Poison At The Pueblo (26 page)

Bognor decided the time had come to change the subject.

‘The
Heil Hitler Rotwein
,' he said, ‘tell me about that.'

‘Surprisingly decent drop,' George replied, ‘if you like that sort of thing. A blend I'm told. Merlot, Cab Sauv, maybe a spot of Pinot who knows – Shiraz . . . Syrah . . . Don't know. I guess they use whatever comes to hand. But it's a decent drop.'

‘German?'

‘Made by a guy called Strauss, but he lives in Argentina. I guess he was German originally. He emerged. Been living in South America for at least a quarter of a century. Nice enough fellow, apart from the politics.'

‘The politics?'

‘To the right of ye man Genghis,' said George. ‘Which is a pity. And after a drop or two of the hard stuff he'd rave a bit. Most of the time he was nice enough, but not after a glass or two of the local poteen. Can't be doing with that crap myself. Easy come, easy go. That's why I fell out with James. That and the torture thing. James seemed to enjoy causing pain, even if it was only insects. He always enjoyed taking things to bits. Especially if they were alive. Not my style. Not my style at all.'

‘So you and James fell out over politics and sadomasochism?'

‘You could say that.' George seemed to agree. ‘But then again, maybe not.' He now seemed to disagree. Bognor sensed this was part of his problem. Too busy being all things to all men.

‘You don't like to be disliked, George?' he ventured.

George did some more cogitating.

‘Not if I can help it,' he said at last. ‘Not like James. James didn't seem to mind who he upset. In fact, I'd say he enjoyed upsetting people. And he didn't seem to care who they were.

Bognor decided to change the subject again. It was almost a technique, except that he didn't believe in techniques. They implied orthodoxy and he didn't do orthodoxy. Nor to his credit, did George. And he suspected Trubshawe didn't either, whatever else he did.

‘Tell me about O'Flaherty. Oliver of that ilk.'

George flashed another of his grins. Mischief. He was obviously into mischief.

‘Harmless enough fellow,' said George. ‘Irish.'

‘But never lived in the Republic.'

‘Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't.' George also obviously enjoyed mystery. Liked to be thought a man of it.

‘My information is that he didn't.'

‘Maybe he just didn't live in the part of the Emerald Isle that everyone assumed was his home. But just because a man says he's living in Kinsale doesn't mean he can't be living in, say, Oughterard. Dubliners live in Limerick and vice, as they say, versa. Happens. Especially there. 'Tis a magic place.'

‘Yes. Well.' Bognor felt he was being sidetracked. A certain sort of man maintained that Ireland wasn't wet, just, well, misty . . . George was evidently that sort of man. Bognor had not got where he had without being able to see through that sort of blarney.

‘Identity not your strong point?' he said.

Again, George thought before speaking.

‘Much overrated in my view,' he said eventually.

‘Identity?'

‘Who I am is really no concern of yours or anyone else's,' he said, in a come-on sort of way which suggested that this was the usual prelude to a losing argument in which he had been engaged a number of times over the years. ‘Actions, maybe. They are commonly said to speak louder than words; well I happen to believe that they speak a whole lot louder than names, at least. What's in a name after all?'

‘Identity is vital.' Bognor spoke stiffly. He hadn't really given the question a lot of thought before. Now he did.

‘Why?'

It was Bognor's turn to cogitate. Eventually he said, ‘It's the whole lynch-pin of our civilization. If you and I didn't know who we were we'd be stuffed.'

‘What possible difference does it make whether we are Fred or Bert or Smith or Brown? Who we really are matters. That's what's important.'

This stymied Bognor. In a sense he agreed. However, form made life run smoothly. Perhaps in the overall scheme of things it was insignificant. Even so. He said as much.

‘There are two things going on here,' he said, ‘one is organizational, the other fundamental. One is a matter between you and your God, the other is a procedural challenge which involves other humans. You can't say one is important and the other not; they're chalk and cheese, apples and oranges.'

‘One is fundamental, the other isn't. It's as simple as that. Identity is in the eye of the beholder. I can choose what to call myself. That's my business. Nothing to do with anyone else.'

