Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 13

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ said Amanda Bullingdon. He had sat opposite her during the meal and they had flirted mildly, sharing a conspiratorial amusement at the older person’s idiosyncrasies, not to mention his contrived gallantry.

  Now in the early summer night Bognor decided he really quite fancied her. ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling her close to him. He wondered if it would be in order for them both to make the journey home in the back of the car. Not that anything improper would occur. He merely relished the idea of proximity.

  From a few yards away there came a sound of near-senile annoyance. It was Blight-Purley. ‘I don’t think he can find his car,’ giggled Amanda, stifling the laugh in the shoulder of Bognor’s jacket. A match flared, revealing the haggard visage of the Colonel peering hopelessly. ‘I say,’ he called, ‘bloody car’s gone.’

  ‘How do you mean, “gone”?’ shouted Bognor.

  ‘Gone,’ he repeated. ‘Gone. Vanished. Disappeared.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ whispered Bognor to the still giggling Miss Bullingdon. ‘You were absolutely right. Come on, we’d better help him find it.’ Louder, he shouted, ‘It wasn’t over there anyway, sir. It was over here, under the chestnut.’

  He and the girl walked to the spot. Where they thought the Jaguar had been was now nothing but empty, unoccupied tarmac. ‘Funny,’ said Bognor, ‘I could have sworn it was there. What do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Someone must have moved it. One of the staff. Perhaps it was blocking the way.’

  Blight-Purley joined them. ‘See what I mean?’ he asked.

  Amanda repeated her suggestion. ‘They couldn’t have,’ said Bognor. ‘They’d have needed the keys. Nobody came in for them.’ There was a hush. ‘Always supposing,’ continued Bognor after the moment of quiet, ‘that you had the keys on you.’ There was no mistaking the meaning of the silence this time.

  ‘Must have left them in the car,’ said Blight-Purley eventually. ‘If you ask me some sewer’s pinched it.’ The accuracy of this assessment was increasingly evident.

  They returned to the establishment and sought out Pottinger. ‘Dear dear,’ he said morosely, ‘it sounds like it. We’ll ring the police, but I doubt they’ll be able to do much for you tonight. You’ll have to stay. We’ve plenty of room.’ Pottinger and Blight-Purley left for the former’s office while Bognor and Amanda Bullingdon stayed in the lounge.

  ‘Who would have done a thing like that?’ she asked, looking depressed.

  ‘Joy riders, I should think,’ said Bognor. ‘Village boys out for a quick thrill. You must admit a set of keys in a nice old Jaguar is a fairly irresistible temptation.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The two others returned from their telephone call looking lugubrious.

  ‘Police say there’s nothing much they can do except keep a look out for it,’ said Blight-Purley. ‘Nothing for it but to stay here. Pottinger says he can put us up.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Bognor. ‘I’d better ring home.’ Pottinger guided him to his office, a severely functional room with notice boards and calendars and plain brown colours. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, motioning him towards the telephone and creeping obsequiously out.

  Monica’s mood shifted quickly from concern to irritation, her first questions ‘Where on earth are you?’ and ‘Are you all right?’ giving way almost immediately to statements such as, ‘You’ve been drinking’. He had been looking forward to regaling her with his part in the Blight-Purley XI’s unexpected victory, but it was obvious that she wouldn’t be interested. Besides, his enthusiasm for retelling it had diminished.

  ‘I’ll see you when I see you then,’ he concluded crossly. ‘Sleep tight.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt,’ said Monica, putting down the receiver. He frowned at the remark and understood it in the hall just before entering the lounge. ‘Tight,’ he muttered, ‘tight as a tick. Sleep drunkenly. Very funny. Ha ha.’ An expensive middle-aged couple passed him on their way out and favoured him with a pair of old-fashioned looks.

  Back at their table he found that they had been provided with more coffee and Armagnac. Beside the cups and glasses were three keys. ‘All the rooms are named after champagnes,’ said Amanda, brightly.

  ‘We’ve put you in Bollinger, Colonel Blight-Purley’s taken Krug, and I’m in Pol Roger.’

  ‘What, no Bitschwiller?’ he asked facetiously.

  ‘For once, no,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh well,’ he sipped at his Armagnac, noticing for the first time that Pottinger had left the bottle on the table, ‘it could be worse. I mean there must be less congenial places to be marooned in.’

  ‘And less congenial company,’ she smiled back.

  ‘Bloody silly thing to do,’ said Blight-Purley grumpily. He seemed deflated by the incident, caught out by such uncharacteristic inefficiency. They drank in silence. A few minutes later the Colonel hauled himself upright and said, ‘I don’t have your stamina any longer, I’m afraid. I’ll leave you two children to it, but I wouldn’t mind a quick word, Simon.’ He jerked his head towards the hallway and winked. It occurred to Bognor that he was slightly unhinged. However, he too rose and followed him out. Outside Blight-Purley turned on him quite fiercely.

