‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘I like to move in the best circles. Now tell me what you meant when you said you were waiting for me.’
‘Not you, yourself, Arch,’ Pike said. ‘I mean, I didn’t know who you were. But we knew there’d be someone working for Mrs Paget-Lucan.’
‘Lucan-Paget,’ I said. ‘Who’s we?’
‘I’ve got some mates I think you’d better meet. All good blokes. I’m sure you’ve heard of some of them. Ross Martin? Frankie Bourke?’
They were PEAs. And not the most ethical ones either. I got a sniff of it then, but Pike wasn’t about to tell me any more. He suggested a meeting at the club the following night. I agreed and asked him if I could have a couple of his shots of the happy couple.
He grinned. ‘I wasn’t taking pictures, Arch. Like I said, I was waiting for you.’
There were five of us at the club the next night-me, Pike, Bourke, Martin and Dick Maxwell. Bells would have started ringing in the heads of any cops or lawyers who saw us together, but it wasn’t that kind of a club. Pike, as I discovered, was a sly type, always looking for an angle; Martin and Bourke were both ex-cops, resentful, lazy and dishonest; Maxwell was a queer and a drunk with family connections to some top people. I was an old soldier with short wind and starting to put on weight. Getting past it. An unholy bunch. We ate a bit, particularly Maxwell and Bourke, sailed into the beer and the Scotch, wrapped ourselves in cigarette smoke and got down to it.
Pike and Maxwell laid it out. This bunch of filthy rich eastern suburbs snobs had all started rooting each other’s wives. The men were all boardroom and club bar chums; the women were all younger than the men. Things got out of hand and thoughts turned towards divorce. The problems were, the disputed custody of a fair number of kids, a hell of a lot of property involved, reputations at stake in areas like the law and politics where reputations mattered, and a fair amount of bitterness. Naturally, these types tended to have the same lawyers, or at least members of the same firms. Things got sticky.
‘The chaps attempted to stitch things up neatly,’ Maxwell said. ‘Make arrangements, come to agreements, one gentleman to another. Worked well up to a point.’
I said, ‘I never heard a whisper until I got my little piece.’
Maxwell nodded. ‘Right. That’s one of the things that worked. All very hush-hush, nothing in the papers.’
Pike grinned, showing that he’d reached the good bit. ‘But the women weren’t having a bar of it. They got their own lawyers and that’s where nasty, low-life types like us come in.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Martin said, and got a laugh.
Dick Maxwell said, ‘He was, dear boy’ and got another laugh. Maxwell and Pike went on to explain how a deal had finally been put together by the nobs and the lawyers. A clutch of men and women had agreed to become the official co-respondents so that none of the people who couldn’t afford to be named would be.
‘That’s not right,’ I said. “The solicitor told me Mrs Butterworth would be cited as the correspondent in Lucan-Paget vs Lucan-Paget, and that the divorce would be uncontested.’
‘Who’s the lawyer?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Alistair McLachlan.’
‘When you go and see Mac with your snaps, Archie old love, you’ll find out things have changed a trifle. I imagine Mrs Butterworth needed a little pressure to bring her into line. That’s what all of us have been doing-getting the goods on this one and that so that the shysters can apply the screws.’
‘Right,’ Pike said. ‘The upshot’s something like this: Redding will divorce his wife but he won’t cite the judge. He’ll cite Joe Blow, who’ll get a pay-off.’
Maxwell chortled. ‘I’d like to meet him-Joe Blow.’
Pike ignored that and went on, ‘Mrs Molesworth will divorce the doctor, but she won’t cite Mrs Hamilton, the other doctor’s wife…’
Maxwell took a big swig of gin and exploded into laughter. ‘She’ll cite Henrietta Head, or May Kum, the Chinese…’
I laughed along with everyone else. Maxwell wore green suede shoes, hung around gymnasiums and drank neat gin as if it was iced water, but he was a funny bastard until he got nasty and then got too pissed to move. Pike lit a cigarette from the stub of the last, a temptation I’ve always avoided, and went on with his report.
‘Farfrae’s paying a bundle to keep out of it. His missus has got terminal cancer. He’ll be on the loose soon anyway, but if there was a scandal just now, some of his churchie kinfolk would grab his company off him.’
‘Who’s he been rooting?’ I asked.
Bourke waved a forkful of spaghetti. ‘Everybody.’ He leered at Maxwell. ‘Boys, even.’
Maxwell smiled. ‘Hence his generous contribution to the fighting fund. Ted?’
‘They’ve got together a heap of cash,’ Pike said. ‘To pay the dummies, square a couple of the lawyers, buy off this person and that. A quarter of a million, we’re told, and plenty more where that came from.’
I lit a smoke and tried to sound casual. ‘Who’s holding the kitty?’
‘Terry Farmer of Soames, Farmer amp; Cain,’ Maxwell said. ‘We’ve got an arrangement, Terry and I, although it’s not quite what Terry thinks.’
‘Iron each other’s silk hankies, do you?’ Martin said.
Maxwell had drunk enough to turn snaky. ‘You chaps in your flannel pyjamas with your winceyette wives,’ he snapped, ‘don’t have any idea how much fun an interesting piece of fabric can be.’
‘Easy, Dick,’ Pike said. ‘Frankie’s a poofter basher from way back. He can’t help it. We all know this couldn’t have worked without you.’
‘What couldn’t have worked?’ I said. ‘All I see’s a bunch of PEAs collecting their fees and sitting around getting pissed. Nothing special about that.’
‘We’re going after half of the fund,’ Pike said. ‘A hundred and twenty-five thousand-twenty-five grand each. We were just waiting for the last man to come aboard. Glad it was you, Arch.’
I said, ‘Why?’
Ross Martin put his big fists on the table. He wore rings on several fingers, as some of the people who’d had face-to-face dealings with him had cause to regret. ‘You can’t afford to turn it down, Arch. Like the rest of us, you’re not young, you’re not getting any quicker. I’ll bet London to a brick you haven’t got any gilt-edged investments.’
I looked around the table but I didn’t even have to think about it. Not really. Didn’t even have to remember the supercilious tone of McLachlan and his kind, and the late cheques and the cheques that bounced and the accounts that were never paid at all.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘How?’
Dick Maxwell had mopped his flushed, damp face with a silk handkerchief which he stuffed back into the pocket of his Harris tweed sportscoat. Pissed, but holding himself together, he lifted his glass. Somehow, Maxwell’s glass always seemed to contain an inch or so of gin. ‘To the Commonwealth Matrimonial Causes Act, 1959 to 1965,’ he said. ‘To the right honourable convention of the discretion statement.’
That was the end of side one. Arch had enclosed a copy of the Act in the file. The Act had been in force when I began working in private enquiries, and I’d done a bit of divorce work back then-more the serving of papers and checking on assets sort of thing than photograph-taking, but a bit of that as well. Then the law was changed in the early Seventies and we had no-fault divorces of the kind that Cyn and I got. It was interesting to read over the relevant bit of the old legalese again:
A discretion statement in respect of adultery committed prior to the petition shall be filed-
(1) with the first pleading by the spouse