Masterstroke (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 15

  ‘But it was cheating.’

  ‘Now look, old fruit. Put yourself in my position. I have a tutorial with our much loved Master. Right? Are you following me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I turn up at his study as per normal and I find he’s not there. Slipped out for a slash. Right. Still with me?’

  Bognor nodded.

  ‘So I’m standing there killing time, and what do I see lying about for all to see but a political theory paper. And since political theory is what the Master and I meet to discuss every week, what could be more natural than that I should take a bit of a gander at it, eh?’

  Bognor nodded. ‘Go on,’ he said forlornly. Rook was going to make an excellent Member of Parliament. He had the successful politician’s knack of making rank dishonesty seem perfectly honourable. In a second he would be making it seem courageous, too.

  ‘As it happens, I’d read half the questions before I realized it was our own paper and not an old one, by which time the damage was done. I didn’t try to hide it, either. The Master knew … if anyone was to blame, it was him. He could have produced a new paper.’

  Bognor gazed glumly over Rook’s shoulder at Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece. The trouble with Rook, or one of the troubles with Rook, was his plausibility. Impossible to know whether he was telling the truth or not. But his defence did have an awful conviction.

  ‘Do you know if the Sheen selection committee asked the Master for a reference?’

  ‘As it happens, they did, for the very good reason that I gave his name as a referee. What’s more, I heard from him a couple of days before the gaudy, congratulating me on making the short-list and saying that if his testimonial had anything to do with it I’d win the nomination nem. con. And if you don’t believe me I’ve got the letter at home. I imagine Beckenham would have kept a copy of the testimonial on file too. So, one way and another, I rather think I’m in the clear.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor wearily. ‘It does look like it.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Foiling you. I do see that you want to make an arrest.’ Rook stood up and paced to a bookcase covered with photographs of Helstons, children, dogs and one or two pictures of Rook shaking hands with associated Tory notables including Mrs Thatcher. As he paced he jangled the change in his trouser pocket in a manner which Bognor found profoundly irritating.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ said Bognor, lying.

  ‘Oh, quite,’ said Rook, not believing him but having already thought of a satisfactory way of levelling the score. ‘But,’ he paused and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, ‘I think I may be able to help you out, old boy. You see there’s something I daresay you don’t know and which might be relevant. Disturbingly relevant, now I come to think of it.’

  He sat down again, heavily, and Bognor was struck by the fleshiness which prosperous middle age was bringing to that once gaunt-boned face.

  ‘I expect I’m right in thinking that your prime suspects are those of us who were having a noggin with the old bean after our less than sumptuous repast on Saturday evening.’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Mitten’s men, in fact.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not Mitten, though? Or that Frinton piece with the legs?’

  ‘I don’t think …’ said Bognor. ‘That is to say …’

  ‘Do you want help, or don’t you?’

  ‘Naturally I want any help you can give me, but I can’t tell you everything about our inquiries. Besides,’ Bognor rallied, ‘if you did have helpful information and were to withhold it then you’d be obstructing the police in the exercise of their duties.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘Indubitably.’

  ‘Well, if you say so. It’s scarcely relevant since I’m going to help you anyway, whether you like it or not.’ He smiled, showing a wide expanse of gum and uneven teeth, not very white. ‘You were quite young when you came up, weren’t you?’

  ‘Not especially,’ said Bognor. ‘I didn’t do National Service or anything like that, but then none of us did.’

  ‘I mean young for your age. Led a sheltered sort of a life. Hadn’t knocked around a great deal. Not entirely clear about what was what.’

  ‘You could say that, I suppose. It never really occurred to me.’

  ‘No. It wouldn’t, would it?’

  It struck Bognor quite suddenly that Rook must have been the school bully before coming up to Oxford.

  ‘The point I’m making,’ said Rook, standing up again and jangling the change in his pocket more ferociously than ever, ‘is that you may have thought one or two people were nicer than they really were.’

  ‘I tend to think the best of people.’ Bognor was painfully aware of sounding prissy.

