by TP Fielden
‘Splits him out,’ said the first, referring to the regrettable incident in the Primrose Bar. They both laughed, in a tired sort of way.
Topham was not so amused. ‘The victim? What new information do we have?’
‘Address in Chelsea she gave to the reception people at Buntorama turned out to be false. It’s a chemist’s shop.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘Cash, they prefer it that way in holiday camps.’
‘I daresay the Inland Revenue might have something to say about that,’ said Topham, a decent man who believed in people paying their taxes. It would be a useful bargaining chip when trying to get more information out of the clamlike Bunton.
‘And you didn’t get any more from any of the punters over at the holiday camp?’
‘One or two of them said they saw her. Posh, is what most of them say, in spite of her cheap clothes – the way she smiled but said nothing. Polite but condescending in that us-and-them sort of way.’
‘But are you saying she spoke to nobody at Buntorama? Didn’t go to the dances, sit in the bar? Wasn’t she missed at mealtimes?’
‘She was single so she was put on the long table where all the odds and sods end up. Everybody moves around – it’s not like being given a table for four in a hotel or on a liner where you know everybody’s business by the end of the fish course. She was on what you might call a moveable feast.’
If that was a joke it fell flat.
‘So,’ said Topham, ‘she was noticeable enough to be noticed, as it were, but nobody’s missed her.’
‘One woman said she didn’t smell right.’
‘And you checked back on her possessions?’
‘You saw yourself, sir, there was almost nothing in her suitcase. Cheap clothes, newly bought. Old suitcase. Two pairs of shoes in the wardrobe, make-up bag but no handbag. Clothes she was wearing when she was killed were the same make as the ones in the suitcase, no clues whatsoever. She was wearing expensive earrings, very yellow gold, no hallmark. Gold bracelet, also no hallmark. Very odd, that. Wedding ring on her third finger, right hand – old.’
‘How old?’
‘Older than her. Could have been her mother’s. Could’ve been a hand-me-down from a marriage which failed.’
‘She could be French,’ hazarded the other detective, but this fell on stony ground. He didn’t have a clue really.
‘No question, then,’ said Topham with conviction. ‘A mystery woman with expensive jewellery and cheap clothes. If that isn’t a disguise I’m a Chinaman’s uncle.’
Not having heard of any oriental relations in the Topham tribe, his men nodded in affirmation.
‘What next, sir?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said the Detective Inspector with finality, gathering his papers and standing up. ‘You just carry on.’
Dear Hermione,
I am known among my friends for having a generous nature but now I feel the milk of human kindness has drained away and may never return. Please help.
Every year I am fortunate enough to have a bumper crop of strawberries. Last year I gave some to my best friend to make jam. She has now won First Prize for her strawberry jam at the Mothers’ Union and has been boasting to everyone how clever she is, without once mentioning that it was my strawberries that done it.
She has been my friend for years but now I feel I hate her. What can I do?
Miss Dimont looked again at the letter, took off her glasses, polished them, and replaced them on her deliciously curved nose. After a pause she got up to make a cup of tea. The letter was waiting when she got back, looking up pleadingly and urgently demanding Hermione’s adjudication. Miss Dimont stared at her Remington Quiet-Riter for quite some time then decided its ribbon needed changing.
A sub-editor wandered by and for a good ten minutes they discussed the latest film starring Dirk Bogarde at the Picturedrome. It turned out neither had seen it, but both had heard good reports.
The letter remained. There was, in fact, no answer to the agonising dilemma it presented and yet the heartfelt plea to Hermione cried out for a response, and Miss Dimont’s sense of duty told her she must answer, truthfully, and to the best of her ability.
She pushed the letter to one side and picked up another.
Dear Hermione,
I am in tears as I write this. I feel my son has been poisoned against me by my daughter-in-law and no longer wishes to see me. I am seventy next birthday and a widow.
