Attack and Decay, page 32
“What did you tell him,” I said, “when you gave him the camera?”
“Yes,” said Nevada. “How did you account for having it?”
“I said I just happened to see it on the windowsill in the tower and I recognised it from chatting about it with them, so I rescued it from the fire and brought it back for them.”
“And did they believe that?” said Nevada.
“They certainly did,” said Agatha. “And they were absolutely delighted that I’d saved their crow camera. Very grateful. Apparently, I’m going to receive a case of champagne to say thank you.”
“I hope you didn’t give them your address to send it to,” said Nevada.
“No, I gave them Tinkler’s,” said Agatha.
“Really?” said Tinkler.
“No, of course not. They’re not sending anybody a case of champagne. Not physically. They’re giving me a gift voucher so I can buy my own champagne.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Tinkler. “Because it always pays to be careful when accepting champagne from potential killers.”
I said, “Actually we were just discussing if they are potential killers.” We all looked over to the four members of Storm Dream Troopers, standing by the bench in the rain, apparently arguing. No doubt about some deeper artistic aspect of what they were about to film. Perhaps they were trying to enhance the mood of sadness.
“What do you think?” said Ida. She was looking closely at me. As, disconcertingly, she so often was. “Do you think they’re the killers?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “At first I was really struck by the argument that if they were the killers, they wouldn’t have needed Hiram to photograph their crime scene.”
“Because they would have been there.”
“Right,” I said. “I thought it was a very telling point.”
“But then you realised,” said Agatha, who had clearly also given this a lot of thought, “that even if they had been there, they couldn’t use any pictures they took.”
“Right,” I said. “Because they’d clearly be too…”
“Up close and personal,” said Nevada.
“Yuck,” said Tinkler.
“The police wouldn’t throw a lot of resources into pursuing someone who merely filmed a crime scene with a drone,” I said. Then I realised I was talking about police resources just like the Kriminalinspektör. “But…”
“But if it was a picture that was clearly taken at the crime scene,” said Ida, “taken by one of the killers…”
“That’s right,” said Agatha.
“Then the police would throw everything at it,” I said. “And go after them.”
“So, even if they are the killers,” said Agatha, “they’d still need to get their crime scene pictures from Hiram.”
“The crow drone,” said Nevada. “Don’t say ‘crone’, Tinkler.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Tinkler.
Ida turned to me. “Jordon keeps talking about your sonic screwdriver abilities,” she said. She was giving me a sardonic look.
“His term, not mine,” I said.
“He said this isn’t the first time a screwdriver saved your life.”
“Jordon is exaggerating,” said Nevada. “The other occasion simply involved a domestic repair job that impressed my mother.” She looked at me and smiled. “Won her over, in fact.”
“So, almost as important as saving your life,” said Ida, also smiling.
The mention of her mother prompted Nevada to phone our place in London and check that our cats were okay. They were, although Fanny had disappointed our cat sitter by not doing her trick of drinking from the tap and instead, perversely, insisting on drinking from a cat bowl like any normal cat. Other than that, all was quiet on the feline front. When we concluded the call, Tinkler said, “So, what now?”
“Well, the good inspector has ordered us all not to leave town,” said Nevada.
“We know,” said Ida. “We heard.”
“Bummer from the potential mass murder point of view,” said Tinkler.
“Anyway,” I said, “we thought, if we can’t leave town then I might as well do what I’m good at…”
“Drink coffee?” said Tinkler.
“Track down rare vinyl,” said Nevada. “If there is an upside to being caught up in a murder spree, it’s that we can sell as many copies of Attack and Decay as we can find. At a premium price.”
“To reprise my earlier scepticism,” said Tinkler, “what makes you think you’re going to find any?”
“I made a phone call,” I said, “and I confirmed a hunch I had. Barbro Bok has several copies of the LP.”
“Barbro?” said Tinkler.
“Emma’s sister?” said Ida.
