Open Writing

If Mr Harry Walsh's desk was somewhere around the size of Lord's cricket ground, then Mr, Walsh himself wasn't a lot smaller than the pavilion.

He was a mountainous figure, a pinstriped volcano whose voice rumbled underground before thundering out of his mouth. A couple of times I could've sworn I saw sparks. And he had his own unique way of making visitors feel at home.

'Sit down,' he growled. 'You're not going to enjoy this.'

I sat on the armless chair which faced him and looked brightly around at my companions. There were four of them. Tidy by the door, in case I tried to rush out and eat live babies. Brassington, this time in a charcoal-grey suit with a pink shirt and a Burgundy-coloured silk tie, was in the window. And a thin colourless man in rimless glasses who was almost out of sight on my left. Kentish, I assumed.

At first, Walsh studied me over his half glasses. Then, evidently sickened by what he saw, he took them off and twirled them slowly. They have special classes in spectacle-twirling at all the best law schools.

'Just what the devil do you think you're playing at, Mr err errr...'

He shuffled papers on his desk as though he'd misplaced my name there.

'Hussy,' I said. 'As in wanton.' Well you've got to vary them, haven't you?

'Frankly, Hussy, I'd like to send you to jail.'

'Isn't there something I've got to do first,' I asked. 'A crime or something?'

He bulldozed straight over my cheerful response. 'You stand in contempt of Her Majesty's Coroner's Court, and I can jail you for that. So I suggest you bear that in mind throughout this conversation.'

'How did I do that?' I hadn't been expecting this and if I was going to prison I'd like to know why.

'How?' He fired the word back at me over his desk. 'How? I'll tell you how. You come waltzing along with some poppycock about making a television programme and then start sticking your nose into things that don't concern you. You physically attack one of my clerks . . .' at that Tidy gave me a brown-toothed smile . . . 'you drag Tomkins away from his office, you go tittle-tattling with that old soak Hands ..."

'When you put it like that,' I said meekly, 'it does make me sound a bit of a scamp.'

Walsh leaned forward on his forearms and his eyes glared at me from their pouches of flesh.

'All we require to know is who sent you?'

He sat, waiting. So did the others. I thought about it. One of the more encouraging points in Cringle's briefing was that I was on my own and if I got out of my depth they'd let me drown. So it was no good calling him in.

'To be quite candid, I'd rather not say.'

When Walsh spoke again, he was fighting hard to hold his temper.

'You are in a very dangerous position, Hussy. You clearly do not realise this. The inquest on Nightingale was conducted entirely in accordance with Home Office regulations, yet you appear to have been suggesting otherwise. This could be construed as contempt. If, however, you co-operate by declaring who you represent, I may be able to overlook your behaviour. Who was it?'

'It's Victoria Finch, isn't it?'

Brassington slipped that in like a stiletto and sat back to watch me bleed.

I pulled a shocked however-did-you-know face for them and was rewarded by victorious smirks.

Brassington, delighted with the triumph of his interrogation techniques, took up the adjustment of his silk tie.

'So,' Walsh went on, now leaning back in his big leather chair. 'You are here at the behest of Miss Finch. I might say we've had some trouble with Miss Finch over the telephone but I expect you know all about that. Now, Hussy, you may go and tell your employer that we may only be unsophisticated provincial lawyers' - here he permitted himself a smile at the absurdity of the idea — 'but we do not propose to allow grubby little private investigators from London to run all over us. You will find nothing improper because nothing improper has occurred. You may go, and count yourself fortunate that you still have your freedom.'

He sat back and replaced his spectacles. I stood up, ready to go.

'I will,' I said. 'And the cremation goes ahead tomorrow?'

'Of course,' he replied.

'In that case, I'd better have a quick word with the Home Office this afternoon.'

Walsh's eyes flashed over to my left to where Kentish was sitting, then back to me.

'Why?'

'Ah, it's nothing to bother yourself with, Mr Walsh, and you a busy enough man as things are.'

His vast weight slid forward in the seat again as he lay his forearms on the desk.

'Why do you wish to speak to the Home Office?'

I turned to go, then paused. I gave him my vacuous smile and slipped into my most witless Mick accent.

'Ah, it's just a couple of things, like you not having a proper pathologist. No, no, I know that's perfectly legal but if there's a problem the Home Office can easily whistle one of their boys up on the train, so they might be interested to know about that. And I reckon they'd like to know about the cause of death. Fractured skull, wasn't it? Top of the head. Consistent with cracking your nut on the roof of the car, I expect. But in a convertible? Now naturally I don't want to hang around here being a nuisance to busy fellers like yourself and with me being in contempt of Her Majesty's Coroner and all that. Holy Mother, to think I could've been in jail! So I'll pass on these little things to the Home Office and get out from under your feet. Thanks again for giving me a chance to co-operate, you'll not be seeing me again, I can tell you, gentlemen ...'

I'd got to the door before Walsh spoke. When he did he roared.

'You cheap little snooper, Hussy, you needn't think you can intimidate me with your implied threats. By God, sir, I'll have the skin off your back ..."

I turned back to him.

'I am a snooper, I'll grant you that, Mr Walsh, although I'm not so much cheap as economical. But jeering at my lack of inches is very personal, very personal indeed.'

Like a beached whale, he sat there gasping. Then I felt a hand tentatively touch my sleeve. It was Kentish. I looked down — he was actually smaller than me — into his round pink face.

His pale eyes looked like a horror-comic insect's, they were so magnified by the thick glass of his spectacles.

'Would you be able to spare me a few moments, Mr Hussy?' he asked. 'I'd be most grateful.'

Then, without waiting for an answer, he spoke to Walsh over his shoulder. 'I hope you don't mind, Mr Walsh, but I don't think Mr Hussy is the type of person who responds well to intimidation.' He turned back to me. 'This way, sir,' and with the lightest pressure on my elbow he steered me out of the room.

**

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