by TP Fielden
‘Good Lord,’ said Judy, but not in a surprised way. She was feeding this information into her memory bank, filtering it, assessing it, trying to judge its value in the context of what she’d learned during her weekend with Uncle Arthur. ‘What exactly happened?’
‘I had a call from Fluffles,’ said Terry with a slight smirk. ‘She said she wanted those pictures I took of her but that was just an excuse. She wanted me to get over to the Marine, pronto.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday morning. When I got there the police had been called – that Sergeant Hernaford, he’s a right you-know-what – and Bunton was under arrest. They’d found a cut-throat razor in his pocket and Hernaford threatened to have him up before the beak tomorrow morning.’
‘Bet they let him go,’ said Miss Dimont caustically.
‘Course they did! Don’t want the publicity! But Fluffles was thrilled – for some reason she thought the punch-up was over her. They were shouting at each other and saying things like “Don’t you dare say those things about her!” and “I’ll say what I like – a whore’s a whore’s a whore!”. Well, Fluffles lapped all this up, naturally, and wanted me to take her picture all over again. She was very excited.’
‘Been a very long time since two men wanted to fight over her,’ said Miss Dimont dismissively.
‘What are you talking about? She’s not a day over forty.’
‘Won’t see fifty again, Terry, believe me.’
‘Well, all I can say is she looks wonderful on it – she was wearing this skin-tight…’
‘Oh, do put a sock in it, Terry! What’s the upshot?’
‘Turns out it wasn’t about Fluffles at all. I bumped into Cornish Pete – you know, in the band – and he was there when it happened. It was over this dead woman Patsy Rouchos.’
‘That’s not her name. Helen Patrikis from now on.’
‘How did you find that out?’ snapped Terry, and stopped the car. ‘You know, I spent three hours yesterday afternoon, when I could have been sitting in the sunshine, poring over those ruddy 10 × 8s you got me to print up, trying to work out who was who and what was what. Are you telling me you know?’
‘It’s what I went to London for.’ It came out sounding a bit superior.
Terry looked mutinous and ready to get out of the car so Judy decided it might be better to smooth his ruffled feathers. ‘But if they’re fighting over this dead woman, don’t you see, Terry, you’ve got an important clue here?’
He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, deciding whether to continue the battle or subside. On the whole he rather fancied the idea of having discovered a clue that Miss Smartypants hadn’t. He switched the engine on again.
‘Did Cornish Pete have anything else to add?’
Terry stuck it in gear and drove off again. ‘He was in the Primrose Bar yesterday lunchtime when Bobby and Fluffles strolled in – as if nothing had happened! Can you believe it? It took twenty-four hours of those dodgems to empty the hotel – Cornish Pete said some of them were leaving without paying their bills, it was chaos in reception – and there was Bunton ordering champagne as if nothing had happened!’
‘And?’ Miss Dimont was cross she hadn’t been there.
‘Cornish says Radipole comes in, spots Bobs and Fluffles, and says, “I’ve thrown you out once from here, I’m not going to waste any more words,” and just grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and seat of his pants – Bobs was leaning against the bar – and frogmarched him through the hotel and out of the door. Gave him a good kick in the BTM for good measure!’
‘But what about the whore business? This is quite important.’
‘Well, Fluffles got it wrong there. She was thrilled to be fought over but it wasn’t her that was the whore, it was the dead woman. Bobs had started taunting Radipole about her and Radipole went mad. Bobs is not in good shape, plus he’s a lot shorter, and Radipole just laid into him. When he went down he started kicking him – vicious!’ Terry was enjoying this narrative.
‘Cornish Pete went over and helped pull Radipole off, Bobs was on the ground, but he was shouting, “Don’t you try to blackmail me,” or something like that.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘That’s what Cornish Pete said.’
‘About the wh… about the dead woman?’
‘No idea.’
‘By the way, Terry, where are you taking me? So kind of you to come and pick me up, but it’s Sunday afternoon, it’s late, I’ve got the Rural District Council in the morning – we’re not on a story, are we?’