‘If everyone adopted your attitude my job would become impossible. I need people to be who they say they are.'

‘That's your problem, not mine.'

This was true. On the other hand, it was a real problem, and if everyone went around pretending to be someone else, or had two or three aliases, life would become chaotic. It was why countries did not encourage dual nationality, why authority discouraged married women from sticking to their original surname . . .

‘What you are saying,' said Monica, who had remained uncharacteristically silent, ‘is that what you are matters and who you are is irrelevant.'

George or Oliver, or whoever he was, seemed disconcerted, as well he might.

‘Maybe I am,' he ventured nervously.

‘I think Sir Simon has been a little too ready to concede the difference between two sorts of self,' she said. ‘My view is that you cannot separate identity from behaviour. We are all responsible for our actions whoever we are. We are all one whole whatever we may proclaim. If we were able to assume a new personality by claiming simply to be someone else we could escape the consequences of our actions. So you could kill someone as George, but then become Oliver and disclaim all responsibility for the murder. But you would have committed the crime no matter what you chose to call yourself. By the same token, either you are the brother of James Trubshawe or you're not. Whether you choose to call yourself Oliver O'Flaherty or A.N. Other is irrelevant. Completely. And you still haven't told us whether or not you and James were brothers. Nor have we yet considered Lola.'

‘Ah, Lola,' said George, seeking to change the subject.

‘I said,' said Monica, ‘that we haven't yet got on to her. There is a reason for that. And the reason is that we haven't yet finished with you – whoever you may be.'

‘Quite,' said Bognor, not wishing to be left out. More important, he did not wish to be seen to be omitted, whatever the reality. ‘Who are you anyway? And were you Trubshawe's brother?'

‘I've told you,' said George, affecting weariness. ‘It doesn't matter who I am. Which makes a mockery of your second question.'

‘On the contrary.' Monica spoke crisply. ‘It doesn't matter to us what you choose to call yourself, but your relationship with the deceased matters a lot. A lot. In fact we'd say it was crucial!'

George sighed.

‘Very well,' he said. ‘Whoever I am I was brought up with James. Whether or not we were really brothers, I simply don't know. But we were brought up in Essex by Percy and Edna and they treated us as if we were brothers. Does that answer your question?'

‘And you spent time in Essex together as adults? You were in business together.'

‘We did cars,' said George. ‘Trubshawe's of Braintree.'

‘Trubshawe Bros,' said Monica. She had been briefed. She wished him to know it.

‘I see,' said her husband. He would have words with Contractor when he returned to the office. Meanwhile, he saw and was keen that the other two were aware of this.

‘So,' he said, ‘there was a period when you admitted a level of consanguinity.'

‘Someone called George did,' said George. ‘But he was not Oliver O'Flaherty, or anyone else come to that. So he may have had something to do with me. Or not.'

‘Oh come on,' said Monica, ‘we've had quite enough of that conceit.'

George grinned, in the manner of an old-fashioned villain admitting that his capture was ‘a fair cop'.

‘Jimmy always had a different way of doing business. Not crooked, exactly – he was too fly for that, but he was always out for himself. Always close to the edge.'

‘Bit of a spiv,' suggested Monica.

‘I didn't say that,' said George. ‘Only that we had a different way of carrying on. I was always on the side of the little man. If he couldn't pay the bills I turned the other way. Money was of secondary importance. I don't say it didn't matter but it wasn't the main reason for dealing in cars.'

‘What was the main reason?' This was from Bognor.

George grinned. ‘What's the meaning of life?' he asked. ‘In the long run we're all dead. Death may be the prelude to a wonderful new life, but I tend to think there is a finality about it. It's an end, not a beginning. And before it comes we have to find something to occupy ourselves. In the interim, so to speak. Wouldn't you agree?'

And there they left it.

Lola was not just any old nun. She was not nun in an accepted sense. Bognor said as much at the beginning of the interview, which was conducted immediately after the one with George and in similar circumstances. He phrased the statement as a question, not by changing the words but by the inflexion of his voice. It was not a question expecting the answer ‘yes' or ‘no'; it was a question that required no answer, and therefore Sister Lola gave none, but simply smirked. She looked pert.

