Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 4

  They had reached a spaghetti junction with a whole series of roads rising and falling, diverging and merging to an accompaniment of white arrows on emerald green signs. Cars moved from lane to lane inexorably, apparently sightlessly and very fast. The little green Pinto spent several minutes speeding around this complex before emerging once more on to a piece of straight highway.

  Bognor frowned. ‘Aren’t we going back the way we came?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little melodramatic?’

  ‘Not if you’re about to be charged with murder.’

  Bognor considered this. ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Would you mind telling me where we’re going? It would have been much simpler to have had a drink at the hotel.’ He was irritated.

  ‘It won’t take very long, but I need to be sure we are not followed. We have a lot to talk about and I want no interruptions. The ferry leaves in ten minutes.’

  ‘Ferry?’

  ‘I thought we would talk in a summer cottage on Ward’s Island. It is not used in winter but I have borrowed the keys. Louise has been there since lunchtime, warming it up. We will be quite comfortable and very private.’

  ‘Good.’

  They lapsed back into silence as the car headed east along Lakeshore Boulevard to the ferry terminal. There Bognor found himself hurried through turnstiles and on to one of the tall black and white boats he had seen from his hotel window that morning. His escort took him through heavy doors and into a long panelled saloon with wooden seats. There was nobody else on board at all, and only a minute or so after boarding there was a rattle of chains, a churning of ancient engines and the old boat reversed clumsily away from the quay and turned to move out to the island. ‘Good,’ said the man, smiling broadly. ‘We have given them the slip.’ He took off a heavy fur-lined glove and extended a bony hand with dark hairs prominent on the backs of the fingers.

  ‘Jean-Claude Prideaux,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for what you call the melodrama, but I am afraid it is essential.’

  ‘Simon Bognor,’ said Bognor unnecessarily, heart missing a beat and a half. ‘Not the Prideaux who was Farquhar’s secretary?’

  Prideaux pushed back a lock of jet black hair which had fallen across his forehead. For a moment he stared out of the window at the white-flecked waves across the harbour and the spray whipped against the glass by the wind. Then he nodded curtly, lips tight. ‘I was Farquhar’s secretary,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor, not seeing much at all but wondering if perhaps the faint glimmer at the end of the tunnel might possibly represent light. ‘And you think you’re a prime suspect?’

  ‘I know,’ said Prideaux. He took a packet of Gitanes from the folds of his heavy-duty overcoat, offered one to Bognor, who declined, and lit it from an old-fashioned, oil-filled lighter. ‘Those RCMP bastards told me.’

  ‘But why,’ asked Bognor, wincing as the old tub lurched in a sudden gust of gale, ‘don’t they arrest you?’

  He wondered if the answer to this would be the same as the one given him by Pete Smith of the Mounties. It was.

  ‘I have a strange form of political immunity, Mr Bognor,’ said Prideaux exhaling through distended nostrils with, like the fingers, more hair than was really pleasing. ‘In the present state of uncertainty Ottawa wants no move against the Quebecois, guilty or not. They are afraid of creating martyrs. So for the time being I am safe—in a manner of speaking. As soon as the political situation is resolved I shall be arrested. Although there is always the possibility that your friends in the RCMP will take matters into their own hands. It has been known. There have been some incidents, you know. Some very convenient accidents.’ He raised sensitive black eyebrows to suggest the depths to which the Mounties might stoop in order to get their man. ‘Fancies himself,’ thought Bognor, who was made uneasy by Latin looks in men. He was made uneasy by Latin looks in women too but for different reasons. In women they awoke desire, in men envy.

  ‘But surely,’ said Bognor, ‘you have the same system here that we have at home. Separation of powers and all that. The politicians can’t nobble the judiciary and vice versa.’

  ‘Let’s not play games, Mr Bognor.’ Prideaux tossed his cigarette to the floor and extinguished it with his foot—a deft cruel movement as if he were killing ants. Bognor filed it away in the notebook of his mind.

  ‘There’s no society in the world which can’t become a police state when the situation demands it,’ said Prideaux. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

  Bognor didn’t answer. Instead he contemplated his feet. Below them the engines changed pitch, and there was a double bump as the boat hit something. Bognor hoped it was a landing stage and not a rock. Prideaux stood.

