Dying to Read Read online

  ‘Bert’s inside. He’s still terribly upset,’ said the man. ‘I’m Oswald Dunphy. Come in, officer. We’re through here.’ He led the way into a darkened sitting room. The curtains drawn against the window, a table lamp providing the only illumination. Bert Hill sat beside it in a fake leather armchair. He was a wiry, smallish man of a similar age to Oswald somewhere in his mid to late fifties. The backs of both his uncovered forearms were heavily tattooed. ‘Police, Bert,’ said Oswald. ‘They’ve come at last.’

  ‘Time,’ said Mr Hill. ‘They take their time to get here. Mention this estate and it’s always we’ll get back to you, but they never come when they should. Prompt that is.’ He stiffened his back and looked belligerently at Hamish.

  ‘Now Bert it’s no use getting in a how’s your father. The officer here—’

  ‘Is only following orders. I know. Take a pew if you can find a space. Oswald has been neglecting his tidying up lately. Haven’t you shipmate? Bit of a messy pup if you want to know.’

  Hamish removed a pile of newspapers — Suns and Racing Posts — and perched on a straight-backed chair.

  ‘We met in the Andrew and saw the sea together as the song goes,’ said Oswald.

  ‘Shipboard romance. Loggerheads ever after,’ Bert intoned sarcastically.

  ‘Augustin Cox, your neighbour,’ began Hamish.

  ‘Lived or rather existed next door,’ continued Bert. ‘Neighbour used to mean something. Help and all that. He certainly didn’t fit the manifest. I’m not surprised he’s brown bread.’

  Oswald smiled wanly. ‘I’ll rustle up a cuppa. We can’t have a guest and not show some hospitality.’ He exited before Hamish could say no.

  ‘Sensitive type,’ said Bert. ‘He’s always been that way. We can talk better without him. You a racing man Mr?’

  ‘Ogden.’ Hamish confessed he wasn’t.

  ‘Pity. I could have put you on to something later today at Bath, but you wanted to know about next door. Absolute toe-rag. Noisy bastard like a lot of foreigns. No concern for others and ready with the verbals if you said anything. Kicked out at Leonie’s little dachshund, Rudy. Hell of a to do. Delman was at work. That’s Mr Cesareau at 146. I went out when I heard them shouting. I can still use myself if I have to even at my age. Drew a knife the little shit. Even with my eyes I could see his hand was shaking. They’re the most dangerous. Cowards really but always possible to do Christ knows what damage. I gave it best. Discretion and all that. Later Delman pushed a lighted wad of papers through his letterbox. Good enough fellow, but not much upstairs if you get my drift. Solved nothing really. After that we hardly ever saw him. The din though something bloody awful. All hours of the night pumping up that Creole or whatever they call it music. Oswald was on the verge of a nervous. You try and tell the Association and the Council, but we’re just whites. We’re just born and bred here. We don’t count.’

  Have some dialogue, Hamish thought. So far chance would be a good thing. ‘Mr Hill when did you last see Mr Cox? It would help us greatly if you could fix the date and time,’ he said authoritatively.

  Bert blinked as if the meagre light in the room was flashing in his eyes. ‘I wear tinted specs when I go out. I don’t see too well. Light sensitive. So when I say I last saw him I mean I knew he was there and I heard him speak. Usual abuse — watch where you’re effing going granddad — not kind of nice day out isn’t it. I gave as good as I got. I know more swear words than he’d had porridge suppers. Okay I bumped into him. So what. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘Can you remember the day and time?’

  ‘Course I can. My eyesight’s bad, but I’m not gaga. Cheltenham Gold Cup meeting had just begun, first day. I’d just watched the 3.10. Got the winner and went out to go down the Spoons. Ain’t that right, Oswald?’

  Mr Dunphy put down three mugs and a bowl of sugar on a low table and leant the tray he had been carrying against the side of a chair. ‘Quite cheered up he was, officer. Nine to one the odds. When I heard the raised voices I went out to have a look.’

  ‘So you saw Mr Cox?’

