A Quarter Past Dead

by TP Fielden

  Judy picked up a heavy magnifying glass and leaned forward. Terry was right – though it was only just visible, a naked foot protruded from the bottom of the frame.

  ‘The first questions that come to mind,’ she said slowly, ‘is whose foot? And why? Why is this in the album which otherwise has family photographs?’

  ‘You have to remember, there were other photos which had been taken out. Maybe there was a series of photos, which might have given more of a clue who the foot belongs to.’

  ‘But,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘if you’re taking pictures out, why not keep them all, or get rid of them all? Why leave just the one in the series – and just as important, why tear it up, then glue the pieces back in?’

  ‘Let’s leave that for a moment,’ said Terry, who had no answer but was pleased she’d acknowledged his discovery. ‘Take a look at this one again.’

  He pulled forward the picture of the man and woman. ‘It’s not her father,’ Terry was saying. ‘This is the murdered girl – and someone who we thought was her father. Take off his sunglasses, take off the hat, and who have you got?’

  ‘Hugh Radipole.’

  ‘Correct. And they’re in Paris. I was there myself after the Liberation and though it was teeming with people, I thought somehow that street corner seemed familiar. I got some picture books of Paris out and – hey presto!’

  From a side table he drew a heavy illustrated guide to the city. The page was open at a picture of the gilded statue of Joan of Arc astride her horse.

  ‘Joanie on a Pony, the Yanks used to call that,’ said Terry. ‘Now look at this.’ He turned the page to reveal a similar shot, taken from a different angle. The caption read, Statue of St Joan at the junction of the Rue de Rivoli and the Place des Pyramides. ‘They’re standing facing away from Joanie, but that’s where they are, all right.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Judy enthusiastically, though she couldn’t work out whether this was a clue or not. She’d already established that Hugh Radipole and Helen Patrikis had been lovers, and where better to celebrate their love than in the City of Light?

  ‘He took her there for the weekend, but they look as though they’re hating it.’

  ‘And each other.’

  ‘That’s love for you, Terry.’

  Terry felt like saying, how would you know? But he didn’t.

  ‘And the Alvis,’ he said. ‘What was that you were telling me her cousin said to you? He took her for a drive in one of his fancy cars – she was just a schoolgirl.’

  ‘Strange,’ said Judy, ‘that given their very bumpy relationship she would want to keep that as a memento. If you’re right, Terry, that is.’

  ‘I dunno,’ said the photographer. ‘You women, you’re all a bit peculiar, one way and the other. Why not keep it? It’s a very nice car.’

  Judy snorted – boys and their toys again. They wandered out into the newsroom and across at the far end she saw Athene and gave her a wave. No day was complete without a ten-minute chat and a cup of her soothing tea, but there just hadn’t been time. Devon’s most famous astrologer waved back and the look they exchanged said, ‘Tomorrow!’

  Betty was at her desk, the usual pile of journalistic confetti spilling from it. She was suddenly overcome by a stab of fear. Scooping up her handbag she scuttled over to Athene’s desk: ‘Do you mind, dear, if I make a private call on your telephone? Most urgent.’

  ‘I’ll make the tea,’ smiled Athene. Tomorrow had come sooner than expected.

  The voice that answered the other end was warm, welcoming, with only the merest of accents.

  ‘Miss Patrikis, it’s Judy Dimont. From Devon. We met on Saturday.’

  ‘I was going to telephone you,’ said Elektra. ‘I’m coming down, probably on Wednesday.’

  ‘I thought your father…?’

  ‘There’s been a collision at sea. Two tankers, a great deal of oil spilled. He’s flown to Crete.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘Gone with him.’

  ‘What’s your plan when you get here?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d help me decide that – this isn’t something of which I have any experience. Papa told me to “take care of business” when he went out of the door but didn’t specify what exactly. I suppose I must contact the police but I don’t have the photographs – you do.’

  ‘The police have the original album, but I’ll come along and be by your side. Did you know there was to be an inquest?’

  ‘What’s that, exactly?’

  ‘An official court of inquiry into your cousin’s murder.’

