Gourmet Detective (20 page)

“Information, knowledge, tips, scandal, scuttlebutt, dirt—whatever would be helpful in putting one of his programmes to bed.”

“Was he good at it?”

“Good? Oh, he was good all right. The best.”

“And what was he working on when he died?”

“Christ! You're not listening to me, are you! I'm telling you he told nobody what he was working on. People brought him bits, dribs and drabs, fragments—and he put them all together. He'd send people out on assignments and out of all they brought back, only IJ would know what was relevant and what wasn't.”

“But those people would know at least the general target,” I insisted. “Insurance, the Stock Exchange, airlines…”

“Oh, sure,” Deedee said. “Just like we told your people who were here yesterday.” A hint of suspicion had crept into her voice.

“Our F-12 group,” I said promptly.

“I don't know what—”

“I'm F-14.” My tone emphasised that there was all the difference in the world. “We communicate of course but our methods of approach vary. Vital in a case like this.”

It seemed to satisfy her, at least she didn't ask for credentials. Before she could think about that, I asked:

“What did IJ do with all the information he gathered for a programme? Do you have data banks where—”

She chuckled, sounding like the Wicked Witch of the North. She tapped her forehead. “Kept it all in there till he was ready.”

“Who else worked with him—” I intercepted her look. “In any way—I mean, somebody had to schedule—”

“You might talk to Mike Quinn. He had some contact with IJ.”

“And where can I find him?”

“Left out of the door, five doors along. Name's outside.”

I thanked her for her help and exited quickly. At the door marked “M.J. Quinn”, I knocked and went in without waiting for an answer.

A man in his late twenties sat in front of a TV screen, idly watching. He was tall and strongly built and had a healthy complexion and a lot of unruly red hair. The TV screen was only occupying a small percentage of his concentration. Most of this was focused on a bizarre ceremony that he was conducting and I stared in fascination.

A newspaper was spread out on the desk and there were several slices of soft white bread that had dents where he had touched it. A slab of what might be luncheon meat sat there—it was probably 100 per cent protein which was 90 per cent fat which was 85 per cent saturated. A block of pale yellow cheese lay alongside the meat. The cheese looked like it might have been a fair substitute for axle-grease on a donkey cart.

The three components were being assembled in layers and a quarter of a pint of thick red liquid was being squeezed out of a large tube. The liquid looked as plastic as the tube. I wondered what he was going to do with this grotesque structure when it was finalised. He applied the last rites and sat back and contemplated his masterpiece. Something on the screen temporarily distracted him and it was when he looked back at his desk-top creation that he saw me.

He smiled, a happy farm-boy sort of welcoming smile.

“Hello. Looking for me?”

“Mike Quinn?”

“That's right.” He didn't seem curious about me or what I was doing there. I decided to keep it that way. I pulled a battered wicker chair next to the desk.

“I'm investigating Ivor Jenkinson's death.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “You fellows were here—”

Yesterday. Yes, I know. That was our F-12 group.” It had worked once, might as well keep telling the same story. “I'm F-14. Just want to ask you a few questions. You did the scheduling for IJ, didn't you?”

“As much as anybody could.”

“Hard to work with, I believe.”

Apparently I rated higher in entertainment value than the TV set on his desk. He reached out and switched it off. He grinned. “Just timing a show before we send it out for re-runs. Yes, IJ was a shit to work with. Never told you anything. Rude bugger too. Expected the earth but never said thank you.”

“What was he working on when he died?”

“He was a close-mouthed sod—never told a soul what he was up to.”

“In view of the nature of his exposés, that's to be expected, isn't it?”

He eyed the white, light-brown and yellow edifice on his desk but not with any noticeable longing or intent. “Others work differently,” he said. “Some take their staff into their confidence. They think they get better results when they know what they're doing.”

“But not IJ?”

“Not him. The CIA isn't run as tight as his programme.”

“But there must have been some clues—”

“He had three investigations going as near as I know. Might have had more, sometimes he did. They were low-cost housing in the North-East, the food industry and some scandal about a coal mine in Nottinghamshire where a shaft had collapsed, two men were injured and IJ thought it had been hushed up.”

I didn't need long to zero in on the one that had a connection with his abrupt and violent death. “The programme on the food industry … what did that entail?”

Mike Quinn shook his red head vigorously. “No idea but he was enthusiastic about it. Seemed to believe it was going to be one of his best shows.”

I recalled with a chill the words that had been among IJ's last—“It will be my best programme.”

“So nobody worked closely enough with him to know any details of his investigations?”

“No.”

“Who did he use as sources, as helpers?”

Mike Quinn grinned again. “Whoever he could. He had a few regulars, crummy lot, most of them. One or two were stringers for the newspapers, one or two gossip page photographers, in fact, any freelance who wanted to earn a few quid and didn't mind how they did it.”

“You mean some of them weren't above irregular methods?”

“Come on, you don't expect me to admit that to a copper!”

I adopted my sternest expression. “You'd better, my lad.”

He didn't look in the least intimidated. Nevertheless, he answered. “Irregular, unethical, illegal even—I don't doubt.”

“Ever meet any of them?”

“Saw some of them now and then, didn't actually meet any. IJ didn't share his sources.”

“Do you know who any of them were?”

“You mean names?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his chin in thought. “There was an Italian chap, a photographer, always needed a shave, long hair. Worked for that magazine—what's it called …
Scandalous.”
He grinned. “It's well named, ever see it?”

“Yes. It's the one which specialises in pictures of famous people in places and positions they'd rather not be seen in.”

“That's the one—and with people they'd prefer not to be seen with.”

“What his name, this photographer?”

Quinn shook his head. “Don't remember.”

“Try.” He tried. His brow crinkled and he screwed up his face with the effort. Finally, he gave up.

