Carnage on the Committee (14 page)

'She was inoffensive. Much more polite than Jack's likely to be. OK. It was just a thought. Now off you go and enjoy yourselves with Hugo.'

Sir Hugo Hurlingham lived in a vast studio flat in Greenwich overlooking the Thames. One wall was of glass, and -as might be expected of a literary editor - another was shelved from floor to ceiling. Milton, who saw few bookish people in the course of his duties, was fascinated by the contrast between Hurlingham and Griffiths. Where Griffiths's books had been dusty, disordered and looked as if they had all been bought off barrows, Hurlingham's were pristine and arranged alphabetically. But what intrigued both policemen was the enormous display of photographs which dominated a third wall.

'Sit down, gentlemen. I'd offer you coffee, but I'm afraid I don't cater. I prefer to leave that to the fair sex and there isn't a representative on the premises right now.' He leered. 'Never available when you want them, are they?'

'We're fine, thank you, sir,' said Milton, trying to hide his distaste. Were Hurlingham's features gross or was it just his style? He walked over to the window. 'Magnificent view you've got here. Have you lived here long?'

'A couple of years. Used to live in Chelsea but my wife got the house after the divorce. Always do, these days, don't they? Still, as bachelor pads go, this is pretty good. The ladies seem to like it and that's what matters.' He gurgled.

Feeling that some kind of answer was required, Milton fell back on 'Quite.' He sat down beside Pooley on the purple chesterfield.

'Now what would you like to know, gentlemen?'

'Well, what we most need to know is who might have wanted to kill Lady Babcock.'

'This is truly a matter of the utmost gravity,' said Hurlingham, adopting an expression to match his words. 'I deeply regret, however, that I can be of no assistance to you. It is a mystery to me to imagine who could be so vile as to wish to murder such a fine lady. Her loss to literature is great; her loss to the mission of de-Anglicising this parochial little island incalculable.'

'You knew her a long time?'

'Half a lifetime, Mr Milton. Half a lifetime. I had the honour to publish her first two novels, before I abandoned publishing for the world of newspapers'. He stopped. 'Or rather before I was abandoned by publishing.' His voice rose. 'There was a time when publishing was an occupation for gentlemen. Over the past couple of decades it has become almost exclusively an occupation for bean-counters. There is no vision any more. No flair. When I began ...'

Recognising the beginning of a well-worn tirade, Milton cut in, 'Forgive me, sir, but we are all short of time. For now, could you stick to telling us about your relationship with Lady Babcock?'

Hurlingham glared at him. 'What do you want to know?'

'She had, I understand, a great regard for you, sir.' The glare softened, it would be helpful if you could tell us about your friendship.'

'I would not wish to blow my own trumpet, but I think I can truly say that she looked up to me from the very beginning. We were much of an age, but I was by then an experienced publisher, and Hermione was just finding her feet.' He stood up. 'I'll show you.' Leading them over to the massed ranks of photographs, he immediately pointed to one at the top left. 'There we are. This was taken when her first novel was launched.'

Milton and Pooley gazed silently at the row of smiling faces and without difficulty identified a slimmer Hurlingham and, on his right, a softer Hermione. isn't that Lady Wilcox?' asked Pooley, pointing at the kaftan-clad figure with droopy hair on Hurlingham's left.

'Good for you for spotting Wysteria. She's changed a lot. Not like me. But then women show their age so much more, don't you think? And of course the scandal was upsetting.'

'The scandal?'

Though clearly delighted at having a chance to tell all, Hurlingham once more assumed a grave expression. 'I would not wish to gossip, gentlemen, but the facts are on record. Wysteria was not pleased when she discovered her husband was given to playing away from home and she took up what one might term a somewhat draconian position.'

'Which was?' asked Milton.

'First, she hired a private detective who discovered poor Freddie Wilcox was rather keen on ladies of the night, then she told Freddie she would be suing him for adultery and subpoenaing several of the aforementioned floozies.' He tittered. 'I don't know exactly what Freddie had been up to, but Wysteria described it as "depraved" and he wasn't keen to have it publicised.' He tittered again. 'She certainly exacted her pound of flesh. Freddie had to sell most of the family treasures to pay her of.'

