“What on earth are you talking about?”
“He’s taken up painting. Didn’t you know? He’s having a one-man exhibition in the Town Hall in the autumn. He said if Churchill could do it, so could he.”
“I see,” said Anthony.
“This necessarily leaves much of the day-by-day control to his subordinates, of whom the most notable is Inspector Ashford, head of the Barhaven Criminal Investigation Department. Inspector Ashford is also a popular character – in certain quarters. In his youth he was a highly skilled rugby football player. And he is the proud owner of a very beautiful Aston Martin car, which he drives very fast; in pursuit of wrongdoers, no doubt. But however fast he drives, can he outstrip that inner voice which says, ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’”
“You’re practically accusing him of being a crook.”
“I am accusing him.”
“Have you got any evidence?”
“I’ve got plenty of evidence. If I have to justify it, I’ll produce a dozen witnesses. Small shop-keepers – who’ve served customers after hours, or committed some technical offence under the Food and Drink Acts – who’ve been threatened with proceedings and bought them off by a cash payment to Ashford. Stall-keepers on the front, who’ve had their licences withdrawn and bought them back again. Motorists who’ve squared the police over traffic offences. Organisers of dances, who want a late licence and know the police will oppose it, automatically, unless the right people are squared.”
“Is this hard fact?”
“Hard as the rock.”
“And these people will actually come forward and give evidence in court?”
“Certainly.”
“You’re sure of that? It puts them in a bad light, too.”
“I’m pretty certain. Anyway, we have even better evidence soon. Official action.”
Anthony waited, watching the excited little man in front of his desk. He guessed what was coming.
“When I first got to hear about this, I reported it to Holford – our M.P. He was a bit nervous of it. It was close to election time. His reactions were the same as yours. He wanted more definite proof. I gave him more proof. He still stalled.”
“So—?”
“About a fortnight ago,” said Ambrose, “I sent my whole dossier up to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
“And what did he do?”
“He sent me a printed card, acknowledging it.”
There was a short silence. Ambrose seemed to have run out of words and Anthony had nothing to say. He heard Ann’s typewriter being belted in the next room and, farther away, the querulous voice of Mr. Pincott speaking on the telephone.
He said, “Has anyone done anything yet? About this article, I mean.”
“I had a telephone call from Mentmore. He was very angry about it. He talked about getting an injunction, and I said, what was the point? It was too late to try and stop the publication, and he said something about further proceedings, and rang off.”
“Was he being angry in his official capacity as clerk to the Barhaven Bench or as Inspector Ashford’s solicitor, or what?”
“I wasn’t at all clear, and I doubt if he was. It’s been sprung on him rather suddenly.”
“You’ve sprung it on everyone rather suddenly,” said Anthony, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. “How do I come into it? And what do you want me to do?”
“When I saw how you dealt with that case of the boys down at the Pleasuredrome,” said Ambrose, “I knew that you were the man for us. We need a fighter, and you are a fighter. You’ll take this on, won’t you?”
“If anyone starts anything – I mean, if they issue a writ – I’ll enter an appearance for you. But anything more than that—I’m not sure.”
“The price of liberty,” said Ambrose, “is eternal vigilance.”
“The price of a solicitor’s practice,” said Anthony, “is keeping on good terms with a great many people, and not annoying anyone unnecessarily. No. Don’t say anything more now. I’ll let you know. Goodbye.”
When Ambrose had gone, Anthony sat for a few minutes, thinking. It was going to mean fighting; fighting a lot of people, some of whom he liked, some of whom he had no desire at all to antagonise; people like Raymond Southern and General Crispen, and the Lady Mayoress. The firm would lose clients; the cricket club would lose its new cricket ground. And for what? To support a tiresome little man like Ambrose. It was all very well for him. He had no intention of spending the rest of his working life in Barhaven. He was going to climb, on the carcass of the Gazette, to higher things; Fleet Street and the national dailies.
