Publish and Be Murdered (13 page)

The waiter looked at her sullenly.

‘Is the salmon wild?’ she asked.

He attempted to stare her down. He lost. ‘I don’t know, madam. I’ll go and ask.’

‘Jack, why are you tormenting that man?’

‘What’s the point of being a waiter if you’re not interested in food? And besides, I don’t like him. He was patronizing me. And you patronize Jack Troutbeck at your peril. Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about Sharon McGregor. Surely, she isn’t fool enough to want to become seriously involved with newspapers? She hasn’t got the kind of money to take on the likes of Rupert Murdoch.’

‘She certainly isn’t a fool. And I’m sure she doesn’t want to take on Rupert Murdoch. What she claimed was that she has an affinity with England because of her immigrant father, so she wants to help preserve that essence of civilized England that is represented by the civilized virtues of
The Wrangler
. Which is obviously all cock. But she might be seeking to rub shoulders with the landed interests nonetheless. And why not? If American heiresses could buy up dukes and earls a hundred years ago, why shouldn’t self-made Aussies do the same today. She could become the Duchess of something-or-other and still buy up our railways.’

The waiter returned and stood by her elbow.

‘Well?’ she asked.

The salmon, madam, is not wild.’

‘Tell the chef that in that case he shouldn’t be cooking it – not even in soup. Cultivated salmon is bland, tasteless and pointless. I’ll have the gravadlax and the dill sauce. But make sure the dill sauce comes in a separate jug. Now for the main course. Is the rabbit…?’

‘Wild, madam?’ The waiter was beginning to wear a defeated look. ‘I doubt it. Shall I ask the chef?’

‘Don’t bother. It won’t be. I’ll have a bloody rump steak with plenty of very hot chips.’

‘I’m afraid chips aren’t on the menu tonight, madam.’

The baroness beamed. ‘I’m sure if you tell the chef that Lady Troutbeck is relying on him to provide them, he’ll change his mind.’

The waiter clenched his teeth. ‘And other vegetables, madam? Shall I bring you a variety?’

‘What are they?’

‘Our selection includes broccoli, courgettes, cauliflower and carrots.’

‘Good God, no. I don’t want any of those. See if the chef’s got some cabbage. Otherwise I’ll just have the chips. And make sure the steak is very, very bloody.’

‘Yes, madam.’ He turned away.

‘Excuse me,’ said Amiss. ‘I’d like something to eat too.’

‘I’m very sorry, sir. I got confused for a moment. What would you like?’

‘French onion soup and the navarin of lamb, please.’

The waiter shot him a look of gratitude and tottered away.

The baroness shook her head. ‘You let them off too lightly, Robert. Now, where’s the wine waiter? I’ll torment him by demanding Australian wine. That always drives the Frogs crazy: it’s a refined – nay exquisite – form of torture.’

The wine waiter – older and wiser than his colleague – did not rise to the baroness’s bait, but enthused with her about her shortlist of wines, commended the vineyard she had selected and averred that he too on occasion felt that the French had something to learn from newer competitors. They beamed and chatted together for several minutes, to the evident bewilderment of the bearer of soup and gravadlax.

‘I wonder how they reconcile their impressions of you afterwards,’ said Amiss, as the baroness tucked a vast white napkin around her neck and proceeded to tuck in with gusto. ‘The first one thinks you’re an intolerable old bitch and the second evidently considers you a bit of all right.’

‘That’s fine with me. If everyone likes you, you’re not doing your job. I’m a reasonable woman and if everyone does what I tell them they’ll have nothing to complain about. Now eat up, you’re looking peaky. And make sure you finish it all up.’

‘Dining with you is a bit like having a nursery tea. Did you have a nanny?’

‘Of course I had a nanny. Splendid woman. Taught me all I know and stood for no nonsense. Which takes us back to Sharon. I think you’d better expect a bumpy ride if she gets to buy the paper.’

‘What can she do if Willie stands firm? He’s got the trust behind him.’

‘I’ll give you ten to one that Willie turns out to be an amoeba. And probably the trustees too. And if they don’t, take my word for it, there is no trust that can’t be broken. But I don’t even think she’ll have to try. For every one member of the great and good who’ll fight his corner, there are two who’ll skulk away with their white flags in the air. You’ll see.’

Amiss put down his spoon and sighed. ‘Oh dear. And things were going so well. On my side, at least.’

