The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (3 page)

Graham Illingworth is about ten years younger and combines dullness, obstinacy and pessimism to a unique degree. All requests, whether from me or elsewhere, are initially answered by ‘Doubt it very much’, ‘No chance’ or ‘I see trouble’. When I’ve tried to get him to talk about his interests (because I’m still trying, and I do sit and talk to them sometimes), I can occasionally get him to say something about DIY or the merits of taking the Al rather than the Ml, but it’s mostly monosyllabic. He’s mousey-looking and without a single distinguishing feature physically, and I fear that some day I’ll meet him outside the office and won’t recognize him.

Tiny, God help us, is called that because he has the surname Short. Also, as you will instantly have guessed, he is in fact large and exuberant. He must weigh sixteen stone in the buff and he keeps himself fit with Saturday rugger. I might possibly like him if he didn’t confine his conversation in my hearing to anti-queer jokes of a crudity that throws even me, on the undoubted assumption that I’m queer myself. Moreover, I suspect him of being responsible for upending a plant pot into one of the drawers of my filing cabinets yesterday. I had an hour of happy fun clearing the mess up. In my anxiety to avoid trouble so early in my time here, I said nothing about it.

Bill Thomas is sweaty, bespectacled, forty-five-ish and almost entirely bald. As far as I can gather he has no interests outside his house and garden. He certainly spends enough time looking at seed catalogues under the desk. So far I’ve discovered that he won’t go abroad because he didn’t like it when there on National Service, that he doesn’t like books or music and that he won’t have a TV set because it’s rubbish. (He’s the only bachelor among them, by the way. It figures.) The lack of a TV set cuts him off from much of the general conversation among his peers.

Tony Farson is small, weedy and late forties. He spends a great deal of his time peering over the financial pages and is, I suspect, as mean as hell. The only time I’ve seen him animated was when 1 shocked him to the core by admitting that I was renting rather than buying a flat.

Then there’s Charlie. I can’t imagine what he’s doing here. He’s not much older than me, nice-looking, quick-witted and quick-moving. He’s not exactly friendly towards me, but he does throw me a civil and occasionally funny word from time to time.

What all of them have in common is a total lack of interest in the work they do and a deep resentment about poor promotion prospects. They ransack
Personnel News
looking for jobs of a higher grade for which they can apply, but Horace has admitted that for the last three years, no one from PD has ever been transferred, let alone promoted. Their journeys to work are horrendous. Every one of them commutes from outside London and then has a long tube journey and a twenty-minute walk at the end of that. They loathe London and get the hell out each evening as fast as their employers and British Rail will allow. Their travelling habits are as regular as their bowel movements (about which I am well informed, as they seem to save up evacuation for office hours).

They’re all discontented with their personal lives as well (except possibly bachelor Bill). None of them has a good word to say about marriage, though those with children seem to like them. The younger ones are financially crippled by mortgages and travel costs. In my kindlier moments – when they aren’t particularly thick or unpleasant – 1 feel sorry for them, but they wouldn’t thank me for that. They abhor me even more than they would otherwise, because I live in London, have no dependants to fritter my money, and, worse again, I earn more than they do.

I forgot to tell you about their chief diversion – persecuting Cathy with Irish jokes which she pretends not to hear.

I feel better now. Sorry to have whined so much, but it has been a considerable shock to my self-esteem to find that someone saw fit to send me to this hell-hole. Did you ever see Sartre’s
Huis Clos
? If you did, you’ll get the general idea.

I’m going to make efforts to get a transfer, but my chances are slim, especially since I’ve got to do it without antagonizing Horace. On the plus side, I’ve got more spare time than I’ve had for years and I intend to enjoy it. I might even come over to Paris some weekend if you renew last year’s invitation with sufficient enthusiasm.