“Mrs. Parnell, to make a new will,” said Ann, putting her head round the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Morgan Surveys Barhaven
Mr. Morgan alighted from the train at Barhaven, and walked out of the station yard. The 12.40 was not a much- used train, and there were no taxis on the rank. A seagull, balancing on Queen Victoria’s right shoulder, stared at Mr. Morgan with a predatory yellow eye. Mr. Morgan, not unlike a foraging gull himself, stared back. It was a beautiful day. His first appointment was not until half-past one. He decided to walk.
The length of Grand Avenue lay ahead of him, running downhill in a gentle slope towards the sea. He sauntered down it, passing, in turn, Victoria Park, Consort Gardens, Connaught Square, Albert Terrace and Stockmar Crescent.
As he went he cast a shrewd eye over the passers-by. The visitors, who carried cameras, wore bright clothes and walked slowly; the residents who dressed soberly and walked at a normal pace. It was the first time Mr. Morgan had been to Barhaven although, directly or indirectly, he owned a sizeable fraction of it. He thought it was a nice town; a good-class place, attracting good-class people. He thought it was a cake ready for the knife.
Grand Avenue joined the Marine Parade at a point opposite the Municipal Band Stand, halfway between West and East Pier. To his right he could see the steel and glass bulk of the Pleasuredrome, one of Greyslates’ more profitable investments. To his left, the garage, motor show-rooms and underground car park. “We service your car whilst you wait.”
Had they been a little weak over that? They needed the pull that Macintyre could give them, but was that any reason for giving away a 51 per cent interest? Mistaken generosity rarely paid dividends.
Mr. Morgan turned east, and made his way along the Parade. The beaches were full, but not over-crowded. Most of the visitors seemed to be children, splashing in the shallow water and digging holes in the fine, well-packed white sand which was one of Barhaven’s main attractions. And there were elderly people who were happy to sit in deckchairs, watching the children digging. This seemed to Mr. Morgan to be right. The British seaside was no place for anyone between the ages of fourteen and forty. They got bored, and caused trouble.
At the eastern end of the front he stopped to look at the extension to the Marine Parade. It was just ready for its public opening (three weeks ahead of contract date, Mr. Morgan noted with satisfaction). They had been in danger, at one time, of a heavy penalty payment, but the sacking of one foreman and the payment of an unofficial bonus to another had worked wonders.
Under the lee of the old parade, and forming a full stop to a row of original fishermen’s cottages which had somehow survived the modernisation of Barhaven, was a small public house, with whitewashed rough-cast walls and blue check curtains in its windows. Mr. Morgan glanced at it casually and then, with the air of a man making up his mind, descended the concrete steps at the back of the Parade, crossed the narrow road and pushed open the door of the Private Bar.
This was a tiny, panelled room with a bulkhead light over the bar, a ship in a bottle on the mantelpiece, an advertisement for Guinness Milk Stout on the wall and three battered wooden settles round a table whose top was polished to black glass by jerseyed elbows and spilt beer.
The only other occupant of the room was a tall and quite remarkably ugly-looking man. He had a head like a reversed
and elongated pear topped with a scattering of sandy hair. A short, thick nose divided two unequal battlefields of seamed flesh and ended in a hedge of moustache which partly concealed a mouth of yellowing tusks.
“Hullo, Mac,” said Morgan. “You got here first, I see. How are things?”
“Bloody awful,” said Hamish Macintyre, Barhaven’s Borough Engineer and Surveyor. “What are you drinking? Whisky I don’t doubt.”
He raised his voice in a shout and an old man appeared at the bulkhead hatch, and took their orders.
“Sandwiches,” said Macintyre. “Beef if you can. Cheese if you can’t. Ham if you must.”
The old man grinned and departed. Morgan took a quick pull at his whisky and said, “You’re having some trouble, I hear.”
“You’ve heard bloody right.”
“Mr. Grey thought I ought to come down and have a look round.”
“Is he getting worried?”
