Crooked Herring

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Absolutely sure. I had meerkats to look after. What time did they leave, then?’

  ‘Mr Vynall must have left around ten or ten-thirty. I’m pretty sure of that, because a family came in and sat over there by the fire, and they’d been there at least an hour or two by midnight. Yes, maybe closer to ten than ten-thirty.’

  ‘And Henry left with him?’

  ‘Well, I don’t remember seeing him afterwards – let’s put it like that.’

  ‘Though, equally, you don’t remember seeing him before.’

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been helpful.’

  I wondered whether I should tip him for this information. I was sure that was what Marlowe would have done. A five spot slipped across the bar that would lead to a phone call a couple of hours later with a vital clue. Denzil wasn’t really used to tips, and there was a danger that money passed across the counter for no apparent reason would simply unsettle him. As it happened, by the time I’d made up my mind the information was worth around 25p, Denzil had already gone to check on the food. He didn’t come back. I replaced the coins in my pocket, finished my drink and went out into the cold, wet day.

  As I say, I was pretty sure where they had gone next. There simply weren’t that many options. Chichester is better for afternoon tea than nightlife. If Philip Marlowe had gone in search of seedy joints where naive punters are milked of all they have by twenty-year-old girls with world-weary faces and bright-red lipstick, he’d have drawn a complete blank. But I did know one nightclub.

  It was more out by the ring road than actually in Chichester, in as desolate a spot as you’ll find within a five-mile radius of any prosperous cathedral city. Its concrete exterior blended well with the warehouses and carpet showrooms that were its immediate neighbours. I chose from the hundred or so empty spaces in the car park, slotting my silver Volvo neatly between the white lines, close to one of the other three cars that were already there. Then I picked my way round the puddles and found the only unlocked door into the building.

  At three o’clock on a winter’s afternoon, the interior was dark and echoing. It succeeded in being both cold and stuffy. The walls were painted a matt black that probably did not feature at all in the Farrow & Ball colour chart and that seemed to close in on you as you watched. A vast and complex array of lighting equipment, which at the moment produced no light at all, was suspended from the black ceiling. A large stage was flanked with massive speakers and topped with turntables that currently did not turn and amplifiers that had nothing to amplify. It was the people and the noise that made this a venue worth coming to. At the moment it was an empty box, awaiting nightfall, when punters would take advantage of the £8 wristband deal and perhaps the offer of four Jägerbombs (whatever they were) for £9.95. The only action on the dance floor was an old guy in brown overalls pushing a broom in a leisurely manner. Nothing suggested that I was welcome. My footsteps echoed accusingly as I crossed the floor.

  Of course, I was going to be out of place here at any time of the night or day. The club’s website showed a packed room with nobody over the age of twenty-five. At the time when I might have found an establishment of this sort interesting, none of its existing clientele would have even been born.

  The assistant manager, once summoned by the man with the broom, looked as though he had qualified only recently as an adult. His chin sprouted fluffy ginger hair that might have been meant as a beard. He shook his head. ‘They left hours ago,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘If you’re looking for your son or daughter – we kicked the last of them out at around nine o’clock this morning. Our staff have to get some sleep too.’

  ‘I’m not looking for one of my children. Actually I don’t have any children and almost certainly never will have, but that’s beside the point.’

  ‘How can I help you, then? We’re not serving drinks at the moment.’

  I’d pondered on the journey here exactly what I was going to claim to be. I could simply say that my friend thought that he might have murdered somebody shortly after leaving the club, but there are times when the truth, however straightforward, simply has the wrong sort of feel to it.

  ‘I’m a private detective,’ I said.

  He gave me a resigned nod of the head. I got the impression that the arrival of private detectives on the premises was more or less normal. Not welcome exactly, but not exactly unprecedented.

  ‘My client runs a business in Portsmouth,’ I said. ‘He thinks his head of finance may not be playing absolutely straight with him – that he’s passing confidential information to a rival. We have information that he met up with somebody from the rival firm here on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Could be. I’m not sure how I can help.’

  ‘Do you recognise either of these faces?’

  I passed him two author publicity photos, downloaded from their respective websites. Neither really looked like a typical head of finance, but Crispin Vynall, in his leather jacket and sunglasses, might have passed on a good day for a bent head of finance. Henry wasn’t wearing a bow tie but he still had about him the air of somebody who had recently escaped from an Ealing comedy. Allowed access to the petty cash, he would have hot-footed it to Le Touquet with the nearest chorus girl. They would, I realised, have appeared to the average onlooker as a slightly odd couple, for all that they wrote pretty similar types of books.

  Fortunately, to the assistant manager, they were just a couple of guys who, being over thirty-five, would shortly qualify for their free bus passes. ‘I think there were a couple of older blokes in that night. Might have been them. Might have been somebody else. Might have been you. Difficult to say.’

  He raised an eyebrow. Well, I was definitely an older bloke. No getting away from it.

  ‘I wasn’t there myself,’ I said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘One of them looks a bit like me in some ways, but he’s shorter.’