  ‘This is our stop,’ he said, and led Bognor out into the night. This, it seemed to him, was appreciably colder than it had been on the mainland. He turned up the collar of his quilt, sunk his hands deep into his pockets and wondered what Monica was doing. Five-hour time difference. She would be asleep. Alone, he hoped. He was sure she was eminently chaste and trustworthy and yet always when he was abroad on missions such as this he allowed himself frissons of doubt, if only to excuse his own half-hearted aspirations towards sexual adventure.

  ‘It is idyllic in summer,’ said Prideaux as they struck out across an open space towards a line of dim and scattered lights. ‘Under threat, of course. Authority dislikes this sort of unconformist behaviour. Most of the islands are leisure park, but people actually live here and that is untidy as far as the politicians and the bureaucrats are concerned. They want to raze it all to the ground, make it neat. A McDonald’s perhaps, somewhere to buy Coke. Can you imagine?’

  ‘Only too well.’ Bognor stumbled on a patch of ice, cursed loudly but did not fall. Prideaux grabbed his elbow.

  ‘I have a torch,’ he said, pulling one from his pocket and shining it in front of them. The snow was patchy, but thick in places. ‘It’s not far,’ said Prideaux. ‘Another five minutes, that’s all.’

  ‘Doesn’t it ever get cut off?’ asked Bognor, a note of apprehension creeping into his voice. ‘Do the ferries run all through winter?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ Prideaux laughed, again without much sign of humour. ‘Sometimes the ice is too thick, but then you can walk across so you don’t need the boat. But don’t worry. Winter hasn’t started yet. There’s no problem.’

  Inwardly Bognor sighed. He was absurdly relieved when, a few minutes later, they reached a small wooden cabin with an oil lantern swinging from the roof of its veranda. As they climbed the wooden steps and then stamped the snow from their feet on the timbers in front of the door he was immensely relieved to see it open and feel a surge of warmth come bowling out like desert wind.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Prideaux, pocketing the torch, ‘you’ve sure got this place steamed up.’

  ‘It’s a new stove,’ said the little girl, ‘but don’t just stand there letting the cold in. Hurry.’ They did as they were told, Prideaux stopping briefly to kiss her on both checks, Bognor shaking hands.

  ‘My name is Louise Poitou,’ she went on, ‘Poor Mr Bognor,’ she said, ‘your hand is so cold. Come and sit by the stove. Jean-Claude will fix you a drink. I brought wine and a bottle of rye, Jean-Claude. There is ice in the freezer.’

  ‘No ice,’ said Bognor, struggling with his new coat, pleased at last because he was seeing his attractive little Quebecoise again so soon. He was apprehensive, absurdly, in case she was married or otherwise attached to Jean-Claude. She did not wear a wedding ring, nor he, but that meant nothing.

  ‘Rye?’ asked Prideaux from the kitchen.

  He agreed to have it neat, feeling the need to revive the inner Bognor, and in a moment the three of them were all sitting in the dilapidated cane furniture raising their glasses in a toast to each other. Bognor was so shattered by his experiences that he even accepted a cigarette.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you would mind telling me what this is all about?’


  ‘I’ve made a sort of cassoulet,’ said Louise smiling. ‘Sausages and beans really but a little goose as well, and a lot of garlic, is that OK?’

  ‘Sensational,’ said Bognor, meaning it, and enjoying the smile, ‘but I take it you have asked me here for something more than undiluted rye and Canadian cassoulet.’

  Jean-Claude Prideaux leaned back until his chair creaked. He breathed smoke through his nose towards the ceiling. He returned to an upright sitting position and leaned forward, fixing Bognor with an appraising Gallic stare, took a mouthful of rye, puckered his mouth, swilled the alcohol around, as if he was about to spit it out, thought better of it, swallowed, and said, ‘Do you have any theory?’

  ‘About who killed Sir Roderick?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If I had, I’m afraid I would hardly be able to share it with someone who is, on his own evidence, a prime suspect.’

  Prideaux digested this for a moment, together with some more smoke and alcohol. Then he said, ‘Mr Bognor, may I be perfectly frank?’

