Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘You’re surely not suggesting that this is a product of our own inclement shores,’ said Blight-Purley, eyes screwed small in disbelief.

  ‘Frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

  And in green underwood and cover

  Blossom by blossom the spring begins.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s what Swinburne had in mind,’ said Pring, much miffed. ‘Are you seriously asking us to believe, Freddie, that number twenty-three is an English wine?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘But no one’s producing red in England,’ said Pring. ‘It’s a non-starter. White, yes I know, but an English red is out of the question and for good reason. I know all the English wine producers, and not one of them is even contemplating a red.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know your English wine producers as well as you think,’ said Pendennis with a suggestion of truculence. ‘Or rather, perhaps they’re better at keeping secrets than you realize. Anyway, I think it’s time to put you out of your misery. Number twenty-three is the first of the Château Petheram. I agree it will improve in bottle, but we were impatient to give it an airing.’

  There was a silence which Bognor mentally recorded as ‘stunned’. Then to his surprise he found himself standing and saying, ‘In the circumstances, ladies and gentlemen, I think a further toast is in order. I give you Château Petheram!’ They drank to Château Petheram, looking suitably shamefaced about it.

  Then Pendennis continued: ‘We’ve already tried it out on la Veuve and her son, Philippe, and I believe you will be impressed by her response.’ Theatrically he drew a piece of paper from his pocket, put on a pair of half-moon spectacles and read: ‘“My dear Freddie, Philippe and I are agreed that your first English red is a remarkable achievement. In the circumstances we would count it a privilege if you would attend the dinner in Acapulco and bring with you a case or two of Ch. Petheram”.’ He put the letter away slowly. ‘So you see my friends, la Veuve displays rather more faith than you have done. Let’s hope she’s right.’

  There was a chorus of ‘hear, hears’ and conversation became general once more. It was clear that those who were out of Pendennis’ earshot were all saying the same, summed up by Anthony Ebertson, who remarked to Bognor, ‘Something “fishy”, as you British would say, about this. That rotgut stuff is piss awful and everyone knows it. You can keep it in bottle till the Second Coming, and it’ll still be piss awful. What in hell are they playing at?’

  ‘They’re probably acting on the assumption that a certain sort of wine snob will buy anything,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Touché, Mr Bognor, but I still don’t see why. There must be easier ways of making money.’

  Bognor shrugged. It was all very mysterious. On the other hand it increasingly seemed that a trip to Acapulco was in order. He wondered what Parkinson would say to that.

  They broke up soon after to wander around the estate. Bognor spent the next hour or so staring blankly at vines and presses and barrels while the others asked respectful and knowledgeable questions. Afterwards they adjourned for the much-vaunted Krug before departing for the five-thirty from Petheram to London, Charing Cross. At the station there was a final exchanging of cards and promises. In Bognor’s case the only firm commitment was his Thursday lunch with Blight-Purley. Otherwise it had merely been initiation. He had made some useful contacts, penetrated the Scoff circle, and enjoyed an excellent meal. He had found no solutions but, on the other hand, there were now some new and interesting questions to be asked.

  3

  ‘ACAPULCO!’

  Parkinson had the ability to render normally neutral or even attractive words positively indecent by the merest inflexion. ‘Acapulco!’ he said again, investing the word, of which Bognor had hitherto been rather fond, with a whole range of nefarious and undesirable qualities, of which Bognor had not previously been aware.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, fixing Her Majesty’s portrait with his usual unblinking stare and trying to ignore the rebuke, implied in Parkinson’s utterance of the well-known Mexican resort. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Acapulco.’

  It is odd how very quiet a basement under central London can seem at times. Normally Bognor thought of the office as a bustling, noisy place full of talk and hurry. At this moment it was unnaturally, almost hurtfully, silent, yet it would have been difficult for a casual third party to recognize the extent of Parkinson’s anger. He sat, quite impassive, behind his desk. His usual pinko-grey complexion seemed a little pinker and a little greyer than usual, but it was not until you noticed the pencil held tightly in his hands that you would have realized that something was not quite right. Just as Bognor’s gaze shifted downwards from the portrait to the top of his boss’s desk, the pencil broke. Bognor looked away and said, ‘I think it would be free. And if I can’t get it for nothing, then, of course, I shan’t go.’