  Rook gave him another gummy smile. ‘Spot on, old fruit. I, on the other hand, temper my Christian humility and love of my fellow man with a certain realism. I do happen to believe in original sin.’

  Bognor hadn’t the first idea of what he was driving at. However he had a shrewd enough idea of Rook’s character to know that he was driving at something.

  ‘Take Edgware and Crutwell,’ said Rook.

  Bognor frowned and, metaphorically speaking, took a firm grasp on both.

  ‘Pure as the driven snow, no doubt. Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Eh?’

  ‘That’s putting it a bit strong,’ said Bognor, ‘but I never heard anything said against them.’

  ‘Never heard about the Apocrypha choir school racket?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s what I mean, you see.’ Rook looked avuncular, like a schoolmaster imparting the facts of life to a confirmation candidate. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t tell you now except that circumstances demand it. I make no accusations, mind. I’m simply pointing out that people other than me have more compelling reasons for wanting those files kept secret. Now tell me, do you remember that both Crutwell and Edgware sang in the chapel choir?’

  ‘Yes. Peter Crutwell was a bass. Ian Edgware was a tenor.’

  ‘You never questioned it?’

  ‘No.’

  Rook looked up at the ceiling as if to say that the naivety of some people was truly staggering. ‘Nothing to do with music. Nothing to do with Christianity,’ said Rook. ‘So what’s left?’

  ‘To judge from your expression and general manner I assume you’re going to say “choirboys”.’

  ‘’Fraid so. Edgware and Crutwell were the original Bertie Wooftahs, but it wasn’t just each other they were interested in. They were after the pretty little boys in the choir.’

  ‘Crutwell and Edgware? But they’re both happily married with children. As a matter of fact they both, quite independently, showed me photographs of their families the other night at the gaudy.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’ Rook smiled his sardonic smile again. ‘That ought to have aroused your suspicions. Never trust anyone who shows you snaps of their kiddiwinks at dinner. Not natural.’

  Bognor glanced ostentatiously at the assorted family pictures along the top of the bookcase.

  Rook fielded the reference. ‘Hardly the same thing, old dear,’ he said, simpering. ‘But it’s worse than that. You see Crutwell and Edgware realized they were onto rather a good thing with the Apocrypha choir school. Quite the sweetest little boys in town who’d do anything for a packet of crisps or a box of Smarties, or so I’m told. So our friends turned it into a commercial operation.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Now you are pulling my leg.’ But even as he said it, Bognor realized that Rook was being quite serious.

  ‘I’ll bet it’s all on the file,’ he said. ‘They were running a child prostitution racket, that’s what it comes down to. But there was a scandal in the end. It was inevitable. They tried to be careful, but after a while someone talked. Funnily enough, I don’t believe any parent ever discovered, so old Beckenham and the choirmaster managed to hush it up.’

  ‘How did you know?’


  Rook smirked again. ‘They weren’t all that clever at telling a Wooftah from what it now pleases those who know to call “a straight”. They decided I was a bit bent, and offered me the star alto for a fiver. Not my taste, so I declined.’

  ‘And told the Master?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Rook. ‘No reason to. I don’t know how old Beckenham found out, but he kept his nose close to the ground. He missed less than you suppose.’

  ‘They never propositioned me,’ said Bognor, not sure whether to be proud or aggrieved.

  ‘Naturally not. You were far too sea-green incorruptible. As I said, young for your age. Besides, you were always entwined with that big goofy thing from St Hilda’s who player lacrosse.’

  ‘LMH actually,’ said Bognor peevishly. ‘And netball, not lacrosse.’

  ‘Monica something.’

  ‘Monica Bognor, actually.’ Bognor knew when to be stuffy. ‘We got married.’

  ‘Did you?’ Rook looked speculative. ‘Anyway, it was hardly surprising they didn’t offer you choirboys when you were embroiled with a big girl like that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What I’m getting at,’ said Rook, ‘is that it’s one thing to have a Wooftah ambassador – they’re two a penny, so it doesn’t matter if Edgware likes a bit of the other. But it’s scarcely going to appeal to the governors of Fraffleigh. Frankly, Crutwell’s lucky to have got as far as he has in education. Housebeak at Ampleside is not to be sneezed at, but I wouldn’t be happy if I were a parent of one of his boys. It’s not the undermatrons he’s interested in, I can tell you. My guess is that Crutwell, who’s always been an ambitious little shit, would do practically anything for a headmaster-ship.’

