The Dobie Paradox: british mystery novel: where nothing is as it seems Read online

  ‘You bet. Burpy as anything.’

  ‘Then I’d like a fizzy lemonade.’

  ‘Right you are. I think,’ Elspeth said grandly, ‘I may join you.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Dobie said.

  He stretched out his legs and, while his hostess was fetching this filthy concoction, surveyed his surroundings, abandoning this pursuit a few moments later in favour of the less strenuous one of closing his eyes. A polite little girl, he thought. And nicely spoken, if a little over-conscientious in her enunciation. A fault in the right direction, anyway, given this modern tendency of the kids to mumble as though their mouths were filled with chewing-gum. Quite a number of them seemed to have their brains filled with chewing-gum as well, but that made a clear and correct form of diction all the more desirable. There didn’t seem to be many schools nowadays where …

  School. Same school, she’d said. It must, Dobie reflected have been a bit of a shock for the kid, seeing a school pal brought into her house like that; even if you are a day-bug it can’t be very nice … But Mighell hadn’t seemed to recognize her. Well, no real reason why he should have, schoolgirls tend to look pretty much alike and besides, if what’s-her-name was a boarder she probably wouldn’t have … But the police would want an ID when they got here, wouldn’t they? So that could be established right away, except that he’d already forgotten … Some weird name suggestive of a canned fruit juice or effervescent liquid such as he was about to be offered … was being offered …

  ‘Sorry. Just closed my eyes for a moment. Warm in here. Er … Thanks.’

  Bev. That was it. Beverley something.

  ‘I hope it’s fizzy enough. The bottle popped all right when I opened it.’

  Dobie tried a cautious sip and closed his eyes again, more briefly. ‘Delicious,’ he declared.

  ‘Oh good. Sorry about the hard stuff but I’m sure Daddy’ll give you a jolly good snifter when he’s finished whatever it is he’s …’

  ‘Why d’you keep it locked up?’

  ‘The booze, you mean …? Oh, we have to. In case anyone breaks in and scoffs the lot or maybe makes off with it. We’ve got alcoholics here, you see, as well as drug addicts, and as they’ve all got criminal records already, well, Morris Train’s very strict about that. We even had to get in special padlocks. No one’s ever actually done it, though, that I’m aware of.’

  Good Heavens. Morris Train … Dobie looked at his wristwatch. ‘Oh, you know Mr Train, then?’

  ‘Of course I know him. Very well. He’s Daddy’s boss. He lives in that big house just up the road and Daddy’s screwing his wife.’

  ‘F’fffffff,’ Dobie said.

  The fizzy lemonade had not been a good idea. He mopped with his handkerchief at his moustache, where the greater part of his last mouthful had arrived via his nostrils. ‘I suppose,’ he said eventually, ‘your mother can’t be any too pleased about that.’

  ‘Oh, she couldn’t care less. She lives in Canada now. They’re divorced.’

  ‘Ah. Then that’s all right, too.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, actually. I think there’ll be trouble there before long. Mind you … she’s very nice. I like her. She’s what the French call sympathique.’

  ‘I was never any good at French,’ Dobie said. ‘Not much good at English either, for that matter.’

  ‘What were you good at, then?’

  ‘Well … Maths, mostly. I still am. I mean, I try to teach it.’

  ‘I get pretty good marks at maths.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘But I hate those … whatchacallum … differential equations …’

  ‘Ah yes. Nasty little things. But then there’d be no point in doing them if they weren’t difficult.’

  ‘What’s the most difficult thing?’

  ‘Paradox, probably.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s when two things that must be true can’t both be true.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Well,’ Dobie said. ‘Say you’re given that God can do anything He likes … and you define the concept that way, just to be on the safe side … and then you ask yourself, “Can He create a stone that’s too heavy for Him to lift?” … Well, then on the one hand—’

  ‘He could create it all right but then He couldn’t lift it.’

