Carnage on the Committee (11 page)

'You want to know what she was like in the sack, is that it?'

To his chagrin, Pooley felt himselff blushing. 'Well . . .'

Babcock pulled himselff lazily forward, picked up a plate and waved it in Pooley's direction. Pooley shook his head and Babcock took a chocolate biscuit. 'I should think Hermione has always done what she thought was expected of her if it suited her. Are you with me?'

'Calculated, sir?'

'Calculated, Inspector. Calculated and controlled.' He demolished the biscuit in two bites. 'To my knowledge there was no corner of Hermione's life in which she wasn't a control freak. The exception was her irrationality about Flora. If it hadn't been for Flora, Hermione wouldn't have wanted to marry me: I'm sure the idea was that I would be a far more successful actor, so Hermione could patronise and belittle her sister from her vantage point at the top of glamorous London society. Hence the pregnancy. Talk about the law of unintended consequences!'

He snorted into his mug, and then reached for another biscuit. 'She thought she was pulling off a daring plan, but I didn't deliver. Flora did brilliantly and Hermione became domestically a drudge and professionally a badly-paid, unhappy instructor of disadvantaged kids whom she despised.' He burst out laughing. 'I'm not much help, Inspector, am I? I seem to be giving you an excellent motive for Hermione to have murdered Flora then, rather than for person or persons unknown to kill Hermione now.'

'I know very little about my mother's private life, Inspector,' said Joshua Babcock. 'She was not the sort of person with whom one discussed intimate matters. I'm afraid I can't help.'

Pooley moved the phone to his other ear while he tried and failed to think of an inspired question. He decided to fall back on the simple appeal. 'Mr Babcock, I need your assistance. There is no obvious motive for your mother's murder, so the police need those who loved her to help us determine why anyone should have wanted to kill her. I need to know what kind of person she was. What kind of enemies she might have made.'

'Who have you talked to?'

'Your father and stepmother, your stepfather and your aunt.'

There was a chuckle that reminded Pooley off Joshua's father. 'Hardly a list of those who loved her. Except for William, I suppose.'

'That's where you come in.'

"Fraid not. Inspector. It's pretty difficult to love someone who regards you as an obstacle to achievement. Alex and I weren't best pleased when she went on about the pram in the hall being the enemy of good art. And of course there was all that Virginia Woolf wankery about a room of her own.'

'Well, she certainly got that all right.'

'She sure did. Several in fact. And they certainly weren't child-friendly. Or indeed William-friendly.'

'Still, as you got older ... ?'

'We were disappointing. Failed to be a credit to her.'

'How do you mean, sir?'

'At great expense to William we went to excellent schools that got us out from under Mama's feet during term-time, but we performed no better than competently, academically or otherwise. We are OK to look at, but nothing to write home about.' He chuckled again. 'Took after her that way rather than Dad or Aunt Flora. We ended up - to her great embarrassment - at red-brick universities. And to her even greater embarrassment we read subjects she considered naff; engineering in my case, business studies in Alex's. Can't imagine what she told them at the Groucho. Beautiful, talented, arty children were what she required. Passable mediocrities with a yen for the practical were not.'

'Are you saying your mother didn't love you?'

'Love isn't a word I associate with my mother. Inspector. Duty is. She behaved perfectly properly towards us even if she did strongly show her displeasure when we failed to obey orders. Most of her sins were of omission, not commission.'

'And you felt about her?'

'Also dutiful. I'll do my bit at the funeral and I'll try to feel sorry she's dead. But the truth is she hasn't had any impact on my life worth talking about since I ceased to be under her control. She's never even seen her grandchildren. Or shown any interest in them. Though she always sent them cheques at Christmas.'

'Any advice on which friends I should see?'

'None. Mama seemed to me to have colleagues rather than friends and these changed according to whatever was preoccupying her at the moment. Though of course she always kept in with the magic literary circle even when her mind was on New Labour.'

'The literary circle is?'

influential publishers, reviewers, literary editors, literary organisations. And she never turned down an invitation to join a committee. Preferably as chair.'

'Can you suggest who should be top of my list?'