‘I think that’s usually the moment when it gets dangerous.’ She speared the last of the gravadlax, stuffed the remains of the roll in her mouth, chomped vigorously and took a hearty swig of Chardonnay. ‘Never mind,’ she said consolingly. ‘At least it’ll be interesting.’

She chuckled evilly and called for the waiter.

Amiss was missing Pooley badly. He could have relied on him to take the keenest interest in every aspect of the Potbury death. For even more than Amiss, Pooley was a man who did not consider a case closed until there was no further room for doubt. But he had disappeared off to staff training college and was out of reach.

As befitted a senior policeman who had been in the job for twenty-five years, Jim Milton was more of a realist. ‘You can forget about Henry Potbury as far as we’re concerned,’ he told Amiss a couple of days after their night out. ‘There’s nothing doing. I had a word with an old mate who’s the supervising superintendent and he showed no interest. Said it’s an open-and-shut case and the Met’s quite busy enough without following will-o’-the-wisps. I didn’t push it because I didn’t see any point. And in fact I agree with him. Why don’t you forget about it?’

Amiss tried interesting the baroness further, but she was busy and impatient with detail and speculation. And it was obvious that the less said to Rachel the better.

Yet Amiss did not give up. First, he looked at Ben and Marcia closely until he was satisfied that their relationship seemed exactly as it always had been. Indeed, both of them clearly missed Henry a great deal. When Amiss dropped by they were often very happy to reminisce with him about Henry. And if Marcia shed the occasional tear, there was no indication that Ben saw this as anything but an understandable reaction to the sudden death of a valued colleague.

One evening Amaryllis Vercoe called in and Amiss invited her to the pub. She showed little interest in talking about Henry, preferring to flirt outrageously. While Amiss affected not to notice, he was secretly very pleased, though he had enough sense to grasp that a woman who might fancy Henry Potbury just possibly might fancy anyone.

‘Is Amaryllis involved with anyone?’ he asked Winterton the next day.

‘If you mean, “Is there someone who is – as it were – settled down with her?” then no; she lives alone and appears to have no regular escort. If you mean, “Is there a man in her life?” you’ve asked the wrong question. There are many men in Amaryllis’s life. In fact, it has to be said that she’s pretty generous with her favours. Why, has she been giving you the glad eye? I should go for it if she has. She’s very good value as well as being the trophy shag of the intellectual Right.’

A crestfallen Amiss tried to look dignified. ‘It was just idle curiosity, Dwight. I’m a settled man.’ And he withdrew before Winterton could evince his scepticism.

‘The only line of investigation left,’ he said to the baroness when she rang him at work a few days later, ‘is the Papworth one.’

‘Oh, that would be good. You mean you think Charlie Papworth rubbed Henry out so he could sell the journal.’

‘Piers Papworth’s my candidate.’

‘Um, maybe that’s possible. He certainly comes across as a ruthless little bugger.’

‘Maybe he’s in it with Sharon.’

‘How do you propose to find out?’

‘There’s damn-all I can do, Jack, as you well know. I’m completely stymied. The only people who have any chance of finding out who knocked off poor old Henry – if anyone did – are the cops. And they won’t. I can hardly go round all these people demanding to know if they can provide two independent witnesses to prove that they left the gathering while Henry was still alive.’

‘Too bad.’ She sounded rather bored. ‘I’ve had a run-in with Willie.’

‘About what?’

‘He made another attempt to persuade me to soften the line. Said I was being unreasonable. Outrageous! I’m the most reasonable woman in the world.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Told him to get stuffed. I’m not going to be pushed around by Willie Lambie Crump.’

‘He is your editor, Jack.’

‘I’m not prepared to be mucked about by an unprincipled little turd. And if you remember, I made damn sure that I couldn’t be. The contract’s watertight. Willie can’t do a thing until the year is up. I told him I’d sue the arse off him if he didn’t honour the agreement. And I would too. And since I’d enjoy a good court case and he’d crumble in the witness box and he knows it, that put paid to his small rebellion.’

‘I’ll make a point of avoiding him for a few days. He’ll be furious. He went up the wall at what you said about the only honourable class being the landed gentry.’

‘Good. Now put me through to Ben. I want to dictate this week’s.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘My proposal that henceforward the crown should be passed on to the dimmest and least sensitive of the monarch’s children – levels of general thickness to be assessed when they have all reached adulthood. The way the public, the government and the media behave these days, being king or queen’s no job for anyone with brains or finer feelings. What you really want is a blockhead as close as possible in IQ to Mr and Mrs Below-Average and with a hide as thick as Tyrannosaurus rex.’