  ‘But… according to you, they don’t know who she is.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. Papa said whatever occurred there should be no publicity. I take it if they don’t know who the body belongs to, they can’t drag the Patrikis name into it?’

  Heavens, thought Judy, these Greeks have a strange way of approaching the law. On the other hand, who am I to persuade her to do otherwise – this is her family matter, not mine, and she must make the decision not me.

  ‘Where are you going to stay?’

  ‘The secretary will find somewhere.’

  ‘You could stay with me, though you’ll find it rather different from what you’re used to.’

  ‘I went to an English boarding school. Is it worse than that?’

  ‘A shade better.’

  ‘Then that would be lovely. There are some things I want to tell you.’

  ‘There’s a train from Paddington that gets in at 4.30. I could meet you.’

  ‘Oh, Stevens will drive me down, I expect.’

  Huh, Judy said to herself as she replaced the receiver. Blessed chauffeurs again!

  ‘Tea,’ breathed Athene. ‘You have been busy, Judy.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Judy, relieved to think of something else, ‘the Rural District Council! Fox-hunting! They’re in a complete tizzy!’

  Athene wasn’t at all interested in country pursuits but she was interested in Judy. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The League Against Cruel Sports has bought some fields and woods just outside Exbridge and they’re planning to turn it into a sanctuary for hunted animals,’ said Judy. ‘If this morning’s debate is anything to go by, the RDC is ready to descend on the place, riding-whips aloft, to give them all a good seeing-to.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’ Judy couldn’t tell whether Athene had even heard what she’d said. Her aura was distinctly purplish, and she suddenly realised the deadline was looming for the most-read page in the whole of the Riviera Express. ‘Oh! Sorry, Athene – I’m getting in your way. Your column to write!’

  ‘That’s all right, Judy, take away your tea and we’ll talk tomorrow. I want to hear – those poor foxes!’

  Auriol and the Admiral were sitting opposite each other in the coffee room of the Marine Hotel. Things weren’t going terribly well.

  ‘You’re looking wonderful, Auriol!’ Sir Cedric smiled, stretching his eyes in unspoken invitation. ‘But I really don’t know why I’m here talking to you. I thought we’d said it all fifteen years ago.’

  ‘You never seemed to mind chatting to me last time around,’ said Auriol comfortably. ‘In fact, I’d say you quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘We did have fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘Look, Cedric, you’ve been frightfully lucky. How you’ve managed to last so long I really do not know – Rear Admiral and a knightood? How did you swing that?’ For a woman who spent her days running a harbourside café in a faraway Devon resort, she looked this late morning like a mannequin from Mayfair – granted the baking of those delicious cakes, over the years, had brought some transformation to her wartime figure, but the extra curves were beguiling. The Admiral clearly thought so.

  ‘That’s not very generous, Auriol, I’ve worked hard throughout the whole of my career.’

  Yes, she thought, it must be exhausting giving our secrets away.

  ‘What are you doing for di
nner?’

  Oh Lord, thought Auriol, here we go again… She flashed him a smile. ‘Since you’re going to be down here quite a lot, I should get you acquainted with the better places around town. We can start by you taking me to Amaretti’s – delicious Italian food and old Tuscan wine, just your cup of tea, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘No coupons now,’ said Sir Cedric happily, ‘no more Woolton Pie.’

  ‘I think Boulestin did very well, given the rationing,’ she said, referring to their habitual rendezvous in the old days. ‘Tell me about Bobby Bunton.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Admiral, ‘this is entirely off the record. The man’s a complete rogue, but he’s done some good things. I mean, I wouldn’t want to stay in one of his camps but look what he’s done for ordinary people. He’s revolutionised the way people think about themselves and what they can expect from life with his holidays. It’s cheap, cheerful, and charming – I’m all for him.’

  ‘You like dealing with rogues.’

  ‘Look, I shall soon be retiring. Ulla is, as you know, very unwell and the doctors’ bills have been colossal. Her children are grown up and though very nice, unemployable. They are a constant drain. I’ve had to sell a lot of investments because Ulla expects them to live a certain life, and has no concept of where money comes from.’