“Yes.”
“But she and Christer were friends,” said Tinkler. “Maybe even more than friends, though obviously that doesn’t bear thinking about. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“And Christer was helping Magnus sell every copy of that pestiferous record they could get their hands on,” said Tinkler. I could see Nevada giving him extra points for pestiferous.
“Right,” I said again.
“But therefore wouldn’t he have long ago strip-mined any copies of the record that Barbro had? Surely she would have been the first person he asked when he was looking for that record?”
“No,” I said. “She would have been the last person he would have asked, because he didn’t want to give the game away.”
“The game?” said Ida.
“That he was exploiting the Church’s charity business for his personal profit,” said Nevada. “In a series of nefarious, underhanded deals.”
“Ah, I see,” said Tinkler. “Who would have imagined the Church might frown on nefarious, underhanded business deals? But if so, good for them.”
Ida was looking at me. “So you rang up Barbro to ask if she had some records to sell?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You didn’t think that was a little callous?” said Ida. “Considering her sister is in a coma?”
“Oh now, honey,” said Tinkler. “This is vinyl we’re talking about here. Anyway, I’ve been in a coma, and it wasn’t so bad.”
“Actually, I did think it was a little callous,” I said. “But not then. Earlier, when Christer was killed. I never would have called her then. I never would have intruded on her grief. But then when Emma was… hospitalised… that somehow made it easier.”
“Easier?”
“Easier to approach her.”
“Her double tragedy made it easier to approach her.” Ida didn’t sound convinced.
“Ironically, yes,” I said. “You see, I realised that someone who was going through that much hell would probably welcome a distraction.”
“And she did,” said Nevada.
“And she did,” I said.
“She welcomed it,” said Nevada. “In fact, she’s eager for us to go over to her place and pick up the records.”
“What now? You’re going to the lonely murder farmhouse?” said Tinkler.
“Farmhouse with nice cat,” said Nevada, who was running a campaign to rebrand this dwelling.
“Same place,” said Tinkler. “What was that cat’s name? Ludwig Wittgenstein?”
“There’s a cat called Wittgenstein?” said Ida, suddenly taking an interest.
“No,” said Agatha scornfully, but her scorn was directed at Tinkler. “The cat is called August Strindberg.”
“I was close,” said Tinkler.
“You were not close.”
Recognising a lost cause when he saw one, Tinkler turned to me and said, “So your crazed lust for rare vinyl has driven you back to the lonely murder farmhouse?”
“We are not calling it that,” said Nevada. “We’re calling it the nice farmhouse with the lovely cat. And I am going, too. So, I’ll have his back.”
“And I’ll be doing the driving to the nice farmhouse with the lovely cat,” said Agatha. “And if anything looks dubious, I’ll just put my foot down and get us the hell out of there.”
“Reassuring,” said Tinkler.
“In fact, I’ll get the car now,” said Agatha, and walked purposefully off across the park towards the side street where she’d left her rental car. Luckily, she still had her own umbrella, which she briskly reopened as she left the shelter of Ida’s.
“Why is it reassuring?” said Ida. “Is Agatha a good driver?”
“Yes, really good,” said Tinkler.
“Would you guys like to come along, Tinkler?” I said.
“On your jaunt to the lonely—”
“Tinkler…” said Nevada.
“—farmhouse,” concluded Tinkler.
“Yes,” I said.
“Love to,” said Tinkler. “But we’re going shopping.” He took Ida’s hand.
“Yes,” said Ida. “Jordon is taking me shopping in the charity shops to replace items I lost in the fire.”
“Well, be careful,” said Nevada.
“Don’t worry,” said Tinkler. “We’ve got the lesbian cop on speed dial.”
“We really do,” said Ida. “Do you mind if we take the umbrella away?”
“No,” said Nevada. “We’re going to the car now anyway. I meant what I said about being careful, by the way.”
“We know. Thank you.”