  ‘No, that won’t work because—’

  ‘Right. Yes. So what’s the answer?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Unless you can imagine Him creating it at the same time as He’s lifting it. That’s possible because everything happens at the same time as far as God’s concerned. He exists outside time, so to speak. So you have to assign a new set of figures that’ll take that into account and then incorporate that set into the other lot. Then you’ve established what’s called a continuum and that’s the object of the exercise.’

  ‘What about God being supposed to be good and all that?’

  Yes. Well … ‘You see, good and bad are temporal concepts, they have to do with cause and effect and things happening because of something else … and we’ve just gone and eliminated cause and effect, you see, from the equation. Unfortunately,’ Dobie said, ‘just about the whole of traditional physics is based on cause and effect, too, the laws of gravity and thermodynamics and everything. So we’re out on a bit of a limb these days. Mathematicians are. Or some of us are, anyway.’

  ‘But are you doing any good to anybody?’

  ‘We can’t tell that, can we? I suppose it should all make things like that’ – Dobie nodded towards the other room – ‘a bit easier to bear. Help you to see it in a wider perspective. And so on.’

  ‘But does it?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  He was aware that in the usual way he’d contrived to give the conversation a wrong turning, reminding the kid of exactly what he’d intended to divert her mind from. But she, too, seemed to have become aware of something, and almost with alarm. ‘Oh gosh …’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The music.’

  The cassette-player was still emitting those weird noises, it was true. ‘Why, what is it?’

  ‘Michael Bolton. I should have turned it off, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘You mean because of …’ Dobie considered the point. ‘Oh, I don’t know. She’d have liked it, would she?’

  ‘Most of the kids like Michael Bolton.’

  ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘Shall I leave it on, then?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s pretty near the end of the tape, anyway.’

  Most ethical discussions, in Dobie’s opinion, tended to take place near the end of the tape, when it’s too late to matter much either way. In the present case, since Michael Bolton – whoever he was – wasn’t, again in Dobie’s opinion, a patch on Gigli either, or even on Pavarotti, the conclusion of these mournful caterwaulings should be regarded as a welcome event; really it was extraordinarily odd, though undoubtedly an empirically observable fact, that nowadays not only the kids but older and responsible people, such as Kate … de gustibus, yes, of course, but even so … though there couldn’t be any point in moving the direction of the conversation towards such intractable issues or indeed any other now that the tape in fact had ended, enabling him to listen instead to the soporific tapping of raindrops on the curtained-off window panes, a sound that can best be appreciated, of course, with the eyelids gently lowered and the head … comfortably … resting … on the back of a well-cushioned armchair …

  ‘Mr Dobie?’

  ‘Yum,’ Dobie said.

  ‘Mr Dobie …’

  ‘Yum?’ Opening his eyes effortfully, Dobie perceived that the pop. of the sitting room had been recently increased by exactly fifty per cent, Dr Whatname having apparently effected an entry while he himself had been … doing what? … Yes, listening to the raindrops. Of course. What else? But what was he … Ah yes. ‘Yum?’

  Dr Whoozit was, he thought, looking rather tired and puffy-eyed, t
hough this could hardly be in consequence of over-indulgence in that form of activity to which his daughter had alluded in passing, it being surely too early in the evening for … Though you never could tell with these bloody doctors. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Dobie said, struggling ineffectively to sit upright. ‘Just pursuing a rather complex train of thought and what with one thing and another—’

  ‘Mr Dobie,’ Elspeth said, nobly backing him up, ‘knows all about differential equations, Daddy, and about a lot of other things I don’t think I’m quite ready for yet but we’ve been having a most illuminating conversation.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’ Tired, puffy-eyed, and a little flustered. He had, it seemed, just realized he was still wearing his surgical gloves and he was now stripping them off with well-practised but none the less obviously nervous jerks. ‘But I’m afraid you’ll have to continue it some other time because Dr Coyle tells me that Mr Dobie has an extremely important appointment with the Director, which he’s now twenty minutes late for. I’m extremely sorry about that, Mr Dobie, but of course I had no idea … Anyway I’ve just called him and advised him of the circumstances and he tells me he can still fit you in if you’d be good enough to make your way to his house as soon as possible …’

  ‘But shouldn’t I wait till the police get here? In case they want to ask me any questions?’

