The Midden (20 page)

It wasn't Major MacPhee's idea of fun.

In London the man who had called himself Mr Brian Smith was looking distinctly peaky. He
wasn't enjoying himself at all. 'The little shit has done a a flyer,' he told someone on the
phone. 'With the fucking piggy-bank too. Yeah, I know how many megabytes it was. But...No, I
never dreamt. I wouldn't have thought he had the fucking guts. He should have been on the boat
and he wasn't...Yeah, I know it's not a fun matter. I'm the first to know that, aren't I? Of
course he could have had an accident or gone over by a different route. I only had one bloke at
Santander to check him out and he wasn't on any ferry. If he doesn't do the rest of the job on
time we'll know. Yes, yes...yes...of course.'

He put the phone down gently and cursed Timothy Bright loud and long and with a ferocity that
justified all that young man's fears.

Sir Arnold Gonders was on the phone too, in a public phone box talking to the sod who ran The
Holy Temple of Divine Being and The Pearly Gates of Paradise. He could see the lights on in the
room above the painted-over window of the sex shop and had already walked past it twice in a
raincoat and with a flat cap pulled down over his face. He was also wearing gloves. On the second
occasion he had stopped briefly to stuff a brown envelope through the letterbox. Now he was using
a voice distorter. The Chief Constable was taking every precaution and no chances.

'I am interested in young people,' he said in tones that he hoped were mincingly authentic.
'Know what I mean?' The proprietor said he thought he did. 'Male or female, sir?' he
enquired.

'Both,' said Sir Arnold.

'And young?'

Sir Arnold hesitated. 'Yes, young,' he said finally. 'Like tied up, know what I mean?'

The proprietor knew perfectly well what was meant.

'Pictures. Mags. And I need discretion. If you go down to your shop you'll find an envelope
with my money in it. I want you to send the material in a box to me at the address I have
supplied. Two hundred should cover the cost, shouldn't it?'

'I'm sure it will, sir.'

'So I've added another hundred for discretion. Right?'

'Right, sir. Very kind.'

'And there'll be an additional order if I like what I see. Name's MacPhee.' Again he hesitated
before going on in a far more sinister tone of voice. 'And don't think of not sending me the
stuff and keeping the cash. I got some connections.'

'Connections, sir?'

'Like with Freddie Monce, like The Torch. I wouldn't want to have to call them.'

The sod wouldn't want him to call them either. Having a firebombed sex shop wouldn't do him
any good at all. The Chief Constable put the phone down and hurried away. The first part of his
plan had begun. He went home and changed. It was time to begin his other investigation. It was
ten o'clock when he left the house again in his own Jag and drove down the coast to Urnmouth.
Maxie at the Hydro knew what was going on with just about everyone. He wanted a chat with
Maxie.

The Urnmouth Hydro is an imposing building. Built in the age of mid-Victorian splendour along
impeccably classical lines, it stands in its own elegant grounds like a Grecian temple. Its white
columns are made of cast iron from the Gundron cannon foundry while its walls are of brown
ironstone. But it is inside that the classical ambience is most appropriate to its present use.
The original owner had insisted the interior should reflect Roman taste as authentically as the
exterior was to be a mirror of something in Athens. The architect and decorator had followed
these instructions as exactly as his knowledge of Roman history and custom allowed. One elderly
cleric, already stunned by the Darwinian controversy of the time, had been so overwhelmed by the
scenes of debauchery depicted on the walls of the atrium that he had died of apoplexy in the arms
of the butler. These murals even now struck all visitors forcibly. It was even claimed that
several gentlemen had been known to experience ejaculatio praecox before they had rid themselves
of their overcoats. And it was due to these friezes that, after a considerable period of neglect,
the house had been turned into what was called a hydro by Maxie Schryburg, an entrepreneur from
Miami.

Sir Arnold Gonders had taken an interest in Maxie Schryburg's enterprise from the beginning.
The Hydro would, he felt sure, attract the sort of people the Chief Constable wanted to know all
about. Besides Maxie himself was of interest to Sir Arnold. Maxie had always claimed he was
'outta da Big Apple' but the Chief Constable had information that he had in fact been a minor
operator in Florida and had found it wise to move away on account of some Cuban competition
there. Certainly Urnmouth was the last place anyone would look for a restaurateur of his
recondite type.

