Red Herrings by Tim Heald

neuroses implicit in dealing with people’s reasons for wanting to kill other people. Guy’s self-appointed role of investigator of times and places of alibis and whereabouts struck him as mundane and unintellectual. The difference, to his way of thinking, between philosophy and algebra. But then he was only a modest arts graduate. Also he was well aware that in the upper reaches of academe there were plenty of dons who would tell him that algebra and philosophy were one and the same. Perhaps that was what he meant about there being two right ends of this particular stick.
    He was saved from these not entirely relevant musings by the entrance of Monica, Mrs Bognor. She did not enter Popinjay’s in the prescribed Chandler manner, carrying a smoking gun, but she might almost have done for she was clearly the bearer of dramatic tidings. Her air of disarray and incompletely applied lipstick suggested, even to men like Bognor and Guy Rotherhithe, that she had been interrupted in mid toilette.
    â€˜I was hoping I’d find you two boys in here,’ she said. ‘Can I have a quick drink? Sir Nimrod’s in the bedroom and I’m not going back without one of you.’
    â€˜Good grief!’ said Bognor. ‘You don’t mean …’
    â€˜Oh don’t be so ridiculous,’ said Monica, eyes flashing through the artificial gloaming. ‘And get me a large Scotch. I hate this dump. Give me the North End Road any day.’
    Bognor thought of saying something crisp but went to the bar instead where he ordered his wife’s whisky and surreptitiously procured another gin for himself. The Inspector was still only halfway through his Perrier.
    When he returned to their table he found Guy grinning in a way that he knew Monica would resent. Condescending. It implied that Monica was a piece of fluff to be humoured but, in serious matters, ignored. This was a dangerous misapprehension.
    â€˜It sounds as if you’ve got your man,’ said Guy.’ Squire Herring’s come to confess.’
    â€˜That is not what I said,’ Monica said frigidly as she took a gulp of her drink. ‘Thank you darling,’ she added in a tone which was not so much intended to thank her husband as to put the policeman in his place.
    â€˜What then?’ Bognor smiled at Guy in a half-hearted attempt to warn him to take Monica a touch more seriously.
    â€˜He wants to talk to you,’ said Monica. ‘He said it’s very important. It’s about Brian Wilmslow and he’s extremely agitated.’
    â€˜Why didn’t he come down?’
    â€˜He said he wanted to talk to you in private.’
    â€˜Was it wise leaving him alone in your room?’ Guy’s manner was half mocking, half plodding. Like a Gilbert and Sullivan policeman; and not in a professional production either.
    â€˜Oh, don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’ Monica’s voice rasped down her nostrils like Maggie Smith’s at moments like this.
    â€˜I’m not being ridiculous.’ Guy was stung. ‘He may be the murderer for all you know. And if he’s in any way involved he’ll be having a good look through those Board of Trade papers by now.’
    â€˜Those Board of Trade papers,’ said Monica slowly, emphasising each word, ‘are locked safely in Simon’s briefcase. Besides which Sir Nimrod is safely locked in our room as well. It seemed a sensible precaution.’ She took a second swig of Scotch and stared at the handsome policeman, challenging him to say something else stupid.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he said, then glanced self-importantly at his watch. Bognor half expected him to say that he had a train to catch, or, worse, that he had work to do. Instead he said quite flatly, ‘I have an appointment. No doubt you’ll tell me all about Sir Nimrod in the morning.’ And with his irritatingly even-toothed smile and an ingratiating genuflection in Monica’s