‘You may not be,’ said Terry with a grim smile, ‘but I am,’ and at that moment the Minor breasted the top of the hill and began its slow descent down into Ruggleswick Sands. ‘I’ve got those photos I printed up for Fluffles and while I talk to her, you’re going to chat to Bobby Bunton.’ The unlovely profile of the Buntorama holiday camp appeared ahead, just beyond the deserted Marine Hotel. His dodgems were churning out ‘Hoots Mon!’ at an alarming volume.
‘Told Bobs you’d want to talk him through it,’ said Terry. ‘He wants it public, this dust-up.’
‘Mr Rhys won’t print it. You know that.’
‘Do me a favour,’ said Terry with a touch of acid. ‘Just go and talk to him!’
It was rare for Terry ever to tell Miss Dimont what to do. The ordinary way of going about things in local newspapers is the reporter tells the photographer what the story is, and what sort of photograph would best illustrate the words, then the photographer takes not the blindest bit of notice and shoots what he sees fit. Neither obeys, or often even listens to, what the other’s saying.
Miss Dimont’s mind was full of what she had learned in London and not even the blissful train ride back to Devon had given her sufficient time to come to any conclusions about the Buntorama murder. She recognised, though, that Terry’s initiative was a valuable one – getting the chance to talk to Bobby Bunton, who only a few days before had Terry kicked out of the camp, could be a huge bonus.
She didn’t tell Terry that. ‘And then you can buy me a ginger beer at the Marine,’ she said, as if reluctantly agreeing to do him a favour.
Terry didn’t care, he was looking forward to snuggling up with Fluffles. ‘Come on,’ he said, drawing up alongside the only decent building in Buntorama. ‘They’re in here.’
The King of Holiday Camps was nursing his battered ego and bruised posterior. He sat alone with a large brandy glass and a cigar, and for once seemed pleased to meet the reporter with the corkscrew curls and the convex nose. Somehow, with the prospect of revenge in print, she suddenly seemed an alluring figure.
‘A glass of brandy, do!’
‘No thank you, Mr Bunton, a little early for me. But thank you for seeing me.’
They went over, in some detail, the events leading up to the fracas. Miss Dimont instinctively knew it was best to let the little man get off his chest all his grievances to do with his height, his lowly birth, his lack of polish, and the fact that he’d bought all his wives and then had to pay to get rid of them, before they could get to the heart of the matter.
‘I think it would help if you told me why you said those things about Miss, er,’ she decided it was better not to let Bunton know the woman’s true identity, ‘Rouchos.’
‘Whore, I called her.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Miss Dimont, coughing lightly. She didn’t want to encourage him.
‘Whore!’
‘Yes, I believe that’s the word which caused Mr Radipole to engage in violence with you. Is there any particular reason why you chose it?’
Bunton jerkily dragged the cigar out of his mouth and its ash fell on his shirt front. He was too focused to brush it away.
‘You know what whores do, Miss, er… They do things for money!’
‘I believe so.’
‘This woman, this Rouchos woman, came to my camp under false pretences! She was a liar and a whore!’
‘Can you be more specific? If it’s not too
much to ask?’
Bunton looked at her sideways. Perhaps he was expecting a more sympathetic, a less objective, ear.
‘Radipole sent her. She pretended to be a holidaymaker but she was nothing of the sort – she was a spy, paid by Radipole to come in here and see what she could nose out.
‘So,’ continued Bunton, ‘if you want to behave like a whore, you can expect to get treated like one.’
Miss Dimont really did not like this sort of talk at all, but felt she was at a turning-point. ‘Go on,’ she said, flinching at the prospect of what might come next.
‘I smelt a rat when I saw her in the bar of the Marine,’ he said. ‘She came on strong, really strong. I only asked her if she wanted a drink, next thing I know she tells me she’s staying at Buntorama and she’s so glad to have met me because she had one or two little complaints to make about the accommodation.
‘Well, first of all, my customers don’t drink in the Marine – it’s too pricey and too poncy for their tastes – so what’s she doing there? Second, the complaints, as she called them, were just an excuse. I’ve seen it all before,’ he said with a worldly smile, ‘she wanted to get me in her room, and you know what for. Whore!’