  The assistant manager looked again at the head and shoulders shot and then at me. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t remember what time they arrived or left?’

  ‘Not really. Why should I?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have any CCTV footage?’

  ‘The camera over there’s broken. It’s just for show. But we’ve got a camera that works out in the car park. We’d have pictures from that.’

  ‘Can I look at them?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘But you’ve got it and know how to work the equipment?’

  ‘Of course I can work the equipment. It’s only a bloody DVD player. Any idiot can work that.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why can’t I see it then?’

  ‘Data Protection Act.’

  We looked at each other. I had no idea what the Data Protection Act said about CCTV and suspected he didn’t either.

  ‘There’s a little known clause in the Data Protection Act that stipulates that if you don’t get caught, then you can’t get into any trouble. I promise you I’ll keep the information to myself. I just need to know that they were both here. My client needs to know they were both here. It’s fine to let me see the video. It’s a question of law enforcement.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  We looked at each other again. This would take more than a five spot.

  ‘Fifty quid,’ I said, taking out my wallet.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so before? The machine’s in the back office. Do you know how to work it?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Having been given a five-minute tutorial on which buttons to press, I spent an interesting half an hour watching blurred shots of cars arriving and leaving, but mainly just staying where they were. Every now and then some human figure would flit across the screen but it was really just about the cars. White ones. Black ones. Silver ones. Colours didn’t show up so well; red and green were much of a muchness. Slightly earlier than Henry had given me to understand, I p
icked up Henry and Crispin standing by Henry’s Jaguar, Crispin in front, Henry mainly hidden behind him, but clearly identifiable. Then there was another shot in which they were almost right under the camera – this time you would have had to have known Henry well to have identified him by his right elbow, but it was a good one of Crispin. Then they were gone. I continued to work my way through the shots, expecting Crispin Vynall to emerge first and perhaps get into a taxi, followed some time later by Henry. It was around eleven-fifteen when Henry appeared and, almost as large as life, walked determinedly across the car park. Moreover it was definitely Crispin Vynall who was with him, following a few paces behind. Crispin’s route was slightly less direct than Henry’s – he looked as if he was about to trip over his own feet. They both got into the car. In the next shot the car had already gone. I went back to the earlier picture and checked. No doubt they were still together then. Did Henry perhaps drop Crispin at this second club he had mentioned?

  The assistant manager looked round the door.

  ‘You got what you needed? It’s just that the boss will be back soon. You wouldn’t want to have to slip him fifty quid too.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’ve got all I wanted.’

  ‘You’re lucky you came in when you did. I was about to wipe the disc clean. We don’t have a lot of storage on that machine. And the quality’s not great as you will have observed yourself. Boss says we’re going to buy a new one soon, but he says a lot of things.’

  ‘I’ve got all I need,’ I repeated. ‘You can delete anything you like as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Thanks for that. I appreciate it.’

  I paused, then said: ‘If you do remember anything else about either of the two gentlemen, maybe you could let me know?’

  He shrugged. He wasn’t planning to phone me but he wanted me off the premises. ‘Do you want to leave me your name and a contact phone number?’

  I scribbled them on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And do you want to let me have the name of the guy you’re investigating?’

  I could, but he’d only Google him and find out that he was merely a crime writer, and not an accountant of any sort.

  ‘Sorry. Data Protection Act,’ I said.

  I took a last glance at Crispin Vynall, for the moment following Henry across the car park, but soon to be deleted for ever. Was he lurching drunkenly in Henry’s wake, or had he perhaps just stumbled as the picture was taken? I had no way of telling.

  I thanked the assistant manager again and splashed my way back through the car park to my car.

  Once back home, I tried Crispin’s mobile again, redialling the number Henry had called the day before. There was still no reply. I found my CWA Membership Directory and looked up his landline. The phone was picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Hello?’ said a woman.

  ‘It’s Ethelred Tressider. Is Crispin there?’

  For a moment there was no reply. Just as I was beginning to fear we had been cut off, the woman said: ‘No. He’s out.’

  ‘Is that Emma?’ I asked.

  ‘Who else would it be, Ethelred?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, of course. I suppose you don’t know when he will be back?’

  ‘Do you want me to take a message?’

  ‘Could you ask him to call me?’ I gave her my number. She did not repeat it back to me.

  ‘Do you want me to say what it’s about?’ she said.

  My mind went blank.

  ‘Just say it’s about a book,’ I heard myself saying.

  ‘A book?’

  I was beginning to wish I’d sorted out my story in advance.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘A book of short stories I’m editing.’

  ‘I didn’t know Crispin ever wrote short stories.’

  ‘I was hoping to persuade him.’

  Fortunately her interest went no further than that. ‘OK. Cool,’ she said. Then she added: ‘It’s a while since I’ve heard from you, Ethelred.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Drop by sometime,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Bye,’ she said.

  ‘Bye.’

  I pressed the red button to end the call.

