Murder at Moose Jaw (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Before my time,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Aw,’ exclaimed the blonde. ‘You’ve got a reputation to live up to, Si.’

  They slid over to a hut surrounded by a forest of skis and a mountain of boots. In a trice Bognor was standing on long tapering red objects, holding himself upright on poles secured by tapes through which he had thrust his mitts. Gingerly he slid first one, then another up and down on the snow covered ground. It seemed to him that they moved with uncomfortable ease. He only hoped that the spiked poles would prevent too much ignominy.

  ‘OK?’ asked Maggie.

  ‘OK?’ asked Louise.

  He nodded grimly. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  It started badly for there was a steep slope at first, immediately before a long flat haul to the camel enclosure. He fell slowly, ponderously and painfully, but he was able to drag up the recovery procedure from some forgotten recess of his mind and was on his feet without having to be hauled up by either of the girls. They looked horribly accomplished.

  ‘Like this,’ said Maggie, lunging forward and digging a pole into the snow. Left, right, left, right, she covered the snow like a marathon runner, eating up the distance with enviable grace. After twenty yards she stopped, swivelled and called out to Bognor to follow suit.

  ‘Go on,’ whispered Louise at his elbow. ‘For Britain.’ She laughed.

  It was a struggle and he could sense that there were some unexpected muscles in the upper leg which were being called into play after decades of disuse. He would pay for this.

  At the camel house a ragged dromedary stared superciliously out at them, dribbling his disdain. They turned right past tigers, leopards, wallabies and then reindeer. Bognor wondered if he might not be getting the hang of it as he came to the reindeer. He had seen a film once about Nordic armies dressed entirely in white who skimmed about Scandinavia at astonishing speed, and for a moment he saw himself as a Flying Finn, a momentary illusion which led almost immediately to his second crash. This time Louise gave him a hand to help him up and he slipped over again as he took it, almost pulling her down with him.

  ‘We can’t talk like this,’ he said plaintively. ‘It’s all I can do to stay upright.’

  ‘We’ll talk at lunch,’ she said. ‘You’re doing very well.’

  He fell several times before lunch, which, by now, had postponed itself into something more like tea. But by the time they had passed the polar bears and the beaver, busy building an intricate dam for winter, he was beginning to come to terms with it and was learning to swing his hips in a passable imitation of the girls and the many other expert skiers who passed them as they moved slowly round the course. Finally, after a long haul of uphill herringbone through a wood, they arrived at a McDonald’s hamburger restaurant where, thankfully, he was able to unclip his skis and return to the relative safety of his own two feet.

  ‘Big Mac?’ asked Louise. ‘Hot chocolate?’

  Bognor nodded and made to get them, but Louise motioned him to sit at a table outside. ‘I’ll get them,’ she said. ‘You two have things to talk about.’

  Bognor expostulated mildly, then sat down opposite Maggie, who favoured him with one of her dazzling if glacial smiles.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind our meeting like this,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve been talking to you so I guess that ruled out my apartment or your hotel and most other places around town. Any case, you’re seeing a little of how we live out here, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor. ‘Very unusual.’

  ‘I adore it,’ she said. ‘Just magic. I came out here almost every day last winter.’ She paused. ‘Si,’ she said, in a different and self-consciously serious voice, an octave or two lower and rather husky, ‘You don’t mind my calling you Si?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Bognor, who did, actually, but was too well-mannered to say so.

  ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘Only some Brits get uptight about that kind of thing. Listen, Si, may I be absolutely, perfectly frank with you?’

  Bognor said he’d like that very much.

  ‘OK. Terrific.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to shock you, Si,’ she said, ‘but, well, not to put too fine a point on it, I no longer find my husband very attractive. In bed.’ Bognor swallowed. ‘I’m not embarrassing you, am I, Si?’ she asked, flashing another of her on-off smiles. ‘Louise told me you’re a man of the world but my experience is that some Brits are sort of uptight when it comes to talking about what goes on between a man and a woman when they’re in the sack together. That sort of thing doesn’t shock you, does it, Si?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Bognor who never, ever, on a point of principle, discussed human biology in any but the most evasive and elliptical terms.