'That guy she reviewed for - what's his name, Hugo something? That madman Den Smith. Probably Wysteria Wilcox. She seems to have been having dinner with them forever and they certainly know everyone.'

'They were all with her on the Warburton committee.'

Joshua gave a shout of laughter. 'Didn't 1 tell you there was a magic circle?'

'His sister sounded just like him and echoed him almost word for word,' Pooley reported to Milton. 'They're obviously very close. "She'd have liked us to be stepping-stones to further advancement," she said. "Instead, more often than not, we seemed to be millstones.'"

'Anything more about Sir William?' asked Milton.

'Just the same sympathetic noises as Joshua. And when it came to friends she also mentioned Wysteria Wilcox and Den Smith. Said she couldn't understand how anyone could put up with him. Thought he was off his head.'

'I'm looking forward to this encounter.' He took his glasses out of his inside pocket. 'Pass me Smith's
Who's Who
entry. I've come prepared.'

Den Smith had declined to be interviewed at home ('I will not have my privacy invaded'), at the Yard ('I will not set foot in Gestapo headquarters') or Milton's club ('I refuse to obey a dress code imposed by dinosaurs'). After much negotiation, he had grudgingly suggested an upstairs room in a Notting Hill pub. 'Slow down, Sammy,' said Pooley, as they neared the rendezvous. 'Look, Jim, that's his house on the corner.'

'That looks worth as much as Rawlinson's,' observed Milton.

'Easily.'

'It's very big for one person.'

'He uses it for his various causes. That's where "Anti-Fascism '88" was launched. I've been reading about it on the Net. Reagan had just been re-elected and Smith and Hermione called luvvies, literati and smart academics of the left to arms against the Thatcher-Reagan forces of evil.'

'What happened to it?'

'Acres of piss-taking by the right-wing press followed by the total failure of the campaigners to decide on what they wanted to achieve. Den's desire to overthrow the state in the name of democracy seems to have been too much for most of them. There was a huge row and
Rage
targeted a whole new batch of enemies.'

'Here we are, sir,' said Pike.

'Thanks, Sammy. Don't hang around. We'll get a taxi back.'

'Are you sure you don't want me to wait outside the room, sir? He sounds like a nasty piece of work.'

'His bile is worse than his bite, I think,' said Milton, grinning at his own wit.

Wearing a black rollneck. Smith was sitting across the table in the tiny room with a half of bitter in front of him, ostentatiously reading Kafka. ('I'm surprised he thought we'd get the reference,' said Milton afterwards.) 'Good afternoon, Mr Smith. Detective Chief Superintendent James Milton and Detective Inspector Ellis Pooley,' said Milton. 'May we sit down?'

'I can't stop you, but I warn you I'm not going to use those fascistic titles.'

'We're not interested in titles, Mr Smith. We just want your help in finding the murderer of your friend Lady Babcock.'

'I'm surprised you're not using the ricin as an excuse to lock up every Muslim in London.'

'So far there is no reason to suspect that this was a political crime. You may be associating ricin with Muslims because of recent publicity. We have no reason to do so.'

Smith glared at him. 'So what was it then? Who did it?'

'I hope you'll have some ideas on that.'

'And if I don't? What then?'

'You will, I hope,' offered Milton mildly, 'have some suggestions about where we should direct our enquiries. We're trying to build up a picture of Lady Babcock. We've talked to her family and now we're talking to her friends. You were one of her dearest friends, I think.'

The belligerence diminished slightly. 'I suppose I was. Hermione and I go back a long way.'

'How long?'

'Since the seventies. We met on a peace march. We were both speakers.'

'You became friends?'

'Yes.'

'Just friends?'

Smith jumped to his feet with such force that he rocked the table and spilled his drink. 'Typical filth-type insinuation. How dare you! How dare you! It's no surprise you've minds like sewers, but I don't have to answer your shitty questions.'

Milton, who had been mopping the table with a tissue, spoke with no sign of annoyance. 'Please sit down, Mr Smith. I've no wish to upset you, but equally, you've no right to refuse to assist us. Either you want Lady Babcock's murderer caught or you don't. If you do, then I suggest you answer questions frankly. If you don't, why then we will have to ask you to come to a police station and help us anyway. It's your choice.'