  ‘There are three, aren’t there?’

  The Admiral’s eyes flickered. What would a woman who ran a café in an obscure corner of Devon, whom he hadn’t seen for fifteen years, know about his domestic arrangements?

  ‘I have a long memory,’ said Auriol, poker-faced. ‘They seemed such sweet kids back then – you showed me their photograph.’ It almost sounded plausible.

  ‘Well, Bobs is a fine fellow. Though, as I say, a complete rogue. We met on a TV show and hit it off. He asked me how to get a knighthood, so I told him – doesn’t stand a chance, of course, but no need to be high-handed about it – and he took me out for a drink.

  ‘He said he was in hot water with the authorities. They’d discovered he was stealing the church collections he took every Sunday, putting them in his pocket.’

  ‘Good heavens – I thought he’d got the Archbishop of York to come down and give Buntorama a blessing.’

  ‘Oh,’ laughed the Admiral, ‘he’s a cheeky one, Bobs. He thought if he got in quick with the invitation, and the Bish accepted, nobody would dare to tell the old boy he’d had his hand in the till. So he went down to the Athenaeum, handed him his card, and invited him to Temple Regis. He’s made so many headlines and made himself so popular in the tabloid press the Archbishop couldn’t wait to say yes. Makes him look a man of the people.’

  Auriol stiffened slightly but maintained her smile – she’d got the Admiral talking. First step.

  ‘He is in trouble, though. The Commissioner of Police took a very dim view of the church funds matter and had a couple of his men take a look at Bunton’s operations. Though it’s not against the law, there’s been a lot of hanky-panky going on in the camp which wouldn’t look good in court, plus the people who run the funfair down here seem to be blithely unaware that there are laws in this land. Pickpocketing, short-changing, oh, all sorts of malpractice.’

  ‘Why on earth are you getting involved, then? Think what it could do to your reputation!’ Auriol did not add, nothing to what I and the Admiralty Investigations Unit are going to do to it pretty soon.

  ‘No, he gave me his word. He said an investigation into Buntorama down here in Temple Regis could have a domino effect on the rest of his camps, so he decided the time had come for him to go legit. He explained in the early days he had to cut corners to make ends meet – he’s a self-made man, after all – but the time had come to change all that. He wants that knighthood!’

  ‘And you’re going to help him get it?’

  ‘Up to a point.’ The Admiral allowed himself a wintry smile.

  ‘You know they had a shooting down there. That’s hardly going to help.’

  ‘He thinks it’s the chap who owns this place, Radipole, who did it. I doubt it myself – more likely to be one of those ragamuffins who run the funfair.’

  ‘Either way, it’s hardly going to help him to get that knighthood. And frankly, Cedric, it can hardly help burnish your reputation, either. Joining the board of a company that allows murders on the premises – these sound like they’re bad people, very bad. I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘As I said, Auriol, I can use the money. And anyway I’ve always enjoyed living dangerously.’ His eyes twinkled.

  You’re a fool, thought Auriol. You know what I’m after but you think yourself far too smart to be caught. What is it about men in authority? Why do they think that they are the only ones blessed with brains?

  ‘I saw you on the tellybox,’ she lied. ‘Most distinguished. Another of your fundraising techniques?’

  ‘It doesn’t pay much but gives one a reputation. I’m there to prove that not all military brass are stuffed shirts. I’ve done a few of those panel shows but lately I’ve been branching out, doing military history.’

  ‘I heard about that. You’re making a film on the building of Dreadnaught, I believe.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Sir Cedric very slowly, ‘that you should know that.’ He looked at her hard. ‘Nothing’s been announced because I haven’t got the go-ahead from the Admiralty yet.’

  Auriol thought, well, that was a mistake – I shouldn’t have let him know I knew he’d been up to Barrow-in-Furness. Then she thought, I don’t care! Here we are, drinking coffee and making small talk and we both know what this game is. I am encircling you and your treachery, Admiral, and it is you who is pulling the noose tighter round your neck.