I fail to understand why things should be this way when I have always gone out of my way to help my daughter-in-law with her children. I am always on hand to give good advice, even going to the trouble of writing her long letters advising her of better ways of managing things. I pop in at odd times to give the children a surprise – also it gives me a chance to help with the cleaning, going through the cupboards and so on.
I feel for some reason this annoys her, though why I can’t…
Miss Dimont looked up at the big clock down the other end of the newsroom. Almost lunchtime!
Dear Hermione,
I have been happily married for five years, but recently my husband has been suggesting that we…
Instinctively Miss Dimont told herself to read no further. Some problems are best left unexplored, certainly in a family newspaper like the Riviera Express, and without further ado she let the letter float gently into the wicker wastepaper basket by her ankle.
Just then she spotted the ethereal figure of Athene Madrigale flitting through a door and she beckoned her over. Devon’s most celebrated astrologer negotiated her way over to Judy’s desk and sat down.
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Judy.
‘What’s that?’
‘This wretched agony column, Athene. Since I got you off writing it, I’ve become Hermione.’
Athene blushed. ‘I never meant for that to happen, dear.’
You might have predicted it if you’d looked in your crystal ball, thought Judy unkindly, but aloud she said, ‘It’s impossible to answer these cries for help, isn’t it? Impossible!’
‘They made me quite upset,’ said Athene. ‘I had to go and lie down. There was one from a happily married woman whose husband had been suggesting…’
‘Yes, I threw that one in the bin. But Athene, how tangled people’s lives become! A woman who interferes in her daughter-in-law’s child-rearing, two old friends falling out over a pot of jam…’
‘You see why I couldn’t do it,’ said Athene. She was plaiting her hair into the bright blue paper rose which was her favourite adornment.
‘Well, I can’t do it either,’ said Judy. ‘And anyway what a rotten idea to have an agony column in the first place.’
‘Mr Rhys. His idea. Only a heartless man could wish to expose other people’s misery to the world.’
‘It’s called journalism, Athene,’ sighed Miss Dimont. ‘It’s called journalism.’
SEVEN
It was never quite the same, doing a job with Betty. She was efficient, she asked the right questions, she had a good shorthand note and was usually charming enough to winkle that extra cup of tea out of the grieving widow, football pools winner, or someone whose young Einstein had just won a place at university.
Terry liked her, but that was it – she did not infuriate him like Judy did. She never told an interviewee what to think, which Judy sometimes did. She didn’t make a nuisance of herself by challenging heavy-handed authority, which Judy always did.
She had a lovely smile but often it was spoilt by the wrong choice of lipstick, and the haphazard way it was applied at her desk without the benefit of a mirror did her no favours. And then her clothes! Lime green seemed to be the favourite of the moment, but teaming it with royal blue or pink, as she did, verged on the downright reckless.
Terry snatched a glimpse of her as they drove in the Minor out to the Marine Hotel, Betty looking out at the grey listless sands stretching for miles to the rainy horizon. Temple R
egis boasted the most sunshine hours anywhere in Britain, but just a mile or two down the road at Ruggleswick, there seemed to be a micro-climate which favoured grey over blue, wind over stillness, stratified clouds over a clear blue sky.
To the well-heeled patrons of the Marine, this was a bonus – their view of the sands and sea remained largely uncluttered by the human form. For the inmates of Buntorama it was proof, yet again, that British holidays were a washout. They dreamed instead of joining the exodus to Benidorm where they could drink cheap brandy and get a nice all-over sunburn.
‘This makes a change,’ Betty said half-heartedly, but she was not her usual chatty self. Terry didn’t interest himself in her love life, but she’d brought him up to speed on the matter of Dud Fensome and his thing for platinum.
This morning she was wearing a silk scarf on her head, so it was difficult to see what had been achieved over the weekend by way of damage-control but Terry, with his photographer’s instinct for the ways of women, guessed it had probably not been a great success. At least she wasn’t wearing the ruddy cat.
‘She’s got an amazing voice,’ Terry was saying. ‘You could hear it all the way down in the lobby when we went to see Bobby Bunton last week.’