“Can't think of it. I'll call you at Scotland Yard if I do.”

Before I could comment on that, he was asking inevitably,

“What's your name again?”

“Don't worry,” I told him. “I'll be in touch. Back to IJ—he didn't have a secretary?”

“No. Used the secretarial pool. That way, no one got to know anything.”

“Office?”

“He had a sort of an office…”

“Sort of—?”

“Well… want to see it?”

Of course I did and he led the way down the corridor, turning through a door into what seemed like a small, untidy conference room. It was little more than that with a large table, lots of chairs and a huge blackboard covering one wall.

“This is his office?” I asked in astonishment.

“You'll have gathered that IJ didn't go in for show,” Mike Quinn said. “He didn't spend that much time in the building. He was always out so he didn't need much here. He used this room to talk to people.”

“A weird operator.”

“He was that sure enough.”

My gaze strayed across the big blackboard and my interest quickened when Quinn said casually, “Some of that's his.”

He meant all the squiggles, notes, scrawls and undecipherable jumbles that covered the board in half a dozen colours. I was about to ask a question when the door opened and a young man of about Quinn's age came in.

He was lean with dark hair and a light olive complexion. He walked with a slight limp and Quinn greeted him jovially.

“Hello, Joel! Have a good holiday?”

“Yeh, it was good.”

“What d'you do? Twist an ankle coming down the slopes?”

“Not likely! wouldn't catch me out there in all that white mush. No, I fell over a stool in the lodge. It was the last night fortunately.”

“Mix the punch pretty strong there, do they?”

“Something like that.” He was looking at me with frank curiosity and Mike Quinn waved a hand of introduction.

“Joel Freedman—this is, er …”

“I'm investigating the death of Ivor Jenkinson,” I said quickly. “Did you just get back from holiday?”

“Last night. My flat-mate told me about it. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known. I didn't follow any news in Austria.”

“You knew IJ, did you?”

Freedman shrugged. “A little, yes. Nobody really knew him.”

“We were just looking at the board here when you came in,” said Quinn. “You're one of the few who knows his writing. How much of this is his?”

I moved towards the board, curbing my eagerness. Here was a real chance to learn something—something that Scotland Yard didn't know as they had been here yesterday and Joel Freedman had only returned last night.

Freedman looked over the board languidly.

“They took photos of it yesterday,” commented Mike Quinn and I felt like telling him to shut up.

“Any additional information,” I said, “is always welcome.”

Freedman pointed to a line of red writing. I took out my diary to write in and found a pen. I wrote down the line.

“Dr F—B4 CC.” What did that mean? Freedman was already pointing to some yellow chalk inscriptions. “That's his too.”

“VDZH St Armand—12, 9.30.” I wrote that down too.

Freedman was scanning the board. “I've been gone ten days,” he said. “All this is new since I left.” He waved an arm at the board. “IJ always scribbled his notes—such as he had—on this side of the board. The rest seems to be from a presentation somebody else gave on marketing old programmes.”

I was about to put my diary away when Freedman said, “Oh here's another one.” He smiled. “Looks like a pay-off to one of his informants.”

“£150 AS.” I added that to the others. It might take an expert code-breaker to figure those out.

“Any more?” I asked.

“Seems to be all.”

“Anyway, you've got the photographs,” said Mike Quinn. “Your people will be able to match up his handwriting and know which is IJ's.”

Smart alec—probably watched all the Maigret re-runs.

“Well, thanks,” I said. It was time to get out while my cover was still intact.

“Did an escort bring you in?” Joel Freedman didn't sound suspicious but I wasn't taking any chances.

“Millie brought me.”

“Oh, then I'll take you down to—”

“That's all right,” I told him. “Millie's taking me out too.”

I shook hands briskly with both of them and left. The corridor was busy with people hurrying or sauntering on various errands and I walked quickly, merging with them. I had had a sudden idea and I was going to strike while the mental iron was still hot.

At the end of the corridor was a small alcove with a coffee machine. Two girls were sipping coffee and discussing Tom Cruise's latest film. I took a plastic cup to make me look casual but after a peek at the grey fluid in their cups, I decided against actually drinking any.

“Is the medical department on this floor?” I asked them.

“Medical department? Oh, you mean the clinic? It's the next floor up, first door.”

I thanked them and went up the stairs.

The clinic was so white, it was dazzling. White-tiled floor, white walls, white ceiling and brilliant white neon strip lighting. A wheeled trolley was covered with a clean white sheet and two chairs with white nylon seats were placed by a desk with a white top and a sheet of glass over it.

“Anyone here?” I received no answer and was about to call again when a door opened. I hadn't noticed it—it fitted the white decor so closely.

A head of pure white hair appeared followed by a tall elderly woman in a spotless white smock.

“Sit down,” she ordered and came up to me. She gave me a gentle push in the chest to help me sit.

“I'm not here for—” I began.

She was already peering into my eyes. “Open wide,” she instructed and when I did so, she snapped, “Your mouth—your mouth.”

“Look, I'm not a patient—”

“I'm not a patient person either,” she said. “But don't worry. No one can help being ill.” She already had two fingers pulling down my lower lip. She almost recoiled. “Blue!” she said in amazement. “Your mouth is blue!”

She wrote rapidly on a pad on the desk. “Very unusual. Have you spent time in the tropics?”

I took advantage of her writing to pull myself away.

“I'm not a patient. I don't work here. I'm investigating the death of Ivor Jenkinson. Did you ever treat him?”

“You'd better sit down,” she said calmly. “Now, what can I do for you? From the police, are you?”

“IJ. Did he ever consult you—about anything?”

“Yes but never anything serious.” She eyed me solicitously. “Your mouth is blue though …”

“I had blueberry muffins for breakfast.”