Dick Francis - Straight

“Go on,” I said, when he stopped. “Anything else?”

“Well, there are a lot of diplomats in West London, in all the embassies. You’d be astonished what they get away with by claiming diplomatic immunity. Greville hated diplomatic immunity, but we have to grant it. Then we have a lot of small businessmen who ‘forget’ to pay the road tax on the company vehicles, and there are TDA’s by the hundreds — that’s Taking and Driving Away cars. Other motoring offenses, speeding and so on, are dealt with separately, like domestic offenses and juveniles. And then occasionally we get the preliminary hearings in a murder case, but of course we have to refer those to the Crown Court.”

“Does it all ever depress you?” I said.

He took a sip and considered me. “It makes you sad,” he said eventually. “We see as much inadequacy and stupidity as downright villainy. Some of it makes you laugh. I wouldn’t say it’s depressing, but one learns to see the world from underneath, so to speak. To see the dirt and the delusions, to see through the offenders’ eyes and understand their weird logic. But one’s disillusion is sporadic because we don’t have a bench every day. Twice a month, in Greville’s and my cases, plus a little committee work. And that’s what I really want from you: the notes Greville was making on the licensing of a new-style gaming club. He said he’d learned disturbing allegations against one of the organizers and he was going to advise turning down the application at the next committee meeting even though it was a project we’d formerly looked on favorably.”

“I’m afraid,” I said, “that I haven’t so far found any notes like that.”

“Damn... Where would he have put them?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look for them, though.” No harm in keeping an eye open for notes while I searched for C.

Elliot Trelawney reached into an inner jacket pocket and brought out two flat black objects, one a notebook, the other a folded black case a bit like a cigarette case.

“These were Greville’s,” he said. “I brought them for you.” He put them on the small table and moved them toward me with plump and deliberate fingers. “He lent me that one,” he pointed, “and the notebook he left on the table after a committee meeting last week.”

“Thank you,” I said. I picked up the folded case and opened it and found inside a miniature electronic chess set, the sort that challenged a player to beat it. I looked up. Trelawney’s expression, unguarded, was intensely sorrowful. “Would you like it?” I said. “I know it’s not much, but would you like to keep it?”

“If you mean it.”

I nodded and he put the chess set back into his pocket. “Greville and I used to play... dammit...” he finished explosively. “Why should such a futile thing happen?”

No answer was possible. I regretfully picked up the black notebook and opened it at random.

“The bad scorn the good,” I read aloud, “and the crooked despise the straight.”

“The thoughts of Chairman Mao,” Trelawney said dryly, recovering himself. “I used to tease him. He said it was a habit he’d had from university when he’d learned to clarify his thoughts by writing them down. When I knew he was dead I read that notebook from cover to cover. I’ve copied down some of the things in it, I hope you won’t mind.” He smiled. “You’ll find parts of it especially interesting.”

“About his horses?”

“Those too.”

I stowed the notebook in a trousers pocket which was already pretty full and brought out from there the racing diary, struck by a thought. I explained what the diary was, showing it to Trelawney.

“I phoned that number,” I said, turning pages and pointing, “and mentioned Greville’s name, and a woman told me in no uncertain terms never to telephone again as she wouldn’t have the name Greville Franklin spoken in her house.”

Elliot Trelawney blinked. “Greville? Doesn’t sound like Greville.”

“I didn’t think so, either. So would it have had something to do with one of your cases? Someone he found guilty of something?”

“Hah. Perhaps.” He considered. “I could probably find out whose number it is, if you like. Strange he would have had it in his diary, though. Do you want to follow it up?”

“It just seemed so odd,” I said.

“Quite right.” He unclipped a gold pencil from another inner pocket and in a slim notebook of black leather with gold corners wrote down the number.

“Do you make enemies much, because of the court?” I asked.

He looked up and shrugged. “We get cursed now and then. Screamed at, one might say. But usually not. Mostly they plead guilty because it’s so obvious they are. The only real enemy Greville might have had is the gambling club organizer who’s not going to get his license. A drugs baron is what Greville called him. A man suspected of murder but not tried through lack of evidence. He might have had very hard feelings.” He hesitated. “When I heard Greville was dead, I even wondered about Vaccaro. But it seems clear the scaffolding was a sheer accident... wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was. The scaffolding broke high up. One man working on it fell three stories to his death. Pieces just rained down on Greville. A minute earlier, a minute later...” I sighed. “Is Vaccaro the gambling-license man?”

“He is. He appeared before the committee and seemed perfectly straightforward. Subject to screening, we said. And then someone contacted Greville and uncovered the muck. But we don’t ourselves have any details, so we need his notes.”

“I’ll look for them,” I promised again. I turned more pages in the diary. “Does Koningin Beatrix mean anything to you?” I showed him the entry. “Or CZ equals C times one point seven?”

C, I thought, looking at it again, stood for diamond.

“Nothing,” Elliot Trelawney said. “But as you know, Greville could be as obscure as he was clear-headed. And these were private notes to himself, after all. Same as his notebook. It was never for public consumption.”

I nodded and put away the diary and paid for Elliot Trelawney’s repeat Glenlivet but felt waterlogged myself. He stayed for a while, seeming to be glad to talk about Greville, as I was content to listen. We parted eventually on friendly terms, he giving me his card with his phone number for when I found Greville’s notes.

If, I silently thought. If I find them.

When he’d gone I used the pub’s telephone to call the car, and after five unanswered brr-brrs disconnected and went outside, and Brad with almost a grin reappeared to pick me up.

“Home,” I said, and he said, “Yerss,” and that was that.

On the way I read bits of Greville’s notebook, pausing often to digest the passing thoughts which had clearly been chiefly prompted by the flotsam drifting through the West London Magistrates Court.

“Goodness is sickening to the evil,” he wrote, “as evil is sickening to the good. Both the evil and the good may be complacent.”

“In all income groups you find your average regulation slob who sniggers at anarchy but calls the police indignantly to his burglarized home, who is actively anti-authority until he needs to be saved from someone with a gun.”

“The palm outstretched for a handout can turn in a flash into a cursing fist. A nation’s palm, a nation’s fist.”

“Crime to many is not crime but simply a way of life. If laws are inconvenient, ignore them, they don’t apply to you.”

“Infinite sadness is not to trust an old friend.”

“Historically, more people have died of religion than cancer.”

“I hate rapists. I imagine being anally assaulted myself, and the anger overwhelms me. It’s essential to make my judgment cold.”