  ‘There’s no alternative,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘but we must be exceedingly careful. I don’t like this one bit.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Has anyone said anything to you today? About you know what, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, at least in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ebertson came over very palsy-walsy,’ he said, wondering what had induced him to use such a curious expression the moment he had uttered it, ‘and that fat Eyetie slug made some typically unpleasant suggestions about not pestering Gabrielle or I was going to get hurt.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes. He and ffrench-Thomas are obviously in cahoots.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘What I’m getting at is that it’s no accident that the car’s gone missing. For some reason someone wants us here tonight.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?’

  Blight-Purley glared. ‘Shut your window and lock the door,’ he said, ‘or we may find we’re in real trouble.’

  They said good night to each other. Blight-Purley walked heavily upstairs while Bognor returned to the lounge for a final Armagnac.

  ‘What was all that about?’ enquired Amanda Bullingdon, folding her legs to show more of them and smiling.

  ‘Oh, nothing. He’s just a bit over-excited about the car that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’ She sipped and looked at him straight in the eyes as if she were a diffident human trying to outstare an insubordinate dog. ‘Who were you telephoning?’ she asked, after Bognor had dropped his eyes.

  ‘Questions, questions,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’m curious. Wife?’

  ‘No, not wife.’

  ‘But more than casual girlfriend.’

  ‘You could put it like that I suppose, yes.’

  ‘Are you fond of her?’

  Bognor considered the question, which was one he had been asking himself with increasing frequency of late. ‘Sort of,’ he said fatuously, and then before he quite realized what was happening, the two of them were embarked on the sort of intimate conversation which is only really possible late at night after too much drink. It was two hours before they agreed that sleep was called for. Half-heartedly Bognor suggested that the bottle of Armagnac might be finished together in Bollinger or Pol Roger. Demurely she demurred and, leaving the bottle with the other debris, they ascended the creaking stairs to the first—and only other—floor.

  Pol Roger was first. They paused at the door, then Miss Bullingdon let herself in and turned. ‘Thanks,’ she said simply and, leaning forward, kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said
Bognor, oddly flattered. The door closed on him, leaving him feeling pleased and tired. He walked on slowly, let himself into Bollinger next door, paid scant attention to the floral furnishings and the winebibbing prints on the walls, and quickly stripped off. The room had its own bathroom. He looked quickly away from the ravaged face staring at him from the mirror under the harsh neon light, splashed at himself with cold water, dried perfunctorily, and sank gratefully on to the soft double bed. He lay there for a second reliving his innings when there was a light tap on the door. Immediately he remembered Blight-Purley’s words of warning. Without turning on the light he fumbled on the floor for his underpants then walked stealthily to the door, just as there was a second knock accompanied by a whispered ‘Simon!’ It sounded like Amanda Bullingdon. He froze. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Mandy.’ He opened the door and looked out. She was standing in the corridor, still in her dress but minus her shoes, and grinning. ‘I haven’t got any toothpaste,’ she mouthed. ‘Can you lend me some?’ Before he could answer she had taken two steps forward and closed the door behind her with the heel of one foot. Almost at the same moment she put her arms around him and began to kiss him, tentatively at first, and then as Bognor’s steely puritan intentions and Blight-Purley-inspired suspicions evaporated, with growing urgency. ‘Mmm,’ she said, withdrawing just far enough for speech, ‘I quite like you. In fact I think you’re rather nice.’ She returned to the business of kissing before he could say anything remotely coherent and only stopped to say, ‘It seemed such a waste for me to stay in Pol Roger all night while you were all on your own in Bollinger.’ Bognor started to speak, but she silenced him with her mouth, then whispered, ‘Come on. Bed.’ He was beyond resistance.

  He woke surprisingly early to find himself alone. It took him several moments to get his bearings and recall the events which had led to his present situation. Indeed it was not until he had rolled over and caught sight of the key with its tag saying ‘Bollinger’ that he remembered what had happened. His head ached. So did the rest of him. One way and another he had taken quite a bashing. He sat up, put a hand to his temple and groaned heavily. His watch said it was seven-fifteen. Curious how a really heavy day and night out so frequently led to an early start. He sat up and wondered if anything had been said or done about morning tea or a paper. Would the staff of the Orange Lily be about at this time of the morning? Country hotels had a habit of beginning breakfasts unusually late. And where was Mandy? Had it happened? Should he feel guilty? He remembered Monica’s brusque behaviour on the telephone and decided that guilt was quite uncalled for. Besides, it was not as if they were married. They only lived together. Any arrangement was entirely tacit. He reached for the telephone and was relieved to hear an answering voice. ‘Could I have a pot of tea in Bollinger?’ he asked, speculating as he did on what such a mixture would taste like. ‘Tea for two?’ asked the voice. ‘Tea for one please.’ There was a pause, pregnant with something Bognor was unable to identify. Could it be that what he remembered doing with Amanda Bullingdon had actually happened and that the hotel staff were already aware of it? That was too bad. The image of Luigi Dotto crept unsolicited into his mind. He imagined that fat slug lurking at the keyholes of the Grand Hotel, Dynmouth, watching every dalliance, monitoring every phrase of endearment, notebook, or more likely Leica, always at the ready. The image was slow to disappear. He walked to the bathroom and forced himself to turn on the light and look in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. He ran a basin of hot water and began unpeeling the paper skin from the packet of soap. His appearance was worse sober than it had been drunk. Correction. His appearance seemed worse now that he was sober but that meant only that his perception of his appearance was now clearer. It was probably that his real appearance was better. Except that he had grown stubble overnight—his face was covered in short black prickles. He sat on the loo, picked at his toenails and tried to sort out the essential difference between things observed when drunk and things observed when sober. All he could manage was the idea that when drunk, things seemed better. He certainly played more effective cricket when drunk; he remembered he made love with more panache when drunk; he looked more wholesome when drunk; and yet it was always maintained that sobriety was necessary for efficiency in any activity one attempted. There was a knock at the door. He put on his underpants, just as he had done a few hours before, and opened it to an altogether less appealing proposition: a stout middle-aged woman with a tray. He took the tray, put it on the bed and poured a cup. It was strong Indian. He had taken one throat-cauterizing mouthful when there was another knock. This time it was Mandy Bullingdon. ‘You look good,’ he said involuntarily. She seemed crisp and washed and starched, as if she had had eight hours’ sleep and nothing to eat or drink but wheatgerm and fresh orange.

