Just Desserts (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  Bognor tasted his with the same exploratory diffidence. ‘More than almost,’ he said ruminatively. ‘It is a success. Maybe I should go to Acapulco instead of Gabrielle.’

  Their appreciation was shortlived. Second spoonfuls were poised just short of the lips when the telephone rang. ‘Oh God!’ said Bognor, putting his spoon down. ‘Just listen. It’s him.’ And certainly to the trained ear the phone had the unmistakable, hectoring urgency of an office taskmaster. When he picked up the receiver it was just as obvious that the tidings were bad.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, going a greyish white. And then ‘Where?’ Followed by ‘Are you sure?’ And ‘Already?’ And finally ‘OK, first thing.’ When he replaced the receiver he went straight to the drinks cupboard and poured out two large cognacs. Returning to the table, he pushed his omelette to one side and conceded shakily. ‘You were perfectly right. I shouldn’t have just accepted it. They’ve found him. River police fished him out of the water an hour ago just east of Kew Bridge. And we’re never going to know what happened because his people want it hushed up. They’ve claimed the body. It’s being flown home tonight. Oh God!’

  ‘Dead?’ whispered Monica. ‘Not …’

  Bognor rinsed his palate with the cognac. ‘Yes,’ he said bitterly. ‘Dead. Petrov.’

  4

  HE WOKE NEXT MORNING with that familiar experience of shifting, in a matter of seconds, from joy at being alive to suspicion that all was not well to, finally, certainty that something was very badly wrong indeed.

  ‘Is today Thursday?’ he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

  For answer she threw him the morning’s Times. It was Thursday. Lunch with Blight-Purley.

  ‘You have a dead Russian to explain,’ said Monica, smiling with a touch of waspishness. ‘Are you going to tell Parkinson you were with him yesterday?’

  ‘Oh. Petrov.’ That, he remembered, was the really bad news. ‘I shall have the last of those free-range eggs, lightly boiled, with a couple of slices of toast and some proper coffee. Do we have proper coffee?’

  ‘You know perfectly well we don’t have proper coffee. We have Nescafé. All this moving in high gastronomic society is going to your head.’

  Bognor made do with the Nescafé and pondered. In the circumstances it would be wiser to say nothing about his encounter with Petrov. It would only complicate matters, and it was hardly his fault that the wretched man had ended up in the river. If he hadn’t been so standoffish and antisocial, he would have allowed Bognor to come into the Dour Dragoon at the same time, and he would have remained quite safe. On the other hand it was possible, if that had happened, that there might have been two corpses in the Thames. Bognor frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. Indeed it hadn’t occurred to him that this was going to be a dangerous job. All the more reason for not getting over-involved. He would keep the Petrov meeting under his proverbial hat, at least until it became necessary to mention it.

  He had meant to do some checking on Petrov’s fate at the office as soon as he arrived, but he was forestalled by a visitor. It was one of the analysts. He seemed cross.

  ‘Look here, Bognor,’ he said, pouncing on him the second he came through the door, ‘just what are you playing at? I would have thought you’d have learnt your lesson with that bloody poodle!’

  Bognor sat down wearily at his desk, extracted a definitely dirty handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I’m not playing at anything,’ he said. ‘I sent you a bottle with some grains of stuff in that I wanted analysed. That’s all. I don’t want a lot of heavy backchat. What’s in it?’

  ‘You mean you really don’t know?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest. If I had I wouldn’t be asking you would I?’

  The analyst sniffed. ‘In that case I can only assume someone is playing a practical joke on you, too.’

  ‘Look,’ said Bognor, ‘will you stop beating about the bush? This is turning into a rotten day. I’m very busy, and I sent that bottle to you in good faith. Now will you kindly tell me what the hell was in it?’

  ‘Contraceptive pills.’

  Bognor buried his face in his hands and counted to ten. Then he removed it and said, ‘Now who’s playing practical jokes?’

  ‘Certainly not me. They’re contraceptive pills—or were. Rather old-fashioned ones come to that. Much more oestrogen than’s fashionable today.’

