“Good question,” Petrie said. “I gave each candidate a different code name. The other two are Geoffrey Chaucer and John Milton. Answer your question?”
“Yes. Look forward to meeting you on Thursday.”
“And you.”
I replaced the receiver. Stood for a minute absorbing the implications of the call. Looked at myself in the mirror at the back of the booth. Decided I looked a bit flushed. Pushed my way out of the booth. And ran straight into Frank Figgis returning from lunch.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said. “Hey, you look like you’ve just stepped out of a Turkish bath.”
“That booth feels like one,” I said.
I wondered whether he’d heard any of my conversation. I didn’t think so, but I couldn’t be sure.
I said: “There are developments on the Trumper story. Can I speak to you in your office?”
“Come in now.”
We walked round to his room and went in.
“Well, is it good news?” he asked when we’d sat down. He reached for his cigarettes.
“It’s certainly progress,” I said. “I’ve seen a letter Councillor Cross has sent to Trumper.”
I told Figgis how I’d come to see the carbon copy and how Cross had lied to me about not being in contact with Trumper.
“I only had about five or ten seconds to scan the black, but, as far as I could see, Cross was telling Trumper that if he continued to hold out, the council could consider issuing a compulsory purchase order to make him sell the Krazy Kat.”
“This was a formal notification?”
“No. Nothing like that. The letter was cleverly drafted with lots of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘maybes’. I remember one sentence began, ‘The theoretical position in certain circumstances could be…’ and so on.”
“So Cross was covering his back,” Figgis said.
“Certainly. But also firing a warning shot across Trumper’s bows. Letting him know that if he didn’t voluntarily sell to Darke, the council could get involved and make him.”
“So what does this mean?”
I leaned back in my chair. Figgis sat with his cigarette between his lips. The smoke curled round his face making him look like the Guy on a November the fifth bonfire.
“I think it shows that there must be some kind of arrangement between Cross and Darke over the casino plan. Otherwise, why would Cross be writing an unofficial letter before the committee has even considered the plan? I suspect money has changed hands. Of course, we can’t prove it for one very obvious reason.”
“We haven’t got the letter.” Figgis had his displeased frown on. “So how are you going to get it?” he asked.
“I’ve only seen the carbon copy of the letter,” I said. “The original went to Trumper. He may still have it.”
“But we don’t know where he is.”
“True, but I think there’s a chance the letter could be at the Krazy Kat, perhaps unopened.”
“So that’s your next step?”
“I’m going back to the Krazy Kat to see if the letter is there. If you agree.”
“Sure. This is your story. For the moment.”
I left the newsroom with a couple of worries on my mind.
The first was that Figgis seemed to be getting twitchy about my handling of the story. He hadn’t seemed happy about the way I’d dealt with the business of Cross’s letter. But, then, he hadn’t been there.
The second was the effect the story might have on my chances of getting the Mirror job. If I could land the story by Thursday, I would be able to go into the interview room trailing clouds of glory. But the problem was that Jim Houghton of the Argus had picked up vibes that I was working on something big.
My harmless deception of Mick (or, rather, Nick) at The Cricketers would have fuelled Houghton’s suspicions further. Nick would have staggered back to the office after spending my ten bob and moaned about my no-show to his fellow hacks. I didn’t think Nick had the gumption to impute a nefarious motive to my absence. He may simply have concluded that I’d got caught up in something more urgent. But the ever-suspicious Houghton would have done.
So as I stepped into the street, I stooped to re-tie my shoe lace and had a quick shufty at who was about. I wouldn’t put it past Houghton to put a tail on me. The street was busy with shoppers. A couple of middle-aged matrons pushed passed me laden with shopping bags from Hannington’s. An old gent with a bowler hat and striped trousers ambled along smoking a pipe. A fancy piece wearing stilettos like daggers tottered by with a poodle on a leash.
Shoppers don’t spend much time standing in the same place. So it wasn’t difficult for me to spot Houghton’s nark. He was a young lad lounging beside the phone box on the other side of the road. He was reading the midday edition of the Chronicle. A nice touch to read the Chronicle rather than the Argus, his own paper. But not nice enough. He wasn’t waiting to make a call because the phone box was vacant. He’d have done better to stand inside and pretend to be on the phone. If you have to stand still when you’re on the qui vive, go somewhere where your target expects to see standing people – such as a bus queue.
I recognised the lad as a trainee reporter who’d joined the Argus a couple of months earlier. He was the nephew of one of the paper’s directors and there were mutterings that better-qualified but less well-connected candidates had been overlooked for the coveted post. His name was Peregrine Foulkes-Hartington-Smythe, which was going to give the subs a problem when he got to earn his first byline. He was wearing grey flannel trousers and a check sports jacket that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I’d have to shake him off before I could go to the Krazy Kat.
So after I’d re-tied my shoe, I headed towards The Lanes, the maze of eighteenth-century passages in the centre of the town. As I sauntered into Meeting House Lane I caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window. Peregrine was doing well but he wouldn’t be ready for what I had in mind.
