Dundridge woke in a lay-by on the London road. He had a splitting headache, he was extremely cold and the gear lever was sticking into his ribs. He sat up, untangled his legs from under the steering wheel and wondered where the hell he was, how he had got there and what the devil had happened. He had an extremely clear memory of the party at the Golf Club. He could remember talking to Miss Boles on the terrace. He could even recall walking back to his car with her. After that nothing.
He got out of the car to try to get the circulation moving in his legs and discovered that his trousers were undone. He did them up hurriedly and reached up automatically to tighten the knot in his tie to hide his embarrassment only to find that he wasn’t wearing a tie. He felt his open shirt collar and the vest underneath. It was on back to front. He pulled the vest out a bit and looked down at the label. St Michael Combed Cotton it said. It was definitely on back to front. Now he came to think of it, his Y-fronts felt peculiar too. He took a step forward and tripped over a shoelace. His shoes were untied. Dundridge staggered against the car, seriously alarmed. He was in the middle of nowhere at… He looked at his watch. At six a.m. with his shoes untied, his vest and pants on back to front, and his trousers undone, and all he could remember was getting into the car with a girl with almond eyes and lovely legs.
And suddenly Dundridge had a horrid picture of the night’s events. Perhaps he had raped the girl. A sudden brainstorm. That would explain the headache. The years of self-indulgence with his composite woman had come home to roost. He had gone mad and raped Miss Boles, possibly killed her. He looked down at his hands. At least there wasn’t any blood on them. He could have strangled her. There was always that possibility. There were any number of awful possibilities. Dundridge bent over painfully and did up his shoes and then, having looked in the ditch to make sure that there was no body there, he got back into the car and wondered what to do. There was obviously no point in sitting in the lay-by. Dundridge started the car and drove on until he came to a signpost which told him he was going towards London. He turned the car round and drove back to Worford, parked in the yard of the Handyman Arms and went quietly up to his room. He was in bed when the girl brought him his tea.
“What time is it?” he asked sleepily. The girl looked at him with a nasty smile.
“You ought to know,” she said, “you’ve only just come in. I saw you sneaking up the stairs. Been having a night on the tiles, have you?”
She put the tray down and went out, leaving Dundridge cursing himself for a fool. He drank some tea and felt worse. There was no point in doing anything until he felt better. He turned on his side and went to sleep. When he awoke it was midday. He washed and shaved, studying his face in the mirror for some sign of the sexual mania he suspected. The face that stared back at him was a perfectly ordinary face but Dundridge was not reassured. Murderers tended to have perfectly ordinary faces. Perhaps he had simply had a blackout or amnesia. But that wouldn’t explain his vest being on back to front, nor his Y-fronts. At some time during the night he had undressed. Worse still, he had dressed in such a hurry that he hadn’t noticed what he was doing. That suggested panic or at least an extraordinary urgency. He went downstairs and had lunch. After lunch he would get hold of a telephone directory and look up Boles. Of course her uncle might not be called Boles but it was worth a try. If that didn’t work he would try Hoskins or the Golf Club. On second thoughts, that might not be such a good idea. There was no point in drawing attention to the fact that he had taken Miss Boles home. Or hadn’t.
In the event there was no need to look in the telephone directory. As he passed the hotel desk, the clerk handed him a large envelope. It was addressed to Mr Dundridge and marked Private and Confidential. Dundridge took it up to his room before opening it and was extremely thankful that he hadn’t opened it in the foyer. Dundridge knew now how he had spent the night.
He dropped the photographs on to the bed and slumped into a chair. A moment later he was up and locking the door. Then he turned back and stared at the pictures. They were 10 by 8 glossies and quite revolting. Taken with a flash, they were extremely clear and portrayed Dundridge with an unmistakable clarity, naked and all too evidently unashamed, engaged in a series of monstrous activities beyond his wildest imaginings with Miss Boles. At least he supposed it was Miss Boles. The fact that she seemed… Not seemed, was wearing a mask, a sort of hood, made identification impossible. He thumbed through the pictures and came to the hooded man. Dundridge hurriedly put them back in the envelope and sat sweating on the edge of the bed. He’d been framed. The word seemed wholly inappropriate. Nothing on God’s earth would get him to frame these pictures. Someone was trying to blackmail him.
Trying? They had bloody well succeeded, but Dundridge had no money. He couldn’t pay anything. Dundridge opened the envelope again and stared at the evidence of his depravity. Miss Boles? Miss Boles? It obviously wasn’t her real name. Sally Boles. He had heard that name before somewhere. Of course, Sally Bowles in I am a Camera. Dundridge didn’t need telling. He’d been had in more ways than one. In many more ways if the photos were anything to go by.
