Red Herrings by Tim Heald Read Free Book Online

and drugs all the time.’
    Even in the gloom Guy did not look very convinced. ‘From what I hear,’ he said, very seriously, ‘this isn’t just horseplay: not just canoodling and cannabis. It’s hard drugs and serious sex. Orgies. And if it were to get out there could be a scandal. If my sources are correct then it’s that fatal combination of call girls and cabinet ministers. Judges too; but no bishops.’ He smiled grimly. ‘They’re not the best company to keep, Simon,’ he said.
    â€˜Well,’ Bognor back-pedalled a little,’ in my line of work it’s as well to keep informed. We’ve had our eye on the Contractors, we at the Board of Trade. It’s not just for pleasure that Monica and I have cultivated them you know. But I must say I’m surprised. They sail a bit close to the wind now and then but I’d be surprised if they were running orgies. They’ve certainly never asked us to one.’
    Guy said nothing, just gazed at Bognor and looked knowing. One eyebrow raised a little and the corner of his mouth twitched. Bognor was finding him extremely trying.
    â€˜The point is,’ said Bognor, ‘that standards in town are not like standards in the country. What seems perfectly acceptable up there may seem over the top down here. What seems normal in Herring St George would often seem antediluvian in town. I dare say people round here dress for dinner and wear three-piece tweed suits for church.’
    â€˜That’s all changing,’ said Guy morosely. ‘I mean look at this.’ He waved a hand around the bar. ‘It’s not so long ago that this was a regular old-fashioned pub with skittles and mild and bitter. Now it’s a poncy wine bar run by a couple of pretentious Nancy boys. There’s a chapter of Hell’s Angels at Nether Pillock; the Mayor of Whelk was done for interfering with boy scouts at the annual camp last Whitsun; and you’ve seen for yourself what’s happened to Herring St George. You might as well live in Golders Green.’
    â€˜Nothing wrong with Golders Green,’ said Bognor. ‘My mother-in-law lives in Golders Green.’
    â€˜You know what I mean,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Everywhere you look it’s spivs and wide boys, tarts and con men. If this is what the Prime Minister means by a return to Victorian values she can keep it. I’d rather live in New Zealand.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know,’ said Bognor, weakly.
    â€˜Well I do,’ said Guy. ‘As far as I’m concerned the bottom’s fallen out of this country. Moral fibre gone to the dogs. Anything goes. Everyone wants something for nothing and devil take the hindmost. It’s bloody awful, frankly. And there’s nowhere that’s more symptomatic of the decline in civilised standards and values than the English village. Used to be the salt of the earth, English villagers. And now look what’s happened, they’ve either emigrated or gone to live in housing estates in Whelk. And all we’ve got here is a lot of weekenders in sheepskin jackets and crocodile brothel creepers. Makes you weep.’
    â€˜You’re not old enough to talk like that,’ said Bognor. ‘You’re not allowed to be that reactionary until you’re eighty. Not unless you’re a brigadier or belong to the National Front.’
    â€˜It’s not reactionary, just reality,’ he said. ‘And this latest business is a symptom.’
    Bognor was not keen on this right-wing popular sociology.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘that’s all very well but what we have to decide is whether a crime has been committed, and if so by whom.’
    â€˜Perfectly simple,’ said Guy, ‘to let the coroner bring in an accidental death verdict, even if it’s hedged around with a few doubts and ambiguities. It looks pretty accidental on the face of it.’
    â€˜Except that