  ‘So for the last year or so I’ve been sort of screwing around a little.’ Bognor winced. ‘Nothing, you know, dramatic. I’ve been very discreet because I don’t want to upset my husband, but a girl only has one life, and frankly I don’t believe in wasting it on a man who can’t even …’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him and smiled a little less frantically. ‘He was just fine when we were first married but he got bored with it. I mean, to be honest with you, Si, he is simply unable to function as a man. Forty-two years old and he is just totally unable to function. Can you imagine what that does to a woman? Can you imagine?’

  Bognor nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Well,’ she continued. ‘To cut a long story short, I started dating Sir Roderick Farquhar.’

  ‘You what?’

  Bognor had not been expecting this.

  ‘Well, I guess maybe “dating” isn’t exactly the right description. I mean, we were so discreet you wouldn’t believe. We never, but never, went to any public place together. There was no way anyone knew what was really happening.’

  ‘And he was able to, as it were, “function”?’

  She shot him a mock-surprised, almost shocked glance from under pseudo-demure half-closed lids. ‘You British,’ she exclaimed, ‘can be just awful. But no, you guessed. For a man of his age he functioned just beautifully.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Just beautifully,’ she repeated. ‘However,’ and here she became brisk, ‘there was no way it was, like you know, leading anywhere. I was determined to hang on to my marriage. My motto has always been “love ’em and leave ’em”, kiddo. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Even with Sir Roderick?’

  ‘No kidding. Trouble was, he started to get really heavy, so just when I was ready to move on somewhere else he was starting to talk to me about becoming the fifth Lady Farquhar. Or the sixth. Or some such. Well, like I mean, “no way”.’

  Louise returned with a tray of burgers and hot chocolate.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Quite a line-up. You two OK?’

  ‘Having a ball,’ said Maggie. ‘I was just telling him how Farquhar suddenly came on strong and tried to persuade me to ditch Johnny and move in with him.’

  Louise nodded.

  ‘Anyway,’ Maggie crammed Big Mac into her mouth and sliced through it in one snap of her perfect teeth. ‘Roddie said, “Either you move in with me and dump that arsehole of a husband, or I send him your letters.”’

  ‘Letters?’ muttered Bognor, through hamburger. ‘What letters?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Like “Roddie, darling, you were terrific. See you Friday, your place. Mags.”’

  ‘Cryptic rather than gushing, but still incriminating.’

  ‘Guess so. So I said, “Don’t you try to blackmail me, you bum, I never want to see you again so long as I live, so help me god.” And he put all the letters in a big brown envelope and sent them straight round to Johnny.’

  ‘And Johnny? I mean your husband.’

  ‘He just went berserk,’ said Maggie. ‘Just like he was crazy. Hit me about, and then he locked me in my room for forty-eight hours. And he made me swear I’d never be unfaithful to him again, or he’d kill me. And he swore he’d kill Ro
ddie if he got the chance.’

  ‘Kill him?’

  ‘Oh sure. He would too. To be honest, I think he did, but you’re going to have one hell of a job proving it.’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘He got the letters about a week before Roddie was rubbed out. He hated Roddie’s guts anyway. It was mutual.’

  Louise broke in. ‘That’s no secret. All Bay Street knows there’s no love lost between Baker and Farquhar. That doesn’t mean they’d have killed each other. Not without Maggie providing that extra motive. The straw that broke the camel’s back, eh?’

  Maggie grimaced. ‘Thanks a bunch, doll,’ she said.