He took a large swig of brandy and looked at Miss Dimont to see how his story was going down.
He really is very repellent, thought the reporter, but said, ‘I can see the reason for your suspicions. So what happened next?’ She dreaded the answer.
‘Look,’ said Bunton. ‘She’s a young girl. Well brought-up, I would say well-to-do. What’s she doing in my place, and what’s she doing playing her tricks on me? Lord knows my life is complicated enough – that Fluffles, she looks sweet but she can be poison, you know! Especially when another woman hoves into view.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Miss Dimont.
‘She was very high-class, very hoity-toity. When we got back to the cabin she told me she’d never been in such a horrible dump in her life and gave the impression it was quite degrading to be doing what she was doing.
‘So I asked her, I said, “What the hell is your game?” and she told me – I’ve been sent to spy on you, she said. Who by, I said. Hugh ruddy Radipole, she said. He wants to know what you’re doing, what your plans are, I’m here to find out. And with that she took her clothes off. You see what I mean when I say whore?’
‘Well, yes, in a manner of speaking I suppose, yes…’
‘For money!’ spat Bunton, helping himself to another swig.
‘But surely…’ began Miss Dimont, but Bunton was in full self-righteous flow.
‘I’ve met all sorts of people Miss, er… Many could be described as dubious characters. But I’ve never met anybody with a complete lack of morals like her. She was cold, she was calculating, she took pleasure in what she was doing.
‘She told me she was Radipole’s mistress but that she hated him. She said it was her family money that bought the Marine Hotel. I doubt that’s true – a load of hot air if you ask me – but I tell you, she did what she did with me out of spite. Pure malice. She said, “Tell me one thing I can tell him, anything, I don’t care, one thing just to show I’ve done the job. Make it up, I don’t care.”
‘This was – after. She was a very angry woman, as if somehow the world wasn’t taking enough notice of her. She didn’t have to, you know, with me.’
‘Why did she do it then?’
‘God knows. Maybe he had a hold over her about something, I just don’t know. If she didn’t care what story she brought back she could have got sufficient info out of me just by chatting over a drink – but she was determined to wound Radipole, and this was her way of doing it.’
‘She was going to go back and boast about what you and she had done?’
‘I dunno,’ said Bunton, shaking his head. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her – she was self-obsessed, nothing mattered except how it seemed to affect her. She felt Radipole had somehow cheapened her by telling her to do this spying, and she wanted to get back at him.’
‘What happened when she was found dead?’
‘Well, that’s just it. After the dust had settled, I had a telephone call from Radipole. Out of the blue. Remember, he’d chucked me and Fluffles out after Fluff fell over in the Primrose Bar. Ruddy snob! His people should have wiped up her spilt drink – wasn’t her fault!
‘Anyway, he said to me, I know who killed that Rouchos woman. And I said, “Shouldn’t you tell the police?” And he said, it was you.’
‘Was it?’ Miss Dimont surprised herself with the directness of her question. It had to be asked. Bunton’s eyes looked as though they would pop. ‘Are you mad? Are you completely mad, woman? I’ve got the police after me because of all the hanky-panky going on in the huts and with the members of staff and – oh! all sorts of other things you don’t want to hear about. Am I going to be stupid enough to shoot someone on my own premises?’
‘Not you, then. Your Mr Baggs. He really looks as though he could do someone some harm – permanent harm.’
‘That’s why I employ him. But no, come on – I’m not that stupid. I want less trouble, not more.’
And with the blessing of the Almighty and his chum the Archbishop of York, thought Miss Dimont.
‘So why did he say it? That you killed her?’
‘He’s not what you think, you know. He looks so suave, so top-drawer, but I know where he came from – I made it my business to find out. He said he could make it look as though I’d killed her after I found out she’d been spying on me. “You were angry,” he said to me. “You know you go mad when you’re angry, your staff have been telling me.” Oh yes, he was paying my people to blab!
