The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (2 page)

Silence fell. In some desperation, Amiss broke it with a question about his new job. Shipton stirred slightly and looked vacantly across the desk. ‘Oh, haven’t they told you? You’re PD2.’

Amiss racked his memory of BCC organization charts and drew a blank. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Shipton. I’m afraid I’m not quite
au fait
with things yet. What is PD2?’

‘You are,’ said Shipton, and then – visibly struggling to be helpful – ‘Purchasing Department, Branch 2. That’s you. You’ll be running it.’

Amiss suppressed a feeling of disappointment. This didn’t sound like the centre of decision-making, but then again it might well be where at least some of it was all at. After all, this department must have a budget of millions if it was to meet the widespread requirements of a highly sophisticated company. He adjusted to the tempo of the dialogue and began to daydream about buying trips across Europe. And surely much of the really advanced technology would have to be bought from Japan and the States?

‘That sounds very interesting.’

‘Does it?’ asked Shipton. ‘Oh, good. Well, I’ll tell you what. I haven’t got time to brief you myself. Not with all this…’ and he flapped his hand towards an in-tray that contained two envelopes. ‘I’ll get Horace. He’s PD1. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

He pressed a button on his intercom, called ‘Horace’ and relapsed into his stupor. There was the sound of hurrying feet and an alert form catapulted into the room.

‘Ah, Horace. This is… What did you say your name was?’

‘Robert Amiss.’

‘Ah, yes. He’s PD2, Horace. Take him away and show him the ropes.’

As Horace took him away, Shipton spoke again. ‘Oh… Robert. Don’t forget. My door is always open.’

Amiss noticed without surprise that Horace closed it firmly behind them.

2

«
^
»

By midday, a numbed Amiss had come to the conclusion that his session with Horace Underhill would go on for ever if he didn’t do something drastic to shut him up. There was no doubt about Horace’s dedication, though it seemed to be to the part rather than to the whole. By now Amiss had learned that no business could succeed without centralized purchasing; that the BCC top brass didn’t seem to understand this; that, far from being supportive of PD, they were cravenly yielding to irresponsible demands from all over the organization for autonomy in purchasing; that PD had so far lost computers, vehicles, laboratory equipment and catering equipment; that enemies were even now trying to take away calculators; that none of this would have happened had he, Horace, been PD instead of Donald Shipton; that Shipton was a spent force; that Horace was confidently expecting him to take early retirement any day now; that when that day dawned and Horace took over, PD would come into its own again and recover all its old powers.

Amiss had to admit that at least Horace knew what he wanted. But he was already nursing a growing conviction that he wasn’t going to get it. He didn’t look like a man before whom Authority would capitulate. His face was lined with anxiety; his dandruff was out of control; his knobbly form would have defeated the best tailor, whom Horace had anyway not sought out; and despite his aggressively jet-black hair he didn’t look a day under fifty-five. Still, at least he was pleasant enough and concerned to get Amiss on his side. His initial suspicion had evaporated as soon as he discovered that the new PD2 would definitely be returning to the civil service at the end of a year.

‘What happened to my predecessor?’ asked Amiss idly.

‘He died two weeks ago.’

‘Good heavens! How awful.’

‘Yes. All very sad – though hardly unexpected. The poor fellow had emphysema for years. We knew it would carry him off in the end. In fact, to be perfectly honest, it was a bit of a relief that he didn’t die in the office. That kind of thing is always a bit unsettling and distracts people from their work.’

Amiss couldn’t think of an answer to that. His own experience of corpses on official premises had better be kept quiet.

‘Anyway,’ said Horace with a jolly beam, ‘we’ve been very lucky to get a replacement so soon. Personnel seem to have no idea of the importance of prompt filling of vacancies here. I’ve been run off my feet trying to keep an eye on both branches simultaneously.’

‘But presumably the workload has been somewhat reduced since so much of the purchasing was decentralized?’

Horace’s face contorted. ‘Certainly not. You wouldn’t believe how much there is to do now that I’ve instituted these new allocation procedures. I can tell you we’ve plenty to keep us occupied. When we get back centralized purchasing of everything we’ll have to quadruple the staff.’