  ‘Kill?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘I’d have said he was too wet,’ opined Rook. ‘But you can never tell with Wooftahs. We employ one or two here. Hard as nails, some of them. Bloody ruthless, I can tell you. But not Crutwell.’

  ‘As it happens, Crutwell is at this very moment bashing around the mountains of western Scotland, sleeping rough and generally being phenomenally Spartan,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Typical Wooftah behaviour,’ said Rook. ‘Doesn’t prove a blind thing except he’s a masochist. Certainly doesn’t mean he slipped a lethal dose of something in the Master’s raspberry firewater. And now,’ he fished out a gold watch from his waistcoat, squinted at it and went on, ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to shove you out. Henry Kissinger’s lunching. Do hope I’ve been some help.’ He stood, jangled some change, shook hands, beamed automatically. ‘Tamsin will see you out,’ he said. ‘Very best of luck, and if there’s anything else I can possibly do to help, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’m often here.’

  Bognor was angry and miserable about this encounter but not nearly as angry as he was halfway through the afternoon, when, dozing at his desk, he received a phone call from Molly Mortimer of the Globe.

  ‘Got you, you beast!’ she shrilled. ‘You owe me information. You owe me a scoop.’

  ‘I can’t give what I don’t have,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Molly. ‘You and I came to a little deal over dinner before that monstrous woman in leather dragged you away.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘A quid pro quo. I told you Humphrey’s hidden secret, and you were going to let me have the murderer, exclusive.’

  ‘Did I say that?’ Bognor had genuinely forgotten the greater part of his Italian meal with Miss Mortimer, but now that she mentioned it the alleged deal did have a gruesome familiarity.

  ‘You most certainly did, and I hope you’re not going to try and renege.’

  ‘I never renege,’ said Bognor. ‘Well, almost never. It’s the family motto: “Never renege”.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant with me, Simon ducky.’ Bognor frowned, and tried to remember when anyone had last called him ducky. It sounded suspiciously as if Molly had been out to lunch. Still was out to lunch, come to that.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘are you going to tell me who did it? Or am I going to have to tell you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Bognor with asperity. ‘I’m extremely busy. I’m extremely tired. I’m not at all well. I’ve had a distinctly tiresome meeting with your cousin Humphrey. As you so rightly surmised I’m embroiled in a complicated and intractable murder investigation and I’m not allowed to talk to the press. You’ll have to go through the press office. Ask for someone called Witherspoon. Or Watherspoon. Something like that. He’s your man.’

  ‘I’m not press, I’m Molly.’

  ‘Look, Molly, I don’t want to seem brusque but I am rather tied up at the moment. I’m in the middle of a meeting and I have someone coming to see me in ten minutes and …’ None of this was even half true, but Bognor was finding such evasions increasingly easy.

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Simon dear, is that I know about Aveline.’

  Bognor stopped slouching and sat very upright, spine tingling, stomach churning, head throbbing, adrenalin pumping to every extremity.

  ‘You what?’ he said, trying to keep the concern out of his voice.

  ‘I know that Max Aveline has disappeared and that he is wanted for the murder of Lord Beckenham and a man called Vole.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Bognor. ‘That is to say, “No comment.”’

  Inwardly he was seething. That bloody man Rook. He should never have told him. He had only done it because he wanted to impress him. Vanity, vanity. Rook’s arrogant, indolent superiority had trapped him into indiscretion. He would fix him, though Heaven alone knew how.