  Bognor sighed. ‘It’s all very difficult,’ he said. ‘You’re telling me that your husband was cuckolded by Farquhar and possibly—probably—killed him as a result.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s a clearer motive than Jean-Claude’s,’ said Louise.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Bognor rubbed his jaw. He was beginning to think that the Mounties were wise to stay with their first suspect. ‘Can we walk back from here?’ he asked. ‘I think I’ve had skiing for today.’

  There was a chorus of dissent—smiles, pouts, taunts—so that despite his fatigue and his fear of skiing he felt obliged to agree. They were, it transpired, only halfway round the course, which made a circuit of the entire zoo.

  The next half took them away from the animal houses towards the ‘Canadian domain’ where wolves and bears and bison took on the climate without benefit of central heating. It was considered more difficult skiing than the first half, but the girls evidently regarded their English visitor as a challenge and were determined that he should circumnavigate the zoo no matter what. Because it was more difficult it was also less crowded. It was also getting late so that as they slithered away past the seal ponds on their way out to the wilderness there was no one to be seen ahead. There was no one immediately behind them either but about two minutes after they left, a trio of hard-looking men with the build of lumberjacks and the athleticism of hockey players skied out of the restaurant area and moved after them. They had been with them in the car-park, camouflaged by the crowds, and they had remained in sight though not earshot ever since.

  About a mile from lunch, Bognor and the girls paused for breath and to admire the view. The ground, covered in deep snow, fell away sharply to their right, down through forest to the river, which wound around the zoo’s perimeter. The snow clung frozen to the branches and though the brightness was fading the sky was still light blue.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Bognor, shading his eyes.

  ‘Magic,’ said Maggie, ‘and so quiet. Not another soul in sight.’

  ‘Except those guys!’ exclaimed Louise, glancing back over her shoulder.

  All three turned to look. The three men had also stopped about half a mile behind. They were grouped together, apparently in consultation. They had a pair of binoculars which were being passed from hand to hand.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Louise quietly.

  ‘Three men looking for bison. Or musk-ox. Or whatever you have round here,’ said Bognor flippantly.

  ‘They’ve found what they’re looking for,’ said Louise. ‘They’re looking for us.’

  ‘Jeez Louise,’ said Maggie. ‘Are you sure? Who in the world would come out here looking for us?’

  ‘Someone who followed us,’ said Louise, ‘that’s who.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Bognor gazed back at the men. There was absolutely nobody else in sight. The zoo had apparently emptied. It was silent too. In the distance a wolf howled, its cry taken up by another. Behind them the three men finished their deliberations and fanned out.

  ‘Oh my god!’ said Maggie. ‘We’ve got to move, and fast.’

  Although the men were almost a thousand yards behind they were between Bognor and the girls and the main zoo buildings. Normally they would have skied on around three sides of a square, the third side of which took them back to the main exit. At this moment their pursuers were boxing them into the far corner of this square, a corner from which there was no escape except down the steep wooded slope and across the river. Beyond that the nearest road was god knows how far away. The only alternative was to ski as fast as possible for the exit and pray that they would get there before the men behind could cut them off. Even now they were coming near to cutting off their retreat. Every second counted. Bognor felt deeply apprehensive.

  There was nothing, on the face of it, to prove that the three men were giving chase, and yet Bognor, who had been chased too often to make mistakes about it, knew for certain that the men were after him. It was a reaction based on animal instinct rather than intellect. A moment before he really had thought they could be harmless seekers after bison or musk-ox, but as they lengthened their strides and moved towards them with a horrid sense of purpose Bognor experienced an old familiar fear. ‘Here we go again,’ he thought to himself, pathetically. Why did it always have to be him?

  ‘Come on! Go!’ screamed Maggie, and without another glance she lunged into racing rhythm and streaked off across the snow, leaving Louise and Bognor behind.

  ‘I haven’t a hope,’ said Bognor. ‘There’s no way I can get past those monkeys. Look!’ It was clear the men could ski. They were coming on in powerful graceful strides, heading straight for them. They made no effort, however, to cut off the fleeing Maggie, who seemed to have the legs of them.