  ‘Well no. Not exactly. He’d gone into his flat by then. Bert had gone round the corner to the lifts. Didn’t come home at his usual time so I went down and joined him. It was March 16th. Help yourself to sugar. Milk’s already in.’

  ‘Thank-you.’ The tea was hot and strong. ‘Other times you met him. Last time you heard sounds through the wall.’

  ‘Around then,’ said Oswald. ‘I don’t remember being disturbed or indeed hearing anything more than a couple of days after that. Do you, Bert?’

  Bert shook his head. ‘Too poor to have a chocolate digestive with it are we?’

  Oswald got to his feet. Hamish hastily said, ‘Not for me thanks.’ Oswald sat down again calmly returning Bert’s glower. This could take all day, Hamish thought. I must be more directive. Give them some inside info, Pat had said, but at this stage he didn’t have any. ‘Tell me about him What did he do? Visitors he had. Places he went.’

  ‘Passed him going in the Job Centre a couple of times. Sign on probably. Get money for nothing in this bleedin’ country nowadays.’

  ‘Don’t start,’ Oswald said. ‘The officer doesn’t want to hear. I saw him in Asda’s from time to time. Didn’t speak. Basket. Never a trolley. Things for one.’

  ‘You thought he was a foreigner, Mr Hill?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course he was. Name Augustin not even Augustus which would have been proper Gus. Olivey skin too. Accent you couldn’t place. We’ve rolled into some ports in our time. Of course I recognise a foreigner.’

  ‘And you, Mr Dunphy?’

  Oswald took a gulp of tea then puckered up his mouth. ‘Not sure. I’m never so cut and dried as Bert. One time he worked at Hayes, packaging of some sort. Delman told me. He’d know. Sorry we can’t be more helpful.’

  The further questions Hamish asked, including if anyone had a spare key to Augustin’s, or a key had been left where others knew how to find it, produced no clearer response. Bert had opinions galore. Oswald mostly concurred but could add no relevant details. Hamish drank up his tea, which had been over-stewed for his liking, thanked them and left his number if they remembered anything afresh.

  What remained of Augustin Cox was being conveyed down to the mortuary van when he stepped outside. One of the bearers winked at him as he squeezed back against the balcony wall to let them pass. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll miss the body, but you’ll still have his Ralph Lauren for company.’ Every one of them a joker, thought Hamish. Death has its comedy routine as well as its post-mortems.

  In the front room Pat was sorting through a pile of CDs with her protective gloves. ‘Mostly South American by the dance titles. Nobody I’ve heard of. Midi Hi-Fi but nothing special. Still full volume, I suppose, powerful enough to annoy the neighbours. How were the odd couple? Anything useful? Position in the frame?’

  ‘Bert Hill’s eyesight is defective. Not a good potential witness. However, I’ve got a last sighting date, March 16th. It seems to fit what with the unopened mail. As for them as suspects. I’d say well in the background at least until we know more.’

  ‘Patho’s been. We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to get the full SP, but he reckons dead for seven to ten weeks. These don’t seem to be stacked in any system. Otherwise tidy bugger. Shirts, pants, socks, shoes. Kitchen and bathroom almost antiseptic for a bloke on his tod. One unopened pack of condoms by the way. I won’t make you jealous with the size.’

  ‘Someone didn’t turn up or he expected them later. Funny thing about next door. Bert Hill kept insisting Cox was foreign but didn’t say Delman on the other side was. He’s got to be foreign with a surname like Cesareau.’

  ‘Not necess, my little flower of Scotland. We’ve still them to see. Not in at the mo. There is something I’ve found though that could be of interest. Unexpected thing. Take a butchers.’ She moved across to the sofa and carefully fished a creased, glossy sheet of paper from an evidence bag. She turned it round an
d laid it on the cushion.

  A large wooden-backed hairbrush surrounded by four smaller ones dominated the centre of the page which looked like it had been torn out of a magazine or else a small inserted catalogue. The seller’s address, telephone number and website appeared at the bottom right. ‘I take it since you’ve bagged this there isn’t an actual brush like one of these anywhere here. Could have been keen on grooming. Would fit the general tidiness.’

