Killing the Emperors (13 page)
***
By eight Pooley and Milton had informally identified Jake Thorogood’s corpse from photographs. The official identification had to await his brother’s arrival, but they were in no doubt. He’d been well dead when found at twenty past two in the morning. The pathologist was certain he’d been killed before midnight. ‘Garrotted first with wire: hanged later with rope. As you can see, he was bollock naked and had a bunch of black balloons in his hand. Odd business. He’d had a lot to drink, but that hardly explains it.’
With the help of Morrison, palpably indignant at having to be back on duty so early, and of Sarah Byrne, who looked both upset and excited, the story was put together. ‘I thought he was wearing an overcoat,’ she said, ‘but it fell off immediately. Like a loose shroud. Vernon cut the rope he was hanging from and we got him down, but he was cold and dead.’
‘Go back to how you found him,’ said Milton. ‘And don’t forget the placard.’
‘Yes, well first I thought he was some kind of graffiti,’ said Morrison. ‘And when the wino said…’
‘What wino?’
‘The wino that told us he was there.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Dunno,’ said Morrison.
‘He disappeared while we were trying to resuscitate the deceased, sir,’ said Byrne. ‘Maybe he was scared. But I know what he looked like.’
‘OK, Sarah. Go on, Vernon.’
‘When the wino said there was a body in the corner in the middle of all that graffiti, I thought it was one of Banksy’s vandalisms. I’d seen some of his stuff with hangin’ men and balloons.’ He paused. ‘I tell a lie. The balloons were lifting some little girl, weren’t they? But they were Banksy anyway. I think the wife bought a postcard of it once.
‘Anyway, when we got to the corner, before the shroud fell off, I could see the word Banksy.’
‘As you can see from these photos,’ said Milton, ‘it was attached to the garment.’
Morrison’s brow furrowed. ‘I didn’t see that bit before Banksy,’ he said. ‘What’s it say? Homidge? It’s spelled wrong.’
‘It’s “o-maj,”’ said Pooley. ‘French. That’s why it’s spelled “
Hommage
to Banksy.” And, underneath, “Man with Balloons,” which is a reference to Banksy’s
Girl with Balloons
.’
‘That’s a bit sick, isn’t it, sir?’
‘It certainly is, Sarah.’
‘So what’s with the ‘ommidge word?’
‘
Hommage
is close to the same meaning as our homage, Vernon, but where that means paying respect, according to the dictionary, o-maj means something expressive done in honour of someone using elements of their style.’
Morrison looked glazed.
‘The murderer is paying
hommage
to Banksy in the manner in which he’s killed Thorogood. Or,’ added Pooley, who liked to be precise, ‘has had him killed.’
Milton’s phone rang. ‘Thorogood’s brother is here, Ellis. Look after him. I’ll see you after I’ve seen the AC.’
He turned to the constables. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Well observed and well handled. Congratulations.’
Morrison looked at him, hopeful they might be given extra time off in lieu. ‘I know from experience,’ said Milton, ‘that when you’ve had a shock like this, the important thing is to go on as if nothing’s happened. Go home and get some sleep now. I wish you a peaceful patrol tonight.’
***
The nine were woken abruptly by the sound of a reveille and the voice saying ‘Geddup you now.’ In the ensuing
melée
, with shell-suited people flowing between bedroom and living room and bathroom and kitchen, no one realised for an hour that they were one short. The sheer joy of having showers and baths (free of the clothes that had been removed as they slept) distracted them pleasantly as much as the presence in the kitchen of basic breakfast ingredients.
There was a general attempt at civility so effective that the baroness even insisted on giving Fortune and Pringle the first pieces of toast she had extracted from the toaster. So it was not until breakfast was finished and they went into the living room that Charlie Briggs looked around and asked, ‘Where’s Jake?’
A quick search confirmed there was no Jake in any of the public rooms: the Diary Room was locked.
‘He can’t be gone,’ screamed Pringle.
‘He must have escaped,’ said Briggs.
‘How?’ asked Anastasia. ‘I’ve examined this shit hole from floor to ceiling and the only way out is that door over there that’s locked and barred. It would take a battering ram to get it open.’
At that moment the voice instructed Laidee Troutbeck to go to the Diary Room, which proved now to be unlocked.
