The Complete Pratt (100 page)

Henry felt that he could have expressed all this more elegantly, more succinctly, and that it might have been more effective if he’d been able to look his prospective father-in-law in the face.

Howard Lewthwaite topped him up with the house white.

‘Supposing it comes to a clash between your two great loves?’ he said. ‘Hilary and the truth. Which one will win?’

Israel rejected American proposals for the withdrawal of her troops from Gaza. Britain gave the United Nations a heavily documented indictment of Greece, accusing her of giving financial and propaganda support to the Eoka terrorists in Cyprus. Charges for milk, school meals, and the NHS portion of National Insurance were increased. President Eisenhower had a persistent cough.

Walking down the busy, decaying Commercial Road, after conducting a sensational interview with the President of the Thurmarsh Friends of Fur and Feather on the catastrophic effect television was having on pet clubs – attendances at Thurmarsh Rabbit Society down 39%, Splutt Tropical Fish Society planning merger with Rawlaston Cage Bird Club, a 22% decline in entries for pigeon races oh no, not pigeons again! – he had a shock. Wasn’t that man with the blackheads …? He was.

Just as some fortunate people are able to live for weeks without thinking about nuclear weapons, so Henry had gone for months without thinking about Derek Parsonage.

What was the man doing, walking down the path from a severe, black-bricked, Victorian town house with rotting window frames, in front of whose sad, gravelled garden a large board announced: ‘World-Wide Religious Literature Inc.’?

‘Hello. Henry Pratt,’ said Henry, who had no overwhelming belief in his own memorability.

Was it just his imagination that Derek Parsonage turned pale beneath his unseasonal tan?

‘Henry!’ he said, beaming with belated and rapidly assumed delight.

‘Can we talk?’ said Henry. ‘I have news for you.’

‘Come in,’ said Derek Parsonage. ‘I was only going shopping.’

He led Henry through a large entrance hall, with religious literature displayed on three tables, into his office. It was a small,
plain
room, with a corner of a high, elaborately moulded ceiling which had once graced a much larger room. There were two hard chairs and a desk covered in pamphlets and invoices. Behind the desk was a large photograph of a black woman with huge bare breasts being handed a Bible by a man in a pin-striped suit.

Henry sat down, paused briefly for effect and said, ‘“World-wide Religious Literature Inc.”?’

Derek Parsonage shrugged. ‘I’m no more religious than the next man,’ he said. He lowered his eyes uneasily, as if expecting the next man to materialize through the skirting board and dispute this. ‘But it’s a way of earning a crust.’

‘What do you do?’

‘We’re a sort of clearing house for the world of religious publishing. Basically it’s just a specialized form of import-export, with a translation service thrown in. So, what’s the news?’

‘The burning of the Cap Ferrat was arson. Uncle Teddy was murdered.’

‘No! Henry! How do you know?’

‘We never reveal our sources.’

‘Arson! How? Who by? Why?’

‘I hoped you might tell me.’ Bitter was the taste of the shame of The Man Nobody Muzzles, Henry ‘The leech’ Pratt, investigative journalist extraordinaire, who hadn’t even thought of looking for Derek Parsonage. ‘You never suspected it might be arson?’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘No reason. I just wondered.’

Questions were flying into Henry’s brain like pigeons coming home to … not more pigeons! That’s all I’m good for. Henry ‘All you ever needed to know about pigeons’ Pratt.

‘You were part of the Cap Ferrat,’ he said. ‘Are you being paid by the insurance people?’

‘No. I sold my share to Teddy a fortnight before the fire.’

What???

‘Oh … er … really? Er … may I ask why?’

‘Certainly. It’s my turn to have a shock for you, Henry. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, and I know you were fond of your uncle, but …’ Derek Parsonage stared so fixedly at the wall behind him that Henry turned to follow his gaze, even though he
knew
that Derek Parsonage was only looking there to avoid looking at him. He found himself staring at a photograph of a huge naked black woman with a bolt through her nose, grinning broadly as she held up a copy of
Quaker News
. ‘Henry? You know your uncle told you he was in Rangoon. He wasn’t. He was in prison.’

