Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  He adjusted his specs and read on: “Mr Snout leaves a widow, Mary, and two grown-up children. The family have requested privacy at this difficult time.”

  I thought: some hope. The best Tomkins could have done to keep the press pack off their back was to stay mum about Snout’s family background.

  Tomkins continued: “Mr Snout died from a severe blow to the pterion region of the skull which drove fragments of bone into the brain and caused a fatal haematoma. Police officers have searched the premises but have not located the murder weapon which we believe to be a coconut.”

  There were a few sniggers at this. Black humour is never far below the surface in a murder story.

  Tomkins cleared his throat ominously and went on: “I can categorically reject the theory, propounded in certain quarters, that the murder was linked to the theft of a What the Butler Saw machine film from the pier two nights earlier. I strongly deprecate the publication of this irresponsible newspaper speculation which can only hinder the task of apprehending the real criminal.”

  Tomkins put down his paper, removed his spectacles and looked around the room. “I will now take questions.”

  I was fired up and on my feet before anyone else could speak. “Superintendent Tomkins, can you tell us why you’ve been able to rule out a link to the theft?”

  Tomkins leaned back complacently: “Our enquiries have failed to establish any connection between the two crimes.”

  “What kind of enquiries?”

  “Confidential enquiries?”

  “Have you interviewed Reginald Chapman, the pier manager and asked him why he didn’t report the theft?”

  “Mr Chapman provided an acceptable explanation?”

  “Which was?”

  “Confidential – like our other enquiries in this case?”

  I said: “How can you be one hundred per cent certain that the person who stole Milady’s Bath Night hadn’t returned to the pier a second night to steal something else?”

  “The modus operandi of the coconut-shy killing was different.”

  “In what ways?”

  “That’s confidential at present.”

  I said: “The truth of the matter is that you don’t know whether you’re looking for one person or two. So you can’t say anything certain about the modus operandi used on both crimes. For all the progress you’ve made, you might as well have been interviewing the skeletons in the pier’s ghost train.”

  That raised a laugh from the other journalists. Tomkins blustered something about “an outrageous comment” but I’d heard enough. It was plain Tomkins was making no progress in the investigation. He had no suspect in his sights and couldn’t produce any convincing motive for poor Snout’s killing. There’d be other questions but Tomkins would answer with the same waffle. If any of the hacks tried to pin him down, he’d hide behind the comfort blanket of confidentiality. I stood up and pushed my way out of the conference room.

  I stomped down the corridor, shoved through the door and clattered down the steps into the street.

  And came up hard.

  I wasn’t thinking.

  I leaned on the wall outside the cop shop and thought about why Tomkins had called a press conference when he’d not made any progress in his investigation and had no hard news to offer a roomful of cynical hacks.

  There was only one reason – to rubbish my story in last night’s Chronicle. The only possible story to come out of the conference was that Tomkins didn’t think Snout’s murder was linked to the Milady’s Bath Night theft. The other journalists would head back to their offices and make that the lead of the pieces they wrote. Tomkins had been cleverer than I’d given him credit for. Instead of being out in front with others trying to catch up – I’d be isolated.

  Crampton against the world.

  I couldn’t see Figgis being happy about that. And when Figgis wasn’t happy there was no telling what he might do. I could see him taking me off the story. And I wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

  So I crossed the road to a telephone box, went in and dialled a number. From the box, I looked up at the window in the police station where I expected the phone to be answered. It rang three times and then a voice said: “Brighton CID. Ted Wilson speaking.”

  I said: “Ted, I need to speak to you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Too busy for a large scotch?”

  “Too busy even to sniff the bottle.”

  I said: “We need to speak about the Snout murder.”

  “I’ve told you – that’s Tomkins’ case.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’ve just been listening to the risible description of his fumbling investigation at the press conference. I need to know what’s really happening.”

  “Tomkins is playing this one close to his chest. There’s not much I can tell you.”

  “Which suggests there is something.” I needed to force Ted’s hand. “I’m in the phone box over the road, I’ll come straight over and we’ll talk.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Our usual rendezvous then. In fifteen minutes.”

  “Make it half an hour. But don’t expect me to have anything useful to say.”

  The phone went dead. I replaced the receiver and looked at myself in the phone-box mirror. I didn’t look as ashamed as I thought I should.

  Prinny’s Pleasure was my rendezvous of choice for clandestine meetings with contacts.

  It was a run-down boozer in a narrow road in the North Laine part of Brighton. The place had a front door with peeling red paint and frosted-glass windows thick with dust. A pub sign board hanging from a rusting bracket squeaked as it swung in the wind. The sign board featured a portrait of Mrs Fitzherbert wearing a bouffant wig and low-cut gown. She had a beauty spot painted on her right breast. Or it could have been a pigeon dropping.

  It was a pub which punters looking for a friendly pint and a tasty snack had learnt to avoid. Which suited Ted and me just fine.

  I went in and walked up to the bar. The bar contained an ashtray full of dog-ends and a plate with a bloater-paste sandwich. A tabby cat sniffed the sandwich suspiciously, climbed on top of it, lay down and went to sleep.