  ‘No, Dr Coyle says she can handle all that side of things perfectly well and in any case they’ll know where to find you if they want you. It should be a routine enquiry, after all. Now if you’ll excuse me once again, there are still just one or two details that we have to … You’ll have no trouble in finding the house. Elspeth will direct you.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’

  Dobie shook his head, listening now to the sound of the doctor’s footsteps retreating down the passageway – a much less comforting sound, somehow, than that of the raindrops. ‘No, no. I’ll manage.’ A routine enquiry, well, OK, but Kate had to have been in there for all of twenty minutes. Surely if you get knocked over by a car—

  ‘It’s no bother.’

  ‘No, look.’ Dobie was already on his feet. ‘When the police get here, you should tell them you know who … who she is because they’ll want to know that right away. Just tell them that her name’s Beverley … Beverley …’

  ‘Sutro.’

  ‘Yes, Beverley Sutro and she goes to school with you. They won’t want to ask you any questions or I don’t think so but if they do, I’m pretty sure you can handle them. Absolutely nothing to be afraid of, of course. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Beverley.’

  ‘Elspeth.’

  ‘I mean Elspeth, and having such an interesting talk. But it looks like I have to be running along.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And I just may be seeing you again later. Ta-ta, then.’

  ‘But Mr Dobie—’

  Conscious of having handled his vital witness with a coolness and expertise that would surely have done credit to Marshall Hall, Dobie marched stoutly away towards the front door. Opening it, he perceived that it was still pissing down. No matter. The child’s anxiety to detain him was flattering, of course, but business was business. He marched stoutly down the pathway to the parked car and then, after a moment’s hesitation, turned and marched stoutly back again to the front door. He rang the doorbell. Elspeth opened the door almost immediately.

  ‘Er,’ Dobie said. ‘Yes. Where am I—’

  ‘Second left, first right, and it’s straight in front of you.’

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Dobie was a little peeved as he drove off into the prevailing murk. He knew very well why Kate had wanted him out of the way before the boys in blue arrived and, though of course she meant well, he resented it. Just because on a previous occasion he had been, very understandably, a little confused and distrait when questioned by the police, she seemed to have formed the ridiculous impression that he was in some way an unsatisfactory witness. No idea could be more preposterous. If she … If she really supposed … He leaned forwards, peering through the windscreen. The weather conditions seemed if anything to have worsened since the time of their arrival; even with the overhead lamps it was really almost impossible … Ah. The wipers. Dobie switched them on.

  Flip. Squeak. Flop.

  That was better. Here it was. Coming up. Second right. Dobie braked cautiously and effected the turning. This place was much larger than he had anticipated. Probably one of those old country estates, like Duffryn Gardens, converted to a rather different use. Another house there, but that wasn’t the one. He had now to take the first turning on the left and the Director’s residence would then appear directly in front of him, bang on schedule. Here we go, then …

  Oh.

  That was funny …

  He braked again. No house to be seen. Those large iron gates, on the other hand, seemed to be somehow familiar. Dobie sighed heavily. Why even an apparently intelligent child couldn’t nowadays give you a clear and simple set of directions was beyond him. No wonder she couldn’t do differential equations. Indeed she probably couldn’t even work out an elementary trigonometrically based vector analysis. The whole country’s educational system was obviously going to pot. He’d often thought so.

  However …

  Dobie executed a laborious V-turn in reverse gear (a manoeuvre he’d invented himself) and urged his steed forwards again. Five minutes later he brought it to a foaming halt outside Dr Mighell’s house once more.

  Somehow he didn’t feel like marching stoutly up to the front door again. He’d done enough stout marching for the time being. Help from another source, in any case, appeared to be at hand, in the unlikely shape of a scantily clad jogger belting steadily along through the heavily falling sleet. Though the chances were obviously high that this gentleman would prove to be an inmate rather than a member of the staff of this establishment. Dobie felt desperate enough to wind down the window and hail him and the jogger slowed obligingly to a panting halt.