He went off into a long account of recent administrative reforms, from which Amiss gathered little except that paperwork seemed magically to have increased in inverse proportion to the actual purchasing responsibilities. He stopped him short. ‘That’s fascinating, Horace. But as you can imagine, it’s a bit hard to understand all at once. Could you tell me something about my precise areas of responsibility and the people who’ll be working for me?’

Horace was happy to oblige. Amiss listened with a mounting sense of unreality. He was to be in charge of buying furniture and stationery, and his main job, in Horace’s view, was to make it impossible for Authority to take away from him his role as calculator-purchasing supremo. Horace’s branch didn’t seem to purchase anything at all, but they had manifold duties of figure gathering and paper regurgitation. ‘And, of course, staff management is a very important part of our work,’ concluded Horace, fishing a piece of paper out of a file. ‘Here you are. It’s all set out here. This is one of my innovations, having a staff plan for each branch kept up-to-date. I’ve even written in the names of your staff and explained the grades.’

Amiss studied it attentively.

Amiss denied himself speculation about an organization that could call junior staff APEs, and tried to sound intelligent. ‘So there are just the two branches, and both of us work to Donald.’

‘That’s right. Not that Donald’s any use. Why, would you believe – ’

Amiss interrupted hastily. ‘Why all the numbers?’

Horace looked hurt. ‘That’s one of my innovations too. It provides for continuity in the event of staff changes. It would be invaluable if we were properly staffed, of course, and each PE had several APEs. And of course APEs should really be backed up by clerical support. Then one might have, for instance, a clerical officer on Henry Crump’s team who could instantly be pinpointed by the designation PD2.1.1.1. You see the advantages?’

‘Oh, certainly.’ Amiss felt he shouldn’t give too much encouragement to Horace. He’d be sewing numbers on the blokes’ suits next. ‘What are my staff like?’

‘Well, perhaps not as dynamic as one would wish,’ Horace said sadly. ‘Though I’m sure that now you’ve arrived they’ll have more of a sense of purpose. They’re all experienced and reliable men, of course. I’d keep my eye on Charlie Collins, though. He doesn’t seem to take his work as seriously as he should. I’m afraid he’s a bit flippant.’

Suppressing a flash of fellow-feeling for Charlie, Amiss nodded knowingly. ‘I’d better get out there and talk to them now,’ he said. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Perhaps we could all have an informal drink?’

Horace was flabbergasted. ‘We don’t encourage our staff to drink.’

The reproof drove Amiss into stumbling fatuousness. ‘Oh, just a symbolic quick one, you know. Breaks the ice and all that.’

‘Well, of course I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. But when you’ve been around as long as I have you’ll discover that too much informality breeds contempt for management.’

Amiss felt a pang of homesickness for his cheerfully irreverent staff back in the DOC, but answered obediently. ‘Yes. I quite understand. I’ll watch that.’

‘Just one thing before you go. It’s about your office.’

‘I didn’t think I had one. When we walked through the general office I saw an empty desk that I assumed was mine.’

Horace corrected him gravely. ‘That was for a special reason. George couldn’t work in an enclosed space because his cigarette smoke could have been bad for his chest. You’ll be having a proper office like this to yourself.’ He gesticulated vigorously around the cramped and claustrophobic cubicle which Amiss had already dubbed ‘the command module’.

‘Oh, really. I’d rather sit with my staff. It’s what I’m used to.’

‘It’s not a question of what you’d like, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s a question of what is correct for an SPE. The union wouldn’t be very pleased if you allowed management to deny you the privileges it has won for you. In any case, the carpenters are coming in to construct it tomorrow.’

Amiss gave up. There was no point in alienating Horace – or the bloody union for that matter. He stood up. ‘Well, that’s fine, then. Thanks for everything, Horace. You’ve been very helpful.’

Horace was a hard man to shake off. ‘I’ll come with you and introduce you to your chaps. Might as well do the thing properly.’

He led Amiss out and they skirted the long row of filing cabinets that cut the branches off from easy contact with each other. Horace cleared his throat. ‘This is your new SPE, Robert Amiss.’