  ‘I hate to say this, Simon.’ Suddenly Molly sounded quite sober. ‘But I’ve spoken to the editor and we’re going to lead on it tomorrow. We’ve done some checking already. We’ve found that Max Aveline has vanished, and we’ve found that this chap Vole’s been killed, and we’ve learned from Vole’s publishers that he was working on some espionage project, and we’ve got our Whitehall correspondent burrowing away. So it seems perverse of you not to tell me what’s going on. Otherwise we may make mistakes. Wouldn’t it be better for us to get it absolutely one hundred per cent right?’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said tersely. ‘You know I can’t. It’s more than my life’s worth. Your cousin Humphrey’s probably ruined me by doing this. And you won’t be able to publish. We’ll slap a D Notice on it.’

  ‘We shan’t pay any attention.’

  ‘Then you and your editor will go to the Tower.’

  ‘D Notices went out of fashion with the twist and James Bond,’ snapped Molly. ‘We shall publish.’

  ‘And be damned,’ said Bognor and crashed down the receiver. For several moments he stayed looking at the telephone, wondering if there was any point in ringing her back and being apologetic and conciliatory. None, he decided. Molly was doing her job. You couldn’t blame her for it. She was a good journalist according to her lights, and one of a good journalist’s lights was knowing how and when to betray your friends. Bognor was realist enough to know that a trustworthy journalist wasn’t doing his or her job properly. But what to do?

  On mature consideration and with very great reluctance indeed he acknowledged that the only course open to him was to confide in his boss. Accordingly he padded along to his office and barged in, gratified to discover him drinking tea and pondering The Times crossword. He looked abashed.

  ‘You’re supposed to knock, Bognor,’ he said, trying to win back some initiative.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor, ‘I forgot. We’ve run into a bit of a flap.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Parkinson regarded him steadily and expressionlessly. ‘Bit of a flap, eh? Someone else shuffled off the coil as a result of your incompetence?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Good. Good. I’m delighted to hear it.’

  ‘I’m afraid the press have got hold of the Aveline story.’

  Parkinson picked up his pencil and bit into it. ‘Got hold of the Aveline story,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’
m rather afraid so, yes.’

  ‘Held a press conference, did you? Or merely put out a release to the PA?’

  ‘There appears to have been some sort of leak,’ said Bognor, ignoring this irritatingly heavy sarcasm, ‘from the Oxford end.’

  ‘A leak from the Oxford end. I see.’ Parkinson was at his most withering. ‘No point in thinking it’s anything to do with a sieve like you?’

  Bognor flinched but said nothing.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I was telephoned by a reporter on the Globe.’

  ‘Of course. You have these unfortunate associations with the Globe. You are aware that it is an offence to talk to the press. That’s Witherspoon’s job.’

  ‘That’s what I told them.’

  Parkinson glared. ‘Don’t get clever with me, Bognor,’ he said.

  ‘I wasn’t being clever. Absolutely not.’

  ‘No. Silly of me.’ Parkinson shut his eyes and appeared to be muttering something silently but ferociously.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Bognor.

  ‘No,’ said Parkinson opening his eyes again. ‘I am not in the least all right and I am, as they say, all the worse for seeing you. I should be obliged if you would remove yourself forthwith. If I were you I should hide under the largest stone you can find. Meanwhile I shall endeavour to salvage something from the wreckage.’ He shut his eyes. ‘Please go!’ he hissed. ‘At once. And stay away.’

  Bognor, for once, did as he was told.

  Back in his office he discovered that Inspector Smith had telephoned and left a message. The girl on the switchboard who had taken it said succinctly, ‘A Mr Smith rang and said that a Mr Crutwell was back at home now and Mr Edgware with him.’

  ‘That all?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl. ‘He seemed to think you’d understand.’

  Bognor sighed. No point in hanging around the office and possibly being seen by Parkinson. It was a good excuse for getting away. He had little hope of a meeting with the two men yielding anything of interest. In view of Rook’s appalling treachery he was disinclined to believe his story of the Apocrypha choir school racket, which was almost certainly a malicious red herring designed to create bad blood between Bognor and Crutwell and Edgware and deflect attention from Rook. Nevertheless it would have to be checked, unpalatable though the checking would undoubtedly be. He wondered whether to arrange an appointment or simply turn up, whether to drive or go by train. Decisions, decisions, he thought desperately, and decided to toss a coin. His mind was not up to freedom of choice. In the event he set off by train, unannounced.