  Bognor said he would like that very much.

  ‘My situation is extremely delicate.’

  Bognor examined the palms of his hands and said nothing.

  ‘You must understand that I am a Quebecois.’

  Bognor nodded.

  ‘A Quebecois nationalist. I am committed to la Quebec libre. I am not a friend of English Canada.’

  Bognor decided it was time he spoke. ‘Quite,’ he said.

  ‘I would stop at nothing to secure the independence of my country.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  Prideaux leaned even farther forward. ‘You are quite correct, Mr Bognor. If it was necessary I would kill for Quebec.’

  ‘But this time it was not necessary?’

  Prideaux repeated the sentence almost word for word. ‘This time it was not necessary.’

  Throughout all this the girl remained quiet, watching the two men like a spectator at a tennis match.

  ‘This was not a political murder,’ she said now, softly. ‘Farquhar was killed by some other person, for some other reason. That is not the same as saying we would not have killed him. It makes it a difficult case to argue. Motive, opportunity, Jean-Claude had both, and, just as important, he would have had no scruples. He would not have flinched. Eh, Jean-Claude?’

  ‘Nor you either?’ Bognor glanced at her sharply, and she lowered her eyelids.

  ‘Nor me,’ she agreed softly.

  Bognor looked round the cabin, took in the spartan furnishings, the Emily Carr reproductions, the modern wood-burning stove, and the rows of enamel mugs on hooks locked into pegboard.

  It took a long time to explain what their group really consisted of. It stemmed from their dislike of the Parti Quebecois which, for the time being, represented the mainstream of Quebec nationalism. They disliked the populist posturing of its leader, René Levesque, and they accused it of racism, anti-Semitism, even neo-fascism. They themselves were men of the left. Not very far left by European standards but far more radical than any popular political organization in Canada. Recognizing that the PQ was the most likely organization to secure independence for la belle province the members of the group were content to bide their time and lie low. They were known cryptically as ‘Seven’ because that had been the cell’s original strength when they had first got together as students in Quebec City’s Laval University. Their only allegiance was to Quebec and to each other and their plan was to conceal their true beliefs and infiltrate as many English-speaking and federal institutions as possible. They were, in the contemporary jargon of espionage, ‘sleepers’ or ‘moles’.

  In the whole of Canada no individual and no organization was more strenuously Francophobe than Farquhar and Mammoncorp. Farquhar’s ambition, expressed in his characteristically pungent phrase, was to ‘screw those damned froggoes whenever I get the chance’. For ‘Seven’ it was a prime objective but it was also an impossibly hard nut to crack. But, two years earlier, Prideaux had returned from a prolonged academic perambulation around the universities of Harvard, Paris, London, Lausanne and Gabon at exactly the time that Farquhar advertised for a secretary. It seemed impossible that Farquhar with his prejudices would take on a Quebecker. Prideaux, however, argued that Farquhar would enjoy having a Froggo to kick around. And so it proved. Prideaux was the only Quebecois out of eighty applicants, but he got the job. He did it well too, enduring Farquhar’s hectoring jibes and a whole series of petty humiliations and, biting back the slightest hint of criticism or insolence, building up a position of remarkable trust. By the time of his death Farquhar scarcely moved without Prideaux at his side. Prideaux monitored his phone calls, he supervised his entertaining, he controlled his diet, he even arranged his girls. Latterly he had even, by great stealth, begun to make inroads on Farquhar’s Francophobia, convincing him, almost, that de Gaulle had been a great man (in his own way), Camembert a great cheese (if you like that sort of thing) and Château Lafite a great wine. (This last required no qualification and virtually no persuasion.) More significantly Prideaux managed to persuade him that, for example, Farquhar’s bid for control of Quebec’s asbestos deposits or her wood pulp industry were inherently unsound. Or so he claimed.

  This exposition lasted a full half hour, during which Bognor did not interrupt except to signify assent when little Louise offered him a second helping of rye. When Prideaux finally came to an end, Bognor said, ‘So on your own admission you had a plausible political motive. You are a professional Quebec nationalist. Farquhar was Quebec’s most dedicated and powerful opponent. You were also on the train when he died. The only other person on the train was Amos Littlejohn.’

