Death On a Sunday Morning (Detective Johnny Inch series Book 8)

by J F Straker

  Anyway, one Monday morning in early July, Mr Heslop came to see me. He’d just had another row with Pete Schiavo, his senior reporter, who had a quick wit and a sharp tongue and always upset him.

  “That’s it,” said Mr Heslop, breathing heavily. “I’m not sending him, and I think you’re ready for it anyway.” He beamed at me magnanimously. “The Conference on Drugs and Alcohol Abuse at the Clocktower Hotel. It’s going to be quite a big deal, sponsored jointly by Leisching Pharmaceuticals and local businesses. You can cover it. That idiot would’ve just sat there knocking back vodka and embarrassed us. Let’s see what you’re made of. I know I can rely on you. It’s nice to know I can rely on someone.” He went off to his office, muttering, to have another ginseng tablet. A few moments later, Pete sauntered down the corridor, whistling. He was carrying a small off-licence bag crammed with the empties from the bottom drawer of his desk.

  “Goodbye, Wonderwoman,” he said. “I’ve got the rest of the week off. I’ll bring you back a stick of rock. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do — in fact if you can think of anything I wouldn’t do let me know — I might like to reconsider.”

  I learned later that what had actually happened was that Pete had told Mr Heslop he wanted a week’s holiday now, and that if there were any objections, bearing in mind that he hadn’t had any holiday for two years, he would take the full four weeks to which he was entitled, starting 1st September. He knew quite well that Mr Heslop had an Apex ticket to New York booked for 1st September, which he would have had to cancel if Pete were absent. As I watched him disappear out into the sunshine I wondered which of the temporary typists would coincidentally go missing during Pete’s absence.

  The Clocktower Hotel, where the Conference was to be held, was a converted Victorian mansion on a hilltop overlooking the town. From my kitchen window I could just make out the white blur of the clock faces above the trees. The hotel had been bought in a somewhat run-down condition three years ago by the well-known London restaurateur Mr Eric De Broux. He’d spent a fortune, so it was said, on refurbishing the place, and had had built a superb Conference Hall with state of the art facilities. There’d been a champagne opening attended by everybody who was anybody in the County. Mr Heslop had covered this himself. He had also been invited to become a member of Mr De Broux’s new Gourmet Club, though he had chosen for financial reasons, no doubt, not to join. The Gourmet Club met on the first Saturday of every month at the Clocktower Restaurant, and members were treated (for an astronomical annual subscription) to a gourmet dinner, fine wines, and as much vintage port and brandy as they could hold. I thought there was a nice irony in this, bearing in mind the nature of the Conference, but Mr Heslop told me sternly not to “make waves”; the Clocktower had a regular half-page advertisement in our paper and he’d no intention of losing it.

  On the Tuesday evening before the Conference was due to start, a non-alcoholic cocktail hour was being held for delegates. Mr Heslop told me to go, smile nicely, and get a few quotes. Keith was furious. He had two martinis with ice and pointed out that it was Tuesday and the Sunday papers were still littering the living room.

  “I thought you were still reading them,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly! When do I get time to read? Somebody has to keep up with the weeding and you should see the blackfly on the broad beans!”

  I felt guilty. I had sown the broad beans. “Please leave it,” I said. “I’ll come home early tomorrow and give them a really thorough spraying.”

  I shared my Mini with Richard, who normally used it in the evenings, but he was away that week with the vicar’s daughter (about whom he did not permit us to make jokes), and so one family conflict was avoided. Once away from the house, I felt quite excited about the evening ahead. I wound down the window and the car was soon filled with the heady scent of nettle sap and cow-parsley, bruised by the passage of traffic. The road out to the Clocktower was little more than a narrow, winding lane barely wide enough for two cars to pass. The warm evening air was vibrant with the song of young birds and frantic swarms of insects, and I became so carried away by the sensual delight of it I almost forgot to hoot before the sharp bend round Rampton’s Hollow.

