Felix in the Underworld (25 page)

As he walked, he heard footsteps behind him and suspected one of his usual dangers. He quickened his step; the step behind him quickened. Not daring to look round, he started to run; there was running behind him. A hand gripped his shoulder; he turned quickly and lunged with his drawn compass which penetrated a blue skirt and black tights, entering the fleshy thigh of WPC Brisket. She had come with Judy Primrose, a social worker, to investigate Ian as a child totally lacking parental or other control. Later, he was taken into care as a danger to the public, with a record of unlawful wounding and assault on the police. He had spilled some of the WPC's blood in exchange for the blood she had once come to get from him.

‘We've got the kid!' Detective Sergeant Wathen was able to report with great satisfaction. ‘We've got the kid put away safely. The Council applied for a supervision order.'

His Detective Chief Inspector said nothing. She was studying a piece of forensic, which had only just arrived, in the case of
R.
v.
Morsom.
The labs, she thought, must be entirely staffed with partially mobile geriatrics. It took for ever to get a drop of blood sorted.

‘The mother's scarpered. What we need is a law for locking up irresponsible mums.'

One thing was, Elizabeth Cowling thought, that when they'd crept round to do their job, the result had the virtue of certainty. The DNA test was an almost sure thing in a world which could only guess at the reason for its creation.

‘I warned her,' Wathen said, not for the first time. ‘I gave her a clear warning: “That nipper of yours has bad blood in him. There is the blood of a killer,” I said, “in that nipper's veins. He should have been under a supervision order from birth, him being the fruit of a murderer's loins.'” Detective Sergeant Wathen rolled his tongue round the last phrase with particular pleasure.

‘You're wrong!' his superior officer said, also enjoying the exchange. Detective Sergeant Wathen was getting more than ever up her nose, and she felt a freer spirit since she had heard welcome news about
Here on Tins Molehill.
‘You're completely wrong. Ian Bowker's not the child of a murderer.'

‘Giving the little blue-eyed lad the benefit of the doubt, are you? Bleeding little innocent, is he?' Wathen did a poor imitation of a soft-hearted do-gooder. ‘My honest opinion is the only thing to do with lads like that is crack down on them. Crack down on them hard!'

‘I'm afraid there isn't any doubt to give him the benefit of. I've got the
DNA
.'

‘Science! That never proves anything.' Wathen said it, but he was already losing confidence. He felt as though Science was stealing up on him with some sort of blunt instrument.

‘We've got Ian's blood and that of the deceased Gavin Piercey. Felix Morsom gave us some of his when we took prints. Anyway, the answer is Ian isn't the child of either of them.'

‘Not Piercey?'

‘No.'

‘Or Morsom?'

‘Certainly not Felix Morsom.'

‘Well, we don't know who his father is, do we?' Detective Sergeant Wathen began to cheer up.

‘No, we don't.'

‘So it might be another murderer?'

‘It's not very likely.'

‘Or some violent criminal spawned him?' The Detective Sergeant was hopeful again. ‘In which case we did right to crack down on the lad and bang him up.'

‘Don't exaggerate, Cecil!' The Detective Chief Inspector was smiling. ‘Not all parents are violent criminals, you know.' Elizabeth Cowling knew that her sergeant was particularly hurt by her calling him Cecil, mainly because it was his name.

‘You see, when Tarquin lies to Dermot and makes up a story about Arabella and Neville being lovers, and Dermot accuses Arabella and that then puts the idea in her head, so she does go to bed with Neville – or at least has sex with him in the old Coach House – and that leads, however indirectly, to Nuncle's suicide . . . What I'm trying to say is that it's by way of fiction we find out the truth.' Detective Chief Inspector Cowling leant forward eagerly. She wore a mauve dress with a single row of pearls. Her hair had just been done and she was clutching a gin and tonic, feeling somewhat out of place in the Malibu Club, the glimmering white and gleaming chromium I930s-style cocktail bar in Soho, where she had been asked to meet the girl from Llama Books. Around her the men wore unstructured suits, gold chains on their wrists, shaven heads or beards or small, drooping moustaches. The white-faced, tousled women wore tights like ballet dancers or minute leather skirts. Many were muttering into mobile phones, some into tape-recorders. The strawberry blonde girl she had come to meet, whom she had feared would turn out a hugely efficient female editor with strong ideas, ready to attack
Here on This Molehill
with a blue pencil and a pair of scissors, had a gentle voice and wore baggy tartan trousers and an old football shirt, designed for a man. She made the Detective Chief Inspector feel middle-aged and overdressed. ‘I expect,' she said, ‘you'll make all sorts of helpful suggestions during the editing process. After all, this is my first.'

