Poison At The Pueblo Page 6

  ‘And everyone else.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’ He stared at the bead in his glass and watched the bubbles rise to the surface before vanishing as mysteriously as they had arrived. The bubbles suddenly seemed like a metaphor for life – coming from nowhere, departing to nowhere and dancing inconsequentially through elusive liquid in the interim. ‘I like to think I called a few shots,’ he protested, ‘even when I was wet behind the ears.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said his wife, smiling at her glass. ‘You’ve always been a pushover. Especially when it comes to the crunch.’

  ‘That’s not fair either,’ he said. ‘I can be pretty bloody steely when the chips are down. I wouldn’t mess with me. Especially when the cookie crumbles.’

  Lady Bognor laughed and swallowed. ‘Darling, I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t you,’ she said, ‘and you’ve done frightfully well at whatever it is that you do. But don’t let’s kid ourselves about writing our own scripts. I don’t think any of us deliver our own lines, as a matter of fact. And the worst self-delusion is believing that you do. Yet another of God’s jokes.’

  Bognor was irrationally irritated by this sally, not least because both he and Monica had always been determinedly agnostic. Both of them agreed that in the unlikely event that the Almighty did exist, he was a nasty piece of work with a warped sense of humour.

  ‘Whoever’s writing the stuff has given me a gong, a great salary, a fantastic index-linked pension and,’ here he smiled at her not entirely convincingly, ‘you, my little cauliflower.’

  ‘Don’t you “cauliflower” me,’ she said. ‘I’m being serious. When you started out on your journey through adult life the world was a more gentle, civilized place.’

  Simon thought about this for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There was a veneer of civilization, a gloss of gentility, but it was skin-deep. There were a lot of knives around. Life was a pretty cut-throat business. It was just that chaps felt the need to apologize before placing the stiletto between your ribs. There was a premium on politeness.’

  ‘When did you last sit in on an autopsy?’

  Bognor bridled once more.

  ‘I have never in my life attended an autopsy,’ he said, ‘you know that perfectly well.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a cadaver from another,’ she said, ‘whereas all the smart young things in your department spend hours in the morgue watching stiffs being dissected. Even Harvey Contractor.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor, ‘well.’

  What his wife said was perfectly true. He would have to think about it. The girl with the pink-streaked hair came and asked them in perfect, though huskily accented, English if they were ready to order yet. Bognor asked for another five minutes and the girl dimpled at him. Monica looked mildly put out.

  ‘You don’t have to hang around dead bodies to find out what made them dead,’ he said, sounding pompous and not entirely sure whether or not he believed what he was saying.

  ‘You’ve built an entire career round death,’ she said, ‘but ultimately you’re pathetically squeamish. You don’t do blood and guts.’

  ‘I should think bloody well not,’ he said, ‘blood and guts are for forensics. I’m about cause and effect, not body parts on slabs.’

  ‘Your very first death,’ she said, ‘that poor colleague of yours who was garrotted with his crucifix in the potato patch at Beaubridge Friary. Did you ever check the body?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Not my department. We employ people to do that sort of thing: boffins, scientists, doctors, pathologists. Chaps with white coats and rubber gloves. They present their reports and we decide what to do next. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘Was,’ she said, loudly. ‘Was. It isn’t like that any longer. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He did, but he was not in the mood to admit it. Deep down, he acknowledged that everything had suddenly become different. Even Harvey Contractor did autopsies. He had become the last of a breed. A deskbound dinosaur without realizing it.

  ‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. If that wretched colleague of yours had been strangled now, the equivalent of you would have been in the morgue or the dissecting room with a white coat, plastic gloves and a surgical mask making a first-hand note of every contusion and weal on the body.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference,’ he said. ‘I’d have got in the way and I wouldn’t have known what on earth was going on. Much better to wait for the pathologist’s report and then apply one’s particular skill to that. I have no skills when it comes to cadavers, as you so quaintly call them. That’s a different area of expertise.’

  ‘You’re saying the old ways were better?’