‘Or JackTroutbeck.’

‘Absolutely. Now stop gabbling and get Ben.’

‘Oh, Mr Amiss, Mr Amiss, come back, come back.’

The voice on the telephone trailed off into a collection of squeaks that Amiss accurately identified as the Ricketts distress call.

‘Steady, Mr Ricketts. Steady. I’ll be back soon. Now, tell me what’s wrong.’

‘This man is here and he’s looking at everything and shouting at me.’

‘What man?’

He heard in the background a nasal voice calling, ‘Cut the crap, Josh, and walk the talk. You heard me. Walk the talk.’

A great wail emanted from Ricketts. ‘Oh, please, Mr Amiss. Just come back.’

‘All right, Mr Ricketts. All right. I’m coming. Just keep calm and I’ll be with you very soon.’ Amiss depressed the lever and jabbed the redial button. ‘Miss Mercatroid, it’s me again. Please put me through to Jason.’

‘Mr Amiss, I have a complaint. I have been abused and insulted.’

He tried not to raise his voice. ‘Please, Miss Mercatroid, not now. This is important. I’ll be back shortly to hear your complaint, but now please get me Jason.

‘Jason? Robert. What the hell is going on? I finished a meeting at the printers, responded to a message from Ricketts asking me to call urgently and found him having a fit on the other end of the phone. He was wailing about a man who keeps looking at everything and shouting at him. And now Miss Mercatroid’s complaining about being insulted.’

‘Some pillock’s been going round the building demanding to know everything we do and then being rude.’

‘About what?’

‘Everything, really.’

‘Who is this pillock?’

‘All I know is he’s called Bett, he’s a Yank and Lambie Crump told Ricketts to tell everyone to give him maximum cooperation. And everyone did and now they’re all going mad. All except me,’ said Jason complacently. ‘I’m tougher than the rest of them. And anyway, he wasn’t that rude to me.’

‘Jason, will you drop what you’re doing and go and see Ricketts and try and calm him down. I’ll be back within the hour.’

Amiss raced for the station and caught a train with just half a minute to spare. En route he tried to block out pointless speculation by burying himself in the new
Wrangler
. It was dull, apart from the baroness’s tirade against drink-driving laws and speed-traps and what she called the Singaporization of Britain, which would shortly lead to heavy fines for those who bet on horses or spent their money foolishly or didn’t wash their necks or failed in some other unspecified way to meet the criteria for the New Brit: squeaky-clean, unprincipled, touchy, feely, moderate in everything, regular in his bowel movements and deadly dull. There was nothing from Webber, nothing identifiable from Dwight, some good workman-like pieces from Phoebe and a fawning piece from Lambie Crump on the transformation wrought by the inspirational new government in the public attitude to the benefits of education. He ended his journey apprehensive and depressed.

Miss Mercatroid was crying when Amiss arrived.

‘What’s the matter, Miss Mercatroid?’

That dreadful man. He said I could be replaced by a machine.’

‘Don’t worry, Miss Mercatroid. I’ll sort this out.’

He ran upstairs and rushed into Jason’s office.

‘Update.’

‘This Bett guy’s told Bill and Marcia the Internet could do most of their job and the grammar-check and spell-check the rest. He’s told Sabrina she’s a pointless status symbol and Miss Mercatroid that she could be replaced by an automated switchboard and Mr Ricketts has had to lie down in one of the storerooms because he was afraid he was going to have a heart attack after what Bett said to him. What’ll we do if he’s had one? Will we burn him on a funeral pyre of
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?’

‘Make sure he’s all right. I’m going to find this Bett person. Where do you think he is?’

‘I think he’s with the editor.’

Amiss ran down the corridor and knocked loudly on Lambie Crump’s door.

‘Enter.’

Inside, sitting across from Lambie Crump, was a crew-cut thirtysomething wearing jeans, trainers and a T-shirt that bore the legend ‘CAN DO’ in enormous letters.

‘Mr Bett, I presume,’ said Amiss.

‘Ah, Robert,’ said Lambie Crump. ‘Hold hard while one performs the requisite introductions. Walter, this is our manager, Robert Amiss. Robert, this is Walter Bett, who has called in to look around and see what scope there might be for…’ He paused and furrowed his brow.