Blame The Dead Read online

  Inside, I found myself opposite a row of lifts and rode one up three storeys just to get well behind the lines. Then found the stairs and started walking down; at the second floor I came out on to a wide gallery running all around the big room itself, and paused to regroup myself.

  It was a vast, shapeless place full of the bustle and chatter of an Italian railway station. The floor was dotted with dozens of big double-sided old desks – the underwriters'

  'boxes', I suppose – that looked tatty and third-hand against the hygienic cream marble walls and square green pillars. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of men were moving, standing, sitting, and maybe even knowing what they were doing, but to me it looked as organised as the last minutes of the Titanic. Somewhere in that lot were Fenwick's business friends and neighbours, but where did I start?

  I started by getting rid of my sheepskin coat, nobody else had outdoor clothes on. The gallery was also full of underwriting boxes, and a few had the odd hat or umbrella dumped around, so I quietly added mine. Then down to the main floor.

  Once there, the only thing to do was look preoccupied and keep moving. I did a complete circuit of the room, past the rows of boxes and a dais where somebody was steadily broadcasting a list of names by loudspeaker, past the enshrined ship's bell – the Lutinebeli, I imagine, off the old treasure ship. Weren't they supposed to ring it every time a ship went down? Well, they didn't, and in a moment I could see why: a thirty-foot-long notice board covered with pink and yellow sheets listing boats lost, damaged, or missing in the last few days. I'd never have believed it; the bottom of the sea was getting double-parked vertically, and ringing the bell for that lot would be a full-time job. But nobody seemed to be caring but me, so I moved on quickly.

  This wasn't getting me anywhere. I stopped, looked around, and latched on to a chubby-cheeked, fluffy-haired twenty-year-old. Putting the parade ground back in my voice, I growled, 'Remind me which the devil's Fenwick's box. Always get lost when I come in here, blast it.'

  He should have called in the Mounties, but I'd guessed right about this place: the fact that I was in the right suit, twice his age, and actuallyhere outweighed any doubts about whether Ishould be here.

  'I think it's three-eighty-something, sir – but I'll just check for you.' He scurried off and back. 'Yes, sir, it's three-eighty-seven. But you know he…"

  'I wouldn't have had to come if he hadn't, dammit. Thank you, boy.' And I stumped off.

  Each box had a number on its side, so after that it was just a matter of reconnaissance and planning my approach. The box itself was one of the smallest I'd seen, not much longer than an ordinary desk and split lengthways by a bank of pigeon-holes.

  A lad about the same age as the one who'd given me the number was taking down thick metal-bound book files from the pigeon-holes and passing them to a large, worried-looking man next to him on the bench. A slim, elderly, elegant man was standing by, looking down.

  The big man looked up as I arrived and said sharpish, 'Sorry, but we're not doing any business today.'

  'My name's Card, James Card.'

  'Fine, but we're still not…'

  Then the lad whispered to him and I caught '… one in France, sir, who…'

  The man said, 'My God, you?' and got up at a remarkable speed for his size and age – he must have been about fifty and not much less around the turn.

  For a time he just stared at me and I stared back and the world of marine insurance babbled busily on around us. He looked as if he'd grown from a chubby baby to a big fat man just by inflating: he still had the neat little features, the big blue eyes, the fat hands, the wispy hair – though it was white by now. But he was hard with it; he stood a clear three inches taller than me and if he punched his weight I hoped he'd pick on somebody his own size.

  Then he pushed along the bench – the boy scuttling out of his way – until he towered over me face down to face. 'Well, I'm damned if I expected to see you here. Come to give your pay back?'

  I didn't say anything.

  He said, 'You didn't do much of a job last night, did you?'

  I went on staring at the nice dark-blue silk suit, the tailored shirt, the obviously expensive silk tie, the gold watch-chain and cuff links. All a bit richer, more individual than the clothing I'd seen here so far.

  'Not very talkative, are you?' he barked.

  'We haven't been introduced.'

  He snorted. 'I'm Paul Mockby' – as if he expected me to recognise it.