  ‘Oh. What does that mean?’

  ‘High oestrogen basically meant more chance of bloodclotting, thrombosis, all that.’

  ‘Is there any reason why anyone should prescribe them for a man?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But if a man were to take contraceptive pills—particularly ones like these, your high-oestrogen things?’

  The analyst looked both bemused, incredulous and thoughtful. ‘He’d feminize,’ he said, ‘probably become impotent. If he were a drinker it might be worse. Oral contraceptives are detoxified in the liver. It could cause something unpleasant and hepatic.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bognor, thinking that perhaps he did indeed see something. ‘So if a randy, hard-drinking man were to be fed with a daily dose of high oestrogen contraceptives, the chances are that he’d lose his sexual appetite and ability and develop some nasty liver complication into the bargain?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ The analyst shuffled out, not greatly mollified, leaving Bognor to draw some conclusions. It seemed that the pills were not what had been prescribed. He had better find out what had been prescribed. That way he could confirm his theory that there had been some substitution. Would impotence, he wondered, be enough to induce suicide? In the case of a man like Smith, with an outsize and publicly acclaimed libido, the answer was probably yes. So. Smith was prescribed relatively harmless, run-of-the-mill pills and someone removed them and put oral contraceptives in their place.

  Who? That downstairs lavatory was obviously used by all the staff, so that Gabrielle, the two Chinese boys, the sinister Massimo and others as yet unknown could have done it. Opportunity was not a serious problem. Motive had to be established. Also the design, if design it was, was sophisticated. It had feminine suggestions. Bognor scribbled on his blotter. ‘Scoff murdered by woman.’ As he did the buzzer went. ‘Come through at once, please,’ said Parkinson’s voice, gritty with irritation.

  ‘Well?’ he enquired abrasively before Bognor was able to sit down.

  ‘Well, what?’

  Parkinson ignored the rejoinder. Instead he consulted his files. ‘The police doctor didn’t have a chance of more than a quick look. Contusions. Bruising. Enough to knock him out but not to kill him. He drowned. He could have done it on his way into the river depending where he jumped from.’

  ‘Or was pushed from.’

  ‘Quite. Unfortunately it doesn’t look as if we’ll ever know. I hesitate to ask …’ he hesitated, ‘but do you have any bright ideas? Or even, God help us, any ideas of any kind at all?’

  ‘Not about Petrov, but I think I have a lead on Scoff Smith.’ Bognor told him about the bottle and the analysis. To his surprise Parkinson took it in his stride. ‘Check with his doctor. See what he was giving him. It must have been trivial or the coroner would start asking awkward questions. It might just be a start.’ He leant back in his chair and fixed Bognor with one of his looks.

  ‘If someone was feeding him contraceptive pills, then who—?’

  ‘My guess is Gabrielle,’ said Bognor, ‘but I admit I have no particular reason for saying that except that she could presumably get her hands on contraceptives and also feed them into Scoff’s bottle easily.’

  ‘Two good arguments against that,’ said Parkinson. ‘The first is that if they were her own pills she’d be pregnant by now. Or at least she’d be taking a risk on it. The second is that she was supposed to be the principal recipient of Scoff’s much vaunted sexual favours.
She’d hardly kill the goose that, as it were, laid the golden whatsit.’

  ‘I suppose not. Maybe she was bored with Scoff’s sexual demands and thought this was a good way out.’

  ‘Do we know if there was a will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What I need to know is whether Petrov’s death is connected with Scoff’s.’ Parkinson seemed almost to be talking to himself. Indeed, Bognor reckoned, it was the only explanation for his relatively pleasant mood. He looked up at Bognor. ‘I hope it’s nothing to do with you,’ he said, his voice regaining its aggression. ‘You haven’t been rumbled, have you? The minute people realize you suspect Scoff’s wasn’t a straightforward suicide then you might as well give up because you won’t discover anything.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can have been,’ said Bognor. Then, changing the subject, he said, ‘What about Petrov? How’s it going to be explained?’

  ‘No explanations. No investigations. Nothing. As far as anyone is concerned Mr Petrov has simply gone home to Russia.’