'Lady Wilcox is tougher than she looks, then?'

'Tougher?' Hurlingham gave a belly laugh. 'Wysteria Wilcox is probably tougher than you look. Chief Superintendent.'

'And tougher than Lady Babcock?'

'Hermione was no softy either, as I eventually discovered.'

'Would you describe yourself as having been her mentor in the early days?'

'I think it would not be too much to say so.'

'You were her publisher for roughly how long, sir?'

'About five years. Look, there we are at the party Hermione gave when I moved to the
Sunday Oracle.'

And there they were again, though this time Hermione and Wysteria were together at the edge of the group and Hurlingham had his arms around two younger women. Wysteria, Pooley noted, had by now had her ethereal makeover.

Hurlingham waved a finger at the display. 'You'll find her here and there over the years, but here's a contemporary one.' He pointed towards the lower right-hand corner. 'Here's a photo of all of us Warburton judges. 'Oh, no. That's last year's. Here's this year's.'

'You were a judge last year as well?' asked Milton. 'Is that unusual?'

'Indeed I was. And of course I urged that I should not be asked to take on the burden again this year, but Hermione was insistent. She said she wanted some continuity, and that in any case, in view of my connection with the Barbarossa Prize, I was irreplaceable.'

'Ah, yes. The Barbarossa Prize. I'd be grateful if you'd fill us in on that, sir.'

'So he started in,' Pooley told Amiss as he walked through St James's Park
en route
to the Ritz and Dervla, 'and he talked about how all the countries of the European Union were now institutionally and spiritually united, how they soon would form a complete economic and political entity, and how far-sighted, visionary people like him in every country were working to promote cross-cultural links and in the long-term a culturally coherent Europe. There was a lot about conflict resolution, healing and . . . hold on a minute.' Pooley balanced the phone between ear and shoulder as he fished his notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it. 'Ah, yes. Got it. "Respect for difference as the essence of humanity" ...'

'Surely he didn't leave out winning hearts and minds? It's a constant theme.'

'Rings a bell. And I seem to remember something about building bridges.'

'And plenty of references to peace and love,' added Amiss. 'Yep, that's our Hugo. He can witter on like that for hours. Mind you, he's a nasty old coot as well as a boring pompous one. You presumably sussed that he's a dirty old man?'

Pooley emitted a grim laugh. 'Now why doesn't that surprise me? Not-safe-in-taxis sort of dirty old man I presume, from the way he talks?'

'Worse. Onto-that-casting-couch-or-your-book-goes-on-the-reject-pile sort, I've heard. Apparently, if you want a nice big fat review in the
Sunday Oracle,
it helps to be female, it helps to be young and it particularly helps to be pleased to receive the advances of Hugo Hurlingham.'

'Surely people aren't prepared to do that?'

'All those years a cop and you still get shocked, Ellis. It's touching. Look, if actresses do it, why not writers? Have you any idea what it's like trying to get a review of any size - even a review at all - in a major newspaper? Especially for fiction. There are something like a hundred thousand books published every year in the UK alone.'

'Good God. I'd no idea.'

'Mind you ninety per cent of them would never get near a literary page. But still...'

'Even so, how does Hurlingham get away with what sounds like near-rape?'

'Oh, he's not quite as unsubtle as I've made out. Publishers and agents know about his tastes and tip him off about exciting pneumatic young novelists ...'

'You're seriously telling me that publishers and agents expect young women to sleep with Hugo Hurlingham?'

'Stop sounding like a Sunday-school teacher, Ellis. They know he's susceptible to young women and that he'll take them to lunch and may make a pass. But they know too that he has some genuine interest in talent, that he may confine his attentions to lunch and a bit of thigh-massage and that it's up to the young woman in question to decide how far she's prepared to sacrifice herselff for her art.'

'The whole literary world seems to be a sewer,' said Pooley grimly.

'It's not all bad. It's just that you've got a prime collection of powerful shits on this committee.'

'But the hypocrisy of Hurlingham,' cried Pooley, as he strode up the steps from The Mall to Waterloo Place. 'I suppose you're going to tell me he doesn't believe all this European stuff he spouts.'

