by TP Fielden
‘I’ll let the Office know your thoughts on the matter,’ said Auriol crisply. ‘Meantime your job is to stifle any mention of Tailcoat by whatever means you have at your disposal.’
Rhys grunted into his beard and reached for his pipe again.
‘One last thing,’ said Auriol. She rose from her chair, the picture of authority in her twinset, pearls and perfectly set grey hair. ‘And that is Miss Dimont.’
Rhys affected disinterest.
‘It’s been brought to my attention that you refer to her as Miss Dim, which is a pretty poor joke considering the conversation we’ve just had. Please remember that when we were all together in naval intelligence, she was senior in rank to you and should be treated with respect.’
‘The War’s over,’ repeated Rhys, reasserting himself. ‘She is now my employee and how I address Miss Dimont is a matter between herself and her editor.’
‘You won’t like it when I talk to the Admiralty pensions people,’ said Auriol. ‘You got off lightly when you left the service. Were I to write to them listing the botched jobs you masterminded – Lord Sempill, Tailcoat and the rest – you do know there’s an annual review board, don’t you?’
‘All so long ago.’
‘You bury your head in the sand if you like,’ said Auriol witheringly, ‘but your rear end is still sticking up in the air. Time somebody kicked it.’
And with that she strode magnificently out of the office.
TWENTY-ONE
‘. . . and then, son, you sabotage the phone.’
‘What? Why? How?’
‘In my day, you’d just nip the diaphragm out from the mouthpiece. That way your opposition could feed as much money into the coin box as they liked – they could hear the switchboard at the other end asking “who is it?” – but nevairrrr a worrrd would that switchboard hear from them because you’d fixed the phone.’
Valentine looked at John Ross. ‘The purpose being?’ he asked in bewilderment.
‘Look, sonny, ye’re bright I’ll grant you, but ye have a lot to learrn. You get to the phone first. You file your story to your newspaper from the phone box. Then you scupper the opposition by destroying their line of communication. Rip the wires out if need be! You learned about that in the Army, didn’t ye, destroying lines of communication?’
‘Not in quite that way, Mr Ross. And surely wrecking a GPO telephone box is a criminal offence?’
John Ross pulled out his bottom drawer and stamped his foot down hard on its edge. The whisky bottle clanked its disapproval.
‘Ye don’ get it, do ye?’ he asked in exasperation. ‘In journalism, laddie, it’s not sufficient that you succeed, others must fail. Ye ken I thought you had promise as a reporter, but if you can’t grasp the fundamentals of competition, then you may as well give up.’
‘They’re not competition.’
‘Wha’?’
‘Today is Tuesday, Mr Ross. The inquests will be held this morning. The boys from the Fleet Street papers will file their copy and it’ll be on everybody’s breakfast table tomorrow morning. The Riviera Express doesn’t come out till Friday when the story of Ben Larsson and Faye Addams will be as appetising as old cold fried potatoes.’
‘No’ ruddy competitive these days,’ grumbled Ross and turned his attention back to a wet page proof on his desk.
Having extricated himself from the Scotsman’s top tips for young reporters, Valentine made his way out of the building and walked towards the Coroner’s court. Only slowly was he making the acquaintance of the many rituals which small towns across the land replicate daily without variance – the council meetings, the voluntary bodies, the churches – and the Coroner’s court. This morning Miss Dimont had promised she would unlock its mysteries while they witnessed the inquests into the deaths of Bengt Larsson and Faye Addams.
The grey room at the back of the main courthouse had the antiseptic air of a pathologist’s chamber, a wooden-benched expanse kept specially to investigate uncommon death in the fervent hope it was an accident, rather than deliberate. If the Coroner, Dr Rudkin, had one thing to be said for him it was his ability to rob a promising death of all possible drama.
This minimalist approach puzzled visiting journalists whose job it was to feed sensation to their readers, but came as a balm to the relatives of the dead who, in general, wanted to see the formalities over with as little fuss as possible. And Dr Rudkin always wore a flower in his buttonhole, which was nice.
