The Reginald Perrin Omnibus (22 page)

He looked down at the pile of old clothes. ‘Good-bye, Reggie’s clothes,’ he said, and then, ‘Good-bye, old Reggie.’

He picked up the suitcase too violently, forgetting that it was almost empty. He overbalanced and fell in the shingle. A bad start to a new life, he thought, cursing and rubbing his elbow.

He set off along the beach, a tiny figure beneath the cliffs. Suddenly he remembered that he’d left all his money in his old clothes, so back he had to trudge. He took the money and his wallet and set off again. Then he realized that it would look suspicious if he didn’t leave his wallet and some money in the old clothes. Only a compulsively mean man would take his wallet into the sea to drown beside him.

He couldn’t leave any of the used fivers, for fear they’d be traced, so he left three pounds in notes and eighty-six pence in loose change. Off he went again along the beach.

Then his blood ran cold. He’d left his banker’s card in his wallet. That would blow sky-high his story of losing the card. Back he trudged yet again.

He hunted through his wallet. Library ticket, dental appointment reminder, dry-cleaning counterfoil, the cards of three plumbers and a french polisher. At last he found it. He took it with shaking fingers.

He sat on the beach and tried to think if there was anything that he’d forgotten. God, he was bad at this. He’d never have made a master crook. When he had convinced himself that there were no more precautions he could take, he set off along the beach for the fourth time. Again he forgot that the suitcase was almost empty, and again he overbalanced. This time he didn’t fall, but he almost twisted his ankle. His nerves were at their raw ends. He felt sure that somebody must have seen his comings and goings, some loving couple or insomniac coastguard.

He trudged back to the car park. There was the lorry shaped like a jelly, all alone now. There was the sleeping village.

He walked as casually as he could. His heart was pumping fast. It was absurd to feel so nervous. Murderers evaded detection for weeks on end, with the whole police force hunting them, and their photographs in every paper. And he had an advantage over them. They weren’t masters of disguise, stars of the annual dramatic offerings of Sunshine Desserts.

He climbed slowly through this windswept ragbag of a place, even its diminutive flint pub lifeless and darkened.

There was a faint breeze just stirring the notice board outside the tiny chapel of green corrugated iron.

The houses were thinning out, just a few chalets and bungalows now. Still nobody about. Reggie was terrified of meeting anyone. He was afraid that his beard and wig were hopelessly askew.

He passed the last house, and began to climb the hill. His clothes were stiff, his new shoes were pinching and his skin felt damp and salty, but he walked more confidently now.

He heard footsteps and flung himself into the hedge. A drunk passed down the hill, barely five feet from him, weaving unsteadily, singing a monotonous and unrecognizable dirge.

Reggie set off again, more cautiously, ears alert. Soon the moon came up and its beam lit up a higher range of hills ahead of him.

He felt ridiculous. The grey trousers were narrow fitting and slightly flared. The shoes were brown suede. The jacket was green with gold buttons. The shirt was orange and had large lapels, and the kipper tie had a Gold Paisley pattern. Everything was too tight. Modern clothes were made for slimfit men with girlish waists, tapered bodies and flared calves.

What must I look like, he thought, as he plodded along between the windswept hedges in the moonlight. I aimed at something rather distinguished, a sort of respectable Bohemianism. I must look like a trendy quantity surveyor.

The eastern sky began to pale. Vague shapes turned into trees. The hills ahead of him seemed to grow smaller. Sheep stared at him as if they had never seen a trendy quantity surveyor before.

He was very tired. His eyes were heavy, his legs ached. He felt cold, despite the mildness of the night.

He occupied his mind as he walked towards the hills by trying to think of a name for himself. Alastair McTavish? Lionel Penfold? Cedric de Vere Fitzpatrick-Thorneycroft?

Visibility was good. Every detail of the hills stood out with great clarity, and the sky was shot with high white cloud, tinged faintly with pink. Reggie sensed that the weather was on the blink. Arnold Blink? Barney Rustington? Charles Windsor? He couldn’t go around calling himself Charles Windsor.

He came to a junction, where the lane forked. Could the signpost give him a clue to his new name? David Dorchester? Barry Bridport? Timothy Lyme-Regis?

He took the left-hand fork. Ahead of him he could see the narrow lane climbing up the range of hills. The tops of the hills were bare and chalky but their lower slopes were clothed in trees and he decided that he would rest for a while on their carpet of leaves.

