Chapter 8
NEXT MORNING Calamity bought a copy of the newspaper and read it as we walked up the Prom.
‘It’s Emily Bishop,’ she said. ‘The girl who rang about the ad. The fan of Kierkegaard.’ She handed me the paper. ‘Do you think there’s a jinx on us?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She was from the college in Lampeter. The last student we had from there didn’t last long, either.’
‘At least we got to shake hands with that one. I’m not even sure if this one counts. All she did was ring.’
‘Still a bit spooky, though.’
‘Maybe they’re accident prone in Lampeter.’
‘Or maybe we are.’
I crossed the road at the junction with Pier Street and Calamity followed.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘The Cabin isn’t open yet.’
‘We’re not going there, we’re going to the hobby shop.’
‘What for?’
‘If you want to find out about a man’s secret weaknesses, those shameful vices he would rather conceal from the light of day, where do you go?’
‘Lots of places. Depends on the vices.’
‘Yes, but as a guiding principle you talk to the madam, the procuress, whoever it is who supplies his shameful lusts.’
‘OK. That’s good, that’s psychology. I approve of that.’
‘You see, there’s something puzzling me about
‘Yes, although my memory of it is a bit cloudy.’
‘What did they teach you about the Mission House siege?’
‘I don’t think we did it.’
‘That’s right, nor did we. No one did, because everyone knows it was a military disaster. None of the veterans from that war will talk about. it And yet in the movie it’s a famous victory. The murdered Father Christmas goes to see it and says his life has been fulfilled. You don’t normally say that after to seeing a film, do you?’
‘Not normally.’
‘As he lies dying he writes “Hoffmann” in his own blood. According to Tadpole, she used to nurse a soldier who fought in the Mission House siege and who cried out “Hoffmann” in his nightmares. Are you following me?’
‘I think so.’
‘So maybe we should try and find out what really happened at the Mission House siege. The version that didn’t make it to the big screen.’
‘OK.’
‘We’ll talk to the man in the hobby shop.’
‘Is he the madam?’
‘Yes, sort of. He supplies people who come in for stuff to make models of battles and stuff. He’s bound to know.’
‘Uh-huh. Maybe we should try one of the techniques from my Pinkerton book to get him to talk.’
‘Yes. We could buy some rubber hose off him for our submarine model, and then hit him with it.’
‘They don’t do that. They use psychology. It’s called Interrogative Misdirection.’
‘How does that work?’
‘Tell me how you were going to handle the interview.’
‘I was going to walk in and ask him if he’s seen the Clip movie.’
‘That’s your first mistake. You shouldn’t let him know what you’re after. You’ve got to use subtlety, like the Pinkertons. You start by asking him about something you’re not interested in. It’s like a conjuror, you see, you have to use misdirection. You divert his attention to this something else and then casually slip in the real thing. We’ll share it. You ask about something you’re not interested in, and I’ll use one of the techniques to steer the conversation round to Patagonia. Agreed?’
I considered for a second and then laughed. ‘OK, we’ll let the Pinkertons handle this interview.’
We walked up Pier Street and Calamity, having chalked up a small victory for the Pinkertons, became expansive. ‘Yes, there’s definitely room in this game for a more systematic and scientific approach in line with the precepts and methodology established by the Pinkertons.’
‘Did you read that in the preface?’
‘It’s empirical.’
‘I bet you read that, too.’
‘What if I did? It’s true, isn’t it? We rely too much on outdated methods.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Take the Butch Cassidy case, for instance.’
‘There is no Butch Cassidy case.’
‘How do you know? There might be. If we just contacted the Pinkertons—’
‘Calamity!’ I said sharply as we reached the doorway to the shop. ‘There is no Butch Cassidy case. It may be the most celebrated case of the Pinkerton organisation but it’s not our case. Ours is the celebrated Hoffmann case.’
‘But they’re linked.’
‘No, they’re not.
I opened the door and we walked in, entering a world in which the real one had been miniaturised and rendered claustrophobic and obsessive. There were flocks of miniature sheep on papiermache hillsides arrayed alongside armies of footsoldiers from Lilliput; kits to build Aberystwyth Castle scaled down to fit on the dining-room table; kits to make fishing boats and the brigs that took the settlers to the New World in the last century; replica spinning wheels . . . Pride of place went to a scale model of Aberystwyth Pier as it was in the days before the sea chopped off the end and left a vestibule leading to nowhere – although that was a popular destination in the town. The detail was impressive: it even had a miniature fibreglass boy with a calliper on his leg, standing at the entrance, for ever soliciting charity from the stony hearts of the townspeople.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice belonged to a man behind the counter; a small greasy man with an obsequious air, a shiny bald pate, a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses that had been repaired with sticky tape, and that cloying look of deep understanding which is shared by the ice man and the brothel keeper. He smiled, an invitation to me to unburden myself and a reassurance that, whatever it was I was after, he would probably have it and in such quantities that I need not worry that I was alone in my obsession.
‘I’m looking for a gift . . . for a friend.’
The man nodded and smiled but made little attempt to conceal the fact that he didn’t believe me. No one ever came into this shop and admitted he was shopping for himself.
‘He’s a trainspotter.’
The man nodded again and said, ‘And you’d like to buy him a little something?’
‘He’s not a close friend.’
‘No?’
‘Really an acquaintance.’
‘Mmmmm.’