When Valentine Waterford arrived he discovered a party going on in the lobby. He’d chosen a sombre necktie suitable to the occasion, but found the gesture was futile – the Fleet Street gang were in high spirits, making jokes and comparing train times back to London. They’d sewn up the Larsson story and just needed the Coroner to say something noteworthy before they hit the telephones, then on to commandeer the refreshment bar on the 2.30 back to Paddington.
In one corner, the red-cheeked Guy Brace, resplendent in a necktie worthy of Picasso, was conducting his orchestra: Sinclair and Wilson and the others had been given their schedule for notetaking so that no two reporters expended unnecessary energy writing at the same time – they would meet up afterwards in the pub to share out the morning’s gleanings. All of them were used to Coroner’s courts, and perhaps less sensitive to the delicacy of the occasion than they might have been; certainly the jokes which tumbled from their lips paid little heed to the poor bereaved who gathered almost apologetically down the other end of the hall.
The Coroner’s Officer, a grey-faced police constable of many years’ service, wandered over to the reporters and handed them a sheet of paper. ‘Larsson, you’ve come for?’ he asked with studied indifference. ‘There’s another one first – open-and-adjourn.’
‘You know,’ said Brace, a shade too loudly, ‘that really is inconvenient, Officer, most inconvenient. You can see all these representatives of the national press here, all with deadlines to meet – can’t you ask the Coroner to swap the two hearings round, put the other one second?’
‘You don’t know Dr Rudkin,’ said the man with a tinge of bitterness. ‘This is his court.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Inkpen, the eager-beaver new reporter whose job it was to keep Brace’s glass full, ‘I’ll sit in. Open-and-adjourn, shouldn’t take long. I’ll let you know.’
‘Come on then,’ said Brace, huffily, and led his troops out of the lobby to the Admiral Benbow next door.
Forty minutes later, Keith Inkpen returned to their number with the news that Dr Rudkin had taken a twenty-minute break before the Larsson inquest commenced.
‘Anything in it?’ said Brace boredly, referring to Inkpen’s keen activities in court.
‘Actually rather good,’ said the young man. ‘Beauty queen murdered. Blonde found dead on beach.’
The grizzled heads of the press pack looked up sharply. They hadn’t expected this. And suddenly the marginalist Inkpen, lowly drinks waiter and general factotum, was the centre of attention. Nothing to grab the readers’ attention like a dead blonde – and murdered, too!
‘Have you got a full note?’ quizzed Brace.
‘Are there pictures?’ chipped in Wilson.
‘How was the dread deed done?’ salivated Sinclair. ‘Interfered with?’
‘Boyfriend???’ chorused the assembled scriveners. They may have been sitting around like a bunch of idlers two minutes ago, but these were Fleet Street’s finest – now they were on their feet, pork pies pushed aside, ready for the chase.
As was the custom, Guy Brace rose regally to dish out orders, instructions, gathering points and general words of wisdom – and, in the twinkling of an eye, the sad tale of poor Ben Larsson was chucked into journalism’s wastepaper basket. The luckless Inkpen was instructed to stay behind to cover Dr Rudkin’s inquest, but everyone knew his labours would never see the light of day – the Daily Herald had taken two bites of the Larsson cherry and there wasn’t much nourishment left on the stalk now.
On the other hand, a de
ad beauty queen!
Thus it was that when his court reassembled a few minutes later, the desiccated Rudkin, who’d steeled himself to face the jackals of the Fourth Estate, found only three figures on the press bench – Inkpen, and the two representatives of the local rag, Miss Dimont and the new chap. He took off his pince-nez and polished them furiously to cover his disappointment. To be prevented from venting one’s anger at the press and their impertinent nosiness made one, well, very angry.
The legal procedure which followed would not bear scrutiny at a Home Office inquiry, for to say the details Dr Rudkin allowed in evidence were sparse would be an understatement. A ferocious defender of the town’s reputation, he jumped on any fact offered by the pathologist and by Inspector Topham. No member of Larsson’s family or staff was allowed to take the stand, and within a short space of time the inquest had skidded to a halt, the Coroner’s conclusion being that he was minded to record an open verdict.