‘So,' he asked ‘What are you?'

‘I am from a Franciscan order. I am a believer.'

‘But not in a conventional sense?'

‘Not in an old-fashioned way,' said Sister Lola. ‘But that doesn't make my beliefs any less sincere or my philosophy less profound. I concede, though, that I am not what many expect. My argument is that just because I acknowledge the existence of the next world doesn't make me less aware of the importance of this world. I see no reason, however, for argument.' She shrugged.

‘Quite,' said Bognor, smitten.

In her shadowy corner Monica, unsmitten, coughed disapproval. She knew instinctively when her husband was being influenced by considerations that were not rational. This was one such. Bognor heard the expectoration and made a mental note.

‘And not to put it . . . er . . . which is to say not to beat about the bush, you have been having an affair with George.'

Sister Lola was not fazed.

‘You could put it like that,' she said.

‘How would you put it then?'

‘I'd say that George and I were friends and that we have carnal relations. That is we share a bed and exchange bodily . . .'

Bognor did go a little pink and silenced her. He was not used to such sexual straightforwardness especially from one in evident holy orders.

‘I don't find George attractive,' said Monica. ‘Do you?'

‘Obviously,' said the nun, ‘otherwise . . .'

‘Quite,' said Monica, who also seemed unexpectedly embarrassed. Age thing, no doubt.

‘You're unconventional through and through,' said Monica, sounding exasperated. She gave the impression of someone who expected her nuns to be more nunnish.

‘If you mean that George . . .' Lola then thought for a moment and corrected herself. ‘I don't think I am here to justify my choice of sexual partner,' she said.

‘But maybe you should explain having a sexual partner at all. I mean, nuns are supposed to be married to our Lord, aren't they?'

She smiled. Condescendingly. ‘That is almost the subject of my Doctorate from the University of Cracow,' she said. ‘It touches on the masculinity of our Lord, the sexuality of ecclesiastical behaviour in a postmodern world . . . a number of related topics. The treatise exists in English. I can find you a copy. It deals with your beliefs.' The subtext of her response was ‘such as they are' or ‘call that a belief', but the derisory scepticism was implied, not stated.

‘Sorry,' said Bognor, ‘I didn't mean to impute your academic qualifications, nor criticize your choice of boyfriend. It's just that having a boyfriend at all is slightly unusual for one in your position.'

‘Guilty.' Lola raised her hands in mock surrender. She was unusual for a nun in that she not only flaunted her sexuality, deployed it in a way that suited her, but also used it shamelessly. It worked with Bognor, if not with his other, arguably better, half. ‘I grant you that I am not usual, but someone has to be the first in their field and if God's choice is for me to move in a mysterious way, so be it. Ours not to question. Don't you agree?' And she smiled a smile, which if she were a lay person would have led to her immediate arrest.

‘It seems to me that we have to ask if you were having relations with George for reasons other than emotional. That is to say it could be a matter of self-interest. George is not attractive in a conventional way, but he may have secrets to impart and attributes that could lead to sex being merely a pretext for something else.'

‘“Pillow talk”,' said Monica, ‘we call it “pillow talk”. It means saying things to a sexual partner that you almost certainly would not say to any Tom, Dick or Harry.'

‘Or George,' said Lola, flashing another of her unholy smiles. ‘I admit that I am unconventional, and you have a job to do which allows you to ask questions that might otherwise seem impertinent. I am sorry. I deplore the fact that you feel it appropriate to ask certain questions and to make certain assumptions, but I recognize your right to behave in an unconventional way. You could say that we are both allowed to be slightly unconventional.
N'est ce pas?
We have a licence to shock. Perhaps even a licence to thrill!'

‘I put it to you that your habit is no more than a disguise, that you are simply masquerading as a nun, and that you are no more and no less than a
femme fatale
, a
grande horizontelle
, a secret agent and a dangerous woman in nun's clothing. Yours is an unbecoming habit.'