She threw herself into the vast chair. On the table before her was a pile of pads and pencils. ‘Where’s Jake Thorogood?’
‘He is place of dead person.’
‘You mean the morgue?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you serious, Ol…Big Brother?’
‘Oh, yes. I serious man.’
‘Why would you want to kill him?’
‘He cheat me. He say Banksy real Banksy but not real Banksy.’ Sarkovsky sniggered. ‘So my men killing him. With balloons. Your idea.’
‘My idea?’
‘You say you killing Banksy with balloons.’
The baroness’ head was spinning. ‘Did Thorogood cost you a fortune with the fake Banksy?’
‘Not beeg money. Small money, but he make Oleg appeeer stupid man.’
‘And that’s enough reason to murder him?’
‘Nobody make Oleg Sarkovsky appeeer stupid man. I execute.’
‘I don’t know if I believe you, but if I tell them what you’ve said there will be mass hysteria and there’ll be no arguments.’
‘You say them anything. I not interest.’
‘So if I say he’s just been evicted, you won’t contradict me?’
‘What means this contradeect?’
‘Say I am wrong.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Presumably you’re angry with everyone. Why did you choose him?’
‘You say worst.’
She began to expostulate and then stopped. What was the point of arguing with a lunatic? Damage limitation was the order of the day. And dragging things out in the hope that the cavalry would ride over the range before it was too late.
‘May I go back to them?’
‘Give them paper and pencil and say them drawing.’
‘Draw what?’
‘Horse. Horse eating. Horse running. Horse fucking. Then lunch and drink. Then argument again. Then game.’
‘Game?’
‘I say later.’
The baroness got up and began to collect the materials. ‘Laidee Troutbeck.’
‘Yes, Big Brother.’
‘You say me this night who worst.’
***
‘I’ve never even seen a dead body,’ said Max Thorogood. ‘It’s a shock. Especially when you’re not expecting it and it’s your kid brother.’
Pooley muttered consolatory phrases. ‘May I get you coffee, Mr. Thorogood?’
‘Yes, please. Are we going to talk about Jake?’
‘If you’re up to it.’
When they had both been furnished with indifferent liquid, Thorogood had a sip and grimaced. ‘So what’s happened?’
‘We don’t really know any more than is in the newspapers, Mr. Thorogood, though we do have a line of enquiry that we can’t yet discuss.’
‘No surprises there.’
‘Is there anything you think might help us?’
‘Don’t think so, Chief Inspector. I haven’t really known Jake since we were kids. There were just the two of us and we fought the way boys do, wrestling around the garden, fighting for the honour of our football teams. All that kind of thing. But I looked out for him when we were at school and protected him from the kids who thought he had airs and graces. But we were chalk and cheese. I went off to train as an actuary and I know he despised me for doing something so dull. Then he said he wanted to do a fine arts degree and at first I tried to take an interest. Mum and Dad used to take us to art galleries a bit and I knew my Rembrandt from my Reubens.
‘For a while, I loved listening to Jake talking about artists and I was so proud when he became an art critic. I’d read his review every week. We didn’t really see each other. No fallings out. But how could you expect us to have anything in common any more? Mum and Dad died early, I was living in Salford with a wife who was a district nurse and two children. Jake was being paid to go to glamorous places with glamorous people and he didn’t want to commit, so there was a succession of gorgeous girls of the kind who hang about that world wanting to be famous or rich.
‘But then what he wrote stopped seeming real. He seemed to be obsessed with fashionable. I hate to say it, with my little bro lying dead in that morgue and me terrified that he might have had a really horrible death, but he sold out along the way. I don’t know if it was to fashion or to money, but as an actuary, I’d say it might be a bit of both. It takes courage for a critic to hold out against the herd and, if you’re hanging out with the mega-rich, it would be really heroic not to want a bit of the action. I mean, you’re going to say the Tate Modern is full of rubbish and expect to get good commissions? Pul-ease!’
He had another sip of his coffee, made a face and put it on the table. ‘Did he die because he sold out, Chief Inspector?’
***
Pooley had found a minute to send a text to Amiss and Mary Lou telling them the news, so Amiss was primed and ready for Milton’s press conference. He briefly expressed regret at having to announce that Thorogood had been murdered, told them where the body had been found, refused to give any further information for the moment, admitted there were concerns for the well-being of the other nine hostages, assured them the police were working flat-out to find them, denied having any idea who was responsible, and then excused himself and went back into the Yard.