  ‘I have a friend who works up in Barrow. You paid them a visit.’

  ‘What an extraordinary coincidence,’ said the Admiral, with barely veiled irony, ‘I have a friend up there, too. He’s called Jasper Hetherington and he’s an old chum from submarine days – in charge of the whole bang-shoot. I think he’s disappointed the Admiralty has given so little publicity to what he’s doing, and he invited me up in the hope I might make a film about it.’

  Did he also give you the plans? thought Auriol. Did he leave them on the desk and go out for a breath of fresh air while you got out your little camera? Or am I just dreaming that bit?

  ‘How much publicity do you need about a top-secret nuclear submarine?’ asked Auriol. ‘Surely that’s the point – the top-secret nature of it.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Minsell, witheringly. ‘You have heard, I take it, the phrase nuclear deterrent? We make these weapons to deter the enemy. They need to know what we’re doing, what the capability is.’

  Well, they know it now, thought Auriol, thanks to you. Though how much they know is the mystery – and it’s up to me to find it out.

  ‘So we’re just waiting for the BBC and the Admiralty to come to an agreement on how much we can film, and when.’ He got up and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘We had some fun in the old days, didn’t we? You’re still a good-looking woman.’

  ‘Not so bad yourself, Cedric,’ Auriol smiled, and in truth he did still look pretty good. ‘Are you planning on coming down here permanently?’

  ‘We’ll see. I think Ulla will have to go into a home. I’ve had my fill of Portsmouth, not a lot of fun to be had there, I can tell you, and there are a lot of old friends in Devon. Bobby found me a little cottage down here which’ll do as a temporary base while we see how things pan out. I’ve only got a couple of months’ service left, and then I think he’s hoping I might become his representative down here while he moves on to his next camp. D’you know how much money he’s made?’

  Auriol couldn’t care less but could see that Minsell was hoping for a sizeable slice of it himself. She wondered how little he was being paid by the Russians if he had to do all this extra work as well.

  ‘So, then,’ she said, getting up and smiling encouragingly at the enemy. ‘Amaretti’s tonight? Eight o’clock?
I’ll let them know.’

  The Admiral put his arm round her waist and gave her cheek a peck. She felt a surge of guilt as she returned the gesture.

  ‘Eight o’clock. And wear lots of that lovely perfume, there’s a good girl.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘What the devil is this muck?’

  ‘It’s the Gevrey-Chambertin ’54, sir. Which you ordered. The best we have.’

  ‘Filth. Take it away! Take it away!’

  Fleet Street’s finest had landed, and the Grand Hotel was once again on its mettle. The wine waiter Peter Potts was run off his feet and extra staff had to be drafted in from the dining room to assist.

  The rococo halls rang to the raucous jokes of the nation’s purveyors of instant history, while in a back room the accountant licked his lips as he fingered the bar chits.

  ‘That’s when I bought the camel on expenses. Technically, of course, I still own it…’

  ‘The judge had the Old Bailey cleared and ordered me to stay behind. What I told him then, well, it changed the whole course of the trial…’

  ‘General Montgomery… it was after El Alamein. He told me – in strictest confidence, of course…’

  ‘That Rachman, call him a slum landlord if you must, but he pours the finest single malt, I can tell you…’

  The stories had been told a thousand times but burnished with a glass or two of Burgundy they came up like new. Unlike their provincial counterparts these men had travelled the world, rubbed shoulders with the rich, the famous and the notorious. They had witnessed mass destruction and taken cocktails with Gina Lollobrigida, canoed up the Suez Canal and eaten sachertorte in the Albertinaplatz. They were no better journalists than their provincial counterparts, but the stories were bigger, as were their expenses.

  The inquest on the unknown woman coincided with the silly season – that sun-drenched period of the year when the wise Fleet Streeter takes an extended holiday because there’s no news. Filling the paper becomes a heavier burden requiring extra ingenuity, resourcefulness, and the more-than-occasional recourse to fabrication. Traditionally the season would prompt a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster, involving a lengthy journey away from the office and the copious distribution of Scottish pound notes in licensed premises.