  ‘Ah.’ Parkinson smiled, or more accurately, grimaced. ‘Very good of you, Bognor. And what exactly are you going to be able to discover in, ah, Acapulco, that you can’t discover a little nearer home?’

  ‘Well,’ said Bognor, ‘it’s just that the international Scoff set will be there and, well, one might pick up a thing or two.’ He was aware that this sounded lame. ‘I got a distinct feeling that Acapulco is going to be significant,’ he added.

  ‘I am quite simply lost for words,’ said Parkinson, staring despairingly at the two halves of the pencil. ‘I seem to remember asking you merely to investigate the suggested suicide of a restaurateur in a London suburb. Within twenty-four hours this investigation leads you to Acapulco. Yet, as far as I can see, you have not even visited the suburban restaurant owned and run by the deceased. I am unhappily aware of the curious deductive processes which inform your work, Bognor, but even by your own bizarre standards this is amazing. In other words, Bognor, for Christ’s sake pull yourself together, be your age, and stop fantasizing. This isn’t bloody Vogue, you know, it’s the Board of bloody Trade!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bognor adopted his most mulish expression. ‘I just happen to think it would be useful. And for the record I’ve no particular wish to go to Acapulco anyway. All my friends tell me it’s not a particularly exciting place. It just sounds exciting. Besides, this junket isn’t for several weeks yet and naturally I’m going down to the Dour Dragoon. The only reason I haven’t been already is that I had the offer of this day in Petheram, and it turned out better than I could possibly have hoped. You wanted me to take a close look at Ebertson and Petrov and I did.’

  ‘And you also struck up a relationship with Colonel Blight-Purley.’

  ‘Well, hardly a relationship. Anyway, so what? He’s one of us, isn’t he?’

  ‘There is no need at all for further flippancy.’ Parkinson was deploring the whole exercise and particularly this conversation. ‘Colonel Blight-Purley,’ continued Parkinson, laying such stress on the rank as to suggest that Blight-Purley was not properly entitled to it, ‘is a menace. As he has no doubt told you already, several times, he had a spectacularly successful career in wartime military intelligence.’

  ‘I’ve read about it. I’ve read his book. But to be fair to him he never once mentioned it yesterday.’

  ‘That’s as may be. The point is that it is one thing to parachute gallantly in and out of France and the Balkans chatting up partisans, and quite another to engage in the extremely sophisticated business of espionage in a nuclear society. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps you’d have been better suited to a role in Blight-Purley’s “show” as he would doubtless describe it.’ Bognor thought of the Colonel’s question about Dieppe, and began to feel quite well disposed towards him. Parkinson was continuing. ‘Ever since the war ended and men like Blight-Purley were thanked for doing a good job and sent back to some appropriate work outside, he and people like him have made themselves a perfect nuisance to the professionals like …’ he hesitated and then said bleakly, ‘ourselves. There’s none worse than Blight-Purle
y. He still believes he has what he calls “a part to play”, and he interferes constantly. There are those, not a million miles from the Foreign Office, who are impressed by his old school tie and his name-dropping and who encourage him in this nonsense. But he has no encouragement in this office, Bognor, and I’ll thank you to remember it. We have enough problems without Blight-Purley’s particular brand of cowboys and Indians. So would you confine your contact with him to the purely social?’

  ‘But,’ protested Bognor, ‘in this particular case he is distinctly relevant. I mean he knew Scoff Smith well, and he’s tied up with the whole wine and food business, and he’s got something he wants to tell me.’

  ‘I’m just warning you, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘So what is your programme from now on?’

  ‘I thought I’d nip down to the Dour Dragoon and see what’s going on.’

  ‘Inquest? Funeral?’

  ‘I thought not. I’m not supposed to be investigating Scoff himself am I? I don’t want to attract undue attention.’

  ‘So how will you explain your visit to the late Mr Smith’s restaurant?’

