Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘We’ll do that later.’

Directly outside the back entrance is a Cortina Estate with the boot packed roof-high with suitcases.

‘I think we might just have found where the rest of the stuff is,’ says Sid drily.

‘All that? It never occurred to me–’

‘Doctor Carboy, or whatever your name is, you’re not fooling anybody. We know you lifted that stuff.’

‘What?’ Carboy’s display of indignant outrage is worth a government subsidy. ‘How dare you! Do you know what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting we have a little chat,’ says Sid. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve got a proposition to make to you.’

It is about two o’clock in the morning when I go to bed and Carboy is still maintaining that somebody else nicked all the stuff from the rooms. Yes, it turns out that about half a dozen rooms have been turned over. He is, not surprisingly, very interested in Miss Ruperts’ proposition and when I leave Sid and him they are on the point of going off to see the old bag. One thing that does cheer and amaze me is that Carboy really is a doctor. At least he says he is and he has a very impressive piece of paper to back his words. It carries more swirls and squiggles than the label on a vermouth bottle.

The next morning I come down to find that Carboy and Miss Ruperts have left for London.

‘That’s it,’ I tell Sid. ‘He’s probably married her by now. We’ll be right in the S – H one T.’

‘Whether he has or hasn’t he can’t do us too much harm. I still own this hotel and if he gets nasty I’ll tell Miss Ruperts what he was up to last night. He’ll find it difficult to talk his way out of that.’

‘Don’t bet on it. He hasn’t been doing badly so far. That geezer could dive into a cesspool and come up smelling like a poof’s bedroom. Why have they gone to London?’

‘She wants him to get all the gen on her financial affairs.’

‘Bleeding heck! He’ll take her to the cleaners. Why didn’t you go?’

‘She didn’t want me to. I don’t have the same pull that he does. Let’s face it. Any deal we fix up is because she reckons him.’

Much as it pains me to admit it, I know that Sid is right and that there is nothing we can do except twiddle our thumbs and wait for Carboy and Ruperts to turn up again–if they ever do. Even as I think about it I have a horrible vision of them climbing the gang-plank of the QE II, arm in arm …

Luckily there are other things to take my mind off my immediate problems. Things like Mrs Fatso. She willows up to me, removing a crumb from the corner of her beautiful mouth and fixing me with an eye that glows like a night-watchman’s brazier.

‘There’s another game this afternoon,’ she says pointedly.

‘Your old man going to be up to it?’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag him away.’

‘And you’re not going?’

‘He might get hurt again. I couldn’t bear to watch that.’ She smoothes a non-existent ruckle out of her slacks. Slacks! There’s a ridiculous word for them. There is more tension going on down there than at a meeting of the Labour Party Executive. ‘I was thinking that it might be fun to organise a little team activity of our own. Quite a number of the girls aren’t all that keen on rugger.’

Hello, hello! What’s all this then? Do I detect intimations of immorality? (It’s wonderful what a course at the Polytechnic can do for your vocabulary, isn’t it?)

‘Oh, yes,’ I say, dead casual. ‘I saw you talking to one of your friends.’

‘Judy? Yes, she was very keen on the idea. She feels the fish market has little more to offer her.’

‘Very understandable. Quite what was she considering as an alternative?’

‘Well,’ Mrs Fatso takes a deep breath. Something she does rather well. ‘A party might be fun, mightn’t it? If you could round up some more able-bodied men we might pass the afternoon in more agreeable fashion than standing on a sodden touch-line shouting “oily, oily, Rottingfestrians”.’

‘Sounds a very nice idea. My colleague, Mr Noggett, has a suite of rooms which would be ideal for the purpose. I’m certain he would be only too glad to participate.’

‘Can’t you think about anything else but nooky at a time like this?’ says Sid irritably when I tell him.

‘No. What is there?’

Sid thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. What time does the party start?’

I tell him that I have laid it on for when all the Rottingfestrians have trotted off to the rugby game and his face creases into a faint smile for the first time in days.

‘Frisky load of fillies, aren’t they?’ he says. ‘I won’t be sorry to get amongst that lot after what I’ve been through with their old men. Now we’ve only got to worry about stalling Rigby.’

To my surprise, Rigby does not show up promptly at lunch time and it is only when the Rottingfestrians are having their last pint before leaving for the game that the Rolls slides up outside the hotel entrance. Its arrival draws a cheer from the crowd of half-pissed thicknecks milling about outside the bar and this does not go down well with Rigby.

‘Take a good look,’ he sneers, indicating the car. ‘It’s about as near as any of you will ever get to one.’

This remark provokes an immediate outcry and Sid moves forward fast to avoid a possible lynching.

‘Come and have a drink,’ he says civilly. Rigby jerks his head towards the bar.

‘Not in here, thanks. I don’t like drinking with scruffy schoolkids.’

‘Come into the office.’ Sid leads the way to Miss Ruperts’ cubby hole and we are fortunate enough to find half a bottle of scotch that the old bat has left over from breakfast.

‘I’m not here to pay a social call. Are you ready to sign?’

‘We’ve given it a lot of thought–’

‘You’ve had a lot of time.’

‘–but we won’t be able to give you our decision until tomorrow.’

‘Right! Well, you’re going to have a sleepless night to think about it. I’m walking straight out of here and I’m giving my boys the go ahead to start moving in. You’d better start getting the cotton wool out of the medicine cabinet.’

‘Mr Rigby? How fortunate to find you here.’ The words fall from the lips of Doctor Carboy who comes bustling through the door carrying a bulging briefcase. Hard behind him is Miss Ruperts, her face flushed with what I imagine to be a few hastily snatched glasses of lunch.

‘Who is this?’ snarls Rigby.

‘I represent those interests of this lady and gentleman that are not covered by liquor, sex and drugs,’ says Carboy evenly. ‘I have been bringing myself up to date with their affairs. I had to go to London to read all the relevant Sunday newspapers.’

‘I’m not interested in jokes,’ says Rigby, sourly.

‘What a pity. With a face like that I’d have thought you would have had to have been.’

‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’

‘No, I’m certain a man of your standing can be insulted anywhere. In fact, now I come to mention it, I’m certain a man of your standing could be standing anywhere. Like outside in the rain for instance. There’s a Rolls-Royce outside the front door. Why don’t you go and stand under it and I’ll tell you when it’s stopped raining.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ screeches Rigby.

‘Of course I do. You’re King Farouk’s younger brother thinking that nobody is going to recognise you without the flower pot and the dark glasses. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I know who you are. I told you when I came in. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already?’

‘Don’t beat about the bush, Walter,’ pants Miss Ruperts, casting about her for the whisky bottle. ‘Tell him. Odious little man.’