Amiss’s ingratiating smile died abruptly as he glanced over the small group and encountered a concerted glare of hostility.

3

«
^
»

Purchasing Department,

British Conservation Corporation

14 May

Dear Rachel,

You won’t be the only person to be surprised by an unexpected letter from me. After almost five days in my new job on secondment to the above I’ve decided to occupy my office hours by writing incessantly to old neglected friends. To be seen reading for pleasure is considered bad for discipline.

I would describe this place as a mad-house, except that it’s nothing so exciting – more like a geriatric home. Between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. I’m walled up in a ten foot by four foot plywood cubby-hole where I pretend to spend eight hours on work that wouldn’t occupy a half-wit for three. My staff of six sit outside discussing old and new grievances (I’m one of the latter), exchanging badinage, reading newspapers on the pretext that they need to keep in touch with technical developments, and covertly pursuing their hobbies. They and I are supposed to concentrate full-time on purchasing furniture, stationery and calculators for the BCC.

All our furniture is bought from the same source the civil service uses, so all we have to do is rubber-stamp requests and fill out order forms. Stationery needs more attention. If so minded, one can spend many happy hours engaging in exchanges of memoranda with irresponsible colleagues who have ordered a stapler we consider surplus to their needs.

Calculators are our hot potato. As far as I can gather from the files, we’ve been making a cock-up here for some time. Our last achievement was to buy – two years ago – two hundred expensive models because we were impressed by promises of longevity. It is now alleged by our critics that these are obsolete and that smaller, more sophisticated calculators can be bought at Woolworths at a tenth of the price. A war has been raging for some considerable time. We are fighting a last-ditch action to persuade Authority that it shouldn’t decentralize calculator purchasing as it has in recent years – and clearly with good reason – decentralized damn near everything from computers to teapots. The only weapon we’ve got is to blame the whole mess on my predecessor, who was not at his sparkling best when the decision was taken. If I am to gain any popularity here, it will be by winning at least a stay of execution, and at best a confirmation that I am to be left with my rightful responsibilities in this matter.

As yet I haven’t the faintest grasp of why an apparently efficient outfit like this should tolerate the existence of a department in which fifteen men do the work of three. And what a shower they are! My boss, Donald Shipton, sleeps his life away down the corridor. My opposite number, Horace Underhill, devotes all his efforts to complicating our work to a level where even an Indian bureaucrat would cry halt. I know next to nothing about my staff except that St Francis of Assisi would find it hard to love them. They have made it abundantly clear that they take a dim view of being lumbered with an alien – worse, a young alien. They’ve resisted all my attempts to be friendly. Over the one drink I persuaded them to have with me all I got were snide remarks about graduates who thought they knew it all, the superiority of those who had been to the university of life, and animadversions on the inefficiency of civil servants. Which last is a bit thick when you consider that they are all people who transferred from the DOC when the BCC was set up – presumably because the salaries here are slightly higher – and must have been among the worst duds in the whole of the Home Civil Service. (From all this I exempt Charlie Collins, the only human being in the group, but more of him later.)

Henry Crump is particularly ghastly. He’s in his early fifties, all spreading belly and bum. His main hobby is making a nuisance of himself to the two women in the room. (In addition to Horace’s other burdens, he controls the Clerical Assistant, Cathy, a long-suffering middle-aged Irishwoman who bears on her face signs of the 800 years of sorrow and oppression of her race, and Janice, a dishy eighteen-year-old West Indian typist.) Henry, though like most of PD a sexist xenophobe, never misses an opportunity to squeeze up against either of them in narrow spaces. When he isn’t doing that he’s finding opportunities to lean over Janice and peer down her front. He’s got a sort of underhand leer, if you know what I mean, that makes one cringe and blush for him. He is also, I gather from occasional pronouncements drifting through my wall, in favour of capital and corporal punishment, repatriation, the outlawing of strikes and getting the trains to run on time. He manages cleverly to be anti-Semitic and fascist while referring to Chancellor Kohl and the rest of his nation as Nazis who should have been eliminated in 1945.