  He didn’t care for his wife when she was in one of these moods. The Polish girl came with chorizo and calamari with crusty bread and olives. The Bognors eyed them thoughtfully.

  ‘If you put it like that, then I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘So,’ she said, triumphantly spearing an olive with a toothpick. ‘You admit it.’

  ‘Admit what?’

  ‘That there’s an old way and a new way of doing things.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You did actually.’

  Bognor was about to argue, but thought better of it and took his own olive instead. He used his fingers and not a toothpick.

  ‘I simply don’t see the point,’ he said, very deliberately, ‘of crashing in where angels fear to tread, if you follow my drift. Bones and hacksaws just aren’t my thing. I do motivation, trade gaps, political intrigue, zeitgeists, grown-up stuff.’

  ‘Meaning pathology is for other ranks?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I wish you’d stop putting words into my mouth.’ He put a ring of calamari into his mouth instead of Monica’s words, chewed and took a sip of wine. ‘I simply don’t understand this modern obsession with gory detail. I don’t need to examine the body to know that someone’s dead. And if it’s a question of “how”, then I rely on the expert. I do “why”. With the greatest respect to the Patricia Cornwells of this world, they can’t do that.’

  ‘That’s not what most people think.’

  ‘I don’t give a flying whatsit for what most people think. I’m not interested in most people. I’m interested in right and wrong, the truth, eternal verities. “Most people”, as you put it, aren’t interested in concepts like that.’

  ‘You don’t like “most people”, do you?’

  ‘I’m indifferent to “most people”,’ he said, ‘and, in a sense, I’m paid to be just that. I despise highly paid executives who hide behind majorities and committees. I’m not a great believer in popular opinion, best-sellers, fashion and all that garbage. Leaders are paid to lead and that means being decisive and, if necessary, unpopular. Only a fool fails to listen to advice, but only a fool always acts on it.’

  ‘Max said to me the other day that the crime and thriller market is dominated by “serial killer novels, American forensics and the exceptionally gruesome”.’

  ‘You know my opinion of Max,’ said Bognor. Max had been a contemporary of Monica’s at the Courtauld but had decided there was no money in the history of art and its appurtenances. He had started his own publishing house specializing in British editions of American best-sellers. He drove a Porsche, had a mews house in Belgravia and was, as they put it, unmarried. Bognor did not think much of him on a number of accounts. ‘In any case, Max deals in fiction. I do real life.’

  She laughed. ‘You call it real life but you never sit in on autopsies or get your hands dirty doing menial work. Home or away.’

  He chewed chorizo. It was fatty and flavoursome. Bad for him. Which he approved of.

  ‘I told you. I’m paid to think. I’m going to have hake with a green sauce and a red Ribiero. What about you? I’m not in the mood for white.’

  She said she’d like the rabbit which came
with a Portuguese sounding sauce involving clams and said she was feeling reddish too.

  ‘Fiction mirrors life,’ she said. ‘If it’s not realistic, it’s no good.’

  He snorted derisively. ‘Fiction is fiction. If it just mirrors real life then it’s pointless. It has to be a work of imagination. As such it’s artificial. It can’t possibly just echo reality. If it does that it ceases to be fiction. Otherwise why write novels or read them, come to that?’

  ‘Max publishes a lot of true crime,’ said Monica. She was on the defensive now. She always was when it came to Max.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Bognor, running a hand through his thinning hair, ‘true crime books. Please spare me. I can think of nothing sadder. I suppose it pays for the Porsche but that’s it.’

  They ate in silence. The Polish girl removed plates and brought new ones. Then hake covered in green sauce. The rabbit had a plump, white, domesticated appearance. And a bottle. The red wine was dense and full of tannin.

  ‘You’re just an old cosy,’ said Monica. ‘An elderly dog with its hair falling out; a tartan rug for geriatrics to put over their knees; a Morris Minor estate with wooden beams like a Tudorbethan estate house. An old cosy.’