  I just nodded; it didn't seem like an occasion for shaking hands. He swung back to the bench and grabbed handfuls of papers. 'Come upstairs and tell me about it.'

  The elderly party at the far end of the box said vaguely, 'I'll leave it to you, then, Paul. You'll let me know?'

  'I'll let everybody know.' Mockby jerked his head at me and steamed off across the floor at a Rifle Brigade pace.

  I followed him back into a lift, up to the fourth floor, and down a corridor that seemed very quiet after the big room. We turned in through a glass-panelled door labelled just M. J. fen-wick and there wasn't any nonsense about letting visitors go first or closing the door after them.

  It was a surprisingly small, sparse room. Just one small desk, three simple hard-backed chairs, a glass-fronted bookcase, and a couple of Canaletto prints on the walls. And another door, leading off to the side.

  Behind the desk was a small mousy-blonde girl who didn't look as if she'd been doing anything but stare into space. Mockby evicted her by throwing down a five-pound note and snapping, 'Hop out and get me five Bolivars. You know the size.'

  She hopped and he dumped himself behind the desk, lita. cigar the size of a copper's truncheon, and said, 'Well?'

  'Funny. It doesn't seem the sort of place to handle hundreds of thousands of premiums.'

  'Lloyd's doesn't need a front. Can undercut the big companies simply because we keep our overheads down. Under five per cent. Now – what happened?'

  I sat down; I could have fossilised before he invited me to. 'He got shot from cover.'

  'That's what you were there to stop!'

  'Oh, no. I was told we'd meet some people who might turn nastylater.'

  He swatted the idea away with a big hand. 'What's the difference?'

  'If he'd told me it could be an assassination job, I'd've wanted at least two more men and, even then, I wouldn't have let him near that place at that sort of time.'

  While he was absorbing this, the inner door opened and a pretty, not very thin girl in her middle twenties came in carrying a bunch of papers. She had straight, dark-brown hair pulled back in a mock-severe schoolmarm style, and she'd been crying behind her big round horn-rims.

  Mockby didn't get up. 'Here, Maggie – this is the bastard who got Martin killed.'

  She looked at me quickly, didn't like me, swallowed and blinked back more tears, then hurried out again.

  I said, 'And you count the day lost that you don't bring a little sunshine into somebody's life.'

  He grunted. 'I still think you ballsed it up.'

  I shrugged. 'Who was Mr Fenwick, anyway?'

  'He didn't even tell you that? He was the underwriter to our syndicate. Christ!' He slammed his hand down on the papers he'd brought up. 'And his deputy's got the flu and the accountant doesn't come in on Mondays and we could have insured the whole Royal bloody Navy in the last month and I wouldn't know!'

  'Maybe there won't be a war this week.'

  He glared up at me. 'There was a packet Martin was going to hand over: what happened to it?'

  'What was it?'

  'Never mind what it bloody was! What happened to it?'

  'Mr Mockby – I'd like to stay on this job; find out who killed Mr Fenwick. Can you…'

  'You're trying to get into me for more money, are you?'

  'No. I'm prepared to spend what I got paid on working on this. After that, well…'

  'I don't imagine you could find your arse if you were sitting on it. You aren't a detective; you aren't even a decent
bodyguard. Just mind your own business, andwhere's that packet?'

  'Maybe the police got it.'

  'Hell.' He thought about this. 'You're sure nobody else did?'

  'Not the people who shot him, anyway.'

  'And you were too busy saving your own neck to bother with it.'

  I stood up. 'You could have saved his life.'

  He glared suspiciously. 'What d'you mean?'

  'You know what it's all about.' He didn't say anything. 'And he worked for you.'

  'Not me – the syndicate.'

  'You're the rich man; he was the busy one. You could havegone in his place.'

  He looked at me with a sort of glowering calm. Then he said quietly, 'Bugger off.'

  And there wasn't much else to do.

  Four

  But I didn't go all the way out.

  It was past three o'clock now, and I had a feeling Mockby wouldn't last much longer. The way he'd been throwing those papers around suggested he was either looking for something or trying to get a quick, over-all impression. A real paper-worker – an auditor or intelligence operator – keeps his material neat and tidy.