‘So he was going to pin it on me. Me! With my reputation! I’ve been to Buckingham Palace, you know! A jumped-up car dealer, a hotelier who can’t keep his guests – who the hell is he?’
‘So what did you do? Did you say you’d go to the police?’
‘Look Miss, er… I don’t know about you but I have always found that least said, soonest mended when it comes to the boys in blue. I steer clear, I steer clear!
‘No, Radipole was angry, very angry. Angry that I’d found out about his putting that girl in here to spy on me. But – much more than that – when I told him what lengths she was prepared to go to get the information, he went ballistic.’
Bunton got up and strode down the room, his short legs making heavy weather of the thick carpet.
‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘He wants me – and the holiday camp – gone. And he doesn’t mind how he goes about it. He’s told me he was here first, and how dare I come and queer his pitch with all those snobby upper-class types he likes to hang around – how dare I make a noise and allow ordinary people to have their nice little cheap holiday.’
Miss Dimont could see his point. When it came down to it, both men were there to make money and neither had precedence over the other – Radipole with his sable-coated guests nor Bunton with his kiss-me-quick brigade.
‘There’s something else you should know. This girl, this Rouchos, told me Radipole was incredibly jealous. Possessive to the point of mania. He seemed to be her jailer, and yet why? She could get away if she wanted – she was well-off, she could afford the bus fare out of Temple Regis. Why was she hanging around with him when he was so over-protective, so clinging?’
This was all very absorbing, thought Miss Dimont, but is it taking us any further? If it wasn’t Bobby Bunton who fired the fatal shot, then who was it?
‘Tell me, Mr Bunton, if it wasn’t you, who was it?’
There was a long pause.
‘I wondered how long it would take for you to ask that question,’ said Bobby. ‘You know, you people on these local rags, you’re slow off the mark. Slow! I’ve been interviewed by Fleet Street’s finest in my time and I can tell you, that’s the first question they would’ve asked. I’d give them a scotch, they’d get out their notebooks, we’d sit and have a natter and they’d plug me right between the eyes with their quest
ions. Look at you – you haven’t even got a pencil out!’
Oh dear, thought Miss Dimont. How can I tell this overinflated egomaniac that his revelations would mean nothing to the editor of the Riviera Express who’s never going to allow a degrading brawl between two of Temple Regis’ more prominent citizens to appear in print?
‘Believe it or not,’ she said, cursing herself for not having provided the alibi of a notebook, ‘believe it or not, I have a photographic memory, I can recall every last one of your words.’ And I can, too, she thought. ‘So let me ask again, who do you think killed Patsy Rouchos?’
‘Who? Radipole, of course. Why did he kill her? Because he thought she was a traitor. That she’d deserted to the other side. I think she went straight out of that bedroom and told Radipole what she’d done, just to rile him up, just to show who’s boss. That way she wasn’t his cat’s paw – she was in charge.
‘She was a strange one all right. I wouldn’t put it past her that she goaded him into killing her.’
Bunton swallowed the last of his brandy and looked hard at the reporter.
‘The way I see it, she didn’t care whether she lived or died.’
TWENTY-TWO
Betty was studying her split ends with some concern when Judy got to her desk on Monday morning.
‘Bit early for you, Betty,’ she said briskly.
‘The Admiral dropped me off.’
‘What Admiral?’
‘New chap. He’s been on TV.’
‘I don’t have a TV, is he serving or retired?’ Old habits die hard when you’ve been in the senior service.
‘Cedric, only he says Seedric, Minsell. Sir Seedric, actually,’ said Betty. She seemed mighty pleased with herself.
‘Lordy! That sounds impressive – what were you doing with him?’ Judy did not say, as most people would, what were you doing with him so that he drives you to the office first thing on a Monday morning?
‘He took me to the Yacht Club, I’ve never been there before. They do a very nice gin fizz, did you know?’ Betty liked to chalk up her victories for all to see – especially with Judy, for some reason – first, an admiral. Then an admiral with a title who’d been on TV. Then the Yacht Club. Finally, gin fizzes – four chalk-ups in just a couple of sentences!