And now, on to news of common acquaintances…

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PD2

BCC

11 June

Dear Rachel,

You’re very decent to go on writing so regularly. Yes. The weekend after next will be fine. I’ll be on the plane that arrives at Charles de Gaulle at 7:45 your time. It’s kind of you to offer to introduce me to some of the embassy people, but if it’s all the same to you I’d prefer not to be sociable. Could we just eat and drink a lot and catch up on the last two years? You haven’t really told me much about your job and I’ve mostly just been maundering on in my letters about the horrors of my exile. Absence has certainly made my heart grow fonder of the good old DOC – although I’d like to strangle that shit who sent me here.

I can’t resist giving you some more of the same. You shouldn’t have given me the opening by asking about my attempts to get out of here. The simple answer is no dice. Personnel tell me stiffly that they would consider it only if I got Shipton to recommend it. Apart from the fact that he’d resist the physical effort of signing his name, he’s too satisfied with me to think of letting me go. I realize from something Horace said recently that the last PD2 was given to wheezing up the corridor and trying to pass decisions up to Shipton. Stupidly, I haven’t bothered him at all: the trickiest issue I’ve been faced with so far has been whether to let the paper recycling lab have an unscheduled batch of pencils. I said yes and Graham the DIY fanatic is still sulking.

Speaking of Graham, the other day I found in a file a memo which sums up magnificently his approach to his job. It reads thus:

P/Lab: Mr E.B. White

With reference to your request for a paper-punch (PP14976) I must point out that you have failed to fill in on your CP/3A the box in which you are required to give your reasons for needing this item. Without this the requisition cannot be considered.

I should point out additionally that we have been experiencing considerable delays from the PP14976 suppliers and I think it is very unlikely that even if we approve your request there will be a delivery situation before October at the earliest.

G. Illingworth APE

PD2.2.1

Mr E.B. White is clearly a patient man. He returned a CP/3A with the crucial box filled in with the words ‘For punching holes in pieces of paper.’ Graham duly did the necessary with his rubber stamp. I contributed my mite by sending a rocket to the suppliers which had the effect of securing a delivery within the week. Graham’s pissed off about that too.

News from Henry (mostly through the partition) is that he thinks that any woman who says no means yes. However, he also thinks that rapists should be castrated. He has informed his colleagues that all black men have enormous dongs. I won’t commit to paper what he thinks all black women have.

Bill has had a record crop of lettuces. He’s now bent over the summer seed catalogue.

Horace is in his element. He’s standing in for Shipton, who’s on holiday, and is trying to get approval for some mad scheme for a PD brainstorming weekend at the BCC’s Hertfordshire training centre. I am fearful that Shipton won’t have the energy to countermand the plans when gets back. Brainstorming! Sweet Jesus! How can I get out of it?

Janice, splendid girl, finally flipped last week when Henry’s hand connected with her bum and screamed at him to fuck himself as no one else would. She has now been transferred. Her replacement is a superannuated lady who bears a strong resemblance to Eleanor Roosevelt and sports knee-length pink woollen knickers. Henry’s prospects are bleak.

Oh, I forgot. Horace is threatening to invite me home to dinner so that I can meet his wife and see the slides of their last Spanish holiday.

Yesterday someone put drawing pins on my chair. My cry of pain was answered from without by a raucous laugh from Tiny.

On the plus side, I have come the heavy with Personnel over Charlie’s future prospects and the omens are propitious. He really is bright. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, but I can’t of course. It would finish him off with his associates.

I must stop now as I have an important meeting to prepare for. Horace and I are to state our calculator retention case before a higher court. Even the civil service never expected me to prostitute truth in such a cause – but I can’t quite see it as a resignation issue.

Love,

Robert

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5 November

The sound of bird-shot in the near distance jerked Amiss out of his drunken doze. Diving panic-stricken for cover, he caught his foot on the leg of his chair and his head struck the sharp edge of his desk. As he sprawled, the chair fell painfully across his twisted right leg. Full-blooded, throaty laughter sounded through the wall and his senses returned, bringing with them clashing emotions of anger and embarrassment.