The cold wind blowing in off the sea made the little town an inhospitable place for strangers.
The Hydro offered its only entertainment apart from a straggle of pubs in the high street but
membership, while open to all who could pay, was in fact restricted to those who could pay a
great deal either in cash or in kind. Sir Arnold, who always used the nom de guerre of Mr Will
Cope, belonged to the latter sort, but at the same time extracted a great deal of information
from Maxie in return for his patronage.

Now, having entered by the private door at the back which led along a covered way to Maxie's
bungalow, he climbed the stairs to his usual private dining-room in the happy knowledge that with
Vy and the foul Bea away, presumably in Harrogate, he could afford to relax and combine pleasure
with investigation. He accepted the menu from the obsequious Maxie in his role of maitre.

'May I suggest that for the hors d'oeuvres you have Number Three?' he said. 'Very fresh and
tender.'

'Really? Interesting. Ample proportions, eh?'

'I think you'll find them adequate, sir. Very, 'ow you say, "well hung".'

'Sounds all right to me,' said Sir Arnold. 'And for the main course? What's on tonight?
Anything special?'

'The mixed grill will be ready about ten. Before that we are a bit short, I'm afraid. Times
ain't what they used to be.'

'Same every place, Maxie, same every place,' said the Chief Constable, adapting to the argot.
'I think I'll wait for the mixed grill. Fresh, is it?'

Maxie combined a nod with a shrug by way of a disclaimer. 'Well, Mr Cope, what can I say? I
provide fresh but what comes in I have to take pot luck. Pay top rates too.'

'Mixed grill it is,' said Sir Arnold, and sat back to watch the floor show. It was, to say the
least, entirely appropriate for the setting. Two girls danced rather awkwardly on an oil-covered
water-bed before wrestling with one another's panties and finally going in for a prolonged bout
of peculiar kissing.

The Chief Constable finished his whisky and ordered another. 'Make it a Spanish, Maxie,' he
said, 'and what's with this starter? It's a long time coming.'

'Hasn't arrived yet,' Maxie told him.

'So what do I do while I wait?'

'You could always have a bit of massage maybe.'

'I'm surprised at you, Maxie. You know me. I don't do none of that.'

Again Mr Schryburg nodded and shrugged. 'Me neither,' he said, 'me neither. You wouldn't
believe it but I am a believer always in family values. Sure, you laugh but it is true. Like the
Great Lady said, "What we need is family values like the Victorians. " And she was right. You
know, Mr Cope, she should have toughed it out. Some great lady. I drink to her. The Iron
Maiden.'

The Chief Constable raised his glass and drank. He felt rather embarrassed whenever Mr
Schryburg talked like that. Like someone farting in church. It was inappropriate and besides he
wasn't at all sure about the Iron Maiden bit. While he waited he tapped the channel controller on
the multiple TV screens. Nothing happening in Diner 1. In Diner 3 a thin and rather nervous
individual was helping himself to neat Polish vodka. Sir Arnold shook his head disapprovingly. It
was no help doing that. All the same he stayed with Diner 3. The fellow had taken his trousers
off and had folded them neatly beside his shirt. The Chief Constable switched on the video
recorder. He had recognized Fred Phylleps, the Tory party campaign manager for South Twixt and
also an influential figure as the transport manager at Intergrowth Chemicals. In fact Sir Arnold
had had it on good authority that F.F., as Fred Phylleps was known to his friends, had been the
bagman in a pay-off to someone who knew a little too much about the financial affairs of a
certain person's close relative. No names, no packdrill. It would be a good thing to add F.F. to
his little collection of videoed notables, though frankly Sir Arnold wasn't impressed by his
choice of dishes. Thirty-five-year-old-playing-teenybopper did nothing for him, and he had
recently gone clean off leather. Still, F.F. might yet come in handy by way of protection.

Presently, when he had tried several other Diners, the Chief Constable turned back to his own
needs. He hadn't come here for a meal. He needed information. 'You haven't got many customers for
a Monday night,' he said when Maxie brought his third whisky.