  In fact, he lasted about twenty more minutes, spending the last five down at the box – as I'd guessed he would. All I had to do was to stick to the gallery but not too long in one spot. And when he packed some papers into a briefcase and headed for the front door, I repossessed my own coat and walked back up the stairs.

  The little mousy blonde was back and she gave a little mousy squeak when she saw who it was. I soothed her quickly. 'It's all right – I forgot something. Wanted another quick word with Maggie.'

  And I was knocking on Maggie's door before she could sort out the half-truths in that.

  Maggie called, 'Who is it?' so I showed her.

  It was the same size of room – small – but busier-looking. There was a serious desk and typewriter with a balance-sheet-sized carriage; a couple of old breakfront bookcases with some legal-looking books; a grey metal filing cabinet, a row of cactus pots on the window-sill, and a duplicating machine in the corner.

  And Maggie. 'You? What on earth doyou want?'

  She had a comfortable figure, like a slim cottage loaf, wrapped in a simple short black dress that belonged to later in the day. No – she was in mourning, of course; that was the only black thing she owned. A sharp little nose, slightly overlarge mouth; and still red-eyed from crying. But looked somehow more relaxed now.

  I said, 'Just wanted a quick word about Mr Fenwick.'

  'Haven't you done enough for him already?' she asked wearily. Since I'd half expected to get her fangs in my jugular, this was hopeful.

  'I'd like to try and do a bit more.'

  'Ha. I don't see how you could.'

  'I'd like to know something about him.'

  She shrugged. 'Like what?'

  'Well, just give me a feel.'

  'Ibeg your pardon?' She went rigid and her eyes opened wide.

  'Fenwick – what sort of man he was.'

  'Oh.' She relaxed and stared dreamily at nothing. 'He was a wonderful man.'

  'I liked him myself,' I said encouragingly.

  'You didn't know him.' She dreamed a bit more, blinked at some tears, and fiddled with something in one of the desk drawers. 'He was a marvellous man to work for.'

  'Did you know his family?'

  'He's got a boy at Harrow. Nice boy.'

  'What about his wife – did you meet her? '

  She gave a slight snort and a little twisted smile. 'Just twice. She – doesn't come into London much.'

  'Where does she live?'

  'Why?' – and she fiddled in the drawer again.

  'Well -1 reckon the least I can do is go and see her.'

  She shrugged. 'I don't suppose she'd care.' Then the phone rang.

  Maggie picked it up and spoke listlessly, saying that Mr Mockby and Mr Gale had been in… yes, there'd be a letter sent out in a day or two, just as soon as things had straightened out… I just stood and stared around the office.

  Her desk had a clutter that didn't belong; not just papers, but bottles of nail varnish, a couple of paperbacks, a pair of evening shoes. She was still on the phone and looking bored with it. She glanced down and reached for that desk drawer again. It's a gesture that bothers me – somebody's hand reaching for something hidden. Professional training, I suppose. I took a couple of quick strides and leaned over to look.

  I should have guessed; it was a glass, half full of some drink. She'd slipped it off the desk top as I came in. So she was saying farewell to her boss in something stronger than tears; she wasn't just relaxed, she was half cut.

  She glared at me and I grinned back. When she finally put down the phone, I said, 'Go on – drink it in the open. It's not a normal day.'

  She lifted the glass defiantly and took a healthy swig. 'I'm just clearing out his entertainment cupboard. It seems a pity to leave it for those rich creeps."

  'D'you need any help? '

  'Serve yourself.' She waved a hand at the cupboard of one of the breakfronts. Inside, I found what had been a nice selection of drinking aids. I organised myself a Scotch and soda.

  'Cheers.' I drank, then asked, 'Did you finish the vodka and sherry?'

  'Why not?' Jesus – she wasn't just half cut, she was pretty near minced.

  'You're quitting?' I nodded at the clutter on the desk.

  'As soon as they let me. Or before.'

  I smiled sympathetically and parked myself on the edge of the desk – visitors didn't seem to get asked to sit much in this office.