Pausing only to text Rachel, Amiss rang Miss Stamp.
‘Oh, Mr. Amiss, I’m so glad to hear from you. Is there any news? We’re frantic here. And those dreadful journalists keep snooping around asking questions about the mistress. We won’t let them in but we can’t keep them out of the grounds. They been hammering on the door and peering through the windows all morning. And I’ve had to put the phone down on several of them already.’
‘I’m afraid there is worrying news, Miss Stamp. Jake Thorogood, one of those who went missing at the same time as the mistress, has been found murdered. It’s just been announced.’
There was a terrified squawk. ‘Oh, Mr. Amiss, that’s terrible. What happened to him? Is there no possibility it was an accident?’
‘I’m afraid he was strangled and then hanged. The police are sure it was murder.’
‘The mistress must be in terrible danger. Why haven’t the police found her?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Stamp. We must remember what an optimist she is and think like her. And we know she’s indestructible.’
He heard a sob and felt like joining in. ‘Let us do what we can to help her. I need to get hold of the mistress’ friend Myles Cavendish who’s abroad and won’t know anything about this. Do you have his mobile number?’
‘I wouldn’t have that, Mr. Amiss. You know how secretive the mistress is about her private life.’
‘I do, Miss Stamp. Can you go through any address books she has and maybe old diaries?’
‘Oh, Mr. Amiss. Won’t she be annoyed?’
‘I think I can safely say that if she could, Miss Stamp, she would give you
carte
blanche
.’
‘I’ll run up and search her study now, Mr. Amiss. But it could take quite a while.’
‘And if there’s nothing written down, Miss Stamp, you might need to explore her computer. She does have one, doesn’t she?’
‘Yes and no, Mr. Amiss. She hates it, but she learned to do email. First I’ll look for diaries.’
***
‘Is there news of Jake?’ asked Pringle.
‘I’m told he had a stomach upset during the night and had to be taken to a doctor. It looks like he’s got a nasty infection, so he may not be back.’
‘Why are you always the go-between with Big Brother,’ asked Fortune. ‘It seems very suspicious to me.’
‘And me,’ said Pringle. Most of the others nodded.
‘After all, how do we know you’re passing on the instructions correctly? And are you an experienced negotiator?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the baroness. ‘I wouldn’t have chosen the role. Maybe he wants me because I’m the oldest. Anyway, since he’s listening in much of the time, presumably he thinks I’m reporting to him correctly. Now get cracking,’ she said. ‘He would like us to draw horses doing anything horses do.’
‘Why?’ asked Briggs. ‘I can’t draw.’
‘I can’t draw either, Charlie, but we are guests of Big Brother and if he wants us to draw, I suggest we should do our best. If we do, I’ve been promised that we’ll have lunch to follow, accompanied by wine. If we don’t, there won’t be any lunch.’ She didn’t mention she had had a great deal of difficulty in persuading Sarkovsky to use the carrot of lunch rather than the stick of murder.
The inmates set to with a will. The baroness, who hadn’t sketched since school, found to her surprise that she produced something that closely resembled a horse, even if its legs seemed worryingly splayed. After an hour, she surveyed the results. Apart from Marilyn—who admitted to having once had a home art tutor and was competent —the older generation achieved mediocrity. Having been taught to draw at school, they managed to draw animals that were identifiably equine. Briggs was bad and Anastasia was hopeless: no one not on hallucinatory drugs could have seen a horse anywhere in her bold and talentless lines.
The baroness was intensely relieved that there would be a pause for food, drink, and argument before she had to go back to the Diary Room to make a judgement. The gathering had passed that stage of hunger when they would have fallen on gruel with shrieks of gratitude, but they were still rather pathetically grateful for having a choice of several pizzas as well as a decent claret.
Although the baroness’ philosophy of life was so
carpe diem
that she always saw the glass as half-full, her appetite was severely blunted by the knowledge of what she would have to do that evening. Besides which, she didn’t think much of the pizza.
Amiss had spent the rest of the morning at his computer, continuing his obsessive hunt for news, which was broken only by worried conversations with friends. It was just after midday when George, the homeless man who had led the police to the body, turned up at the offices of a national newspaper and offered his story in exchange for help in getting off the streets. And so it was that by early afternoon Milton had to come clean about the balloons and the placard. The ‘
Hommage
Murder’ went viral on the Internet.