He was just wondering what to do next when the telephone rang. Dundridge grabbed it. “Yes,” he said.
“Mr Dundridge?” said a woman’s voice.
“Speaking,” said Dundridge shakily.
“I hope you like the proofs.”
“Proofs, you bitch?” Dundridge snarled.
“Call me Sally,” said the voice. “There’s no need to be formal with me now.”
“What do you want?”
“A thousand pounds… to be going on with.”
“A thousand pounds? I haven’t got a thousand pounds.”
“Then you had better get it, hadn’t you sweetie?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to get,” shouted Dundridge, “I’m going to get the police.”
“You do that,” said a man’s voice roughly, “and you’ll end up with your face cut to ribbons. You’re not playing with small fry, mate. We’re bigtime, understand.”
Dundridge understood all too well. The woman’s voice came back on the line. “If you do go to the police remember we’ve had one or two customers there. We’ll know. You just start looking for your thousand pounds.”
“I can’t -”
“Don’t call us. We’ll call you,” said Miss Boles, and put the phone down. Dundridge replaced his receiver more slowly. Then he leant forward and held his head in his hands.
Sir Giles returned from London in excellent spirits. Mrs Forthby had excelled herself and he was still tingling with satisfaction. Best of all had been Hoskins’ cryptic message over the phone. “The fish is hooked,” he had said. All that was required now was to provide a net in which Mr Dundridge could flounder. Sir Giles parked his car and went up to his constituency office and sent for Hoskins.
“Here they are. As nice a set of prints as you could wish for,” Hoskins said, laying the photographs out on the desk.
Sir Giles studied them with an appreciative eye. “Very nice,” he said finally. “Very nice indeed. And what does lover-boy have to say for himself now?”
“They’ve asked him for a thousand pounds. He says he hasn’t got it.”
“He’ll have it, never fear,” said Sir Giles. “He’ll have his thousand pounds and we’ll have him. There won’t be any more talk about tunnels in future. From now on it’s going to be Ottertown.”
“Ottertown?” said Hoskins, thoroughly puzzled. “But I thought you wanted it through the Gorge. I thought -”
“The trouble with you, Hoskins,” said Sir Giles, putting, the photographs back into the envelope and the envelope into his briefcase, “is that you can’t see further than the end of your nose. You don’t really think I want to lose my lovely house and my beautiful wife, do you? You don’t think I haven’t got the interests of my constituents like General Burnett and Mr Bullett-Bloody-Finch at heart, do you? Of course I have. I’m honest Sir Giles, the poor man’s friend,” and leaving Hoskins completely confused by this strange change of tack, he went downstairs.
There was nothing like throwing people off the scent. Killing two birds with one stone, he thought as he got into the Bentley. The decision to go through Ottertown would kill Puckerington for sure. Sir Giles looked forward to his demise with relish. Puckerington was no friend of his. Snobby bastard. Well, he was bird number one. Then the bye-election in Ottertown and they would have to change the route to the Gorge and Handyman Hall would go. Bird number two. By that time he would be able to claim even more compensation and no one, least of all Maud, could say he hadn’t done his damnedest. There was only one snag. That old fool Leakham might still insist on the Gorge route. It was hardly a snag. Maud would create a bit more. He might lose his seat in Parliament but he would be £150,000 richer and Mrs Forthby was waiting. Swings or roundabouts, Sir Giles couldn’t lose. The main thing was to see that the tunnel scheme was scotched. Sir Giles parked outside the Handyman Arms, went inside and sent a message up to Dundridge’s room to say that Sir Giles Lynchwood was looking forward to his company in the lounge.
Dundridge went downstairs gloomily. The last person he wanted to see was the local MP. He could hardly consult him about blackmail. Sir Giles greeted him with a heartiness Dundridge no longer felt that his position warranted. “My dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” he said shaking Dundridge’s limp hand vigorously. “Been meaning to look you up and have a chat about this motorway nonsense. Had to go to London unfortunately. Looking after you all right here? It’s one of our houses, you know. Any complaints, just let me know and I’ll see to it. We’ll have tea in the private lounge.” He led the way up some steps into a small lounge with a TV set in the corner. Sir Giles plumped into a chair and took out a cigar. “Smoke?”
Dundridge shook his head.
“Very wise of you. Still they do say cigars don’t do one any harm and a fellow’s entitled to one or two little vices, eh, what?” said Sir Giles and pierced the end of the cigar with a silver cutter. Dundridge winced. The cigar reminded him of something that had figured rather too largely in his activities with Miss Boles, and as for vices…
“Now then, about this business of the motorway,” said Sir Giles, “I think it’s as well to put our cards on the table. I’m a man who doesn’t beat about the bush I can tell you. Call a spade a bloody shovel. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet. Wouldn’t be where I was if I did.” He paused briefly to allow Dundridge to savour this wealth of metaphors and the bluff dishonesty of his approach. “And I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like this idea of your building a motorway through my damned land one little bit.”