'Comes and goes. Mondays. Sometimes there's a big rush on like when the wives are away or we
get a convention. And of course the regulars come in the afternoon though we do have some in the
morning. Come with their fishing rods mainly. Mornings is surprisingly good.'

'I suppose they must be,' said the Chief Constable. 'By the way, do you have many bondage
merchants?'

'Try the Dungeon,' said Maxie and leant across to press a button marked D. Sir Arnold found
himself staring at a room containing what looked like a surgical table with straps, a dentist's
chair and, most sinisterly, a small gallows with a hangman's noose. On the walls were an
assortment of instruments and whips.

'I like to think we got some good equipment,' said Maxie. 'Yeah, man, we can give them the
works. We got one customer's a medical man and he reckons all we need is a resuscitation room and
we could help out with the National Health operations. What he don't know is we've got a
resuscitation room right through that door in the corner there. You wouldn't believe what some
people like doing to themselves. We had this old guy in one time brought his own priest for
confession like and I'm meaning a kosher priest. I swear to God the guy's got a real priest. Like
he's a Roman Catholic or something. So one of the girls has got to be dressed in nothing but a
hood and these pants and an open-teat bra, all black leather. And she's the hangman and two other
girls they strap the old guy up real tight and the priest takes his confession and the last
rites, you know, the works. And that's when I know the priest is for real because he doesn't like
what he's into one bit. Keeps sweating, and crossing himself. And Ruby, she's the hangman, puts
this silk bag over the old guy's head and then the noose on this bungy rubber and takes her time
to give him his money's worth because this is costing, with that equipment and the overheads like
the gallows and all. Then she steps back and pulls the lever and the old guy goes down on the
bungy. You should have seen it. Thing is we've got the noise right on the audio player so we
don't hear his real noise. Man, was I glad we had a top doctor in Diner 10 that night. Only time
I've ever asked a customer to stop and come urgent. The old guy had had a seizure even before he
did the drop scene. Then he's having this fucking fit and it's boomsadaisy and he's on the bungy
having his neck stretched and it don't do him no good at all, jerking around and twitching like
there's no tomorrow which just about happens to be true in his case. And that bungy don't help
none either. He keeps coming up through the fucking trap again and the priest is so fucking
thrown he's off into the last rites again. And as if that isn't bad enough, I call the ambulance
fast and they rush in what's the first thing they see? Ruby in the leather and a naked fucking
doctor with a condom on trying to get the old bastard down so's he can give him the kiss of life
and he's hacking away at the bungy rope with some scissors won't cut and there's this priest on
his knees moaning in Latin or something. Only time I've seen the last rites done twice in ten
minutes the same guy. You think of the outlay for a caper like that. Shit. I have to buy the
ambulance guys off and give that doctor three weeks free and that ain't all. I got to join the
Catholic Church so I can confess for real and calm that fucking priest down he's so hysterical.
Yeah, sure the old guy is paying. When he comes out of intensive care which was iffy at the time
and he's in hospital seven whole weeks. After that I said we got to have our own resuscitation
room. And was I lucky. We had an accident one time with the electric chair. Wasn't no accident
either. The guy was a bad one. I mean a hurter, a real mean bastard. He wants to go all the way
with torture like he's read they do in South Africa or El Salvador some place. Terminals and
electric shocks and you know. The works. So he's got Lucille in there. She's the one does the S
and M roles both. Big girl and not the sort you'd think was that way. Motherly, you know what I
mean?'

The Chief Constable did. He had a video in his safe of Lucille working the Member for East
Seirsley with the butt of a bull whip with genuine pleasure. She was enjoying her work, which was
more than the MP appeared to. Afterwards, when he had the gag out, he'd said as much. It was an
interesting tape.

'So this mean bastard has brought his own transformer,' Maxie went on. 'After him we screened
the gear people bring but this was earlier. Gets Lucille in the chair with the straps on and the
head terminal down on her and the mask he leaves off and he cranks his own machine. Both. You
believe it? Lucille's expecting to imitate when he fires but she don't have to do no imitations.
You should have seen the fucking burn marks he leaves on her. Real nice bastard. Even had the
nerve to query the bill. Some guys you don't have back. And we search bags since.'