***
A certain calm had descended on the group after lunch, which the baroness realised she had to dispel. She poured out some more wine into all the glasses on offer. She was sparing with hers, for she had concluded if you have the power of life and death, you shouldn’t use it when half-cut. ‘Just from curiosity,’ she asked, ‘what do we think of each other’s horses? Gavin, perhaps you’d care to tell us why we have in this dungeon a cross-section of those who dominate art, and between us only one of us is better than pathetic.’
‘There’s photography these days. Why should anyone need to draw a horse?’ asked Truss.
Charlie Briggs’ brown furrowed. ‘You mean that art has nothing to add to a photo?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Truss. ‘Since the camera, there’s no point.’
‘If photos can replace art,’ asked the baroness, ‘why is Stubbs’
Whistlejacket
the main draw in the National Gallery?’
‘Because tourists know no better,’ said Hortense Wilde.
‘Stubbs spent a great deal of his life dissecting horses so as to understand how muscle and bone and spirit interacted,’ said the baroness. ‘He gave us many portraits that have enchanted generations and in
Whistlejacket
, he showed us the majesty of the horse and the brilliance of the humble artist. What do you offer instead?’
‘We must move on,’ said Hortense. ‘That’s why dreary old-fashioned skills are so unimportant. They might momentarily matter to a generation stuck in the past, but today’s technology replaces them.’
‘Like what,’ asked the baroness politely.
‘A drawing app.’
‘If I’m not mistaken, Hortense, David Hockney, possibly our best artist of the last fifty years, uses technology as a tool of his art but deplores the fact that the young are no longer imparted any skills.’
Hortense laughed mirthlessly. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jack. Hockney! Really! For God’s sake, he does landscapes. Since the world was changed by Damien, how is Hockney even shown?’
‘So you didn’t like his Royal Academy show? I thought it fine and so did tens of thousands of others.’
Hortense looked at her with an expression so patronising it was as much as the baroness could do not to hit her. Then she remembered what she might have to do to her, and the impulse passed.
‘Who cares what the public think?’ asked Hortense. ‘What do they know? Their opinion is worth nothing.’
‘Tell me something, Hortense. If this minute you could replace all this Hirst stuff with Stubbs by waving a wand, what would you do?’
Hortense looked around her, caught sight of the cow’s head and shuddered.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, be honest,’ said Briggs. ‘This whole fucking place is a nightmare. Smelly dead cows and flies and murder weapons. Anything would be better.’
‘Yeah,’ said Anastasia. ‘I’d like something cheerful.’
Fortune assumed his most pompous voice. ‘At least we have great art here, Anastasia. Are you suggesting we’d be better off with Jack Vitriano or Beryl Cook?’
Pringle and Truss laughed sycophantically.
‘I’ve seen some Beryl Cook,’ said Anastasia. ‘All those cheerful fat women having a ball. Yes, I’d trade them in for all the ghoulish stuff any day.’
‘And I like Vitriano,’ said Briggs. ‘Do you remember, Jason? I wanted to buy one of his but you said everyone would laugh at me.’
‘And I was right, Charlie. No decent critic or curator would touch either of those pathetic bourgeois throwbacks. The hedge-fundies know that.’
‘If I ever get out of here,’ said Briggs, ‘I will never take anyone’s advice about art again.’
A silence descended. Then the dreaded voice sounded. ‘Now you play game. Laidee Troutbeck, Diary Room.’
***
‘So, what did the AC say, Jim?’ asked Pooley.
‘He’s finally got it and he’s alarmed. Just for now he’s OK’d the surveillance, but he hasn’t decided yet if we should look for a warrant. He’s having another think.’
‘And the commissioner?’
‘The AC said he’ll be back tomorrow and expressly forbade me from bothering him in the middle of his important discussions at the Interpol conference.’ Milton shrugged. ‘What can I do?
‘Doesn’t he get it?’
‘Doesn’t he get what?’
‘Thorogood is just the first.’
‘How can you know that?’
‘There are ten of them. As far as we know, the worst Thorogood did to Sarkovsky was to give him a bum steer on something which by his standards cost small change. Allegra thought it was less than a million. Thorogood was a critic, for God’s sake, Jim. Not an international swindler of oligarchs.’