Smith was still quivering. 'I can get a lawyer. And not one of those lawyers you can bully into submission. I can get a famous human rights lawyer who'll make you shiver in your flat-footed shoes.'

Milton looked at Smith benignly, if you want to go to that trouble and expense, Mr Smith, by all means go ahead. I will merely ask that you turn up at New Scotland Yard at nine tomorrow morning. And if you don't, I might have to have you arrested.'

Smith looked at him venomously and sat down. 'Fuck it. Oh, all right. Go on.'

'Did you have an affair with Lady Babcock?'

'Yes, I did. Thirty-odd years ago. So what!'

'Did it go on for long?'

'Just a few months.'

'Why did it end?' 'William Rawlinson came on the scene.'

'And she preferred him?'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'But she ended your affair?'

'She wanted to marry William.'

'Rather than you.'

'I don't marry.'

'You did once.'

Smith shot him a furious look. 'Once was fucking well enough.'

'She would have liked to marry you?'

'Of course she would. But even if I would have, I couldn't afford Hermione. She needed someone well-off.'

'But you remained on good terms?'

'Yep.'

'But no longer lovers.'

'Yep.'

'Was she faithful to Sir William?'

'How the fuck would I know? We didn't have another affair, if that's what you're insinuating in your creepy way.'

'You didn't try to rekindle the passion?'

Smith looked at Milton incredulously. 'Rekindle the fucking passion? Are you off your fucking head? We're talking about Hermione Fucking Babcock, not Cleofuckingpatra. Hermione didn't do passion. She did a polite, well-behaved affair if it suited her.'

'Forgive me, Mr Smith, but I'd have thought you were a man given to strong passions rather than convenient liaisons.'

Smith looked pleased. 'You're right up to a point, copper.' He stopped. 'Up to a point, copper. That's bloody good. You won't get the joke, of course. It's a play on . . .'

'On "Up to a point, Lord Copper". I've heard the pun before, sir.'

Sulkily, Smith continued. 'You can't have strong passions all the time. Hermione was an available fuck so there were no hard feelings when she moved over. But we kept in touch and were allies in the literary world.'

in what way, sir?'

'Oh, I dunno. I introduced her to a few people, I suppose.'

Pooley touched Milton on the sleeve. 'May I, sir?'

'Certainly, Inspector Pooley.'

'Sir, would I be right in saying that it was because of you that Ms Babcock, as she then was, was asked to join the PEN committee?'

it's a long time ago, but that's probably right.'

'And that began her involvement with literary committees?'

'Hermione certainly took to committees.'

'Was she particularly able in committee work?'

'She was keen. And not many people in our circles will do the work, I suppose.'

'Was she not on the Cultural Resources Council when your magazine was given a substantial grant?'

'How would I know?'

'You'd know when
Rage
received the hefty subsidy that made it viable.'

'How do you know about this?'

'Please answer my colleague's question,' said Milton.

it was sometime in the early eighties.'

'Hermione Babcock was on the CRC from 1982-5, Mr Smith. She did you a big favour, didn't she?'

'Nothing that wasn't deserved. There wasn't any other magazine like
Rage.'

'But there was quite a lot of criticism, wasn't there? Suggestions of cronyism, if I'm not mistaken?'

'Don't remember.'

'Since when you and she have been on innumerable committees - together and apart. She was on the Pilkington when you won the prize for a poem that was denounced as appalling by many, wasn't she? And you gave
Virginia Falling
an enormous puff that put it in the reckoning for the Warburton, I gather.'

Smith's face flushed. He jumped up, kicked his chair to the floor, pushed the table violently and screamed: 'You red-haired fucking cunt! You piece of fucking filth with a fucking pretend toff's accent. You moron with fucking pretensions. I'm outta here. And you can send the Home fucking Secretary after me to throw me into one of your fucking dungeons and torture me if you like. I'll never give in to your fucking police state.'

He stormed out.

'He's certainly got a way with words,' observed Milton.

'Sorry, Jim. Perhaps I provoked him too much.'

'Nothing to be sorry about, Ellis. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. It's a wonderful thing for an uneducated policeman to have the privilege of encountering the intelligentsia. Now let's go.'