  Crispin had, according to Henry’s theory, been dead for about three days, ever since Henry had murdered him. Crispin’s wife, however, did not seem to have registered this fact. Throughout our admittedly brief conversation, Emma Vynall had not mentioned the words ‘missing’ or ‘terribly worried’ or ‘police’. She had not seemed overly concerned – just slightly hacked off at having to take my message. Yet, at the same time, she had not volunteered any information about when Crispin might be back or able to return my call.

  Like my discovery that Crispin and Henry had left the club together, the fact that Emma was reluctant to tell me much about Crispin’s whereabouts almost certainly meant nothing. But I was left with the feeling that you have when viewing an Escher print – that although everything looked more or less normal, there was a strange anomaly in the picture that I couldn’t quite account for. Perhaps the artist had played a trick with perspective. Or maybe a line that appeared straight was in fact crooked. There was some sleight of hand that was making the impossible look normal. But, in this case, I couldn’t see how the trick was done, because I still had no idea what the trick was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Amazon.co.uk

  Dead Poets

  (#5 in the Master Thomas Series) [paperback]

  J. R. Elliott (author)

  Customer reviews

  **** A joy to read! 15 May 2008

  By Mary Williams REAL NAME

  Another of Mr Elliott’s mediaeval mysteries and well up to the standard of the earlier ones. Master Thomas is worried that a serial killer is disposing of promising young poets. His boss, Geoffrey Chaucer, hampers the investigations as usual. Greatly enlivened by many pages of verse in authentic Middle English.

  ***** More please! 1 June 2008

  By Mike Jones REAL NAME

  I’d read the author’s other books, written under the name of Peter Fielding, but none of the historical mysteries featuring Master Thomas, Chaucer’s much put upon clerk and amateur detective. Though I’ve probably started at the wrong end of the series, I quickly got to know the various characters and am now looking forward to reading the earlier books. This looks like a series that will run and run.

  *** Not bad 30 January 2011

  By Historymysteryfan

  Master Thomas investigates the death of some of Chaucer’s more obscure contemporaries. Maybe not as good as the first four Master Thomas books. I can see why his publisher has now dropped the series. Still, it’s worth looking out if you can find one in a second-hand bookshop.

  * Truly, truly dreadful 15 December 2012

  By Thrillseeker

  Another slim volume from Ethelred Tressider, this time writing as J. R. Elliott. Lovers of great historical crime fiction should steer well clear of this one. Rarely have I cared less who committed a murder. Difficult to say whether it is the weakness of characterisation or the thin plot or the unbelievable dialogue that caused me to fall asleep so often. Or maybe it was the feeble attempts at sub-Chaucerian verse. Whatever Tressider is, he is not a poet. I stopped reading halfway through, as you probably will, but if you can be bothered to flick to the back of the book you’ll discover it was Chaucer himself who bumped them off. (Yawn.)

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The map of Sussex, south of Chichester, is scarcely crossed by a single contour line. The wind whips in from the pebbly coast across a flat plain, crossed by meandering, reed-choked streams known locally as Rifes. Large areas are too liable to flooding to be fit for any habitation except isolated farms and sewerage works. Along the exposed southern edge of this peninsular you can buy striped windbreaks and plastic buckets and spades and ice creams and fish and chips in paper. You can place your deckchair on the shingle and watch the grey sea wash in under a broad sweep of sk
y. The sheltered, marsh-fringed northern coast, conversely, boasts flocks of wading birds, samphire-covered mudflats and yacht moorings. Set back amongst the trees, beyond gleaming, emerald-green lawns, are the white walls and red roofs of what local estate agents describe as yachtsmen’s residences – substantial homes in spacious grounds that are usually occupied only at weekends, except in the summer months, when the yachtsman’s wife and children are banished there while the yachtsman continues to toil in London as a broker or a venture capitalist.

  West Wittering lies at the far corner of this rectangle of land – at a sharp angle of the coast where sand dunes replace the pebbles and the large detached houses meet and rub shoulders with the beach huts and ice cream vans.

  From my own house on the edge of the village I took the path along the sea wall, with the dunes ahead of me and salt marsh on either side. Above me were trailing lines of Brent geese, flying home to haven in the boggy fields behind the beach cafeteria and the empty car park. The sky was clearing and the sun was starting to set behind wispy banks of pink and pale-grey cloud. I often walked this way when I wanted to think out a particularly complex strand of a book that I was working on. This evening I walked until the light had faded so much that the hawthorns on either side of the path formed two amorphous black walls and the path itself was dark and featureless. And I could make just as little of the case I had been given to resolve. Henry and Crispin had left the club together. But what difference did that make? Henry had just misremembered. Two people can leave a club and get into a car without one murdering the other. And Emma might have all sorts of reasons for not wishing to tell me, or anyone, where Crispin was. The most likely explanation was that I could find nothing because there was nothing to find.

  I returned the way I had come, overtaking one of my neighbours out walking her dogs.

  ‘You look preoccupied,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s a good plot you’re working on.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said. ‘I have no idea where this one is going. I’m beginning to think the time may have come to drop it and try something else.’