‘Oh, I knew that.’

‘Well, I didn’t. When I found out, I was shocked. I’m no prude. Nightclubs, in my book, fair enough. But crime? No, sir. I sold out. I’d probably have made a lot more, as it’s turned out, if I hadn’t, but I’m glad. My conscience is as clear as a Lakeland beck.’

‘Well, if you think of anything you think is even remotely relevant, will you let me know?’ said Henry.

‘I certainly will,’ said Derek Parsonage.

As Henry walked out across the gravelled garden, Stan Holliday was entering. They looked at each other in surprise, but neither of them spoke.

Henry turned and watched Stan Holliday close the door behind him. His spine was tingling. Many things he was prepared to believe, but if that evil-faced villain was interested in religious literature, Henry was a reincarnated Yugoslavian brush salesman who could relate the whole of the Koran in Urdu under hypnosis.

A new trail was opening up. He was onto something. If only he wasn’t off to Cap Ferrat in two days!

He’d lived in a house of that name. He’d been to a club of that name. His surrogate parents had often gone there without taking him. At last he was going there, at the one time in his life when it would be an annoying interruption.

The following day, all that was changed. Derek Parsonage rang him at the office.

‘You said you were going to France tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve thought of something, which I thought I ought to tell you before you go. I suppose you’re surrounded by colleagues.’

‘Yes.’

Henry looked up at Ginny, pounding the keys as if she were
reporting
World War Three, not a persistent smell of sewage which was upsetting market traders.

‘I presume all this is top secret?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I’ll talk in such a way that you can answer “yes” or “no”. Thoughtful, aren’t I?’

‘Yes.’

Helen looked up from her piece on summer hats and blew him a tiny kiss. It floated among the specks of dust in a brief ray of sunshine. He grinned at her. Ted scowled, with mock jealousy that hid real jealousy.

‘I thought about what you said, and I remembered something which hadn’t seemed significant at the time. You remember the compère, Monsieur Emile?’

‘Yes.’

Denzil looked up from his piece on theatre stars who looked forward to the spring because they were keen gardeners, and he also blew Henry a little kiss. Henry grinned.

‘Monsieur Emile and Teddy had a most tremendous row. Did you hear about that?’

‘No.’

Terry Skipton raised his heavily lidded eyes exaggeratedly, his news sense awakened by Henry’s intensity.

‘Teddy caught Monsieur Emile with his hands in the till. He gave him a month’s notice. You never heard about this?’

‘No.’

Gordon gave him a thumbs-up, a tribute to his brevity from the king of ellipsis.

‘I heard their argument. Monsieur Emile didn’t realize I was there. He said, “You’ll regret this.” Teddy said, “
Je ne regrette rien
.” Emile said, “So! Zis is typical. You mock a great French artiste.” He was livid. At the time I didn’t think there was anything in it.’

‘No.’

Colin gave him a gap-toothed smile, friendly, warm, innocent of all deviousness. It made him feel wretched.

‘Now that I know what I know now, I’m inclined to take a different view.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s it, Henry.’

‘Thank you very much indeed,’ said Henry. ‘I’ve nearly finished the article, but I’ll certainly try to introduce the budgerigar side of things.’ He put the phone down. ‘Bloody pets,’ he announced, to the newsroom at large.

Monsieur Emile had said that he was planning to open a nightclub in Nice. How much might he have taken from the Cap Ferrat on the night of the fire? Was it inconceivable that the solution of Uncle Teddy’s murder lay not in Thurmarsh at all, but on the Côte d’Azur?

Henry packed with renewed enthusiasm.

THE DUKE OF
Edinburgh was created Prince Philip, a Bedlington terrier became the first dog to be successfully fitted with a hearing aid, and the Americans were permitted to defend their bases with their own guided weapons, cutting across the previously accepted practice that the RAF had sole control of British air space in war.