‘Oh, I'm not an editor,' Brenda told her.

‘You're not?' Then what are we doing here in this extraordinary place?

‘I'm publicity. I shall be doing all the promotion for
Molehill.
Signing sessions. Literary lunches. All that sort of thing.'

‘Well, yes. Provided my work doesn't get in the way.'

‘Work?'

‘Crime's soaring, I'm afraid. It's really giving me awfully little time for writing.'

‘Of course.' Brenda leant forward and talked to her new author confidentially. Detective Chief Inspector Cowling was taken aback by how beautiful she looked. ‘Your job? I think we should keep your job out of it.'

‘Oh, I agree. Murder and sudden death. Everyone must be bored of that by now. It's becoming as tedious as the weather.

I mean, for a topic of conversation.'

‘The head of Llama Books is very keen on the story about you arresting Felix Morsom, another of our authors.'

‘He does seem to have killed someone.' Elizabeth Cowling smiled defensively. ‘So, really, I had very little choice . . .'

‘Oh, I'm sure it was your job. But I don't see that as a particularly good way of selling
Molehill.
I don't think your beautiful novel. . .'

‘You've read it, of course?'

‘Of course.' Brenda lied swiftly but convincingly. ‘I don't think it needs that sort of lurid publicity.'

‘I'm sure it does not.' The Detective Chief Inspector was getting nervous. ‘I mean, I certainly couldn't talk about the case to the newspapers. Sub judice and all that sort of thing. My superintendent would be absolutely livid.'

‘All the same' – Brenda looked doubtful – ‘Tubal-Smith might insist on it as a publicity peg. He wants you to talk to Lucasta Frisby on “How I Fingered a Famous Novelist's Collar”.'

‘Oh, I couldn't possibly do that!' The professional policewoman was profoundly shocked.

Brenda frowned, sank her chin in her hands. ‘I've been trying to think of a way out for you.'

‘Oh, if you only would! Lucasta Frisby! In the upper reaches of the Met
everybody
reads her.'

‘The only possible answer,' Brenda had to admit, ‘is for Felix to be acquitted.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, then it would be a non-story! You just fingered the wrong collar. We'd have to fall back on the book.'

‘But is it really likely he'll get off? I mean all the facts seem dead against him.'

‘All the facts?' Brenda looked surprised. ‘I mean, I know you haven't found Terry Whitlock yet, but surely it's only a matter of time.'

‘Terry who?'

‘Whitlock. One of the Llama reps. He's obviously the chap who really killed Piercey. I know Felix told you all about him. His car number and everything.'

‘He never said a word. Not about this Whitlock or anyone else.'

‘Or he told your sergeant. Surely he reported back?'

‘Just you tell me!' The Chief Inspector leant forward intently. ‘Tell me all you know! There are some channels of communication which need clearing out. Like drains. So tell me about this Whitlock.' When Brenda had told the story, Elizabeth Cowling resolved to reopen the inquiries at once. She might not reach the truth but, and this was even more important, she would make Detective Sergeant Cecil Wathen look a complete prat.

Felix was in the group of prisoners out of their cells and watching ‘Southern Cross', the latest Australian soap. Why had April left home? Was she pregnant by the new manager of the BYO Catch of the Day restaurant? Where had they all gone wrong? These were the subjects the Sydney-side family were anxiously discussing as they gathered in the kitchen where Granma was cooking a chook. New papers had just arrived from Septimus Roache, containing scientific evidence. Felix glanced at the conclusion and saw that neither he nor Gavin had been identified as Ian's father.