  ‘I am not an old cosy,’ he said irritably, discovering a bone in his fish and reflecting that if he were seriously rich he’d employ a man to remove such hazards. He could iron his morning paper while he was about it. ‘“Cosy” is a pejorative word invented by unimaginative writers of so-called “hard-boiled” fiction, mainly American, to denigrate their competitors, mainly British. To describe something or someone as “cosy” is evidence of an inferiority complex. It means you find thought difficult so you resort to violence and abuse.’

  ‘No need to get overexcited,’ she said, ‘it’s bad for your blood pressure.’

  ‘I hate these silly oversimplified classifications,’ he said. ‘“Cosy” doesn’t mean what it’s supposed to mean. It’s just a term of abuse. Ageist as well. No one under about forty is ever described as “cosy”. You have to be a pensioner to be cosy.’

  Monica chewed thoughtfully on her rabbit.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, at last. ‘I think “cosy” is a perfectly good word for you. You’re warm, reliable, unthreatening. Everyone feels comfortable with you.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Bognor, ‘I may seem “cosy”. I might appear “cosy”. But actually I’m where it’s at. I’m state-of-the-art. I’m cutting edge.’

  His wife continued to chew rabbit. At last she said, ‘That may be the problem. Many experts, you included, confuse “cosiness” with “incompetence”. That’s the mistake. I know that you’re both cosy and cutting edge. Very dangerous, rather sexy and possibly even unique.’

  Bognor looked at his green-covered fish and mused on this intriguing and novel conceit.

  ‘Cosy and cutting edge,’ he said, at last. ‘I rather like that. Cosy and cutting edge. Hmmm . . .’

  NINE

  Next morning, Bognor asked Harvey Contractor about Trubshawe’s post-mortem examination. In view of the previous night’s discussion this was always probable, as was the note of censoriousness in Sir Simon’s voice. Nasty piece of work though he undoubtedly was, Trubshawe was still a British citizen and Bognor did not like the idea of a British body being dissected by foreigners, particularly without a single Brit to see fair play. He more or less believed in the European Union but there were limits. And perhaps Monica was right. Perhaps he was too hands-off. Too inclined to wash his hands of the nitty-gritty.

  They were in a Guardia limo taking them to a rendezvous in Salamanca. The car was long, sleek, comfortable, bulletproof and only just the right side of stretched. Outside Spain passed by: cheerful, noisy, poorer than them, but not as ill-favoured as once upon a time. Monarchy had been good to its subjects. Today was a rebuke to yesterday’s republicanism, though in fairness you could hardly call it democracy. It was a paradox that monarchy should set men free while dictatorship had enslaved them. Franco more monarchical than Juan Carlos? Discuss. The King less of a king than the caudillo? Mmmm.

  ‘I take it that in a case such as this you’d normally sit in on the post-mortem.’

  ‘Might,’ said Contractor, who was drinking a very stiff black coffee and frowning over the main leader in El Pais. The limo had a minibar and a coffee machine. This was the new Spain. ‘Might not,’ he said. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’ Bognor was irritable. Last night’s conversation still rankled, he was mildly hungover and, despite appearances which he attempted to maintain, his Spanish was not up to the morning paper. He could do menus but not leaders.

  ‘Depends,’ repeated Contractor, eyes furrowed, still engrossed.

  ‘On what?’ Bognor was at his most snappish. ‘Decisions must depend on something concrete. Otherwise they’re like hanging participles or, um, flying buttresses.’

  ‘Circumstances,’ said Contractor. ‘Circumstances dictate dependence.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  With extreme reluctance Constructor raised his gaze from the El Pais editorial.

  ‘Meaning that if I think my attendance at an autopsy is going to help me solve a case then I will attend. If not, not. On balance, I take the view that gratuitous butchery is a cheap thrill and better left to the specialists. That’s not always the case but usually so. If I think I can bring an expert but essentially unqualified eye to the proceedings then, yes, reluctantly, I’ll be an interested spectator. But most of the time I don’t see the point. Some people are more ghoulish.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Bognor. ‘“Autopsy”. “Ghoulish”. Good words, both. I must remember them.’

  Contractor made as if to return to El Pais, but his boss reckoned he had him on the run.