Tinkler and Ida went their way, and we went ours, to join Agatha in the side street where the car was parked. When we got there, we found Ms Dubois-Kanes wiping her hands on a greasy rag.
“Have you been doing maintenance on a rental car?”
“No, I’ve been checking it for bombs.”
“Holy fuck. Thank you for that.”
“You’re very welcome.”
We got in the car and drove out of town, past the park and the bandstand and the bench where the Troopers all stood.
I was a little sad that we were going to miss Patrik’s big crying scene.
31: LONELY MURDER FARMHOUSE
On our way to Barbro’s farm, we passed the strip club where there had been a firebomb waiting for us, and then the side road that led to poor Bo Lugn’s country house where we had been fired upon, repeatedly, by someone with a deadly weapon.
So perhaps it was understandable that we were on high alert.
Like Nevada, I alternated between fixating on the traffic approaching us and the traffic following us. We frequently twisted around in our seats to look back at the latter. Agatha used her mirrors to do the same with substantially less effort.
“Do you see that SUV following us?” she said.
“Yes,” said Nevada.
I said, “It looks just like Obi Van Kenobi.”
“Right,” said Agatha. “Except it doesn’t have the sticker at the top of the windscreen that says Obi Van Kenobi.”
“Right,” said Nevada.
“In other words,” I said, “it looks like Obi Van Kenobi with the sticker removed.”
“In a futile attempt to disguise a distinctive vehicle,” said Nevada.
“Exactly right,” said Agatha.
“Is that Magnus at the wheel?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see. He isn’t close enough and he isn’t getting close enough.”
Nevada glanced back at the road behind us. “I think it’s him.”
I glanced back, too. The indistinct figure at the wheel could well have been Magnus. It could equally well have been someone else entirely.
“I’ve tried slowing down, to get a look at him,” said Agatha. “But then he slows down, too.” She demonstrated by smoothly decelerating and, sure enough, the vehicle following us slowed to maintain a constant distance between us.
“If it is Magnus,” said Agatha, “what the hell is he up to?”
“I have no idea,” said Nevada. “And there’s little point speculating about that, or indeed about why he apparently thinks he’s rendered himself invisible by removing the Obi Van Kenobi sticker.”
“If it is him,” I said.
“Could there be another vehicle that looks just like Obi Van Kenobi?” said Nevada, leaning forward, towards Agatha, to whom she was directing the question. Agatha stirred slightly in her seat, suggesting a shrug. “There’s no shortage of beat-up ten-year-old Toyota Siennas in a shade of silver grey. So, yes, sure, it could be someone else.”
Nevertheless, we all agreed that the sooner we got to our destination, the better. Because, despite Tinkler’s attempts to impose a scary lonely-murder nomenclature on it, Barbro’s farmhouse had so far subjected us to nothing worse than a nocturnal hunt for dog shit.
And there was no chance of even that now, because it was still the middle of the day and, as Nevada observed, those particular protagonists only came out at night. “Like the creatures in Richard Matheson’s masterpiece,” said Nevada.
“You’re talking about I Am Legend,” said Agatha, overtaking a slow driver, which is one of the things she liked doing best. “And you’re talking about vampires.”
“I prefer not to use the term. I don’t like to think I’m guilty of actually having read a vampire novel,” said Nevada.
“Then you should try Matheson’s straight-up suspense fiction,” said Agatha. “Ride the Nightmare is really good.”
“Maybe Barbro will have a copy,” said Nevada.
“Quite possibly. But she’s unlikely to part with it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Nevada. “She’s very generously letting me have her duplicate copies of Charles Williams novels in the French Serie Noir.”
“Letting you have?” said Agatha, with a little chuckle.
“All right, selling them to me for a pretty penny. But I’m glad to get them. I’m looking forward to comparing them to the English originals. It’s going to make for a very interesting exercise in textual comparison. Thank you for introducing me to Charles Williams, by the way.”