Betty wasn’t listening. Instead she said, ‘I wanted to ask her about – well, she’s quite stout, isn’t she? I thought our lady readers would be interested in what she wore, you know, underneath – to keep it all under control.’
Terry looked at her disbelievingly. ‘Woman’s angle, is it? Crikey, Betty, Moomie Etta-Shaw is one of the greatest jazz singers this country has ever been lucky enough to host.’ He sounded a bit like the advertising handout he’d glanced at before leaving the office. ‘She’s had hit records! Been on the Billy Cotton Band Show! You must have heard her singing “Volare” on the radio!
‘Stout! You don’t know the meaning of the word!’
Betty did. Dud had used it quite recently.
‘I prefer a dance band myself,’ she said, quickly changing the subject, but Terry was ahead of her. Maybe she had put on a little weight.
‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘Pictures first, Betty, then you can have as long as you like with her.’
Here was the perennial struggle between snappers and scribblers, as to who went first. Terry usually got his way, but with celebrity set-ups like this one he could take up to half an hour getting what he wanted, leaving little time for the reporter to get to grips with her subject. It was often a point of dispute between Terry and Judy, but Betty was more flexible and didn’t mind much who did what – it was just a relief to be out of the office. And the great thing was that if it was a picture story, she could always get a ride in the photographer’s car rather than catch the bus, which is what reporters were supposed to do.
Again this was something which could elicit a peppery remark or two from Miss Dimont, but Betty was more pliable. The photographer looked at her once more and realised that, whatever else happened over the weekend, she’d been let down again.
‘Good weekend?’ he asked, hoping to draw her out.
‘We’re here,’ sighed Betty with just a touch of tragedy coating her voice. ‘Don’t take too long!’
It probably didn’t improve things that Moomie was singing ‘Lover Come Back To Me’ as they entered the ballroom. Wrapped in a figure-hugging silk dress, she looked ready to entertain a thousand fans at the London Palladium, not rehearse a one-hour set for her debut tonight. Terry thrilled at the colour combination of her dark brown skin, dazzling white teeth and midnight blue wrapping – even though his newspaper still only printed in black and white.
‘Wonderful,’ he breathed, reaching into his bag for his Leica. Just for a moment he shared Betty’s curiosity about the strength of Moomie’s underpinnings – her figure was as huge as her voice – but at that moment the song finished and Betty stepped forward to make the introductions.
‘You must know,’ said Moomie with a serene smile and a wave of her arm, ‘these lovely musicians it is my privilege to work with. Mike Manifold on guitar, Cornish Pete on bass, Sticks Karanikis, drums.’
The trio nodded, absently. Professional musicians rarely look up above their score-sheets and then only to talk to each other – there wasn’t any point in wasting time getting to know them.
‘Gorgeous, Moomie,’ said Terry, seizing the initiative, ‘you put a special dress on for me! You look a million dollars! Harrods, is it?’
He said it ‘’Arrods’.
‘C&A, darling. Cost me five guineas.’
‘Gorgeous,’ burbled Terry. You couldn’t tell whether he meant it, or whether it was the standard snapper-patter to create an early intimacy between lensman and subject. Betty had heard it a million times before and wandered off in search of a cup of coffee.
Terry launched into his routine – flattering, cajoling, instructing, begging – and Moomie happily went along with it, her queen-size laugh and roistering personality turning the event into a lively celebration.
‘You’re a bit gorgeous yourself, Terry,’ she said, pouting her lips and leaning forward.
‘Fantastic!’ panted Terry, as he threw himself onto his back on the dance-floor to get the up-shot.
‘Fabulous! Can you spare a couple of tickets for tonight, Moomie?’
‘Have a dozen, darling!’ she laughed, batting her eyelids. And so the courtly ritual continued for the next twenty minutes. The pair may never meet again, but for this short span they had been lovers in all but fact. Such is the compact between photographer and celebrity – a secret contract which no reporter could ever be part of, since photographers flattered and wooed while the scribblers just asked damned awkward questions.