  ‘As we agreed. I shall say that I’m investigating various possibilities to do with the top end of the market and say that since the restaurant is still going to be represented in Acapulco …’

  Parkinson slammed a palm down on the desk in an inefficient and anglicized version of a karate chop. ‘I do not wish to hear that word again,’ he began and then the phone rang. ‘Who?’ he said, and then became obsequious—so obsequious that the effect was to be insulting. ‘Ah, Colonel Blight-Purley … Yes, young Bognor … oh, quite, yes. One of our bright young men … Very kind of you … Oh good, thanks for letting me know … Indeed, yes. Next time we want anything on Cracow I’ll most definitely be in touch. Of course. Good-bye.’

  He turned fiercely on Bognor. ‘Your new friend and mentor. He just rang to tell me he’d be taking you under his wing, making sure you were all right.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Bognor, ‘that he received no encouragement in this office?’

  Parkinson said nothing but it was clear from his expression that Bognor’s departure for East Sheen was long overdue. Bognor, who was not as insensitive to his superior’s moods and opinions as his speech and behaviour would sometimes suggest, duly departed.

  He made his journey to south-west London on a number nine bus, a form of transport dear to the soul of the Board of Trade since it gave an impression of economy. The top of the bus was virtually empty and Bognor sat in the front enjoying the view of the Thames at Hammersmith and Barnes and of other people’s gardens and bedrooms. By the time he arrived, pulling half-heartedly on a thin Dutch cheroot, he was in a happier frame of mind, far from thoughts of dead chefs and Mexico. He got out at Mortlake garage, the end of the line, just south of the finish of the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, and was musing on boat races he had seen when he was suddenly aware of a familiar sober-suited figure who had been sitting on the bottom of the bus.

  ‘Goodness,’ he exclaimed at once. ‘Mr Petrov. How do you do? We met yesterday you remember, Bognor, Board of Trade.’ His outstretched hand was received with something less than enthusiasm, and he realized, once he had made the greeting, that Mr Petrov was not in the least pleased to see him. He was reacting like a vicar surprised on his way to the brothel. There were two ways of responding to this. One was to do as the man wished and leave him alone. The other was to make a pest of oneself. Bognor decided on the latter.

  ‘What brings you to Mortlake then?’ he asked jovially.

  ‘Mortlake?’ The Russian responded as if he had never heard of the place. They were walking towards the railway line. A narrow footbridge crossed it a few yards further on, and as they reached it the Russian turned left to walk over it. ‘Au revoir’ he said, waving as jauntily as he could, ‘good to see you so soon.’

  Bognor did not hesitate. ‘I’m going this way too,’ he said, ‘you don’t mind if I join you?’ The Russian began to scowl but merely said, ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Do you make synthetics in Sheen?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Or is there a good market for them here?’ The railway line marked the boundary between Mortlake and Sheen, and they were now passing small Victorian cottages recently renovated to make bijou residences of the style favoured by actors, journalists and television personalities.

  ‘No,’ said Petrov, evading a colourful, flower-filled basket which hung out over the pavement from a wrought-iron bracket. ‘I am not here for synthetics.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Bognor. ‘The only other reason I can think of for coming here is to patronize the Dour Dragoon. Except that they don’t open for lunch. Anyway, that’s my destination. May I take it that it’s yours too?’

  The Russian looked at him sharply. ‘I am going to express my condolences,’ he said. ‘But you were not a friend of Escoffier’s? And, as you say, lunch is not available.’

  ‘Touché,’ said Bognor, ‘but I’m trying to compile a report about what we call “the top end of the market”, and you can’t get nearer the top end than the Dour Dragoon.’

  ‘The timing is a little inappropriate.’ Petrov was obviously put out. ‘The restaurant has been closed. They will not be in the mood for chit-chat.’

  ‘It’s hardly chit-chat,’ said Bognor, piqued, despite himself. ‘The Dragoon has three stars in Michelin and Bitschwiller. No other restaurant in Britain can match that. Gabrielle will be the only British representative in Acapulco. It is very important for me to talk to her.’