  Mr De Broux himself welcomed me to the Clocktower. I wondered how he could consume so much rich food and maintain his svelte appearance. His dark hair was parted on one side and handsomely sculptured in a way that seemed to accentuate his strong, rather aquiline, nose. The overall effect was of an attractive, but cold, man.

  “If you haven’t been here before, do take a look around,” he urged me. “Will there be anyone else coming from the Herald?”

  I shook my head, and he looked disappointed. It was his first big Conference, and I think he had rather hoped for a battalion of reporters and photographers. He directed me towards the bar, in front of which stood a sign, written in elegant blue and gold lettering. It announced “1987 Conference on Drugs and Alcohol Abuse, jointly sponsored by Leisching Pharmaceuticals and —” The list continued in smaller print. Perhaps Leisching were getting a conscience about the profits they made from the tranquillisers so many of my friends took.

  The bar was plush in an understated, tasteful sort of way. It smelled of cigar smoke and toasted cheese canapés. I helped myself to a thick orange drink sporting a sunshade, and wished there was just a small shot of gin in it. I didn’t drink much, and a small shot would have been enough to make me feel competent to talk to all these important people immersed in deep, meaningful conversations. Sitting quietly in a corner taking notes of what people said was one thing; confronting them and asking penetrating questions was another. I’d been sent out with Pete a few times to see how it was done, but had learned little. Pete would chat people up as though he were their long lost brother, then go away and write whatever he thought made a good story. I didn’t think I could do that. Swallowing a large gulp of orange cocktail (and hoping I wasn’t left with an orange moustache), I approached a couple I vaguely recognised. They were the Goodburns, Dr Rachel and Dr John, a husband-and-wife team; for some odd reason — I’ve been cut off short in my careful description of symptoms often enough — I thought I would be shown a little extra sympathy by the medical profession.

  “...always forgets to put the teaspoons in the right compartment,” Dr Rachel was saying.

  “I told you we should have gone for the Bosch,” Dr John replied. So much for deep, meaningful conversations!

  “Er, excuse me,” I began. “I’m Chris Martin from the Herald and I’m just trying to — you know — get some reactions from people on what they think might come out of this Conference.”

  They both stared at me blankly. Dr John was well over six foot, white-haired, and distinguished-looking. He was probably fifteen years older than his wife, who had a harassed, nervous air about her. He held his glass up to the light.

  “Damn stuff’s revolting! Typical De Broux — he ought to be forced to drink a couple of pints of it!” He spoke venomously, as though he would have liked to add, “...laced with several milligrams of arsenic.” Perhaps he, too, would have preferred a real drink.

  Rachel said nothing. She glanced at her watch.

  “Would you say the drug problem in this town is increasing?” I asked bravely, smiling at Dr Rachel.

  “Why should she say that?” demanded Dr John, belligerently.

  “Well —”

  “I’m certainly not going to say anything like that!” snapped Rachel. “You won’t trap me that easily!”

  “My wife is very tired,” said Dr John, testily. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t badger her. She was up all last night, totally unnecessarily, with a woman in labour —”

  “I don’t desert my ladies, John, as you well know,” she said, sharply. The veins in her neck were distended, her voice strained. I thought, not for the first time, that only women were able to commit themselves to others to the point of total exhaustion, and that I aught to make allowances for her unnecessary outburst. I smiled.


  “But you must have a pretty good idea from what you do see, particularly of young people —”

  “And why should I know anything more than anybody else about what you call the drug problem? A nice, tidy phrase, that, isn’t it? So much suffering written off in three words — and no wonder, because people don’t want to know about the suffering, do they? They just want scapegoats — Pillorying doctors has become a national sport! Take child birth —” Here, Dr John tried to interrupt, but was ignored.

  “Childbirth was designed as one of nature’s greatest joys — a reward for the female sex —” Baffled as I was at the turn the conversation had taken, I couldn’t help thinking that nature’s idea of rewards did not coincide with mine. She looked at her watch again, almost tipping her drink over my right foot. I jumped back.