“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” said Agatha. “I believe this is where we turn.” It was indeed where we turned. She signalled a right and we pulled off the main road onto a long, curving lane bordered with tidily planted shrubs and flowers. To either side of us were farmhouses and outbuildings among clusters of trees. Agatha signalled another right turn and we exited onto a gravel road leading to Barbro Bok’s place.
Barbro was standing outside waiting for us, with a fat marmalade cat—the famed August Strindberg—nestled comfortably in the crook of one arm. In her free hand she held a glass of red wine. “I know it’s immorally early,” she said, “but I’m having a glass of Bordeaux. Would you care to join me?”
Nevada indicated enthusiastically that she did indeed care to, though I knew secretly she would rather have had something from the Rhône. Or, indeed, anything from the Rhône.
I declined because I didn’t want to interfere with my coffee buzz, and also because I was doing a record deal and needed my wits about me. Agatha declined because she was driving.
Barbro bent forward to carefully spill the orange-furred bulk of August Strindberg to the ground. In so doing, she also managed to spill a little wine. The cat trotted a few paces, sat down on the grass and began grooming himself. Agatha crouched to stroke him, which August did nothing much to resist.
Barbro led us into the house and poured Nevada her glass of wine and then gave her a pile of paperbacks featuring black covers with yellow trim, and yellow and white lettering—the famed Serie Noir Charles Williams novels. Nevada looked through them and I saw the titles, Le Pigeon and Un Quidam Explosif, whatever that might mean.
Nevada contentedly inspected her swag and then took the books, and her glass of wine, back out of the farmhouse, ostensibly because she wanted to put the books safely in the car, but actually because she wanted to join Agatha in fawning over August Strindberg. The glass of wine was the giveaway here—the fawning was likely to be a protracted business, and refreshment would be required along the way.
Barbro led me into the living room where the records awaited my scrutiny. They were neatly stacked in an armchair, not coming anywhere close to fully occupying it in the way they would in any self-respecting vinyl nut’s abode. Then Barbro politely left me alone to inspect them and retired once more to the kitchen.
There were six copies of Attack and Decay here—one was the original pressing and five were the considerably more valuable but also considerably more shitty-sounding audiophile version. This represented a substantial payday for us. I checked the records. It didn’t take long. They were all authentic. And the original pressing was still sealed, as were four of the audiophile ones.
I singled out the one unsealed audiophile copy for inspection. I slid the record out of the inner sleeve and went over to the window to inspect it in daylight. It was immaculate: near mint, as a hardnosed record grader would put it. I slipped the record back in the inner sleeve and then into the outer cover. The fact that it wasn’t sealed would drop the price a fraction, but I could still accurately describe it as unplayed. It was worth virtually the same as the others. Nice result.
Then something occurred to me. I felt around inside the cover and found the lyric sheet, teasing it out. I hadn’t perfected Patrik’s natty little trick of getting it to slide out with the snap of a finger. I carried the lyric sheet into the light and studied it. I was glad I did.
Because, unlike the vinyl, this had seen some use.
It would still have been pristine, except for one ghostly semicircle of pink at the edge of the paper. It almost looked like it was meant to be there, a contrived little design detail. But I’d seen other copies of the lyric sheet, and I knew it wasn’t.
Plus, as half of a couple who’d been known to enjoy the occasional bottle of red wine, I recognised exactly what it was. The mark of a wine glass that been overfilled at some point and had left the ghostly red imprint of its damp base on the paper.
This would definitely drop the price of the record among those record collectors who were annoyingly anal-retentive perfectionists. Which was virtually all record collectors, so it would take another small bite out of our profits.
It certainly provided a case for beating Barbro down a little on the price. But my instinct in this instance was to be magnanimous and just forget about haggling. Indeed, my instinct would have been to do this even if the seller hadn’t recently experienced a concatenation of tragedies.
