The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 77: A Kind and Generous Soul

In Hatchards on Piccadilly, Rupert Porter stood, Patum Peperium on his shoes, wondering what to do. He had told Roger Katz that he was looking for a tall man, of somewhat hirsute appearance, and Roger had confirmed that such a person had recently gone upstairs. So now, at long last, he was within grasping distance of the yeti, if that was what he was pursuing. In reality, of course, there was no yeti – he was sure of that. What he was therefore pursuing was a person wholooked like a yeti, a person of sufficient cunning not only to have given him the slip in Fortnum & Mason but also to have persuaded the time-served travel writer Errol Greatorex that he was a genuine abominable – or perhaps a genuinely abominable – snowman.

For the first time in this pursuit, Rupert Porter felt fear. He had not been frightened in Fortnum & Mason, and he had not been the least bit concerned while tearing down Piccadilly. But now, in the narrower confines of Hatchards, he felt a frisson of anxiety that was not far, he realised, from fear. He wondered why he should be afraid. The yeti was presumably unarmed, and it was highly unlikely that he would set upon anybody in broad daylight, in the middle of London. Yetis had no record of harming anybody; in fact, the yeti was meant to be a shy and elusive character, given to loping off into the snowy wastes should anybody get too close. There was no reason to believe, then, that this yeti – if he was a yeti, which of course he was not – would behave any differently.

And yet Rupert could not get out of his mind that terrifying scene in Daphne du Maurier’s Don’t Look Now where the art historian pursues a tiny red-coated figure through the streets of Venice, and, in a petrifying denouement, is suddenly confronted by a malign knife-bearing dwarf. What a harrowing story that was, and how tragic the outcome. What if he were to confront the yeti and, to the strains of Mahler or whatever it was, have his throat slit from side to side with a sweep of a blade? He would slip to the floor and see the blood ebb out, the flow matching the last beats of the heart, a pumping that would diminish and stop as the last chords of Mahler played out. Or was that Visconti? It was, he remembered, and the outcome there had not been very good either.

Roger Katz was suddenly called away and could no longer attend him. “You should find your friend upstairs,” he said. “I’ll see later on.”

On his own now, Rupert began to make his way up the spiralling staircase that led to the first floor. As he reached the landing, he looked along the gallery ahead of him. There were one or two people browsing – an elderly woman, a young man. There was no sign of the yeti.

Rupert approached the archway that led off to his left. The trouble with Hatchards, he thought, is that it has so many rooms. Unlike many modern bookshops, which could double as aircraft hangars should the need arise, Hatchards was a rabbit-warren of charming rooms. But the very quality that made it such a fine bookshop also made it a difficult place to pursue somebody who was determined to elude you. The yeti might have left the staircase at the first floor, or he might have gone up to the second floor, or beyond. It was impossible to tell.

Rupert had to make a choice, though, and he chose to look on the first floor. Walking very slowly, he made his way into the further reaches of the first floor. He stopped. There were three people in the first gallery – two women standing together, paging through a book they had extracted from a shelf, and one man. He was a tall man, and he was wearing exactly the colour of coat that Rupert had seen in Fortnum & Mason. It was the yeti; he was sure of it.

Rupert advanced very slowly. The yeti was facing away from him, apparently absorbed in a book. Rupert took a deep breath; there was a strong fishy smell rising from his shoes, and he hoped that the two women, whom he was now passing, would not notice it. They did not.

He was now only a couple of yards from the yeti. He noticed odd details: the hem of the green coat had been inexpertly stitched and was hanging down; the yeti’s shoes were brogues, but in need of a clean, and his hair, which was dark in colour, almost pitch black, was neatly combed in what seemed, from the back, to be a centre-parting.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Mr …” he began. “Mr Yeti?”

The effect of his words was electric. Without turning round, the yeti dropped the book he was reading and launched himself towards a door at the back of the gallery.

“Excuse me!” shouted Rupert. “I only want to have a word …”

The yeti did not slow down. Ignoring the shouts of his pursuer, he pushed open the door and slipped through it. Not once did Rupert see his face.

Rupert reached the door and tried the handle. It was now locked from the other side. For a moment he wondered whether he should run up to the floor above and try the equivalent door there, assuming it led onto another staircase, but he suddenly felt very weary. The yeti had eluded him – again – and there was no point. He was not a yeti anyway; he was a deluded charlatan who was spinning some ridiculous story to a gullible author and agent. There was no reason to waste any more time on him.

Rupert went downstairs. He noticed, as he did so, that he had left a trail of anchovy paste on the carpet. It’s not my fault, he thought. None of it has been my fault. It’s la Ragg. She’s the one who has caused all this. She’s the one.

He returned to the office, where he wiped his shoes clean. There was still the smell of the Patum Peperium, but it was not so strong now. By the time he went home perhaps the last vestiges of anchovy paste would have dried completely.

He listened to his voicemail. There was only one message. “Rupert. Barbara here. We’re having a lovely time up in Argyll, and I need to talk to you. Essentially it’s this: I want to move up here for three weeks out of four. One week in London and the rest up here.”

Rupert pressed the pause button. No, he said to himself. La Ragg is not going to have her cake and eat it. Never.

He pressed play and allowed the message to continue. “I can work perfectly well in Scotland, you know. So it shouldn’t make any difference. Of course, I won’t need the flat in London as I can stay with a friend who has a spare room. Would you like to buy my flat? You’ve always liked it, I believe, and I’ll be very happy to let you have it at a very favourable price. Talk to you later.”

Rupert sat quite still. You kind, good woman, he thought. You generous soul.