  “Sorry, sorry, “ she muttered. “This is an absolute pain, this whole thing. It has nothing whatsoever to do with medicine. It’s not what I trained for. I don’t know why we’re wasting our time here. I told you, John, there’s a patient I’ve simply got to see.”

  “I don’t want to hear it!” said Dr John, irritably. “I’ve told you before, patients belong in the surgery — or better still, in their own damn homes. Don’t drag them out with us in the evenings. Or on to the golf course, or to Tenerife, if we ever damn well get there —”

  I recognised an argument beginning to fall into a well-worn rut, excused myself, and moved on. If ever there was an example of an interview being allowed to fall completely apart, that was it. If I’d been Pete Schiavo I would have asked her quickly, “Are you concerned at the crisis within the NHS?” To which she would have been bound to reply “yes”, and then I would have written a nice little piece about a well-known local doctor being on the verge of crack-up over the underfunding of the NHS. At least I would have had something. In fact, I should have had something anyway; I remembered now that Pete had worked on a story about one of Dr Rachel’s patients dying of a heroin overdose — if only I’d done some homework on the Herald’s archives this evening instead of arguing with my butcher about the fat on his lamb chops!

  I spotted the Reverend Harlow entering the bar and quickly turned my back. He was the father of Carolyn, with whom Richard was probably at this very moment enjoying none too spiritual pleasures. It was just my luck that he had come along to represent the Church. I gripped my notebook purposefully and walked towards two men leaning on the bar over a tray of assorted cheese biscuits. As I approached the younger man placed his arm in front of the tray defensively, as though it was the only food he’d seen all day and he’d no intention of sharing it. In his late forties, he wore a neatly-pressed shirt and tie over which he’d defiantly thrown a badly scuffed leather jacket. He could have done with shaving and combing his hair, too; no doubt his poor wife despaired of him. The other man I knew by sight as Major Duncton, Chairman of the Planning Committee, and “elder statesman” of local politics. The Herald sometimes referred to him reverentially as the “Father of Tipping’s Town Plan”. I didn’t like him. He’d turned down our application to build a carport with the comment that it would be a “visual aberration on an otherwise well-ordered street”. Well, maybe, but it was my Mini that was rusting. Not only that, but some streets in Tipping fairly bristled with carports — when was a visual aberration not a visual aberration? Perhaps when you have a relative on the planning committee, I had suggested, but Keith had told me not to be cynical.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I wonder if you could spare me a moment?”

  They stopped talking and gave me the vacant, slightly indulgent smile men reserve for women over forty who have let their appearance go, then saw my Press badge.

  “Inspector Franks,” said the younger man, adding with an air of disbelief. “You from the Herald?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Blimey!” He laughed. “You live and learn! You know Major Duncton here? Right — get your notebook out, love.” I produced it obediently, no longer smiling. He took an exaggerated breath, and began, “I am here today representing the local police-force. We in the police intend to work in the community and with the community to combat the menace of drugs in our society. Got that? Not too fast for you?”

  “No. Not too fast for me. Are you representing the Council, Major?”

  The Major looked at me over his glasses. They reflected the lights of the bar, as did the brass buttons on his blazer. “Got my own views on drugs, as on other things. People have to look out for themselves. Self-discipline is the answer, and plenty of it. You got children?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should look out for them then. Nobody else will. It’s the parents’ responsibility. Put down good groundwork and you won’t go far wrong.” He leaned forward, and there seemed to be whisky on his breath. “Ladies like you would be better employed maintaining home rule rather than interfering in the machinations of authority.”

  The words “supercilious bastard” came unbidden to my mind — I was beginning to tire of negative reactions. I smiled with difficulty and made a few careful notes. The Inspector handed me the tray of biscuits.

  “Take some of these, love, and then perhaps you’d toddle off. We’re trying to have a serious business discussion here.”