‘Gosh,’ whispered Valentine, ‘I thought we were in for a day of it.’
‘You don’t know Rudkin,’ said Miss Dimont, who did. ‘He’s an absolute shocker. But coroners are coroners, they hold the law in their own hands and they can do whatever they like. He would say that he is sparing the family unnecessary grief, but in fact his aim is to spare Temple Regis unnecessary headlines.’
‘Lunchtime,’ said Valentine cheerily, looking at his watch. ‘What’s the Benbow like?’
‘It’ll do.’
A curious sight greeted the pair as they walked in to the sun-filled front bar. At a corner table sat a bulky figure in tweed suit, sporting full beard and sunglasses.
‘Mr Rhys!’ called Valentine in a friendly way, ‘can I get you something?’
‘Sssh! Come and sit down!’ The man looked hunted. ‘What’s happened to that pack of rats?’
‘Chased off after the Pied Piper,’ said Judy, not in a sympathetic way. Valentine ambled over to the bar to order drinks while she took a chair opposite her boss.
‘Where are they?’ repeated Rhys anxiously. The light in the bar, despite the sunshine outside, wasn’t that bright and he looked comical in his dark glasses.
‘You can take those off, Richard,’ said Judy tartly. ‘The Larsson story’s a dead duck – they’re off after Faye Addams now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, Richard, you’ve been in journalism longer than I have but you don’t seem to have learned much. The wind changed direction. When they arrived here yesterday, those reporters would have set fire to Temple Regis if necessary so they could get a story on Ben Larsson. As of 11.30 this morning, they couldn’t care less about him – they’ve found bigger fish to fry.’
‘But,’ said Rhys, scratching his head and removing his glasses, ‘Ben was murdered – we know that now.’
‘We do but they don’t. Or if they do, they don’t care. Larsson’s inquest was never going to make a Page One story – unless it was discovered his Rejuvenator had accidentally electrocuted the Queen! – but, Richard, a dead blonde will always make the front page.’
‘Thank God …’ said Rhys in a broken sort of way.
‘Thank God we don’t have such seedy values on the Riviera Express? Or thank God that Operation Tailcoat will be given the go-by?’
‘Don’t even mention it,’ the editor said bitterly. ‘I’ve had the Office on, threatening me with all sorts if it gets out.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Dimont wickedly. ‘Auriol told me she was coming to see you, how was she?’ She knew the answer.
‘Perfectly bloody, if you want to know. A bully, if you want to know. She has no right.’
Miss Dimont sighed. ‘Your trouble is you see her as a lady with a tea shop in Bedlington. I see her as a fine naval officer who made an important contribution to the War effort. It’s significant that the Office didn’t get in touch with you direct but asked her to have a word.’
‘Rr … rrrr’ growled Rhys.
Valentine sauntered over with drinks and a sandwich, relieved to see his editor preparing to leave.
‘You’re writing the Addams inquest?’ Rhys asked him.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No fancy stuff, just do it straight.’
‘I’ve got a lot of background which didn’t come out at the inquest. She was the girlfriend of the bass player with Danny Trouble and The Urge, but she may also have been entangled with Cyril Normandy, the beauty queen man.’
‘Put in the first bit, leave out the second.’
Valentine looked at his editor with interest. ‘Really?’ He paused. ‘May I ask a question?’
‘What is it?’ said Rhys, edging towards the door.
‘One of the other beauty queens, Molly Churchstow, told me that a few days ago she rang up the office and spoke to you. She told you that she believed she knew the identity of the dead woman on Todhempstead Beach. At the time nobody knew who the woman was, and this was the first clue. A crucial one. But, sir, you didn’t pass that on to Miss Dimont or me, who were both working on the story. Can you say why?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,’ said Valentine, deflated, and looked into his glass.
‘Why not, Richard?’ Miss Dimont’s voice was stronger, more insistent.
‘Nothing to do with anything,’ said Rhys in a confused sort of way, ‘and anyway mind your own business.’ He straightened up and lumbered out of the pub.