  ‘Mmm. I’ve got my suspicions, but time‘ll tell. And now it’s time we headed back to the mother ship. Uniforms are still doing the rounds. We’ve the DI to brief first thing tomorrow. He’s always in such a good mood when he comes back from a management seminar. Coxie here hasn’t left us much to go on, but us young offenders don’t give up easily. Tenacious that’s our motto, Princess Leia. Tenacious to the end.’

  Chapter 3

  The Bones Detective Agency

  1. A Lady Client Calls

  The client was punctual to the letter. Eleven am she had said when she telephoned and eleven am it was precisely when she pressed the bell of the Norma and Henrietta Bones detective agency in West Hampstead.

  Geraldine Mycroft, the agency’s sole operative, introduced herself and led the visitor down the narrow hallway into the library. ‘I took your call. You said you knew Norma’s niece.’ She motioned to the two leather armchairs in the corner. ‘We’ll be more comfortable here. A desk can so easily get in the way of,’ she paused, ‘smooth relations.’

  The client, seemingly fitting the words to the deed, eased herself smoothly into the chair, her legs positioned together at an angle, her spine erect against its back. She began delicately to peel off her dove-grey kid gloves as if untroubled by modern times and the balmy nature of the weather outside it was still the most natural thing in the world. Without speaking her eyes travelled past Geraldine to take in at leisure the details of the room: the four large bookcases, the aforementioned desk with a swivel chair behind and an upright one in front, the peach-tinged moulding round the central lights rose of the ceiling to finally the lime-green parrot perched attentively in its capacious cage by the window. She carefully draped her gloves over the arm of the seat and smiled. ‘Yes. I was at school with Christabel. She often talked about her aunts especially after they had set themselves up as detectives.’

  The last word was slowly enunciated with equal stress on each syllable. Geraldine sensed an ironic mind operating behind the somewhat prim and formal facade. Elegantly coiffed, attired in a tailored grey suit and expensive shoes, she radiated calm assurance. ‘But I understand you never met Norma, herself, Ms Oliphant. Henrietta as you probably know is dead.’

  ‘Yes I do know, and no I have never had the pleasure of meeting Norma. But I don’t care for Ms, or Mrs for that matter. As I shall call you Geraldine, call me Joan.’

  ‘And that’s why you chose us?’

  ‘The writer did it,’ said the parrot distinctly

  ‘What on earth does he mean?’ For a moment, the prospective client appeared annoyed before quickly regaining her composure. ‘Or is he a she?’

  Geraldine indicated the shelves of books. ‘He always says that when he’s finished looking at them.’

  ‘He knows they are books? Has he a name?’

  ‘Lacenaire. About the books I don’t know. I’m not well enough up on parrot consciousness. Norma coached him to speak, but he still says what he wants to say. Sorry I should have offered you some refreshment. Tea, coffee or something stronger?’

  Joan shook her head. ‘Never before the cocktail hour, my dear, it’s a firm rule of mine. And thank you but no. I limit my daily caffeine.’

  ‘Mine’s a large Krepkaya and Red Bull.’ Lacenaire for emphasis raised first one talon and then the other.

  ‘Personally I wouldn’t give a creature like that houseroom. Apart from the danger of catching something unpronounceable he’s far too much of a diversion, an unnecessary interruption. Anyway, leaving him aside, it’s more than time that I should state my reason for being here. I’m afraid I was deliberately non-specific when I phoned.’ She opened the matching handbag at her side and drew out a newspaper cutting.

  Geraldine read the yellow highlighted headline and the following short news story from a local West London weekly.

  DEAD ALONE. The decomposed body of a Bedfont man, later identified by police as Augustin Cox, 34, was found at his home after neighbours had complained in vain of a terrible smell. Investigations continue into his suspicious death. DS Pat Kirkland asked for anyone who knew or had seen Mr Cox to contact Feltham CID. DI Jerzy Turostowski will lead the investigation.

  ‘I want you to pursue this matter for me,’ Joan Oliphant said. ‘You have experience, haven’t you, Geraldine?’