  I refused the proffered biscuits and turned hastily away, almost bumping into a tall man in his mid-twenties carrying a full glass of tomato juice. He was quite stunningly good-looking. He had blue eyes, dark hair, and a slim, muscular build. In fact he looked a lot like Keith when I first met him, and I experienced the sort of odd little twinge midway between pain and pleasure one gets when confronted unexpectedly by an old photograph. He apologised unnecessarily, smiled automatically, and walked away without registering my presence. I felt another little twinge, because this was exactly the way Keith reacted to me nowadays.

  Someone else was watching Keith’s look-alike, too: a dark, intense girl with glasses. She seemed to be expecting him to speak to her, but he didn’t. She slumped visibly at this rejection and clumsily topped up her orange juice with mineral water before gulping it compulsively.

  None of the delegates I approached had anything very startling to say on the subject of drugs and alcohol abuse, and I was beginning to think I could have made up most of their quotes myself in the comfort of my own living room. Then there was a sudden ripple of interest in the bar at the arrival of Mr Sylvester Munroe. He was the editor of a gay magazine based in Hudderston, and knew how to make a theatrical entrance. He doffed his wide-brimmed black hat, threw down his suitcase, and swallowed with audible gulps a tall glass of a striped fruit and egg concoction.

  “Exquisite! Exquisite!” He gasped. “Oh, such a hot night!”

  Everyone smiled politely and then turned away to make amused and derogatory remarks. I took the opportunity and approached him.

  “Mr Munroe? I’m from the Tipping Herald. Do you think you could tell me what you hope to see being achieved by this Conference?”

  “Call me Syl, dear,” he said. “Just look at this room! What do you think of it? My friend Bernie did the décor. It’s not to my taste, you know — more yours, is it? Well, we’re not all the same. Bernie always says, get to know the customer, and you’ll know what he wants. It’s very important, putting the right person in the right setting.”

  “And the Conference? Your views on that?”

  “Ah. Yes. Understanding, I hope. The more we talk the more we understand — provided we listen too, of course.”

  He broke off suddenly, appearing to concentrate his attention on someone behind me, but when I half turned to look he began to speak again. “And why are you doing a job like this? You look such a kind sort of person.”

  “Oh! Well — I’m quite new to it actually — I just wanted to give it a try.”

  Sylvester shook his head at the cocktail waitress and placed his empty glass on her tray.

  “Well! Don’t leave it too late to find out you’re doing the wrong thing. I’m going to unpack. I’m booked in
to the Clocktower Room. Couldn’t miss the opportunity to watch the sun come up over the Downs.” He lifted his suitcase, taking another long look which I interpreted as yearning, at the person behind me. “When did you last watch the sun come up? Bet it was a long time ago. I’d do it every day if I could — it’s a sort of daily renewal process. ‘Bye now, dear.”

  When he’d gone I turned and saw that it was the tall, handsome young man with the blue eyes who was standing behind me. It gave me a rather odd feeling; I’d led a very sheltered life.

  I didn’t think I’d done at all well with the interviews and decided it was time to go home. I almost collided in the doorway with the Goodburns, who were also leaving. Rachel was fanning herself with a piece of paper, despite the air-conditioning, and John looked angry.

  “Just leave it, darling,” said Rachel. “It simply isn’t worth it.”

  “I think I’m the best judge of that,” replied John, scowling, but he followed her out of Reception.

  It was on my way back from the Ladies’ Room, as I passed the message board, that I spotted the note. It was written on turquoise notepaper and said, “M. Hi! After all this time! Hickory Dickory Dock, little mouse!” I stood and stared at it. Of course, it was none of my business, but it seemed the most interesting thing that had turned up all evening.

  When I got home to my surprise the garage doors were open and Keith’s car was missing. In the living room, Julie sat alone watching a French film with subtitles which she hastily switched off as I entered. I thought, oh, it was that good, was it?