The two reporters sat opposite each other in silence sharing a cheese and pickle sandwich. Valentine sipped his beer. He has green eyes, thought Miss Dimont, so unusual, and really very beautiful.
‘You don’t know what hell I’m going through,’ he said suddenly, those eyes looking straight back at hers.
‘What do you mean?’
He was talking about something else. ‘When I arrived at the Riviera Express I thought, just another training course like the ones I went on in the Army. Learn the stuff up and then you’re qualified. I had no idea it would be like this.’
‘Like what, exactly?’
‘Well, for a start, thanks to you—’ he smiled ‘—it’s a two-part course. The first bit is learning how to be a journalist. Second, is learning how to be a sleuth. You have a mind that goes thisaway and thataway and it seems you never take anything at its face value.’
‘Good for sleuthing and for journalism. Just because people say something doesn’t mean it’s true. It often means it isn’t.’
‘My old aunt would call you a cynic.’
‘I’m not. I’m a realist. And an optimist. There’s something about Temple Regis that makes you want to believe the best in people, something in the air, something in the people – I don’t know. You asked the other day why I wasn’t in Fleet Street – well, now you’ve had a chance to meet the seasoned practitioners of the dark arts, what do you think? Is London a better place to be than here?’
‘Betty thinks so. She’s desperate to get away.’
‘Oh, Betty!’ said Miss Dimont, laughing. ‘For her the grass is always greener anywhere else. If she’s dancing with a man, she’s always looking over his shoulder to see if there’s a handsomer specimen across the floor. She’s got a good job here, and she’s pretty competent, but nothing will do for her until she’s got to Fleet Street. Where, by the way, she wouldn’t be taken seriously and would find herself being used for stunt stories which would usually involve her lifting her skirt. Or writing about her private life.’
‘Nothing terribly private about that,’ laughed Valentine.
‘Agreed, but would you want to share your innermost feelings with two million souls every morning?’
‘Just the one,’ said Valentine, smiling steadily at her.
‘Anyway, you seem to have learned a few things since you’ve been here,’ said Judy, brushing this aside. ‘Donning your sleuth’s hat, where have we got to with these two deaths?’
‘I can’t believe the Coroner didn’t declare Larsson’s death a murder!’
‘Believe it, dear boy – this is
Temple Regis!’
‘Didn’t you just say this town is perfection?’
‘Almost,’ said Judy, with a wry smile, ‘but not quite. Now, where are we with Faye Addams?’
Valentine took a sip of beer. ‘I’m confused, I have to admit,’ he said. ‘To start with, as I said, it looked like it had something to do with the Sisters of Reason. They wanted to make a point about female exploitation so, paradoxically, they killed a woman.
‘But then you recall I talked to Danny, or Derek, whatever you want to call him – and he thought that Boots could have slipped away up to Ransome’s Retreat. You remember he said Boots went deathly white when he heard Larsson’s name mentioned by Gavin Armstrong, then asked where he lived. Soon after that he pushed off and was missing for some time.’
‘Now concentrate, Valentine,’ chided Judy. ‘We’re talking about Faye Addams at the moment.’
‘Yes, yes, I am talking about her. Don’t you see, that if Boots McGuigan is capable of killing one person, isn’t he capable of killing two? She was supposed to be his girlfriend but wasn’t she having an affair with Cyril Normandy? Or maybe she’d gone back to that chap in The Shadows?’
‘Two very different motives, Valentine. Boots kills Larsson, let’s say, because his mother dies at the hand of the Rejuvenator – then goes off and kills his girlfriend in a fit of jealousy? According to my grasp of the way murderers work, that would be unique. It takes really quite a lot to work your way up to killing a human being, unless you’re a hired assassin which, from how you describe him, Mr Boots most definitely is not.’
‘No, he doesn’t strike me as the homicidal type – too obsessed with his hairstyle. But you know, the way those boys are cooped up inside that van, like animals in a cage, might trigger all sorts of behaviour. I had a few drinks with them and they’re a thirsty bunch, also I imagine they have other means to keep themselves lively when on stage.’