‘Of course,' he said aloud. ‘That's it! That figures absolutely.'

‘Don't tell me!' Dumbarton, gazing at the screen, was rarely moved to speak. ‘You'll ruin the bloody story!'

‘I'm afraid this is very unconventional but we authors are creatures of impulse.'

‘Are we?'

‘I've come alone. Without even informing your solicitor.'

‘I'm not sure he's worth informing.'

‘And no Detective Constable to corroborate my version of the following conversation.'

‘So I notice.'

‘We're just chatting informally,' Detective Chief Inspector Cowling almost gushed, ‘as brother and sister of the pen.'

Felix felt his toes curl in embarrassment but he said nothing to stop the policewoman's flow. ‘You see, I've had a most interesting and helpful meeting with Llama publicity department. I do feel it's a wonderful start for me to be sharing publishers with so many famous authors, you in particular. She gave me some very valuable advice. I expect you know her? A nice girl called Brenda Bodkin?'

‘I know her' – Felix's voice was full of regret – ‘up to a point.'

‘She's dead against an idea they apparently had at Llama of using, well, the way we bumped into each other – or shall we say over this case of yours – to publicize
Here on This Molehill.'

‘You don't want that?'

‘Well, do you?'

‘I must say that, at the moment, it would be the least of my worries.'

‘Yes, I suppose it would.' She looked thoughtful. ‘I expect you get a lot of time to yourself here, don't you?'

‘Not bad. We're banged up about fourteen hours a day.'

‘So you have a nice lot of time for writing?'

‘I can't write. I read crappy novels and watch television.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.' Elizabeth Cowling couldn't quite conceal the pleasure that an accepted novelist must feel on hearing that another author can't write. ‘But what I wanted, after seeing Brenda Bodkin who took me to that interesting club of hers, no doubt the haven of authors ... I suppose I'll have to join ... I mean, why I wanted this little informal chat was that it might possibly help us to help you.'

‘Are the police always so helpful?'

‘Well, not always. And I doubt if my Detective Sergeant would approve but this
is
a special case. Now is there anything you haven't told us?'

‘I haven't told you anything.'

‘On legal advice. But now, anything that might help us help you?'

‘Something you should have reminded me of. Something that struck me as very important. The glasses.'

‘I see yours are broken. ' One of Felix's eyes was still shrouded by a cracked lens. ‘But isn't that rather a matter for the prison authorities?'

‘Not my glasses. Gavin's glasses.'

‘I don't remember . . .'

‘. . . Seeing them on the scene-of-the-crime list? You didn't because they weren't there.'

‘He wore glasses?'

‘Obviously not just reading glasses. He wore them always. Every time I saw him.'

‘They'd've been broken in the attack.'

‘But no bits of them were found. No bent frame, shattered lenses, nothing. I mean, the murderer wouldn't have taken them away with him, would he?'

‘I suppose not. What do you think that means?' Felix looked round the interview room. On the other side of the glass he could see a screw with his arms crossed, his head sunk on his chest, apparently asleep. Then he told her what he thought it meant.

‘It's a bit of a bloody superstition to think that a preposition is a word you must never end a sentence with,' said Brenda's one-time friend Paul, who was wearing only a T-shirt from the Adelaide Literary Festival on which the bald butler-like head of Henry James stared out with a look of fastidious disapproval. ‘Now let me ask you this,' Paul continued in his best tutorial mode. ‘Would you rather say people worth talking to or people with whom it is worthwhile to talk?'

‘I'm not sure.' Sandra Tantamount, quite undressed, was fastened to the hotel bed by her Hermes scarf, Paul's belt and the cords of two Galaxy complimentary bathrobes.

‘Well, then, we'd better have a demonstration.'

‘About prepositions?'

‘Semi-colons. You've never really understood how to use them.'

‘All right. But
do
hurry up. We can't be late for the Llama Books party.'

The activity which they then engaged in is fully described in chapter twenty of
Hole in One
(Llama Books
£
16.99) in which Brad Eagle, the American Ryder Cup hero, encounters Sally Appledorf, a sports page journalist, in a bunker.