  ‘You are forgetting Freddie Pendennis and his grape juice,’ said Petrov. ‘Besides, Gabrielle is not British. She is from the Isle Maurice.’

  ‘Mauritius is part of the Commonwealth,’ said Bognor. ‘Besides, you know what I mean. And I’ve already spoken to Pendennis.’

  They continued in silence, their lack of words made less embarrassing by the roar of south-west London’s traffic and the thunder of Heathrow-bound jets above. The chi-chi houses had given way to shops—a mixture of long established small greengrocers and butchers, the occasional mini-supermarket, and new ‘antique’ shops specializing in the stripping of pine. It was an odd place to find Britain’s best restaurant. Five minutes later they turned down a leafy alleyway of converted cottages, the first of which had a painted sign swinging limply in the zephyr. There were no words on it, only a mournful visage surmounting a tunic of plum and gold braid and topped by a bedraggled shako, with a drooping plume.

  ‘I’ve never seen it in daylight,’ said Bognor. ‘Moonlight certainly adds a necessary touch of glamour.’

  Petrov made no reply but rang the doorbell, stabbing it impatiently and forcefully with a fat, hairy thumb. Releasing his pressure he allowed a bare ten seconds before pressing again, longer this time and still less patiently. This time the door was opened, albeit reluctantly and not very far. ‘Ah, Signor Petrov.’ The voice was male, subdued and southern European. The door opened sufficiently to admit one. Once Petrov was inside it had closed before Bognor had followed him. ‘Oh shit!’ he said, pressing the bell push himself. It opened again immediately, but not far enough for Bognor to insinuate his less than sylph-like form. ‘Sorry,’ said the voice, ‘restaurant is closed for lunch—chiuso—finished—kaput.’ Again the door was shut. Again Bognor pressed the button, and was answered with another still more immediate opening. ‘No,’ said the voice, ‘sorry. Is finished.’

  ‘I don’t want anything to eat,’ said Bognor, peevishly, ‘I just want to talk to Mademoiselle Gabrielle.’

  The door nudged back another grudging inch.

  ‘Mademoiselle Gabrielle?’

  ‘Yes … oui … si … prego.’ Bognor was monosyllabic in any number of European languages, ‘per favore!’ he went on desperately.

  ‘You have an appointment?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. Tell her Bognor, Board of Trade. Here …’ he rummaged in his pocket for a visiting card and thrust it t
hrough the aperture. ‘Take her that. Say I’m very sorry, but it is rather important.’

  ‘Moment.’ The hand took the card and closed the door, leaving Bognor to mutter on the pavement, cursing life and restaurateurs in general, and Russian agents masquerading under ludicrous ‘covers’ in particular. Surely Petrov could have pleaded for him. It was not only bad manners, it was rotten espionage. Surely there was honour among agents?

  Eventually the door opened again and this time a woman’s voice, beguilingly accented, said, ‘Mr Bognor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wanted to talk to me?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

  He recognized Gabrielle, even through the small opening she had left. Better still, she recognized him. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but you have been here before. Several times. Why didn’t you say so?’ She opened the door fully to admit him. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I did not recognize your name. You know how it is. We have a great many clients, but it is not always possible to match the name to the face.’

  ‘But I haven’t been that often,’ said Bognor, ‘and I’m afraid this is by way of business.’

  ‘Au contraire. You have been often enough to be recognized. I’m sorry, please come in.’ Mourning, he decided, rather suited her. She was wearing a long black gown which concealed legs that occasionally in shorter garments or trousers seemed unbecomingly plump. The decolletage showed off her ample breasts, and the jet black choker around her neck and the similar Alice band which held her raven hair gave her a sophistication which had not always been apparent.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind the kitchen,’ she said, leading the way through the dining area. ‘We re-open this evening and, as you can imagine, it is not easy. However, I am sure it is what he would have wished. Would you care for an apéritif? There is a bottle of Bitschwiller in the fridge.’

  Unreasonably the mention of that name again so soon gave him a frisson of alarm. ‘That would be very agreeable,’ he said. ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.’