“I wouldn’t have said that Mr. Grey ever really got worried. He’s not the worrying sort. But he did think there might be a situation here that wanted looking into.”
Macintyre grunted. He really was quite astonishingly ugly, thought Morgan. Hadn’t there been a general, in the first World War – Henry Wilson, was it? – who claimed to be the ugliest man in the British Army. If they had a competition for the ugliest man in Barhaven, Hamish Macintyre would have been a long-odds favourite. And not only ugly of appearance, but deliberately ugly of speech and manner. Mr. Morgan who was, when off duty, a person of some refinement and intellectual accomplishment, felt sorry that he should be forced to have anything to do with him.
“It’s mostly that screaming pansy, Ambrose, stirring up trouble. He’s in with Sellinge, and they’ve got a bit of backing on the Council. Bolshie sods like Viney and Lawrie and Tom Allerton. Luckily they’re only a minority. They can talk themselves sick, but they can’t carry a vote.”
“Not at the moment.”
“What are you thinking about. The elections? Ach, forget it. They’re in the bag. Open and shut.”
“You’re sure about that.”
Macintyre emphasised his certainty with two obscenities that made Mr. Morgan wince. He said, “I hope you are right about this. We’ve got a lot of money tied up in the eastern extension. More money than we’d care to lose.” He turned his rimless glasses full on his companion. “A great deal more.”
Macintyre shifted uneasily.
“I don’t know what you’re wetting your pants for,” he said. “We’ve always had a Tory majority on the Council here, and we always will.”
“As long as they don’t behave stupidly.”
“Meaning anyone in particular?”
“I was talking about Mr. Crawford.”
“You heard about him getting pissed at the Club?”
“There is very little happens in Barhaven that Mr. Grey doesn’t hear about, sooner or later. Another thing, we had a visit a couple of days ago from a young solicitor, called Brydon. Do you know him?”
“Tony Brydon? Yes, I know him. I should have said he knew more about cricket than he did about law.”
“He seemed to know quite a lot about our affairs,” said Mr. Morgan. “He seemed to us to be a keen and enterprising young man. We might be able to put some work in his way.”
Macintyre said, “You’re a shifty lot of bastards up there in the Metropolis, aren’t you.”
Mr. Morgan got up. He felt that he had had enough of Macintyre for one day. He said smoothly, “Thank you for the drink. I won’t have another. Remember what I said, won’t you. Mr. Grey isn’t a man who likes to fail. And you can have my share of the sandwiches.”
He went out, leaving Macintyre staring after him with a mixture of irritation, greed and apprehension in his rhinoceros eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
Ann Recites Poetry
Ann, who was a bit late herself at the office on Thursday morning, was relieved to find that her employer was later still. By the time she had opened his letters, sorted out the ones that went to the two managing clerks, thrown away the insurance circulars and advertisements and answered three telephone calls, it was a good deal later and she was beginning to get worried.
It was the first time since she had been there that this had happened and she had no idea what she was supposed to do about it, if anything.
She looked at the desk diary. The first appointment was at eleven-thirty – “Mrs. Messenger about a dog” – and there was a sale due to be completed in Hastings at twelve-fifteen. Suppose he had overslept? (She had a momentary picture of him, in blue pyjamas, his hair tousled and his eyes gummy.) On the other hand, why shouldn’t he be late if he wanted to? He was his own boss.
At a quarter to eleven her resolution weakened. His father would be at home, and would know the form. As his secretary it was surely her duty – her hand was on the telephone when Anthony came in.
“Hullo,” said Ann, “this is a nice time for a hard-working solicitor to turn up.”
Anthony said, “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s a quarter to eleven, and I’ve had three people asking for you already.”
“I take it you’ve made notes of what they wanted.”
“The notes are on your desk. Typed out, since you can’t read my hand-writing.”
Even this didn’t raise a smile. Anthony said, “Thank you. I’ll be wanting you in about five minutes. I must try to get some of these letters answered before Mrs. Messenger arrives.”