  Prideaux shrugged. ‘I didn’t like Farquhar. In fact I detested him. On political and personal grounds. But, like I said, I was doing a good job. It made more sense for us to keep Farquhar alive and for me to go on softening him up and stopping him screwing Quebec. If he died and Cernik or Harrison Bentley took over, things would be worse. They dislike the Quebecois just as much as Farquhar and they didn’t have a Quebecois secretary to improve the situation.’

  ‘True,’ said Bognor. ‘Or at least true-ish.’

  ‘And, as far as the deed itself is concerned it didn’t have to be done by me or Amos. It was all in the bottle. And the bottle was sealed. He always poured his own bath oil.’

  ‘The bath oil is a problem,’ admitted Bognor. ‘I grant you that.’

  ‘The food is ready,’ said Louise. ‘Are you ready for food?’

  Bognor said he was always ready for food.

  They ate. The food was good.

  Prideaux poured red wine from a flagon. It was from British Columbia.

  ‘Could be worse,’ he said. ‘Not what I was accustomed to while working for Sir Roderick, but fair enough for what it is.’

  ‘Have you told him about the bath oil, Jean-Claude?’ asked Louise. As she asked the question there was a crash from outside, and all three paused in their eating to look at one another enquiringly.

  ‘Tree,’ said Prideaux. ‘There was quite a wind coming over.’

  ‘There still is quite a wind,’ said Louise. ‘Listen.’

  They listened. Bognor, in particular, listened with apprehension. He had been so intent on Prideaux’s story that he had not noticed the weather. The house was creaking alarmingly.

  ‘I’ll just check,’ said Prideaux, picking up his torch from the battered pine chest where he had left it. He put on his coat and went out, letting in a great gust and having to fight to push the door open.

  ‘Will the ferry still be running?’ asked Bognor, spearing a sausage with his fork and scraping beans up with his knife.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the girl. ‘The ferry never stops.’ She chewed on a mouthful, then took a gulp of wine. ‘I’m sorry to have brought you out here like this,’ she said, ‘you must be very tired.’ She smiled at him from under those heavy lids.

  ‘What was it you were saying about the bath oil?’

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p; ‘Oh,’ she took another mouthful of wine and shook her head, ‘Jean-Claude had better tell you,’ she said. ‘It is his story. I don’t really understand it all. To tell you the truth I’m glad he’s gone and I don’t care who killed him.’

  Bognor had a mouth full of beans. When he had swallowed them he said, ‘He does sound like a regular four-letter man. But on the other hand I’m not sure that’s an excuse for gassing him in his bath.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking prettily perplexed. ‘What is a four-letter man?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bognor, ‘just an expression. A bad sort. Not the sort of chap you’d go into the jungle with. Or have in the house, come to that.’

  She was still looking less than fully comprehending and more than just attractive when the door opened, admitting another chill gust and Prideaux, who was looking blue and snow-blown. ‘It was a tree,’ he said. ‘It just missed the Macfarlanes’ deck. It’s a regular blizzard out there.’

  He came back to the dining table and helped himself to more food and drink.

  ‘The bath oil,’ said Bognor. ‘You were going to tell me about the bath oil.’

  ‘The murder weapon, yes.’ Prideaux smiled laconically. ‘Mis en bouteille pour Sir R. Farquhar.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘That was altogether too much for the Mounties, you know. Quite beyond their comprehension.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Bognor chewed on his beans. As a child he had been unusually fond of Mr Heinz’s beans and in the matter of beans the child had indeed proved father to the man, though nowadays it was true he preferred them with garlic and tomato and a suspicion of preserved goose.

  ‘What they still don’t realize,’ continued Prideaux, ‘is that bath oil was Sir Roderick’s Christmas present this year. Everybody got a case of his own exclusive, personalized Balenciaga.’

  Bognor frowned. ‘With their own names on?’

  ‘No, no, he was far too mean for that. To be quite frank, he’d over-ordered. It paid him to order in bulk and the bigger the bulk, the lower the cost per bottle. He ordered several thousand. Enough bath oil to keep him going for hundreds of years.’