'One not enough?' he asked, nodding towards the green tunic which he now spotted alongside Louisa by the door.
'Her?' said Uniff scornfully. 'She's one of the creative accident mob. You shoot enough film, something's bound to be OK.'
'While you use your genius?'
'Right,' grinned Uniff. 'Besides I'm not so rich. Like big John Wayne says, you gotta make every shot count.'
'How's your picture going?' asked Dalziel.
'Up and down, you know how it is, man. You want to see it sometime?'
'If you want to show it,' said Dalziel.
'Why not? Hell, there's got to come a time for every artist when he exposes himself to the average bum in the street.'
'You try exposing yourself to me,' said Dalziel, 'you'll make a pretty picture yourself.'
Uniff laughed heartily.
'I like you, Andy baby,' he said. 'Christ, man, how do you stick it in here with this load of phoneys?'
His gesture seemed pretty well all-inclusive.
'Are they phoneys?' asked Dalziel.
'Can't you tell?'
'I don't know what the real thing looks like, so it's a bit hard,' said Dalziel.
Nor could he see any reason why anyone should want to pretend to be what he saw around him. In particular, you'd have to be bloody revolting to make it worthwhile pretending to be a conceited, blubber-lipped, purple- cheeked, perfumed ponce in a corrugated suit.
'Andrew,' said Bonnie. 'Have you met Eric Butt?'
His pleasure at hearing her use his Christian name almost overcame his distaste for Butt. The journalist smiled briefly at him and returned his attention to Bonnie.
'Next time you're in town,' he said, 'give me a ring. We can lunch together. Fellow I know has just taken over a little French place in Hampstead. Not for the hoi polloi, you know, but you'd love it.'
'How sweet,' said Bonnie. 'I was thinking of taking all the children up next week. Perhaps we could meet there. Would Tuesday suit you?'
Butt emptied his glass and came up smiling.
'Sorry,' he said. 'Better to ring. I'm off to Brazil tomorrow and I'll be there over a week. It's a great thing, did you read about it? There was a bit in the Observer supplement last week. I'm doing a piece on the Brazilian football team and they've agreed for me to stay and train with them. It's a bit unique, actually. The Brazilian Ambassador fixed it, likes my stuff, felt I would do a good job. I wouldn't miss it for worlds. Ever been to Brazil, darling?'
'No,' said Bonnie. 'Andrew though has been around a lot, perhaps he could give you a few traveller's tips.'
She turned away to greet Tillotson who had returned with an armful of bottles.
Dalziel moved close to Butt and sniffed.
'The trouble with corduroy,' he said, 'is that it doesn't half smell if you piss on it.'
'Oh damn the woman,' said Bonnie crossly. 'It's not her night off. I'd better go and look in the larder myself. Andrew, see that everyone's got plenty to drink, will you?'
'What's up?' asked Dalziel.
'I couldn't find Mrs Greave anywhere,' said Tillotson. 'Her door was locked.'
'Did you look in Pappy's room?'
'No. Why should I?' said Tillotson.
Dalziel smiled and plucked a couple of spirit bottles out of the box. The smile died on his face and was replaced by an exasperated grimace. One of the bottles was quite empty. Was there nothing Charley could do without making a balls-up? He checked through the box and found three other empties. That still left eight which was plenty to be going on with, even for this lot.
He looked around the room. Arkwright was asleep on his tape-recorder. Nikki was trying to take a self- portrait with her camera, at the same time as, unawares, she was being photographed by Uniff. Bertie and Mavis were in close confabulation in a corner. They looked at him as he stared towards them, then hastily looked away. Penitent was talking to Louisa, probably offering to make her a star on The Archers. And the trio of Hereward and the two Americans still held the centre of the stage. Bergmann was gabbling away at a pace just short of incomprehensibility while Flower nodded his head sagely and drawled, 'Melville's a shit. Mailer's a shit. Hawthorne's a shit. Longfellow… well, Longfellow… well, Longfellow's a shit also.'
Seizing one of the full bottles of scotch, Dalziel went to help Bonnie.
He found her in the kitchen looking in disgust at a table covered with sausages.
'That's all there is,' she said. 'I thought we ate enough sausages last night to deplete local stocks for fifty miles around.'
'Perhaps she got them in a sale,' said Dalziel. 'Have a drink.'
He poured a tumblerful which she sipped like cold tea.
'What shall I do?' she asked.
It was a comfort to be consulted. A woman could be too competent.
'Stick 'em between two slices of bread and call 'em frankfurters,' said Dalziel. 'These Americans eat nothing else.'
'Fine,' said Bonnie. 'What about cooking them? It'll take hours.'
'Not,' said Dalziel, 'if you use one of those nice new ovens you've got out back.'
'You're a genius,' said Bonnie seriously. 'And we might even unearth Mrs Greave while we're out there.'
They had another large scotch apiece to celebrate the decision. Then the sausages were swept off the table into a large round basket and they set off for the Banqueting Hall kitchens like Red Riding Hood and the Wolf. The image put Dalziel in mind of Butt.
'That fellow Butt,' he said. 'You handled him nicely.'
'Thank you kindly,' she said. 'Though I reckon I lacked your finesse.'
'What? Oh you heard that,' said Dalziel sheepishly. She laughed.
'You don't exactly whisper, Andy. May I call you Andy? No, I've met your Butts before. Always off to Brazil, meeting exciting people, but usually ready to fit you in for a quick roll between jets.'
'I hope he gets a football up his… nose,' said Dalziel.
'Poor man! How's he harmed you?' she asked, then added thoughtfully, 'But if he really trains with them, it could be chancy. He looked a bit hearty to me.'
Dalziel mused upon this as they reached the kitchens where the ovens proved a complete failure. Dalziel seated on an old wooden chair watched with amusement as Bonnie, festooned with sausages, moved around trying to get them to work.
'Useless things!' she exploded.
'Is the power switched through?' asked Dalziel.
'Yes. I think so. At least, Bertie said it was. The dishwasher certainly works.'
'Shall I take a look?' asked Dalziel, heaving himself upright.
'No. Never bother. I'll tell Bertie. He's the only one who understands these things. God, I'm whacked!'
She slumped into the chair vacated by Dalziel who turned from his examination of the first oven with a comment on his lips which died when he saw her. Her head was bowed forward and her arms rested slackly over her knees as though they had been carelessly deposited there for collection later. One leg was crooked under the chair, the other stretched straight out. The whole composition was ugly, awkward, a study in defeat. When Dalziel approached and she looked up, the pores of her face seemed to have opened; the fine Edwardian strength he had admired before was eroded by an admission of age and weariness into a puffy substanceless outline. She was, Dalziel realized, more his contemporary than he had imagined.
And at the same time he realized she was letting him see her like this out of choice. There was strength enough there still to have taken her back to the party and set wildly coursing whatever passes for blood beneath a corduroy suit.
'I don't think these sausages are going to get cooked,' he said.