Ann departed and went to look for Mr. Bowler, who was a source of information on every topic in the office from where to find probate forms to what biscuits Mr. Pincott liked with his tea.
“What’s biting Mr. Anthony?” she said.
“I was wondering about that myself,” said Mr. Bowler. “He came in very early, about twenty to nine. He was here about five minutes – took one telephone call – and went off.”
“Where to?”
“No idea. He didn’t take his car, so he can’t have gone far. I thought he might have been doing some shopping.”
“He didn’t look like someone who has been on a shopping spree,” said Ann. “He looked like someone who’s had his toes trodden on in a bus queue. Polite on top, but furious underneath. Hullo. There’s the bell. Hurry up with the coffee, Arnold. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be one of those mornings.”
When she got back Anthony was reading one of the letters which had arrived that morning and started dictating as soon as she had got her book open.
It was a complicated letter, about the redemption of a mortgage and the release of a life insurance policy and Anthony was dictating at twice his normal speed. Ann was a competent shorthand-typist, but she felt herself slipping slowly, but inexorably behind the flow of his words. It was like trying to go up a moving staircase that was moving down. Any moment now she was going to have to say, “Slower, please.” Her wrist was aching. She shifted the book slightly and the movement caught Anthony’s eye.
He stopped in the middle of a long sentence and said, “Sorry. Something happened this morning. It upset me rather. But that’s no reason why I should take it out on you.”
“That’s what secretaries are for,” said Ann, “or so I’d always understood.”
“In the old days of slavery and indentured labour, maybe. Not now. They have to be wooed with bonuses and cosseted with luncheon vouchers.”
He sat for a moment in silence and Ann wondered if he was going to go on dictating. It was always difficult when you stopped in the middle of a sentence and lost the thread. The last symbol in her book might have been “monetary” or “mortgage” or even “mortuary” although that was hardly likely in the context.
“I had to go round to the police station,” said Anthony, “about that ‘ticket’ I got for parking the other day. Inspector Ashford wanted to see me about it. He said that he realised that it wouldn’t do me much good – me being a local solicitor, and so on – to be hauled up in front of the bench, even for a tr
ivial offence like parking. He said that no Summons had been issued yet, and no Summons need be issued, if—”
“Do you mean,” said Ann, turning pink, “that he had the nerve to ask for money.”
“No. It took him quite a long time to get round to what he actually wanted, but I picked it up in the end. He wanted me to stop supporting Sellinge. And, particularly, he wanted me to stop acting for him in the planning enquiry.”
“But Sellinge would just get someone else.”
“At this late hour? He might find it a bit difficult.”
“You refused, of course.”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “I refused.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he gave me a lecture, on co-operation with the authorities and civic pride.”
He couldn’t tell her what Ashford had actually said, his big face flushing, his scar flaring out like a warning shout. It had been an unnerving experience, to see a man he had previously respected behaving in such an illogical and stupid and utterly undignified way; like a child, who can’t get what he wants with cajolery and suddenly flies into a temper, beating with his hands and screaming.
“When I got away, I felt I wanted to wash my mouth out.”
“There was some story about Ashford, before he came here,” said Ann. “He’s too senior, really, for a potty little job like bossing the Barhaven C.I.D. He started in the Metropolitan Police. Did you know?”
“I’d never heard that. Where did you get it from?”
“I heard daddy talking to mummy about it. He didn’t know I was there, and when he found out, he told me I was never to repeat it. He pretended he was only joking, anyway.”
“How would your father have known about it?”
“He had a job in the War Office after the War. In the section that deals with Courts Martials. He got to know a lot of policemen. Military ones, and ordinary ones.”
“Have you ever said anything about this, to anyone?”
“Not until this moment.”
Anthony tried to fit in this new piece of the jigsaw. If Ashford was not only dishonest, but had a previous history of dishonesty, it suggested a number of possibilities, all of them alarming.
The Crack In the Teacup Page 10