  Jeff, the landlord, was already dozing on a stool behind the bar. His head rested on the cash register. His lank hair flopped over the keys. He was wearing baggy jeans and a stained tee-shirt with a picture of Lonnie Donegan and the words: “Does your chewing gum lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?”

  I rapped loudly on the bar and shouted, “Service.”

  Jeff awoke with a start. He slipped sideways onto the cash register and accidently rang up two shillings and nine pence.

  He looked confused and said: “Look what you’ve made me do. Now my till will be out when I cash up.”

  I said: “Just under-ring orders until you’ve made up the money. At your level of trade, you should do that by the end of the year.”

  He said: “Who needs a smart-arse like you in their bar?”

  I said: “A publican who would otherwise have no customers. Now give me a gin and tonic with…”

  “I know, one ice cube and two slices of lemon.”

  “And you can add a large scotch to the order. I’m expecting a guest.”

  I took the drinks to the corner table at the back of the bar. I’d just taken a couple of pulls at the G and T when Ted opened the pub door. He glanced around and slipped quickly inside.

  He walked over to my table, sat down and said: “This isn’t what I expected to be doing when I joined the force.”

  I pushed the scotch towards him and said: “It beats helping old ladies across the road.”

  Ted picked up the glass and took a healthy swig.

  I said: “I guess you heard Tomkins had lined up a ritual humiliation of me for the press conference this morning.”

  He said: “Word in the canteen was that you went down fighting.”

  “My fellow hacks enjoyed the sport. The trouble is that’s all they’ve got to write about
now. And as they didn’t break the story, they’ll rubbish mine. So my theory that Milady’s Bath Night theft is linked to Snout’s killing is looking about as flat as that sandwich over there.”

  The cat stirred itself, turned round and went back to sleep.

  Ted took another swig of his scotch and said: “So get a new theory.”

  “There are two problems with that.”

  “Which are?”

  “First, I think I’m right. For years, there are no night-time crimes on Palace Pier. And then there are two in the space of a couple of days.”

  Ted shrugged. “Coincidence happens.”

  “Which brings me to my second problem. I think you believe the two incidents are connected.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you’re a better ’tec that Tomkins. Because you would’ve at least put in some footwork to find whether the two crimes were linked.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  Ted drained his glass. I signalled to Jeff to bring us refills.

  I said: “What I can’t understand is why Tomkins was so quick to dismiss my theory that the theft and the murder were linked. He wouldn’t have read my piece until he picked up the Chronicle late yesterday afternoon. But already by this morning he’s rubbishing it.”

  “No mystery there. It didn’t fit the story he’d already told his favourite hack.”

  “You mean Houghton?”

  Ted nodded. “Trouble with Tomkins is that his mind is about as flexible as an iron bar. That’s fine when you’re on the right track. Not so good when the investigation is going nowhere and you need new ideas.”

  “And is Tomkins’ investigation going nowhere?”

  “No comment.”

  Jeff arrived with the drinks. I handed him a ten-bob note and told him to take one for himself and a saucer of milk for the cat.

  He shuffled off.

  I said to Ted: “You can do better than that.”

  Ted took a pull at his drink. “This is strictly off the record.”

  “As always.”

  “Sooner or later, Tomkins will have to consider a link with the theft. It stands to reason. He can’t ignore it for ever. He shouldn’t have brushed it aside from the start. I wouldn’t have.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said. I swirled the G and T in my glass, then took a gulp. I stood up: “Let’s keep in touch on this one.”

  Ted stared into his scotch. “Can I stop you?”

  I turned to leave, walked past the bar. Jeff was leaning on the beer pumps. The cat was sleeping on the sandwich.

  I pointed and said: “That’s not fit for human consumption.”

  Jeff smirked. “Who’s ever heard of anyone eating a cat, anyway?”

  Chapter 8

  I hurried back to the office.

  My detour to Prinny’s Pleasure meant I’d cut it fine to write up copy for the Midday Special. Figgis would be prowling the newsroom wondering why I hadn’t returned immediately after the police press conference.

  But, as it turned out, he wasn’t. As I walked into New Road, I saw him come out of Charlie’s. He spotted me at once and marched over with a face like an undertaker who’s lost his corpse.

  He said: “Charlie has sold out of Woodbines. Can you believe that?”

  I said: “Easily.”

  Charlie’s was a lock-up tobacconist a couple of minutes’ walk from the Chronicle’s front door. The place featured a window display with an old meerschaum pipe, a collection of novelty ashtrays – star item: a lavatory with the seat up – and a nicotine-stained sign which read “Smoker’s requisites”. The apostrophe was in the wrong place. Or perhaps not. Figgis was the only person I’d ever seen go in there.

  Figgis said: “Until Charlie restocks, I’ll have to get by on Weights. They make me cough.”

  I said: “You won’t be missing out on your daily exercise, then.”

  We were walking through the Royal Pavilion gardens on our way back to the office.

  Figgis said: “The dearth of Woodies is not the only bad news I’ve had in the past hour.”

  I said: “‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies – but in battalions.’”

  “That’s as maybe, but word reaches me that you took a hammering from Tomkins at the morning police briefing.” He gave me a crafty sideways glance.