I hurried through The Lanes, turned right on to the seafront and walked towards the Old Ship Hotel. I slowed down and gave my tail a chance to come round the corner so that he could see me step into the hotel.
Peregrine didn’t disappoint. He still had his copy of the Chronicle under his arm as he bustled round the corner. I slipped in the door and made my way through the foyer to the restaurant. I entered the restaurant which was empty – the lunch service had long finished.
On the far side of the room were two service doors used by waiters to get between the kitchen and restaurant. I hurried over to one of them. Looked quickly behind to make sure my tail was out of sight. Slipped through the door.
In the kitchen Antoine, the head chef, was in the middle of berating a sous chef about some canapés. I caught a few choice words that hadn’t been in my school French dictionary. Antoine was everything you’d expect of a French chef – fat, quixotic, temperamental. He had a handlebar moustache and a goatee beard. He’d taken off his toque and was mopping his high forehead with a red polka-dot handkerchief. When he saw me, he turned from the hapless sous chef.
“Colin, I am working with idiots. But you have come to speak with me. No?”
“No. I’m just passing through, Antoine. You haven’t seen me.”
“I get it.” He tapped the side of his large Gallic nose. “You are on one of your histoires, n’est ce pas?”
“D’accord. Just need to avoid someone.”
“Antoine’s kitchen is the gateway to freedom. No?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And the temple of the gastronomie magnifique. No?”
“Yes.”
“But you must try one of these caviar canapés before your – how you say? – disparition. No?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed the platter from the sous chef and shoved it towards me. The canapés looked good. I took one and bit into it.
“Délicieux,” I said. “But I must go. If anyone comes after me, see what you can do to hold them up.”
; “Leave it to me,” Antoine said. “I give him caviar canapés sprinkled with – what you call? – Kruschen Salts.”
“That should slow him down a bit,” I said.
“The caviar hides the taste of the salts. No?”
“Yes.”
“He makes very loud – how you say? – framboises.”
“Raspberries.”
“Ici.” He pointed to his ample rump.
“Don’t give him too large a dose,” I said. “He moves in elevated company.”
I crossed the kitchen and went out through the back door.
When I reached the Krazy Kat, there was no sign of Barnet at the ticket window.
I walked round to the side of the building. A couple of elderly women, one tall, one short, were just coming off the course.
I gave them my brightest smile and said: “Did you enjoy your golf today?”
“We couldn’t think of anything else to do,” the tall one said.
“We’re making the best of a bad job,” the short one said.
It didn’t sound like a ringing endorsement.
“Shall I take your clubs and balls and return them to the office?”
They handed them over, then wandered off down Madeira Drive bickering about what to do next.
I went over to the side door, knocked lightly and went in without waiting for an invitation. There was no sign of Barnet in the ticket-office room but the door to the storeroom at the back was ajar. I pushed the door open. Barnet was there with his head in a large cardboard box. As I came round the door, he jumped up.
“Oh, it’s you. What are you doing in here?”
He didn’t sound pleased to see me. He hurriedly closed the lid on the box.
“Two of your customers left these,” I said. I handed over the clubs and balls.
“That’s my job,” he said.
“Just trying to be helpful. Can’t be easy running the place by yourself,” I said.
He relaxed a bit. Tried a smile. The zits were still in action but they didn’t look happy.
“Why have you come?” he asked. “It’s not, presumably, to help me.”
“No. I was hoping you might’ve had word from Mr Trumper.”
Barnet turned away from me and tightened the lid on the box he’d had his head in. He lifted the box over to the far side of the room. The box had a label on the side printed in an old-fashioned typeface. It read: Ministry of Food: National Dried Milk. I made a mental note.
“I’ve not heard from him,” Barnet said. He shoved the box into a corner and lifted another on top of it.
“No letter, no phone call?” I said.
“Nothing.”
I had a good look round the room. It was packed with old cardboard boxes. In places they piled from floor to ceiling. Most were covered in years of dust. But on others the dust had been recently disturbed. Barnet had been moving them about. There was no sign of any recent letters. Certainly nothing official bearing Brighton County Borough Council’s crest.
“So you’re soldiering on?” I said.
“Trying to,” he said.
We fell silent. I watched Barnet’s face. He was trying to decide whether to tell me something. He reached a decision.
“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing in here,” he said.
“It had occurred to me.”
“Mr Trumper asked me to throw all this lot out.”
“How?”
“A council garbage-truck visits the seafront traders every day. I was told to arrange it with them.”
“But you’ve not done so?”
“Not yet.”
“Why’s that?”
“I thought I better sort through them first to see whether there was anything that Mr Trumper might want to save.”
“Did he ask you to do that?”
“No. But he’s had a lot on his mind.”
“I see.”
I looked round the room. Some of the boxes looked as though they dated back years. They were a mixed collection which had started life containing branded products. Lifebuoy soap. Colman’s mustard. Cadbury’s drinking chocolate. EasyGo laxatives.
“What’s in all these boxes?” I asked.
