Tim Heald - Death in the opening chapter

‘Any theories?’ he asked, with assumed casualness.

Brandon seemed startled, as if he had been asked something improper, as indeed he had.

‘Certainly not,’ he said, seeming affronted and managing to convey the idea that it was a question that should never have been asked, much less answered.

Bognor felt quelled.

‘I just wondered,’ he said, blustering, ‘if you had any theories about how the vicar met his end. I understand that you two know an awful lot about what goes on in Mallborne and I just wondered whether-’

The butler cut in.

‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked, just as generation upon generation of his ancestors must have asked people such as himself. It was not a question at all, being more of a rebuke. It was a reminder, above all, that while things might appear to change, they didn’t, in reality, change nearly as much as some people would have you believe. A certain sort of person knew as much, or more, as anyone; a certain sort of person knew his place, but his apparent place belied reality; a certain sort of person was in charge. Such a person now stood before him, and behind him stood the inevitable wife who, as always, in, what Bognor was increasingly inclined to accept was the battle of the sexes, wore the trousers.

He felt suitably small and much reduced; but he knew his place. The Brandons knew theirs too, and, in this instance, they were, like it or not, above the fray. And they were keeping their counsel, no matter who asked them to say what they knew.

It was ever thus.

Difficult, unfashionable, but true.

He had a call from Harvey Contractor in indecently quick time. Harvey was always in indecently quick time. He was also precise and accurate, and did as he was asked, plus some. Bognor was lucky to have him. The Board of Trade, even more so.

He was laughing when he came on line.

‘I’m calling from Kew,’ he said. ‘On a bench by the lake. Cold but bright, and I’ve found what you wanted.’

‘Which was?’

Bognor had not forgotten, but he wanted Contractor to repeat the info. Kept him on his toes, though this was seldom necessary. Others might rock back on their heels, but not Harvey Contractor.

‘I checked out the army list, and particularly had a look at the 13th Mobile in the 1950s,’ said Contractor. ‘Our friend the brigadier was there all right. And, as I suspected, but you didn’t quite spell out, there was a padre doing his national service at the same time by the name of Sebastian Fludd. Also a chap who sounds like a promoted sergeant major by the name of Brandon. Isn’t the Fludds’ butler called Brandon?’

‘Yes,’ said Bognor.

This he had not been expecting.

‘Not right for him,’ he said, ‘but an odd coincidence. Quite a usual name but not that usual. Not our man though.’

‘Could be his dad,’ said Contractor. ‘Was Brandon an army brat?’

‘Could well have been.’ His boss was thinking on his feet. This was tiresome but sometimes needs must. This was one of those occasions. The trick was not to let anyone else know.

‘I’ve already spoken to the brigadier but I didn’t know about the national service padre. Would you mind having a word? In person. He’s London based.’

‘Already have,’ said Contractor. ‘Cup of tea at his home. Knightsbridge or thereabouts.’

This was maddening but typical. One of many reasons why they enjoyed a love-hate relationship. It was horribly predictable of Contractor to be ahead of the game and to have anticipated his boss’s desire. What’s more, Contractor would wheedle stuff out of the brigadier that would have eluded Bognor. Contractor had a habit of going for the jugular in the nicest possible way. That was progress. Contractor was not as nice as he looked; Bognor nicer.

‘Ah,’ said Bognor.

‘Did I do right, boss?’ he asked.

‘Of course you did right,’ said Bognor snappily. ‘You always do. It would just be nice if, for once, you waited to be asked.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Don’t pretend.’ Bognor was reminded of the time that Leslie Compton, a footballing hero from Arsenal days had disregarded his captain’s command, had scored a famous winning goal, and had apologized to the skipper for disobeying orders. He hadn’t meant it any more than Contractor.

‘You OK?’ Contractor wanted to know. Bognor was touched, although he recognized that the concern was at least partly selfish. Bognor’s absence left his minion dangerously exposed to marauding mandarins from elsewhere in Whitehall. Bognor, by dint of years, if nothing else, had clout. Other men and women were frightened of him. He never thought it would happen, and put it down partly to age, and partly to a certain recklessness which came with longevity. On his way up the ladder, he cared about life and about the impression he was making on others. Now that he had gone as high as he was going, he no longer gave a stuff. He simply couldn’t care less. Other people knew this. And were afraid.

‘I’m fine. You?’

‘We miss you,’ said Contractor, and part of him may even have meant it. He had grown quite fond of the old thing. Self-interest was there too. Bognor was a grouchy old guard dog, but once he was out on his rounds, the rest of the world came sniffing around, pulling rank and peeing on the shoots of independence and unorthodoxy. Contractor was keen on both, and clever enough, particularly when protected by Bognor, to get away with it. Without the protective bark of Bognor, however, he was vulnerable.

‘Don’t let the buggers get you down,’ said Bognor, only too aware of the crippling orthodoxy of the men who ran other departments. He knew that they would be trying to pull rank in his absence; attempting to get Contractor to toe the line behind which they liked to hunker down.

Smooth, suave and second-rate. Cowards certainly, but bullies too. At least, when they could get away with it. In the nicest possible way. It was what foreigners so disliked about a certain sort of old-fashioned Brit. You couldn’t trust them, but they were such gents. Dressed properly, as well.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I can look after myself. Be nice to have you back though.’

Bognor frowned. He was supposed to be on holiday. He doubted whether Contractor really could look after himself. It would be good to be back. He snapped shut the mobile.

In for a penny, he thought, and punched in another number.

‘Pathology,’ said a voice, and he asked for the man to whom he had been so rude.

‘Sorry if I seemed… er… well… sorry,’ he said.

The voice at the other end sounded conciliatory and used to apologies such as this.

‘It’s all right,’ said the voice. It obviously wasn’t but Bognor let it pass.

‘I just wonder,’ said Bognor, ‘in the case of the late Vicar of St Teath’s, Mallborne, whether it would have been possible for the deceased to tie a rope round a rafter, put it round his neck, step on to a stool and then kick it from beneath him. If it were suicide, then that’s what he would have had to do. Does your examination provide hard and fast answers?’

All this prolonged and original thought was good for Bognor’s ego, and he could hear the forensic scientist cudgelling his grey matter at the other end of the line for several gratifying seconds. Eventually, the pathologist spoke.

‘It’s a grey area,’ he said. ‘Routine DNA testing showed evidence of the widow’s presence. There were a number of other traces. Churches are busy places, after all. The rope had been handled by several different people. So, it’s perfectly possible that one or more other people were involved. Technically speaking, it would have been possible for the deceased to have carried out the entire operation single-handed, but my own guess is that it would have been unlikely, given that he was not a naturally strong or athletic person.’