In the elegant, small dining-room of a small, elegant hotel in the elegant village of St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, three people were attacking grilled sea-bass with controlled greed. How the British love fish when they’re abroad.

The woman had over-painted lips and startling peroxide hair, which emphasized her age although she thought it hid it. The older man had a large nose festooned with blackheads, as if the waiter had gone berserk with the pepper mill. The younger man was short and podgy and had reverted, in these sophisticated surroundings, into a selfconscious English gawkiness which made him barely recognizable as the accomplished lover he had been in Durham.

‘Teddy loved sea-bass,’ said Auntie Doris.

‘Could we possibly have five minutes without mentioning your first husband?’ said Geoffrey Porringer, who often made things worse by protesting about them.

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris, who
always
made things worse by protesting about them. ‘Henry’s looked forward to this holiday. Don’t spoil it for him by going on and on about Teddy.’

Geoffrey Porringer dropped his knife and fork with a clatter. ‘
I’m
spoiling his holiday!’ he said. ‘
I’m
going on and on about Teddy! I was complaining about you going on and on about him, Doris.’

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Don’t make a scene. There are Italians and Danes and Dutch here. They’ll think we don’t know how to behave.’

‘I’m sure Teddy knew how to behave,’ said Geoffrey Porringer.

‘Please!’ said Henry.

‘Exactly!’ said Auntie Doris.

‘It’s not me who’s been mentioning Teddy every five minutes,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘I’m well aware, Doris, that I can never hope to be to you exactly what he was.’

‘Please!’ said Henry.

‘No, no,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘Now it’s in the open, let’s have it out. I don’t need reminding of my inferiority, in the husband stakes, at every turn, every bar, every café, every
pissoir
. “Teddy peed there once!”’

‘Geoffrey!’ said Auntie Doris.

‘Please!’ said Henry.

‘Subject closed,’ said Geoffrey Porringer. ‘I shan’t mention Teddy again. Teddy who? Can’t remember.’ He resumed the steady demolition of his sea-bass.

‘It’s just that coming here brings it all back,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I mean, it is a fact that I had happy times with Teddy and those times still exist in my memory. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy with you, Geoffrey. I am. But, I mean, if by any chance you got burnt to death in a blazing building, and of course I hope that never happens, I’d like to think that one day I might meet some man, which of course wouldn’t be the same, but it’d be a consolation in my old age, and that you’d be pleased, if you could see me, which of course you wouldn’t, being dead, because otherwise I wouldn’t be with this other man, but you know what I mean, if I said, to my new man, who wasn’t the same but was very nice none the less, “Geoffrey liked sea-bass”.’

‘Please!’ said Henry.

In the morning, in their villa after breakfast, Henry announced that he was going for a walk. It was bright and quite warm, but heavy clouds were building up over the mountains and Auntie Doris thought it might rain. He didn’t mind. At least it would be warm rain. And he had to get away from the ghost of Uncle Teddy.

He strolled along a path, between the secretive stone walls of sumptuous villas. There were brief glimpses of tiny, pebbly bays licked up by a gentle blue sea. Ahead rose the partially wooded, mainly rocky slopes of the Alpes Maritimes, their contours untouched by man except for the occasional short viaduct on one of
the
corniche roads. And beyond, burning white against the blue sky, were the Alps proper, the high mountains. He was here at last. He was excited. His walk proved a tremendous success in every respect except one. He didn’t get away from the ghost of Uncle Teddy.

It was walking along the path towards him, gazing at the boats rocking lazily in the bay. Henry stopped, rigid. It couldn’t be.

It was. The ghost of Uncle Teddy saw him. It too stopped, rigid. It went white, as ghosts should. It turned and hurried away. Henry hurried after it in his flat holiday shoes.

‘Uncle Teddy!’ he called. ‘Uncle Teddy!’