anticipation.

  ‘Deadly,’ said Danvers. ‘You simply can’t make a decent sandwich without a crème raifort or a beurre printanier. The Major’s imagination when it comes to such matters barely extends to the moutarde. If you’d like something afterwards I dare say I could rustle up some port. I’ve had my eye on a bottle of the Fonseca ‘sixty-six which has somehow strayed into the cellar. You’d be more than amused by that.’ He closed his eyes and recited: ‘“Very fine, slightly spicy, classic bouquet; sweet, full, soft, lovely wine, fruity with good grip at the finish. Magnificent.”’

  Bognor lifted the corner of a corned beef sandwich and replaced it.

  ‘The forensic boys’, he said, ‘found some yellow wool in Audrey Hemlock’s bedroom. What do you make of that?’

  Danvers Warrington’s monocle slipped from his eye and the tray almost slipped from his grasp.

  ‘Yellow wool,’ he repeated, putting the tray down on the glass top of the Maples dressing table. ‘In Audrey Hemlock’s bedroom.’

  ‘Yellow wool which exactly matched the wool in your own canary yellow stockings, Warrington.’ Bognor poured three glasses of the Cru Bourgeois from the Haut-Medoc.

  ‘Wool, Warrington,’ he said, handing round the glasses. ‘I think it proves that you were in Audrey’s room the night Vernon was murdered.’

  Warrington slurped his wine with less attention than one would have expected from one of his less conscientious readers.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Audrey,’ he said, ‘about Audrey and moi.’

  ‘That’s a happy coincidence,’ said Bognor, ‘because I was going to ask you about just that.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Warrington, ‘Audrey and I did have a bit of a thing going on. I think I told you what a swine Hemlock was.’

  ‘You did.’ The Chateau Magnol was certainly more amusing than the sandwiches. Bognor sipped it appreciatively and tried to think of some good winebore words to describe it.

  ‘He was a swine to his authors, a swine to his staff, a swine to his competitors, but above all he was a swine to his wife.’

  ‘At least he didn’t kill her.’

  ‘That’s a singularly ungracious remark.’

  ‘True, nonetheless. Someone killed Audrey and the one person it can’t have been is nasty old Vernon. You on the other hand, as Audrey’s lover, might…I mean, crime passionnel and all that.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous…une idée folle.’ Warrington blew on his monocle and polished it with his snuffly red kerchief. ‘However, I do concede that I had a double motive for doing away with Hemlock himself. First as an exploited author and second as his wife’s lover.’

  ‘It’s all very well saying you were exploited,’ said Bognor with the venom peculiar to a poorly salaried, much-maligned civil servant, ‘but the fact of the matter is that you’re a damn sight richer than most of us and if it hadn’t been for Hemlock publishing your plonk books you’d be back in the rut with everyone else.’

  ‘I’d have been a lot better off with Strobe. Once Megaword are in charge I’ll be really well off. We all will.’

  ‘Those of you who take the Yankee dollar,’ said Monica. Monica could be patriotic in the tartest memsahib manner when the mood took her. Something to do with Daddy, the Brigadier.

  ‘That sounds like greed,’ said Bognor. ‘Greed sounds like a motive. For murder, mayb
e.’

  ‘It’s very far from greed, mon brave,’ said Warrington, aggrieved, I just want an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work.’

  ‘I seem to remember you saying “pish tush” not so long ago. Well, “pish, tush” to you too. I think you killed Vernon Hemlock because you wanted his wife all to yourself. And I think you thought that she’d take over the business and pay you whatever advance or royalty you wanted.’

  ‘I couldn’t have killed Vernon.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I was with Audrey.’

  ‘In bed with Audrey.’

  ‘Since you mention it, yes. In bed with Audrey.’

  ‘She’d have vouched for you, I suppose?’ Bognor half wondered why he was being so aggressive with Warrington. Was it his success that he resented, or his pretensions? Or did he really think he was a murderer?

  Warrington glowered.

  ‘Simon doesn’t mean to be insensitive,’ said Monica; ‘he has a job to do, and it’s not easy. Frankly it seems to be getting more difficult every minute. Why did you want to tell us about your liaison with poor Audrey?’

  ‘Because I wanted to make you realise that I was as keen to discover her murderer as you are. Make you understand that I’m on your side. Not like the others.’

  Bognor let this pass with a raised eyebrow, but latched on to the first sentence instead.

  ‘What makes you think she was murdered? The official line is that she killed herself. Overdose.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ said Warrington. ‘The only person who believes – or affects to believe – that she committed suicide is that ass Bumstead. I more than anyone know that Audrey would never have done such a thing. Especially not…especially not under the circumstances.’

  ‘You mean especially not with the appalling Vernon out of the way.’

  Warrington swilled and sniffed and held his glass to the light.