  ‘But why? And how?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, as you can imagine. Unfortunately other branches of government have rather greater influence than ourselves, and it seems that in these days of détente no one on either side of the iron curtain wants a messy bout of publicity over someone who was so very obviously a Russian agent.’

  ‘Iron curtain,’ said Bognor. ‘That’s a curiously archaic expression.’

  ‘I’m a curiously archaic person,’ said Parkinson allowing himself a flicker of a smile. ‘But, alas, we’re going to have to forget Petrov. The secrets of the dead don’t necessarily go to the grave with them, but in this case they’ve gone to Moscow, courtesy of Aeroflot.’

  ‘Still. One can but probe.’

  ‘Well, just probe gently. We are in what is known as a sensitive area.’

  ‘You don’t think the Russians did it themselves?’

  ‘Hardly. There’s no immediately apparent reason, and in any case they would presumably have preferred to get him home alive and ask him a few of your probing questions before throwing him in the Moskva.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Bognor stared gloomily. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘Where do you go from here, you mean. That’s your problem. Check out the contraceptives and follow from there. Don’t lose sight of the Petrov business. And don’t say anything unduly untowards to our friend le Colonel, when you have lunch later on.’

  Bognor flinched. ‘No.’ He got up to go.

  ‘Oh, and Bognor.’

  He paused at the door.

  ‘I don’t recommend the Mess pâté. Not enough garlic.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bognor smiled glacially. ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘Merely a suggestion,’ said Parkinson. ‘Yours is not the only palate in the Board of Trade.’

  ‘I don’t recommend the Mess pâté. Not enough garlic.’ Blight-Purley glowered over the top of the menu at his guest. ‘On the other hand the snails have too much, even for snails. The smoked trout is perfectly adequate.’ He broke a roll with his left, blue-veined arthritic hand, but discarded it before transporting it to his mouth.

  The Mess, alias the Anglo-French Naval and Military, was on a smaller scale than the more famous London Service clubs like the Rag and the In and Out. As its name suggested, members were men who had served in either the French or British armed forces, but in practice this tended to mean Britons who had fought with the Resistance or, less commonly, veterans of de Gaulle’s Free French. At all events British members were clearly francophiles, and French, anglophiles. Provided this was so, the military qualifications could sometimes be allowed to lapse or at least stretched to accommodate the occasional professor of French. The food was marginally more sophisticated than in other clubs, the décor identical, and the heirlooms incomparably less distinguished—a direct result of the club’s recent, post-war foundation.

  ‘More of a meat loaf?’ said Bognor, eating a little of his roll.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Blight-Purley was at a loss.

  ‘The pâté. More of a meat loaf than a pâté.’ Bognor was anxious not to appear gastronomically illiterate.

  ‘You could say so. Sherry all right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘After the trout I recommend the Gigot. I know it’s what we had at Petheram, but it’s even better here. First rate.’

  ‘OK.’

  The waitress was St James’s club standard issue, which is to say that she was demure beyond her years, stout, and encased in a black jumper and skirt with a white pinafore and cap. After she’d gone, Blight-Purley said, ‘You’ll be glad to hear I’ve had a word with la Veuve, and she’d be delighted to invite you to Acapulco.’

  ‘What?’ Bognor coughed on his roll. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean Bitschwiller have invited you to go to the fiesta in Acapulco as their guest.’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘All expenses paid. There’ll be a party of us going and la Veuve was most interested when I told her what you were up to. Between you and me she’s more than disappointed at the downward turn in champagne sales. She’s a wonderful old girl and devoted to us. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who can recite the Tale of Peter Rabbit word for word. She had an English nanny. Remarkable what English nannies have done for champagne sales to the UK over the years.’

  The wine list appeared before Bognor could comment on this cryptic observation. Blight-Purley pursed his lips. ‘Claret?’ he enquired. Bognor nodded. ‘In that case,’ said the Colonel, ‘we’ll have a bottle of the thirty-nine.’ He waited for the discreet nod and sotto voce ‘Very good sir’, which sounds like a cliché but is nevertheless the trademark of wine waiters throughout clubland, and then, when that worthy was out of earshot, said, ‘Cantemerle. You know it?’