Daniel Leaf? Beerbohm Tree? Colin Hedge?

Colin. He quite liked that. He felt an incipient Colinnish-ness.

But Colin what? Colin Watt?

He approached a gate, and decided to call himself Colin the first thing he saw when he looked over the gate.

Colin Cowpat?

He climbed over the gate into the wood, a place of low trees cowering before the south-westerly winds. As soon as he was out of sight of the road, he sank down on to the ground and fell asleep.

He woke up with a start, listening to the screeching of alarmed jays. For a moment he didn’t know who he was. He was a strange man in strange clothes with a ticklish face, lying on a bed of old leaves. Then it all came back to him.

God, he was tired. And hungry. How long had he been asleep? The sun was high in the sky.

He scooped a hollow out of the earth and buried his banker’s card there. It should be safe from everything except moles and truffle hounds.

He brushed himself clean of leaves and twigs and ladybirds, and set off towards the lane. His legs were like lead.

He heard a car climbing up the lane, and stood behind a tree, pretending to pee, until it had passed. Then he clambered over the gate.

The lane climbed between high hedges. It was very hot. Brown birds flitted from bush to bush ahead of him. Sheep peered at him through brambles. The bright blue sky was flecked with confused mares’ tails, as if a squadron of giant aeroplanes had been looping the loop. There was wind up there.

Who should he claim to be? A salesman? The suitcase suggested that. But what could he be selling, with his case empty? A suitcase salesman, with only one suitcase left to sell?

At last he reached the main road. He walked along it towards the west, until he came to a bus stop, set in a little lay-by. There was no time-table, and in any case he didn’t know what time it was.

The holiday traffic whizzed past in both directions, an endless stream of caravans, roof racks, boats on tow, every now and then a plain ordinary car.

There was an ominous aura of buslessness. Reggie stood at the entrance to the lay-by and tried to thumb a lift. Most of the cars were full of kids, dogs, grannies and snorkelling equipment, but at last a buff Humber slid to an aristocratic halt. Inside were a well-dressed couple, with two chihuahuas.

‘Can we take you somewhere?’ asked the man.

Well, what do you think I was doing, thought Reggie. Thumb-slimming exercises?

‘Yes, please. I’m making for Exeter,’ he said.

‘Hop in the back.’

Reggie hopped in the back. The car smelt of cigars, scent and chihuahuas. The control panel was made of varnished wood, and there was an arm-rest in the middle of the back seat.

‘I nearly didn’t stop. You looked too hairy,’ said the man.

‘We don’t approve of hitch-hikers,’ said the woman. ‘Spongers, we call them.’

The road dipped and rose among the sharp Dorset hills. On the verges people were erecting elaborate picnics.

‘What time is it?’ Reggie asked.

‘Quarter to twelve,’ said the woman.

The chihuahuas barked at him.

‘Don’t mind Pyramus and Thisbe,’ said the woman.

‘Some kind of artist, are you?’ said the man.

Reggie’s spirits lifted. Well done, Reggie’s disguise, he thought.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said.

‘Ah. I thought so,’ said the man.

‘What kind of things do you write?’ said the woman.

‘Books,’ said Reggie.

‘What sort of books?’ said the man.

‘Stories,’ said Reggie.

‘What are you called? Would we know you?’ said the woman.

‘Charles Windsor,’ said Reggie.

‘That rings a bell,’ said the woman. ‘We must borrow one of your books from the library.’

‘I’ve never written a book,’ said the man. ‘Often thought of it, but I’ve never got around to it.’

They stopped for a drink at the Smugglers’ Inn, a low thatched pub on top of a hill, surrounded by a vast car park. At the side of the pub was a stall selling teas and ices. They left Pyramus and Thisbe in the car.

The landlord put on canned music in honour of their arrival. The pub was full of horse-brasses and hunting prints, and a notice above the ‘gents’ announced ‘Here ‘tis’.

They sat at a table by the open window. There was a fine view of the car park. Reggie was worried that they would find his appearance odd. It was the first time his beard and wig had been put to the test.

‘How do you get the ideas for your books?’ said the man.

‘I don’t know. They just come,’ said Reggie.

‘Interesting, isn’t it, dear?’ said the man.

They had two rounds of crab sandwiches each, and then they drove on. There were wisps of grey in the sky.