‘Contessa,’ snapped Moomie in answer to Betty’s first question. ‘Strongest support in the business. I’ll give you the name of my fitter if you want.’
Betty blushed – had her intention been quite so transparent? – and stumbled on into the interview. Meanwhile Terry wandered over to the musicians who were lighting cigarettes and drinking cups of tea.
‘One word from me and she does what she likes,’ said Mike Manifold, the band leader, nodding at Moomie.
‘We don’t normally do requests, unless we’re asked,’ added Cornish Pete.
‘You must understand – our music is far better than it sounds,’ said Karanikis.
Terry grasped that these were musicians’ jokes, a polite way of telling him to shove off. The trio really only wanted to sit there moaning at each other – about the management, the accommodation, the number of encores they were expected to play before going into overtime, and the next recording session. So he dutifully strolled off, back out to the lavish entrance hall, with its wide sweeping staircase and important-looking sculpture. He paused for a moment, then went over to the receptionist.
‘Will you tell the lady reporter I’ll be back in a little while? She’ll be half an hour or more with the band. I won’t be long.’
He loaded his camera bag into the boot and drove off through the gates. It took no more than two minutes to arrive at the entrance to Buntorama where he left the Minor in the car park, and strolled away without any apparent purpose. Over in the distance he could hear the funfair going at full tilt, the screams from the helter-skelter cutting through the still morning air.
Terry had a pocket camera with him – he rarely went anywhere without it – and as if to justify his presence in the camp took a handful of snaps. There were a few pretty girls, a couple of irritable pensioners, and a lively group of teenagers. A man and woman got very cross and swiftly parted when he levelled the camera at them – moral trappitude, thought Terry, and moved on.
Soon he reached the management block and, led by instinct, he walked up the steps. There in a corner sat Bobby Bunton in his braces, and Bert Baggs with a tragic look on his face. He thought he’d wander over and have a word with the King, but His Majesty was too busy holding court. So Terry sat down behind a potted fern and waited his moment, watching the dust pa
rticles slide through the bright sunlight in their gradual descent to earth. It would take an f1 at 1/24, he calculated, to capture that.
‘. . . then he said to me, “She died on your property, how’s that going to look?”’ This was Bunton’s voice, though since sitting down Terry could no longer see the two men.
‘What we going to do, boss?’
‘It’s blackmail. Blackmail! And all because I…’
‘It wasn’t you, boss,’ came Baggs’ sycophantic tones, ‘it was ’er.’
‘Hardly matters now. This has never, ever, happened before. And just as I’ve got the Archbishop of York to come and do the Sunday service!’
‘’E won’t know, boss. Not as if this is going to end up in the newspapers.’
‘But it is, Bert, it is! We’ve only had the local rag round so far, but in another twenty-four hours the whole of Fleet Street will be here – soaking up our hospitality, writing innuendoes, behaving in that rotten two-faced way they do.’
‘You’ll win ’em round, you always do. Don’t forget we’ve had dead ’uns before,’ came Baggs’ reply. ‘Remember that couple up in Essex…’
‘That was different! They shouldn’t have tried that out!’
‘Within the privacy of their own bedroom, boss!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ burst out Bunton. ‘This is different, I tell you – this woman, dead in bed, bullet through the chest. We might get away with that but the fact that nobody knows who the devil she is suddenly turns it from routine into Page One. Put mystery in a headline and things turn nasty. Trust me, I know.’
‘Well, what are you going to say to – you know?’ said Baggs.
‘I wouldn’t put it past him to go public. It’ll ruin me – finish the business. The Archbishop of York, Bert, the Archbishop!’
‘We can always cancel him.’
‘How will that look when Fleet Street gets a hold of it?’
‘If only I’d known,’ said Baggs dolefully, ‘I’d never have let her in in the place. She looked an odd ’un, sounded it too. I blame myself.’