'Oh, I think he possibly does believe quite a lot of it. He's certainly been boring the arse off
Oracle
readers for years with great slabs of reviews of impenetrable foreign fiction.'

'How does he get away with it?'

'Because the
Oracle
prides itself on being highbrow. Because Hurlingham's such an institution that his literary pages are in part the parish magazine of the literati. They all buy it to find out what A.S. Byatt is saying about Martin Amis or Martin Amis about Saul Bellow or Hermione about Wysteria, or what scatological poem Den has just composed. One of the things Hugo did from the beginning of his tenure, I understand, has been to make sure that his reviewers arc bang in the centre of the literary establishment. He doesn't choose them for their insight into literature or their ability to grab the reader, but because they sit on the committees, hand out the grants and award the prizes and the fellowships. He chooses the people with power. And he gives them
carte blanche
to be horrible about their enemies and fawning about their allies.'

'The whole thing stinks.'

'You're telling me. I haven't told you about the scandal of the calling-in of extra books, have I?'

'There's more?'

'Yep. Now, the way the books come in is that small publishers - those who publish fewer than twenty books in a year - can submit one for the Warburton. Medium size - say fewer than fifty, can submit two. Bigger than that you can submit three. Now, this is a fraught business that causes many writers to fall out with their publishers.'

'I can imagine: "How dare you put that lightweight forward and not me!"'

'Exactly. And, of course, publishers don't always put in their best books.'

Pooley frowned. 'Why not?'

'Because they have to keep some authors sweet; because their taste is bad; because they think a particular type of book is more likely to win. So, as with some other prizes, the judges are given the discretion to call in a book they particularly admire. Last year it was Den who called in Hermione's. This year, Hugo called in one by his latest protegee, Wysteria called one in by a charming young man who danced attention on her and had given a wonderful review to her last novel, Hermione called in one by a fellow of the Oxbridge college of which she's an Honorary Fellow and Den called one in for slightly more principled reasons - it being a rant against America that began with the torture of an innocent captive in Guatanamo Bay. By way of contrast, Geraint called in an anti-Islamist book he's frantically plugging -
Pursuing the Virgins.'

'Ferriter?'

'Let me think. Oh, yes,
Otherness as Loss,
that one about the cross-dressing bishop.'

'I thought all bishops were cross-dressers,' said Pooley.

'Only incidentally,' said Amiss. 'This one went in for dressing as a nun.'

'And you, Robert?'

'I called in a brilliant crime novel I still think was better than anything else we've considered and argued that it deserved to be considered as a straight novel because it had been classified as crime only for marketing reasons. Hermione stuck rigidly to her position on genre fiction and, though Dervla backed me, we were walked over and it was excluded.'

Pooley shook his head. 'As I said. Corrupt, corrupt, corrupt.'

'I repeat, you're seeing the worst of it with the Warburton. There are honest people out there too. And, incidentally, in case Hugo has inspired you to think longingly of the superiority of our European partners, may I say that compared to the French, British literary prizes are squeaky-clean. A clique of French publishers

stitch up all the literary prizes. British judges often choose books on merit.'

'Thanks for all that, Robert. Right, I'd better prepare myself mentally for Dervla. In some ways she's going to be worse than Hurlingham. At least he speaks English.'

'Be kind to her, Ellis. She's not a bad kid. And keep your dirty hands off her.'

Sniggering, he put down the receiver and applied himself to his computer and the knotty problem of how to conceal a twenty-stone body in a roof garden.

Dervla sprawled full-length along the sofa, a can of Coke in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her cropped pink top revealed to the north much breast and to the south a flashing diamond in her navel. Pooley kept his eyes rigidly on her little face, which underneath all the make-up was woebegone. 'I'm, like, stressed out,' she said. 'And I'm talking totally.'

is it Lady Babcock's death that's upsetting you. Miss Dervla?'

She turned and propped herself on her elbow and gave him a watery smile. '"Miss Dervla". That's, like, so cool, but it's a bit, y'know.'

'Shall I call you Dervla and you call me Ellis?'

She nodded with evident relief.

'So, Lady Babcock's death is upsetting you, Dervla?'