  ‘Well, yes and no really.’ Geraldine decided not to lie. ‘I’m pretty new to this and the cases I’ve covered so far have not been that serious. Of course Norma is always there for consultation although she’s officially retired.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad. It means you won’t be blasé. I’m confident you’ll do your best. Let me write you a cheque so you can begin. I expect a report every two days. I’ll call you here at eight in the evening.’

  Geraldine took the proffered cheque and quelled her excitement when she saw the figure. ‘Your address. I should note it down and your telephone number.’

  ‘Not necessary at the moment. I looked after Augustin in the past. A long time ago when he was a child. Now he’s departed I feel I still need to look after him because to tell the truth I’m not sure anyone else will. The police are only interested in statistics. They don’t always see people as individuals. Other demands can easily focus their attention elsewhere. I’ll leave you this.’ She pulled out a floppy disc from her bag. ‘I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but I’m sure you’ll manage to read it. I wrote down what you might find useful about him.’ She shut her bag, picked up her gloves and began to put them on as delicately as she had taken them off. Performance over she gracefully got to her feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Geraldine nodded. ‘May I ask you what you do?’ she said as she accompanied her visitor to the front door.

  ‘Etiquette. I help people with it. Mostly gentlemen. There’s quite a call for it again.’

  ‘What’s up chucky? Tiger got your parasol?’ screeched Lacenaire in a farewell salvo from his cage.

  Geraldine closed the door. She gave a little whoop of triumph and did a war dance back to the library. This was her very first murder case. For she was sure it had to be murder. Provided the cheque didn’t bounce she and Norma were truly in business. How quickly it had all happened.

  2. Flashback

  Just less than two months ago when it had seemed she was destined to languish, at least for the immediate future, in the mind numbing call centre of Curwell & Janley — home furnishings mail catalogue — in order to meet the unexpectedly expensive payments of flat-sharing rent and utility bills, the firm took the decision to outsource to Bangladesh, and she was faced with unemployment.

  True she was in the London she had dreamed of back in parochial Kilkenny, but not as yet established in the theoretically darker, more bohemian, London she had conjured up during her time at Trinity College Dublin. There in the compactness of that city, where everyone still knew everyone else’s business, the anonymous sprawl of the many faceted monster across the water insistently called to her with its diverse ability to be whatever the observer wished it to be. People from all over the globe found their niches there. Why shouldn’t she?

  Dublin by contrast more and more became a constricted, insulated pool consistent with its Irish name. Studying philosophy and French lifted her out of its narrow national boundaries. The ancient world and Europe became as familiar to her as St Stephen’s Green, Phoenix Park and the Ha’Penny Bridge. If in the past Ireland had been John Bull’s other island nowadays England and especially parts of London could be said to be Fine Gael’s, Fianna Fiál’s and Sinn Féin’s other constituency. Come what may
she was set on going there and go there after graduation she did.

  The reality she found, of course, was neither dream nor wish fulfilment. No. The reality was what exactly? You can go, you can be, you can think like all those around you this is where we are. This is London. But the London she was seeking wasn’t here. On her journey from bed to shared bathroom and kitchen to tube at Finsbury Park to the Caledonian Road and back again then into the shared TV sitting room, where her flatmates were South African, Chinese and Croatian, it was more out of reach than it had been back home. It was not even tantalisingly close. Not even hazily glimpsed at the end of what appeared to be inviting alleyways, beckoning sullen embankment vistas, forbidding viaducts and tunnels crossed and entered as in a labyrinth which, alas, long ago had rendered itself devoid of secrets.

  Evenings and days off on her shift work rota followed by the time spent looking for work were no better. She picked places to visit from the A to Z more and more at random, places that cost nothing or as little as possible, but although the names appeared inviting, when she got there they bore scant difference to where she had already been. She got gloomier and gloomier, not at all her usual positive self. Then one night, picking up a discarded Evening Standard on the bus, deliverance jostled her elbow and led her to circle an intriguing entry in the Vacancies column. ‘Detective wanted. Suitable Career Path for Wo or Man. Experience not necessary. Deep reading skills essential. Apply PO Box below.’ Well, thought Geraldine, I am a Wo with a man tacked on and I certainly know how to read analytically. It might describe me as much as anyone else.