  ‘I’ve been for a walk,’ she said, ‘and I’ve seen the Colonel, looking like thunder. It’s bad news I’m afraid. They’ve found the car.’

  ‘Oh. Come in, come in. Have a cup of tea.’

  She did. ‘Good God, you look terrible,’ she said when she was properly inside.

  ‘I feel terrible,’ he conceded.

  ‘Those bruises,’ she exclaimed, jabbing at his ribcage. ‘They’re nothing to do with me are they?’

  He peered down at the dull purple patch. ‘No, ffrench-Thomas I think. Cricket.’

  ‘Oh, of course, I’d forgotten. Sorry. You ought to have some witch hazel for it.’

  ‘Probably. What did you say about the car?’

  ‘They found it. The police. About five miles away. He was quite right. It was joy riders, a couple of local kids and their birds. Unfortunately for them it wasn’t much of a joy ride. They ended up in hospital.’

  Bognor began to feel a prickle at the base of his spine.

  ‘Are they going to be all right?’

  ‘I think so. The girls were just cut about and shocked. The boys were worse, but they’re serious rather than dangerous. I don’t understand the language of doctors.’

  ‘It means they’re not going to die,’ said Bognor. ‘I wish I could say the same for myself.’

  ‘That sounds rather melodramatic.’

  ‘I feel melodramatic. What about the car? What happened?’ She frowned. ‘It won’t go. They don’t seem to be sure whether it ever will. It’s being checked by the local garage; but the oddest thing is the accident itself.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor felt the clammy prickling again. It was a sensation which seldom betrayed him. Indeed, he often considered that his best work was done, if not under the influence of alcohol, then under that of some apparently extrasensory perception. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he went on, ‘it had been got at.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘How did you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘I felt it,’ he said, ‘in my bones. Where I work people are always tampering with other people’s cars. What was it? Brakes or steering?’

  ‘I think a bit of both,’ she said. ‘There’s a long hill about two miles away on the Horsham road and a corner at the bottom. There’s a wall.’

  ‘Into which …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They stayed gazing into each other’s eyes. Then Bognor said, ‘There but for the grace of God go we.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She drank a mouthful of the tea, now tepid, from Bognor’s cup.

  ‘About last night …’ he began, not sure what he wanted to say, feeling something ought to be said.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ she said.

  ‘But …’ He realized he was being hopeless. He lacked the experience. Or had forgotten it.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, ‘honestly. There’s no need to say anything. Just drink your tea.’ She handed the cup back. ‘I’m much more concerned about the car. We might be dead.’

  He felt very wet and inadequate. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘Feel like some?’ She nodded.

  ‘Hang on while I dress.’ He was fond of her, he decided gormlessly. Was h
e about to get himself in a muddle? Probably.

  ‘Maybe nothing was tampered with,’ he called out from the bathroom, where he was trying to comb his hair into shape with his fingers. ‘It’s an old car. Things go wrong with old cars.’

  ‘Not steering and brakes at the same time.’

  ‘We don’t know that—it’s just what they said. Besides, I don’t imagine they were used to driving ritzy limousines. Tractors would be more their line.’

  ‘The Colonel said he’d had it in for a service only last week. It’s a very reliable garage, he says. They’d have checked the brakes and the steering.’

  ‘My experience,’ said Bognor, emerging from the bathroom, still trying to sort out his thinning locks, ‘is that cars come away from services worse off than when they went in.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ She produced a comb from her bag and passed it through his hair four or five times. ‘That’s better,’ she said, standing back to consider her handiwork. ‘At least it’ll have to do. You are a bit hopeless, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor, wryly. ‘Let’s have some breakfast.’ Downstairs Blight-Purley was already eating kippers with morose enthusiasm.

  ‘You heard about the car,’ he said, looking up momentarily.

  ‘Yes,’ Bognor sat down heavily and picked up the menu. ‘What do you reckon?’