  ‘I’ve heard it said that I’m old-fashioned,’ said Bognor, trying not to sound peevish and, not to put too fine a point on it, old-fashioned, ‘is that what you think?’

  Contractor sighed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it’s obvious.’

  ‘And pejorative?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Contractor. ‘We’re not ageists here. But age dictates behaviour and you act your age. We all do. Fact of life. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing particularly right. You’re approaching retirement age and your attitudes and behaviour reflect it. I’m a tyro, just embarking on my career. I act the part too.’

  The traffic was moving slowly, not quite gridlocked or jammed but moving at little above walking pace. There were roadworks. A man was drilling a hole in the road. There was noise and dust everywhere, and a small group of onlookers were watching the man at work. Bognor felt at home.

  ‘Very enlightened,’ he said drily.

  ‘Just realistic,’ said Contractor, turning a page. ‘No point pretending to be something you aren’t.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Bognor fell to contemplating mushrooms and toadstools. He had been doing some research before leaving London, had summoned up papers, checked the Internet, and was as up to speed as was reasonable for a layman. Fungi were not a speciality but then he was a generalist. That was what the fuss was about. It was why he was feeling threatened.

  ‘Mushrooms,’ he said to himself as he contemplated stalled Spanish traffic. ‘Best on toast. Purchased from the supermarket. Preferably grilled. Risk therefore nil.’

  Contractor had reached the sports pages and was reading about last night’s match at the Noo Camp between Barca and Valencia. He did not appreciate being interrupted, especially when the question was a trivial query about mushrooms.

  ‘I gather forensics think it was one of the Amanita,’ said Bognor portentously, ‘Phalloides, virosa or verna.’

  ‘Unlikely, I’d say,’ offered Contractor. ‘Death Cap, Destroying Angel and Spring Amanita produce vomiting and diarrhoea after about six hours and then there’s a remission period of around forty-eight hours before the liver packs up. But our man Trubshawe felt ill almost immediately and seems to have died within the hour. That doesn
’t sound like an Amanita to me.’ Valencia had won with a penalty in extra time. It sounded like a good game.

  ‘So, oh wise one, what do you think?’

  Contractor abandoned the paper with a sigh.

  ‘I’m only guessing but I’d hazard Coprinus atramentarius. The common ink cap. Especially as Trubshawe was a bit of a boozer. I’d guess that the others ate Coprinus comatus. Common ink cap and shaggy ink cap to the layman.’ Bognor felt patronized. ‘Very difficult to tell apart but comatus, the shaggy one, is delicious whereas atramentarius, the common one is lethal. Especially with booze. Violent reactions within ten minutes.’

  ‘Death?’

  They had reached some sort of dual carriageway and picked up speed, passing blue-smoke-belching trucks on the inside lane.

  ‘Not usually,’ said Contractor. ‘In fact, the Amanitas are generally deadlier. The ink cap produces unpleasant symptoms. You go very red in the face, though from what I’ve learned about our friend Trubshawe he couldn’t have gone more puce than usual – a combination of foul temper and high living. The heart rate increases dramatically, you get blisteringly unpleasant chest pains and headaches. It’s all down to coprine which is a mixture of glutamine and cyclopropanine. Used to be confused with disulfiram which is the main ingredient in Antabuse, the anti-alcohism drug. We now know that nothing could be further from the truth and the two things have a completely different formulation. All the same, alcohol remains the key. If you take a drink on a cold day you should watch out for the common ink cap. Same goes for the club-footed funnel cap or Clitocybe clavipes, which is sometimes said to be edible but makes you sick and brings you out in spots if you have a tincture at the same time. But I think club-foot is an innocent party in this case.’

  ‘But death?’ insisted his boss, reluctantly impressed by this all too typical display of knowledge unlightly worn. ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  Contractor appeared to think, frowning at yet another belching juggernaut exceeding the speed limit on the inside lane.

  ‘Not with sufficient booze. Particularly if the victim had a dicky heart and/or high blood pressure. Which Trubshawe did. He was on all sorts of medication. Beta-blockers mainly.’