“Just rubbish, mostly,” Barnet said. “Old newspapers, broken golfing equipment, files of papers, old unused tickets for the golf course. Just rubbish.”
“What’s the point of keeping it?”
“I think Mr Trumper must be one of these people who hoards things.”
“Have you found anything worth keeping?”
“Not really.”
Barnet edged towards the door. “I don’t want to keep you. And I really ought to get back to the ticket kiosk.”
I stood in his way. He couldn’t get round me. There were too many boxes.
“I’d be very grateful for anything you could show me that might give me an idea of the kind of man Mr Trumper is,” I said. “I’m looking for local colour.”
The zits on Barnet’s chin oscillated uncertainly.
Then he said: “You might be interested in this.”
He pulled out a large roll of paper from between two of the boxes and started to unroll it.
“Just hold that end,” he said.
The paper had been tightly rolled for so long, it wanted to roll itself up. The paper was foxed at the edges and there were mildew patches over it, but the drawing was still clear. It was a surveyor’s plan for the golf course. I looked at the details in the bottom right-hand corner. Stannard & Partners, 1940.
“This is a plan of the Krazy Kat,” I said.
“Yes.”
I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Ted Wilson in Prinny’s Pleasure. He’d mentioned that Trumper had been having the course remodelled at the time Mildred was having her affair with the builder Reginald Farnsworth. These looked like the plans Farnsworth must have been working to. I studied them for a minute or two while Barnet hovered at my shoulder. The architect had used the narrow site cleverly to position all eighteen holes so that players could walk round the course without crossing one another’s path.
But the course had been built – it was all out there in concrete and imitation felt grass – and I couldn’t really see the point of keeping the plans. I would have thought that Trumper would have wanted to forget the Farnsworth and Mildred episode. But people react to personal tragedy in strange ways. And, perhaps, keeping all this old stuff was his way of coming to terms with it. I wondered whether the thought of having to get rid of it all had unhinged him. Perhaps led to his disappearance.
I let go my end of the plan and it rolled itself up. Barnet stuffed it back between the boxes.
“Did Mr Trumper ask you to throw this stuff out long before he left?” I asked.
“Only three days before,” Barnet said.
“How can you be sure?”
“He’d received a letter that morning. I couldn’t help noticing it came in an official Brighton County Borough Council envelope.”
“Of course you couldn’t.”
So Trumper had received Cross’s letter.
“He seemed worried about the letter,” Barnet said. “In fact, he went back into the storeroom and stayed there most of the morning.”
“Did you ask him what was in the letter?” I said.
“I asked him whether he was worried about anything. He said he wasn’t. But later that morning he asked me whether I’d studied property law yet on my course.”
“Have you?”
“As it happens, we did a module on it last year. Mr Trumper asked me if I knew anything about compulsory purchase orders.”
“Do you?”
“I told him I didn’t as that was a bit specialised. But if he wanted I could go to Brighton reference library and look up the subject for him.”
“Did he ask you to do that?” I said.
“No. He said there was no point.”
“What did he do with the letter?”
“I don’t know. I think he stuff
ed it in his pocket.”
As I thought, Trumper had the original of the Cross letter. To find the letter, I had to find Trumper. And my visit hadn’t revealed any clues about where he might be.
I looked out of the window at the golf course. It was empty. In the enclosure an old ice-cream wrapper was blowing about. A couple of seagulls descended and squabbled over it.
“What will you do now?”
“I thought I would stay here until the end of the week, get rid of the rubbish boxes, then lock the place up.”
“What about the pay Mr Trumper owes you?” I asked.
Barnet frowned. He looked away. Shifted from one foot to another. Fiddled with a book of tickets.
“There’s a little money in the cashbox. I thought I’d take what I’m owed out of there. In fact, I don’t even think there’ll be enough to cover it. Do you think that’s all right?”
“I don’t see how Mr Trumper can object,” I said.
I moved towards the door.
“I suppose I won’t see you again,” he said.
“Maybe not. But let me know where you’re staying in case I get any news.”
He gave me the address of a flat in Kemp Town. I scribbled it in my notebook.
“You’ll let me know if you hear from Mr Trumper?” I said.
“Somehow I don’t think I will,” he said.
Chapter 9
On the way back to the office, I called at the bakers and bought a bag of custard tarts.
I needed to make a fresh visit to the morgue. This time I’d be asking Henrietta and the Clipping Cousins for help way above and beyond the call of duty. I knew that Frank Figgis wouldn’t be pleased that I’d failed to track down the letter Cross had sent Trumper. So I’d decided to have another try at establishing a documented link between Cross and Septimus Darke. Cross had been adamant that he had never met Darke socially. I suspected that he’d lied about that just as he’d lied about not being in touch with Trumper. If I could prove Cross did know Darke socially – and not just through business – it would make his dealings over the casino project look bad. It could make Cross look as though he was doing a favour for a friend – rather than acting in an impartial manner as chairman of the Planning Committee. With that information, I would be able to pressure him to answer other questions. And the secrets of the morgue offered my best hope of establishing that link between Cross and Darke.
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