  “I gave as good as I got.”

  “I don’t doubt it. When it comes to verbal fisticuffs, a cocky bastard like you is more than a match for an old dullard like Tomkins.”

  “Thanks for the testimony,” I said.

  Figgis took out a packet of his new Weights and started to fumble with the packaging.

  “The problem we face on the Snout murder is that we’re running a different line from the other rags,” he said.

  “In the news business, we call that an exclusive,” I said.

  “Not if it’s exclusively wrong,” Figgis said. He fumbled with his fag packet and complained: “The trouble with trying a new brand is that you can never open them so easily.”

  Figgis tugged viciously at the packet and the cellophane wrapper came away in his hand.

  “There’s a simple way out of that,” I said.

  “You think you can open a packet of gaspers more easily than someone like me who’s been smoking them since I was a nipper?”

  “I was talking about the story,” I said.

  “I see.”

  “The simple way out of our dilemma is to make sure our story stands up. I’ve got a police source that contradicts Tomkins’ theory.”

  “I think this is the way to do it,” Figgis said.

  “To use my anonymous police source?”

  “I was talking about how to open the packet.” Figgis tugged at a flap at the top. The contents shot out and landed on the ground. Cigarettes were rolling around all over the path. “Now look what you’ve made me do.”

  Figgis stooped to retrieve them.

  I said: “Tomkins’ case is a bit like those fags – all over the place. I’m going back to the office. I’ve got copy to write.”

  He said: “While I scrabble around like a tramp looking for dog-ends.”

  “Be positive. If anyone asks, you can say you’re a Weight lifter.”

  I left him shaking the water off a cigarette that had rolled into a puddle.

  Back in the newsroom, I headed for my desk and rolled copy paper into the ancient Remington.

  For a couple of seconds I sat with my hands poised over the keys. Then I slumped back in my chair and looked around the room. Phil Bailey had his phone wedged between his shoulder and his neck while he scribbled notes. Sally Martin cursed as she untangled the jammed keys of her typewriter. Susan Wheatcroft checked share prices on the Press Association teleprinter. Fourteen minutes to deadline. Everyone had a story. I wasn’t sure what mine was.

  The police press conference had left me out on a limb and skating on thin ice. And I didn’t care how many metaphors I mixed because I was up a gum tree. From the start, I’d given the Snout murder a different spin to the other papers. The dilemma I now faced was whether to back my hunch or row back to the line the other papers were taking. There was no doubt that every other rag would make Tomkins’ statement that the theft of Milady’s Bath Night had nothing to do with the murder the lead in their stories.

  Cedric, the copy boy, sloped up to my desk. “Any copy for the subs, Mr Crampton?” He glanced at the newsroom clock. “Thirteen minutes to deadline.”

  I said: “Come back in ten minutes.”

  “Right you are.” He shuffled over to Sally Martin’s desk.

  I came to a decision. Some people say that when you’re in a hole, the first thing you have to do is stop digging. I say dig on, you may find gold.

  I pulled the Remington towards me and typed: “Police may investigate whether the murder of Palace Pier night-watchman Fred Snout was linked to the theft of saucy pictures from a What the Butler Saw machine.

  “Sup
erintendent Alec Tomkins, heading the case, told a press conference he believed there was no connection between the two crimes. But a senior source in Brighton Police said detectives would have to consider a possible link if the current enquiries lead nowhere.”

  Ted Wilson wasn’t going to thank me for quoting our off-the-record conversation in Prinny’s Pleasure. But I hadn’t named him and, if asked where I’d got the information – as Tomkins certainly would – I would take pleasure in telling him: “That’s confidential.”

  I added another half-dozen paragraphs recounting the basic facts of the story, rolled the final folio out of my typewriter and waved the pages at Cedric.

  He hurried over and took the copy. “Another scoop, Mr Crampton?”

  I winked. “You read it in the Chronicle first.”

  A little bravado does no harm from time to time, but it rarely solves problems.

  And my problem was how to make my story stand up. I’d have to come up with some convincing evidence that the theft was linked to the murder or Figgis would insist I drop it. The trouble was every way I turned, I hit a dead-end. Tom Belcher in the Palace Pier amusement arcade wouldn’t be keen on talking to me again. I’d not mentioned his name, but if he’d read last night’s Chronicle, he’d guess that the information must have come from him. He’d worry that Reginald Chapman, the pier’s manager, would finger him as the source. Not that Chapman could prove anything.

  Toupée Terry had come across with some useful background information, but he evidently didn’t know enough about Marie Richmond’s later life to be much help. If my previous encounter was anything to go by, Lord Piddinghoe and Venetia would brush aside any further questions as though I was a surly peasant looking for a hand-out. Ted Wilson would treat Prinny’s Pleasure like a leper colony when he discovered I’d used him as my anonymous source. And Tomkins was no doubt savouring a cop-shop cuppa while he congratulated himself for rubbishing my story.

  So the question I had to answer was: who hadn’t I interviewed who might provide new information that would make my story stand up?

  And there was one figure in this drama that everyone had overlooked.

  I walked into the morgue.