  'Just what is Mr Mockby? '

  'He's a Name.'

  'He's about five that I can think of.'

  She smiled briefly. 'That means a member; they call them Names. The rich bastards who are supposed to be risking their money here.'

  'Well, you can't run an oil well without oil. And a bunch of Names is a syndicate, right? – how many in a syndicate?'

  'It can be over a hundred, it can be as small as we are: just nine. Though most of ours are pretty rich.'

  'And they split the profits according to how much they've put up – is that right?' She nodded. 'The underwriter himself -does he put up anything? Get any of the profits?'

  'Yes, but he doesn't have to berich.' It was a dirty word. 'Big money doesn't make big minds. You don't own it; it owns you.'

  'Sometimes.'

  'D'you know any rich men?' Her tone suggested it was unlikely.

  'It's only the rich men who can afford bodyguards. Or think they need it.'

  'I wish Martin had afforded somebody better.'

  Oh God, we were back to that.

  But she was too far gone to stick to one subject now. She finished her drink, heaved herself up, and poured another – Scotch, this time.

  'You're going to end up cronked.' Professionally, I didn't mind, but the residual officer-and-gentleman in me felt it had to say something.

  'I'm a big girl now. And you said it wasn't a normal day.' She gulped.

  'D'you know why Mr Fenwick was going to Arras?'

  'It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now.'

  'But you know?'

  'Ask Mockby.'

  'Your Mr Fenwick hired me. Granted, maybe I didn't do as good a job as I might have done. But I don't think he'd like me just to drop it now.' And I can sing Mother Macree hand-embroidered with roses and violets, too.

  But if there was a psychological moment, I'd missed it. All she said was, 'Forget it. Just forget it all.' Then dumped herself back behind the desk and stared at the typewriter and went peck peck peck at one key.

  Blast it.

  I put on a more formal voice and said, 'You were going to give me Mrs Fenwick's address.'

  'Was I?' She lifted her glass and stared through it. 'You wouldn't like her. She's a cow. You'd step in her cow-pats.' She giggled.

  When she got over the top, she certainly went downhill fast.

  The address,' I said sternly.

  'Kingscutt Manor
Kingscutt Kent,' she droned.

  I spaced it in my head. 'Thank you.'

  'Any time. Anything for an old friend of Martin's.'

  I stood up carefully. 'Thank you, Miss…? '

  'Mackwood, Miss Maggie Mackwood, at your service.' Then she leaned her forehead on the typewriter and began to cry gently. I tiptoed out.

  The little thing at the reception desk looked at me as severely as she could – like an angry mouse.

  'I almost rang the box,' she said. 'I mean when you just walked in like that.'

  I nodded. 'Next time, ring. You won't get anywhere unless you're ready to get tough with uninvited guests.'

  She looked blank, then surprised, and then puzzled-but-friendly. The sound of sobbing came from the door behind her. She cocked an ear and nodded. 'She was very fond of Mr Fenwick.'

  'Make sure she gets a taxi home.'

  'You think I ought to?'

  'Just get one and then tell her when it's here. Be tough.'

  She smiled uncertainly. 'All right. Did you really see when he – got shot?'

  I had my hand on the doorknob. 'Yes.'

  'I wonder whoever did it.'

  I turned and went back, meaning to pat her on the head. But suddenly she was a frightened mouse again, rearing back in her seat. So I just smiled, friendly-like.

  'Congratulations. It's about time somebody asked that.'

  Five

  At a bit before four, the rush out of the City was thickening up (what hours do these peoplework?) but I still found a taxi inside five minutes. We only went as far as Fleet Street, where I knew a man who worked in a newspaper library.

  A newspaper office is a lot easier than Lloyd's because it employs a much bigger variety of bods. You still have to look as if you know where you're going – but this time I did already. Most of the building has become the usual concrete-glass-fibreboard stuff in the last few years, but the library's in the old tribal country around the central light-well: the high dirty ceilings, long, frayed light flexes, and dark mustiness of a real library. The boys there take a perverse pride about it. They say it's the heart of the organisation and a face-lift on a heart never worked yet.