What he wanted to do now was to hurtle out into the general office and throttle the fool who had launched what must have been an entire carton of paperclips at his plywood wall. What he had to do was recover his composure and think of an appropriate wise-crack to deliver when he sauntered out in a few minutes, apparently unruffled. It was his own fault anyway. He shouldn’t have drunk so much at Charlie’s goodbye party.

Wincing, he disentangled himself from the chair, set it upright and examined the damage in the mirror. His face was flushed and a discoloured swelling was beginning to appear high up on his left temple. The relief of finding that his hair was long enough to cover the evidence of his fall made the pain easier to bear, though the throbbing of his right leg demanded great will-power if he was to avoid exhibiting a limp. It was worth it, though. If the chair hadn’t fallen on his leg it would have made a resounding crash and the bastards would have been chortling for the rest of the afternoon.

It had to be Tiny, of course. Only he had the strength to create a din of this magnitude with the missiles to hand. Amiss wondered for the hundredth time why Tiny seemed determined to annoy a reasonably well-disposed boss, who was in a position to counteract the effect of the vicious reports that Henry put in on him. But then he probably didn’t realize that Henry was selling him down the river, or that Amiss was struggling hopelessly to persuade Shipton that Tiny deserved a break. Fat chance. It had taken six months of constant effort to wangle Charlie a temporary promotion to another department and that had really only been possible because Bill’s reports on him had been so innocuous. Thinking back to what he had endured from Tiny over the six months, Amiss was impressed by his own generosity of spirit. Of course, he couldn’t be certain that Tiny had been behind all the practical jokes, but he couldn’t think of any other likely perpetrator. God! They were so wearisome and unfunny. Plastering his office with soft-porn pin-ups was one thing; lining his briefcase with green jelly was another. And those damn bogus alarm calls in the middle of the night were especially hard to bear. Maybe he should have come down on Tiny like a ton of bricks when the jokes started, rather than ignoring them. But then he’d probably have denied responsibility.

Amiss shook his head and strolled out of his command module. Paperclips littered the floor. ‘Oh, come on, Bill,’ he said reprovingly, ‘now that you’ve thrown them you should pick them up.’ Bill was opening his mouth to protest when the laughter from the others indicated to him that this was a witticism, since no one could ever imagine him departing from orthodox behaviour – especially since he had confined himself to orange squash at lunchtime. Amiss congratulated himself. Bill would now feel it incumbent on him to persuade Tiny to clear up. Or, more likely, timid poor sod that he was, he’d do it himself.

He glanced round the group. ‘Can you come in for a minute, Charlie?’ Charlie followed him in.

‘Have you time for a quick one tonight? Just to say a personal goodbye.’

Charlie looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, ‘Oh, hell. Why not for once? I’ll just phone the wife and tell her I’ll be a bit late. She can’t complain considering you got me the
promotion
.’

‘Will you phone from here? I’d rather the others didn’t know. They’d accuse me of favouritism and you of crawling!’

‘They do already,’ grinned Charlie, dialling a number. Amiss found his muttered excuses to his wife almost more dispiriting than the total lack of warmth in his voice. No wonder they all regarded marriage as a concentration camp. He’d never known any of them vary his evening routine by five minutes.

As they walked across the tarmac, Charlie stopped and looked up at the BCC offices. ‘I only wish I had the guts to set the whole bloody building on fire.’

‘Why don’t you find a job somewhere else?’

‘Are you being funny? I’ve no qualifications and I’d get a lousy reference – temporary promotion or no temporary promotion. I’ve got job security here, and that counts for a lot when you’ve got a wife, two kids and a mortgage to support.’

‘Sorry. I see the problem. But things should be looking up a bit now.’

‘Oh, yeah. The job I’m going to looks all right. It’s just that I can’t forgive the swine for leaving me so long in that PD hell-hole. Sorry. I know you’re stuck there, but at least you’ve got a short sentence.’

They walked on.

‘The Star all right?’ asked Amiss.

‘It’s no more disgusting than anywhere else around here.’