  ‘You must try to get away!’ she shouted.

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Bognor. ‘But you go ahead! Hurry before it’s too late! Get help.’

  ‘I can’t leave you like this,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘They can’t touch me. I’m an official representative of Her Majesty’s Government. Besides, I’m armed.’ This last was not strictly true, but he was determined that the girl should escape and she only had seconds left. She hesitated a moment longer.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he shouted. ‘Hurry! I’ll be all right!’ And then she too swung her hips, dug her ski sticks into the ground and raced away from him. One of the pursuers turned to cut her off but she was travelling too fast. To Bognor it seemed that his efforts were half-hearted and after only a few strides he turned back to join his colleagues, who were converging rapidly on Bognor. For a moment he toyed with the idea of trying to break out past them but the gap was well and truly closed by now and he was so inexpert on his skis that the exercise would be pointless. If he removed his skis and made for the ravine he would at least be equalizing the odds. It was too steep even for experienced Canadian skiers, and the trees were too close together. It would be three against one but at least it would be feet against feet and he still had a start of two or three hundred yards. He knelt down as quickly as he could and released the clip which fitted over the lip at the toe of his boots. He hesitated over the sticks but decided to hang on to one, partly for self-defence, partly to steady himself on the near-vertical side of the ravine. They were obviously confident, for as he set off on his break for freedom they scarcely increased their pace at all. He had only fifty or so yards to run but the snow was deeper than he had realized.

  By the time he had gained the woods they were less than a hundred yards behind and he was almost exhausted. His breath came in short wheezing gasps and his legs were like Plasticine. The best bet, he decided, was to sit down and slide, using the trees as brakes wherever possible, and so he sat, prayed and pushed off. It was not comfortable. Within seconds the snow had penetrated his trousers so that his bottom and upper legs were saturated and freezing. Every yard he hit a tree and had to fend it off with his hands. He could not look behind and had no idea what was happening to the pursuit but when he reached the bottom he was able to turn quickly and peer upwards. He could hear a body or bodies crashing about, but he could see nothing. There was no future in waiting and so he turned to his left and began to run along the riverbank.

  If he kept going along this he would c
ome out at the zoo gates. But it would be at least two miles. He had no confidence that he could get that far on foot, much less outstrip the men in pursuit. Nevertheless they did not seem to be gaining. The crashes which he had heard earlier had died away. He stopped, and listened, quite breathless. All he could hear was the exaggerated beat of his heart against ribs, the blood pounding in his ears, evidence of his age and indolence and greed. He could see very little, either, beyond alarming little yellow sparks which, he feared, came from within rather than without. He sighed very deeply and hung his head between his knees in a futile effort to recapture his breath. No sooner had he done so than he felt a sudden explosive blow on the back of his head. For a second he remained still, then slowly keeled over, his head coming to rest in a shallow drift of snow which, though invigorating, failed to bring him out of the deep unconsciousness which now overcame him.

  7

  HE WOKE TO FIND himself in darkness, trussed hand and foot like a battery fowl, and in a confined space. A very confined space. He was being shaken about. Most of the time the shaking was a constant rattle so that he felt rather as he imagined dice would feel before being cast. Occasionally there would be a more dramatic lurch and he would be thrown against the side of his container, which was metal, angular and sometimes sharp. Once or twice he had left metal objects in his trouser pockets and heard them crashing about in the washing machine or spin drier where Monica had put them without checking to see that they were there. That’s what this was like. His head, particularly the back of it, was throbbing and sore and every time he was bumped his head hurt more, so that he wanted to cry out. This luxury, however, was denied him for he had some cloth stuffed in his mouth which prevented shouting, screaming or even speech. Not that speech would have been much use since he appeared to be on his own in this constricting prison. The cloth also made his mouth very dry so that he wanted to vomit. And there was a smell of oil and petrol which made this desire still stronger.