‘Did his brother know anything helpful?’
‘He thought he’d sold out, which is what Jack said. But Sarkovsky is a scoundrel, so why should he get prissy about Thorogood lacking ethics?’
‘Because his lack of ethics cost Sarkovsky money, I suppose. ‘
‘In cahoots with Pringle and Fortune. Anyway, what we have to face is that if Thorogood, whose sins were minor, ended up the way he has, why should anyone else be safe?’
‘I get that.’
‘Worse.’
‘There’s worse?’
‘You know that evening with Jack in ffeatherstonehaugh’s that you missed.’
‘Well, seeing I missed it, not really.’
‘I told you a bit about it. The endless diatribe against contemporary art.’
‘So?’
‘I didn’t tell you about her fantasies.’
‘Gimme a break, Ellis. What fantasies?’
‘Her fantasies about how to kill conceptual artists in the manner of their art.’
‘As in “
Hommage
to Banksy.”’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Would you mind getting us some more coffee, Ellis? I need my wits about me.’
***
‘So Jim’s worried that when he tells this to the AC, he’ll go back to assuming Jack’s a serial murderer.’
‘But for heaven’s sake, Ellis,’ said Amiss, ‘can’t he explain to the cretin that she’ll have been describing those fantasies far and wide and she’ll certainly have told them to Sarkovsky. To amuse him.’
‘He didn’t have much of a sense of humour, did he?’
‘No. She said custard pies in the face, cripples falling off their zimmers, and generally other people’s misfortunes were the kind of thing that made him laugh.’
‘That’s ominous.’
‘It sure is.’
‘My mind’s working overtime, Ellis. Is yours?’
‘If he’s killed one, he means to kill them all.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Maybe he’s done it already.’
‘He’s more likely to be stringing it out.’
‘He’s got to be in London, hasn’t he?’
‘Looks like it. We’ve got people checking out his apartment building now and trying to find out if he’s been sighted. And we’re digging up what info we can.’
‘Time isn’t on your side.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘I’m going to try to track down Myles. If you bastards can’t find her, it’s time to bring in the SAS.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Pooley.
‘Sorry. Of course you didn’t, since I never said it. What I said was that Jack’s close friend Myles needs to know she’s disappeared. Is there a number for him among whatever material you took out of their flat?’
‘Don’t think so. It’s very much a
pied-à-terre
. No papers to speak of. Mary Lou might have some idea.’
***
Miss Stamp was trying to keep calm. ‘I’ve searched high and low but I can’t find the mistress’ address book, Mr. Amiss. She must have had it with her. And I can’t get into her computer because I don’t know her password. I’ve tried variations on Troutbeck and St. Martha’s, but no luck. But then I wouldn’t know what numbers to add. I tried the year of her birth, but that didn’t work either.’
‘If I had to guess I’d think of British military triumphs, Miss Stamp. Try Waterloo1815 or Trafalgar1805.
She giggled rather forlornly. ‘That would be like her, Mr. Amiss. I’ll try them and telephone you back.’
It took five minutes before a disconsolate Miss Stamp reported in the negative. However Amiss’ next suggestion, ‘Agincourt1415,’ did the trick. It took only a couple of minutes for her to find Myles Cavendish’s email address and phone number. Amiss sent an email as well as text and voice messages into the blue and went out to pace around the park, leaving Plutarch draped over his computer, shedding hair all over his keyboard and desk.
***
The baroness had never watched Big Brother and no one but Anastasia and Charlie Briggs admitted having seen it, but they had told stories that gave everyone a flavour of what was to be expected from a game. By now they were all ready to hear they might be required to dress up in skin-tight lurex cat-suits and perform ungraceful dances, or dress as pastry chefs and throw pies at each other. However the news that this game was to be conducted in the nude caused a minor sensation.
‘I won’t do it,’ shouted Henry Fortune. ‘I will not sacrifice my dignity.’
‘Me neither,’ said Hortense.
‘You play game,’ said the voice of Big Brother. ‘Or evicted. If evicted, die.’
‘He can’t really mean that,’ wailed Pringle. ‘Can he? Is that what happened to Jake?’
Eight heads turned towards the baroness.