  ‘Er …’ Bognor was not certain whether a pretence at knowledge would be discovered, or whether ignorance would make him seem ridiculous.

  ‘No,’ he ventured, tentatively.

  Blight-Purley registered nothing whatever. ‘Petrov,’ he said suddenly. ‘Strange that it should happen so soon after Scoff. What do you make of it?’

  ‘Petrov? What about Petrov?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he said, left hand screwing into the roll again. ‘A certain naiveté, even ignorance, over the best fifth growth claret in existence I might understand. But I don’t accept the same over Petrov.’

  ‘All right,’ said Bognor, ‘but how do you know?’ Blight-Purley chuckled. ‘Would you believe a little bird? Probably not. Nevertheless, you must accept that I do know, and I’m rather disturbed. I’d also like to help you unravel this particular skein.’

  ‘But,’ protested Bognor, as the trout arrived, ‘I’m not unravelling any skeins, I’m merely looking at the top end of the market.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Blight-Purley, helping himself to horseradish. They both began to eat in silence. Bognor gazed around the room speculating halfheartedly on the identities of the other lunchers. They were, of course, all male and all had at least a tinge of that air of spry dereliction which so characterized his host.

  ‘I gather,’ said Blight-Purley, deftly pulling a trout bone from between front teeth, ‘that the body’s been flown home already.’

  Bognor went on eating, mindful of Parkinson’s warning. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, when he’d finished his mouthful, ‘but I’m afraid I’m a much less glamorous investigator than you seem to think.’

  The wine waiter returned with a bottle of Château Cantemerle and there followed a ritual showing, uncorking, pouring, swilling around and sniffing and swallowing, until in the end Blight-Purley nodded very slightly and murmured, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, leaning across the table, eyes aglint, ‘I’m trying to assist after my fashion.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody priggish. How much do you know about Scoff?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’

  �
�Did Parkinson tell you about his network?’

  ‘No … that is … well, no, actually.’

  ‘Chances are, of course, that Parkinson never knew. My impression of Parkinson is that he’s not as interested in that sort of thing as he should be.’

  Bognor watched the older man with interest. Perhaps he really was trying to help. Perhaps, moreover, he was really in a position to do so. The face was debauched, bordering on senility, and yet there was a considerable residual intelligence lurking under the battered exterior. However, search though he might, he was quite unable to find in it any suggestion of generosity or kindness. It seemed to him to be a face which spoke of malice and self-interest. If so, then what, Bognor wondered, was his motive?

  The black and white waitress brought the lamb, together with gratin dauphinois and mange-touts. It was not what Bognor would have expected in the average London club, where the cuisine pandered to the nostalgia of its members by reproducing as nearly as possible the food of the nursery and the boarding school: puddings steamed and cabbage likewise, both to the point of exhaustion. The lamb was pink. When Blight-Purley prodded at it with his fork it oozed blood. He gave a little smirk of pleasure.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, watching the thin trickle of red against the white china. ‘Welsh?’ he asked, looking up at the waitress.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘Welsh lamb?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.’

  The old man shrugged and began to eat. ‘You’ll forgive me if I say that Parkinson’s methods and more especially his enthusiasms are not quite what I am used to.’

  Bognor chewed reflectively as Blight-Purley swallowed and went on. ‘No thing against him personally, but I’m not at all sure he quite understood the extent of the service that Scoff was able to offer. In consequence I’m inclined to think that perhaps, at times, Scoff was induced to offer those services, how shall we put it … elsewhere. Do you follow me?’

  ‘I think so.’ Bognor was only half-plussed.

  ‘You see, Scoff had a great many friends in the business. Now let us suppose …’ he sawed enthusiastically at his meat. ‘Let us suppose that you are a prominent and blamelessly married politician who is, unknown to the world at large, conducting an illicit liaison with—such men have deplorably little taste for more exotic inamorata—his secretary. It has been known to happen.’