  ‘Mr Train?’

  ‘No, no. Just taking some exercise.’

  Dobie, his suspicions confirmed, was about to turn regretfully away when he realized that his words had been given a different interpretation to that which he had intended. It was amazing how often … ‘No, Mr Train, I mean I’m looking for Mr Train’s house. Can you tell me where to find it?’

  ‘Certainly. Take the second on the left, first right, and Bob’s your uncle. Unless someone’s gone and moved it since this morning.’

  ‘But I’ve just tried that,’ Dobie complained. ‘And it wasn’t—’

  ‘I can show you if you don’t mind your car seat getting a trifle damp. It’s a little bit wetter out here than I’d thought. I like to get in a daily spin but I’d just as soon—’

  ‘No, no, that’s all right.’ Dobie swung open the offside door and the jogger, still panting like an over-exerted dachshund, clambered in. His track suit was indeed so drenched that it squelched as he sat down and his dark hair was plastered so close to his skull that he looked like a seal emerging from an Atlantic roller, a resemblance which his long thin inquisitively twitching nose accentuated. ‘Take it you haven’t been here before. Believe it or not, there’s a wonderful view from here on a clear evening. You can see to the Severn Bridge and well beyond.’

  Dobie set the car in motion once again. Kate, he thought, would have to sit in the back when they returned, in view of the large puddle now forming on the front passenger seat. Well, serve her right. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been here before.’ Refraining from adding the obvious corollary.

  ‘You’re not …’ His passenger paused, clearly struck by a sudden and novel idea. ‘You’re not the chap who’s come to see Adrian Seymour?’

  ‘I’m supposed to see Mr Train about Adrian Seymour. I’m not a relative, though. Or anything like that.’

  ‘But you knew him in Cyprus.’

  ‘I met him in Cyprus
. Seymour, that is. Not Mr Train.’

  ‘And you teach at the University.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Or did. Not right now. I mean I’m officially supposed to be still on secondment, you see, in Cyprus, only I’m not in Cyprus any more. I’m back here.’

  ‘Ah. Horatio Carter.’

  ‘Don’t think I know him.’

  ‘No, I’m Horatio Carter.’

  ‘Ah. Dobie.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s my name. John Dobie.’

  ‘Right. We’ll be releasing him soon, you see.’

  No. Dobie didn’t. ‘Who will? Releasing whom? Why?’

  ‘Adrian Seymour. On probation, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ Dobie said. But again, he didn’t really. ‘How long has he been here now?’ There seemed to be trees over on his left, or something that looked like trees, but … It was difficult, of course, to drive on a night like this and hold intelligent converse at the same time. If that was what he was doing.

  ‘Six weeks. The minimum time, but they dried him out pretty well in the Dene before he came here and we reckon he’s about as clean as he’ll ever be. Possibly shouldn’t have come here at all, because … Here’s your turning. On the right. The right. That’s it … Because our people are in for drug-related offences, or supposed to be, and Adrian’s a straightforward junkie, in so far as they’re ever … Mind that lamppost! Whoooops …! Well done … In so far as they’re ever straightforward, I was going to say. There was never anything to that other business. Adrian never murdered anyone. Absurd to suppose it.’

  ‘The trouble was, he signed a confession.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but that’s quite usual in these cases of hallucinatory dementia. I don’t suppose they have many such cases in Cyprus, but even so … Yes, now if you take this left-hand turn that’s coming up you’ll see the Director’s house right in front of you. A cul-de-sac, you see.’ Dobie, squinting through the windscreen, sighed with relief. Yes, there it was, sure enough. The tyres hissed noisily in the puddles as he brought the car to a halt. ‘Not so difficult, was it?’

  ‘No, indeed. It’s these weather conditions, of course, which … But anyway, I’m much obliged to you. My name is Dobie, by the way.’