‘You said he’d been taken ill,’ said Pringle.
She thought of trying to keep the fiction going, but realised Sarkovsky’s intervention had made it pointless. ‘He was evicted. And no, I don’t know if that means he’s been killed, but I doubt it. However, just in case, I guess it makes sense to do what Big Brother wants.’
‘That way we lose our dignity and then we die anyway,’ said Fortune.
‘Perhaps,’ said the baroness. ‘But perhaps not. Big Brother may well be joking. Best to keep the options open, I’d say.’
‘Oh, Bubbles, you must, you must, you must. It’s not as if we’re on television. No one will see us.’
There was what sounded like a low snigger.
‘Oh, God,’ cried Fortune. ‘Maybe we are.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Henry,’ said the baroness, ‘if we were on television it would be good news. It would make us easier to find. Now if I were you, I’d focus on survival and do what we’ve been asked to do.
‘In the hatch, I’m told, are canvasses and pots of paint. We get a canvas each and we are to paint it using our naked body as the only means of transferring paint to surface. Shall we fetch the materials now and lay them out? Then we can disrobe.’
The baroness regretted that the knot of dread that would not unravel had stifled her sense of humour, for, at other times, she would have been mightily amused by what went on that afternoon. It was Hortense who had said maybe the thing was to attempt to emulate Jackson Pollock and his drip paintings and with Fortune and Truss produced dollops of pretentious guff on the subject, with a bit of a disagreement about whether he was a genius because of the fractal dimensions of his work or because of his role as a progressive purifier of form.
The baroness, who had been known to throw her newspaper at the wall when she read that yet another Pollock jumble had gone for nine figures, had pointed out rather coldly that they had to go a stage further than the maestro since Big Brother insisted that they couldn’t pour paint on the canvas but actually had to apply it with bits of their body. What’s more, he had forbidden them to use their digits to apply paint to canvas. Hands were out, and so were toes, though they could be used to put paint on their bodies. And what was even more challenging, no two people were to use the same bit of their body and no one could help anyone else. This information induced a kind of terrified paralysis among several of the gathering.
‘We’ll have to negotiate who uses what,’ said the baroness. ‘First come, first served, I think.’
‘If I wanted to make a mint out of this in my past life,’ observed Anastasia, ‘I’d have stuck paint up my fanny and let it drip out.’
‘I don’t want to act as the health and safety officer, Anastasia, but I’d confine paint to the outside rather than the inside if I were you. Any other suggestions?’
‘Isn’t there some Russian Sheila who paints with her breasts? I once thought about trying that.’
‘Now’s your chance,’ said the baroness, ‘unless Marilyn or Hortense want to counter bid?’
They shook their heads. ‘Elbow,’ said Marilyn. ‘Knee,’ said Herblock. ‘Shoulder blades,’ said Hortense. ‘Head,’ said Truss.
‘Didn’t that Riverdance bloke put paint on the soles of his shoes and tap dance on a canvas?’ asked Briggs.
‘You won’t be wearing shoes, Charlie, but there’s no reason not to try that if no one objects.’
No one did. ‘Bum,’ said the baroness. ‘As in, I’ll paint with it. Now that leaves just Henry and Jason. I’m afraid there aren’t many options left for you.’
‘I was too shocked to think,’ said Fortune. ‘What’s left?’
‘Your stomach?’
‘How can I paint with my stomach, you madwoman?’
‘Just slap a few colours on and move the canvass around it.’
‘Oh, all right. I suppose I could do that.’
‘What about me?’ screamed Pringle. ‘Am I supposed to use my willie?’
There was a silence until the baroness said, ‘Unless you can think of anything else.’
‘I can’t,’ sobbed Pringle.
Anastasia patted him on the back. ‘You won’t be the first to do it, Jason. There’s a drongo back home calls himself “Pricasso.” He makes a living out of it and it doesn’t seem to do him any harm.’
The baroness stood up and clapped her hands. ‘Excellent. That’s all settled. Now, shall we make a start? It might be less daunting if we all do it together.’
Apart from Anastasia and Briggs, they were as unappetising a collection as might have been found in any naturist encampment for seniors. At one extreme were the scrawny, like Pringle and Marilyn, and at the other the portly, like Fortune and the baroness. By unspoken agreement, they tried to avoid looking at each other.