“It was hardly my idea,” said Dundridge.
“Not yours personally,” said Sir Giles, “but you fellows at the Ministry have made up your mind to slap the bloody thing smack through the Gorge. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”
“Well, as a matter of fact…” Dundridge began.
“There you are. What did I tell you? Told you so. Can’t pull the wool over my eyes.”
“As a matter of fact I’m against the Gorge route,” Dundridge said when he got the opportunity. Sir Giles looked at him dubiously.
“You are?” he said. “Damned glad to hear it. I suppose you favour Ottertown. Can’t say I blame you. Best route by far.”
“No,” said Dundridge. “Not through Ottertown. A tunnel under the Cleene Hills…”
Sir Giles feigned astonishment. “Now wait a minute,” he said, “the Cleene Forest is an area of designated public beauty. You can’t start mucking around with that.” His accent, as variable as a weathercock, had veered round to Huddersfield.
“There’s no question of mucking about…” Dundridge began but Sir Giles was leaning across the table towards him with a very nasty look on his face.
“You can say that again,” he said poking his forefinger into Dundridge’s shirt front. “Now you just listen to me, young man. You can forget all about tunnels and suchlike. I want a quick decision one way or t’other. I don’t like to be kept hanging about while lads like you dither about talking a lot of airy twaddle about tunnels. That’s all right for my missus, she being a gullible woman, but it won’t wash with me. I want a straight answer. Yes or No. Yes to Ottertown and No to the Gorge.” He sat back and puffed his cigar.
“In that case,” said Dundridge stiffly, “you had better have a word with Lord Leakham. He’s the one who makes the final decision.”
“Leakham? Leakham? Makes the final decision?” said Sir Giles. “Don’t try to have me on, lad. The Minister didn’t send you up so that that dry old stick could make decisions. He sent you up to tell him what to say. You can’t fool me. I know an expert when I see one. He’ll do what you tell him.”
Dundridge felt better. This was the recognition he had been waiting for. “Well I suppose I do have some influence,” he conceded.
Sir Giles beamed. “What did I say? Top men don’t grow on trees and I’ve got a nose for talent. Well, you won’t find me ungenerous. You pop round and see me when you’ve had your little chat with Lord Leakham. I’ll see you right.”
Dundridge goggled at him. “You don’t mean -”
“Name your own charity,” said Sir Giles with a prodigious wink. “Mind you, I always say ‘Charity begins at home’. Eh? I’m not a mean man. I pays for what I gets.” He drew on his cigar and watched Dundridge through a cloud of smoke. This was the moment of truth. Dundridge swallowed nervously.
“That’s very kind of you…” he began.
“Say no more,” said Sir Giles. “Say no more. Any time you want me I’ll be in my constituency office or out at the Hall. Best time to catch me is in the morning at the office.”
“But what am I going to say to Lord Leakham?” Dundridge said. “He’s adamant about the Gorge route.”
“You tell him from me that my good lady wife intends to take him to the cleaners about that unlawful arrest unless he decides for Ottertown. You tell him that.”
“I don’t think Lord Leakham would appreciate that very much,” said Dundridge nervously. He didn’t much like the idea of uttering threats against the old judge.
“You tell him I’ll sue him for every brass farthing he’s got. And I’ve got witnesses, remember. Influential witnesses who’ll stand up in court and swear that he was drunk and disorderly at that Enquiry, and abusive too. You tell him he won’t have a reputation and he won’t have a penny by the time we’ve finished with him. I’ll see to that.”
“I doubt if he’ll like it,” said Dundridge, who certainly didn’t.
“Don’t suppose he will,” said Sir Giles, “I’m not a man to run up against.”
Dundridge could see that. By the time Sir Giles left Dundridge had no doubts on that score at all. As Sir Giles drove away Dundridge went up to his room and looked at the photographs again. Spurred on by their obscenity he took an aspirin and went slowly round to the Cottage Hospital. He’d make Lord Leakham change his mind about the Gorge. Sir Giles had said he would pay for what he got and Dundridge intended to see that he got something to pay for. He didn’t have any choice any longer. It was either that or ruin.
On the way back to Handyman Hall, Sir Giles stopped and unlocked his briefcase and took out the photographs. They were really very interesting. Mrs Williams was an imaginative woman. No doubt about it. And attractive. Most attractive. He might look her up one of these days. He put the photographs away and drove back to the Hall.