Now they were in Devon. Every cottage advertised ‘Devon cream teas’ and every guest house was called ‘The Devonian’. The road wound and twisted through a tangle of wooded hills. There were frequent glimpses of the sea.

‘Are you going on holiday?’ said Reggie.

‘Boating,’ said the man. ‘Golf. There’s a lot of boating in Devon.’

‘There’s a lot of writing in Devon too,’ said Reggie.

‘I suppose there would be,’ said the woman.

It didn’t seem very long before they reached the Exeter by-pass.

‘This’ll do me nicely,’ said Reggie.

He caught a bus into the city centre. There were fine old houses and a modern quarter. He tried several hotels before he found a room.

Inside the hotel it was deafeningly quiet. He signed his name ‘Charles Windsor’. The desk clerk picked up his case and was so surprised at its lightness that he lost his footing, tripped and hit the gong with the suitcase. When he had picked himself up he looked at Reggie accusingly.

‘I’m travelling light,’ said Reggie.

The man led the way up the stairs. On the first floor landing they met a group of puzzled elderly people coming down to dinner.

‘It can’t be dinner, Hubert. We’ve only just had lunch,’ said one of the women.

‘I heard the gong, I tell you,’ said a white-haired old man.

‘I tripped and banged it by mistake,’ explained the desk clerk.

He led Reggie to his room. Reggie heard the man say, ‘I told you I heard the gong,’ and the woman said, ‘I knew it wasn’t dinner,’ and someone else said, ‘Did you see that funny man with the beard?’

Reggie barely noticed his room. He was too tired and too hungry. He went out into the town and had egg, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, chips and peas, bread and butter and four cups of tea.

‘Mr Windsor,’ said the desk clerk on his return.

Reggie took no notice.

‘Mr Windsor!’ called the desk clerk.

Reggie turned and went up to the desk.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot that was me.’

The desk clerk gave him a strange look.

‘Will you be taking dinner, Mr Windsor?’ he said.

‘No. I’m not feeling well,’ said Reggie.

He went straight upstairs to bed and slept for fourteen hours.

Monday

It was shortly after tea-time when the last bus delivered the distinguished architect Mr Wensley Amhurst into the charming Wiltshire village of Chilhampton Ambo. Mr Amhurst was a bearded man with long black hair and a slow, dignified walk. He looked round the little square with every appearance of pleasure, and then disappeared into the Market Inn.

At the exact moment when Mr Amhurst was making his acquaintance with the comfortable recesses of the aforementioned hostelry. Chief Inspector Gate was conferring with his new assistant. Constable Barker. Mr Amhurst might not have been so happy if he had heard their conversation.

‘The fact remains, sir,’ Constable Barker was saying, ‘that we don’t have a body.’

‘Maybe we never will. The currents round there are very variable,’ said his superior. ‘Look, Barker, we know he was a sick man. He’d stolen a lorry full of loganberry essence. He’d made a fool of himself at an important conference. He was drinking heavily. A lot of cheques had been stolen from his account.’

Chief Inspector Gate was a big, florid man whose hobby was double whiskies. Constable Barker was a few inches shorter, and his hobby was detection. Chief Inspector Gate’s qualifications were that he was six foot tall. Constable Barker’s were nine ‘O’ Levels and three ‘A’ levels.

‘Couldn’t he have written those cheques himself?’ said Constable Barker, who was pacing nervously round Chief Inspector Gate’s file-infested office.

‘What for?’

‘As the only way he could get some money to live on, without arousing suspicion. Off he goes, dumps the clothes on the beach, away to a new life.’

‘But he has aroused suspicion – yours.’

Constable Barker blushed.

‘Maybe I’ve been too clever for him, sir,’ he said, as the rising wind rattled the window frames. ‘Don’t you agree, sir? Couldn’t he have done that?’

‘Of course he
could
. My auntie could have had balls, and then she’d have been my uncle. We have no evidence. Barker.’

‘We have no body.’

‘True. Sit down, lad. You’re tiring me out.’

Constable Barker sat down and faced Chief Inspector Gate across his desk.

‘Look, Barker,’ said Chief Inspector Gate pompously, for he had no sons of his own. ‘You’ve been reading too many books. Things like that only happen in books. In books the murder is committed by the least likely person – usually the detective. In life it’s committed by the most likely person –usually the husband or wife. In books it’s always the least likely person who commits suicide. In real life it’s always the dead man himself.’