Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  Buying the tarts reminded me that I hadn’t had any lunch, so I sat on a bench in the Old Steine and ate one of them. While I wrestled with the crumbly pastry, I thought about my visit to Barnet. True, I hadn’t got a sight of Cross’s letter, but I had learnt something useful. Barnet had confirmed that Trumper had received the letter and that it had worried him. In fact, it seemed to have sent him into a panic, because he’d ordered Barnet to throw away the old boxes that he’d been hoarding for years. And then promptly disappeared.

  Then there was Barnet’s behaviour. Why was he sorting through all the old boxes Trumper had asked him to dump on the garbage truck? The lad clearly had a passion for other people’s business that would ensure he went far as a lawyer. Perhaps he was just bored and was looking for something to do. Maybe he simply wanted to keep occupied. But I didn’t think so. Barnet wasn’t the helpful type. So I decided that my visit to the Krazy Kat hadn’t been wasted and that I’d picked up some useful information.

  I’d also picked up a blob of custard on my tie. I wiped it off as best I could with my handkerchief. I didn’t think it showed. Then I stood up and hurried back to the office.

  When I arrived back at the Chronicle, I avoided the newsroom, where I might run into Figgis, and went straight to the morgue. I walked in and Elsie said: “You’ve got a stain on your tie.”

  Mabel said: “It looks like custard.”

  Freda said: “Would you like us to sponge it off for you?”

  I said: “No thank you, ladies.”

  I waved the bag in the air and said: “I’ve got something for you. Custard tarts.”

  Henrietta said: “You want something. What is it this time?”

  I said: “When I was here this morning, you mentioned that there were sometimes passing references to people that weren’t specifically catalogued.”

  “That’s right,” Henrietta said.

  “So there could be lots of passing references to Cross in the cuttings that we don’t know about,” I said.

  “That’s almost certainly correct,” Henrietta said.

  “And the same would apply to Septimus Darke?”

  “To a lesser extent. He hasn’t been a public figure so he hasn’t sought as much publicity as Cross.”

  I sat on the corner of her desk. She swivelled her chair to face me.

  “I want to find out if Cross and Darke have ever attended the same social events. Is there any way that information could be somewhere in the cuttings?” I asked.

  Henrietta chewed on the end of a pencil. A single wrinkle in her forehead furrowed in thought.

  “It’s possible,” she said. “But, then, possibly not. The only way you’d find out would be by looking at every cutting.”

  “And that would be the work of a lifetime?”

  “Certainly mine, possibly even yours.”

  I eased to a more comfortable position on the edge of Henrietta’s desk while I thought about that.

  “Presumably you keep files on the kind of organisations that hold social events – dinners, cocktail parties, dances and the like.”

  “What kind of organisations?” Henrietta asked.

  “I’m thinking of groups such as the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary Club, Masons, Brighton Festival and so on. Could I work through them systematically?”

  “You could still be talking about hundreds of files with thousands of cuttings,” Henrietta said. “It would take you several days.”

  I got off her desk and stood up.

  “I haven’t got several days.”

  “Of course, it would be quicker if several people were looking,” Henrietta said.

  “I don’t have several people,” I said.

  “I do,” Henrietta said.

  She turned to the Cousins. Elsie was licking the custard out of the centre of her tart. Mabel was nibbling the edge of the pastry. Freda was cutting dainty slices of her tart with a knife.

  “Would you be able to help Mr Crampton by looking up some cuttings? It will mean unpaid overtime,” Henrietta said.

  Elsie said: “How exciting. I’d love to help.”

  Mabel said: “Thrilling. Count me in.”

  Freda said: “My George expects me to have his supper on the table by seven o’clock every evening.”

  She stood up and crossed the room. She turned at the door and said: “But I’m going to phone him and tell him that tonight he has to bring in some fish and chips.”

  It took me ten minutes to brief the Cousins on what we were looking for. I wanted to see any cutting about a social event which mentioned both Septimus Darke and Derek Cross.

  Henrietta and I began on a list of organisations which held events the Chronicle had covered. We started at A. The Accountants’ Association (wine and cheese party). Animal Welfare Trust (dog show). Alcoholics Anonymous (temperance tea).

  Elsie, Mabel and Freda scurried off into the maze of filing-cabinet corridors and came back with their arms laden with folders. They started to skim through the files. Running fingers down columns. Eager to read quickly. Anxious to miss nothing.

  It took us forty minutes to reach the Bs. Bridge Club (happy families snap contest), Bakers’ Guild (sandwich lunch), Bus Drivers’ Union (coach outing).

  Nothing.

  Even with all five of us working on the files, it was going to be a long job. By half past five, we’d only reached G. Golf club (match play tournament). Gun club (murder mystery evening). Gymnastics Association (fun run).

  Nothing.

  Seven o’clock came and went. Preston Park Residents’ Association (whist drive). Publicans’ Ladies Night (shove ha’penny tournament). Pensioners’ Club (olde time dancing).

  Nothing.

  By half past eight, we were near the end. Yacht Club (seafood soiree). Young Conservatives (pyjama party). Zoological Association (beetle drive). Nothing. And no more files to search.

  The table was piled high with the files we’d scanned. We all slumped on our chairs exhausted. The heavy smell of failure hung over the room.

  Henrietta had kicked off her shoes. Elsie had slung her cardigan over the back of her chair. Mabel had taken off her surgical stocking. Freda had loosened her stays.

  I slumped on the desk feeling deflated. And defeated.

  Henrietta said: “Well, that’s that.”

  I ran my hands over my face. My shoulders ached.

  “I’m sorry that I’ve wasted all of your time,” I said.

  Elsie said: “We had to try.”

  Mabel said: “It was the only thing we could do.”

  Freda said: “And to think we came so close.”

  She retightened her stays. They zinged and pinged as super-strength elastic and formidable fastenings clicked back into position.

  “I don’t think we came at all close,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “But I did find a picture of Mr Darke,” Freda said.

  “How did you know it was Darke?” I asked.

  “His name was captioned.”

  “But not Cross’s?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. I’ll just double check. I think it was in the Rotary Club file.”

  Freda rummaged among the mountain of files on the table. “Here it is,” she said. “Caption reads: ‘Septimus Darke entertains guests at his table at the Rotary Club’s annual dinner’. The cutting’s dated to March this year.”

  She handed me the flimsy piece of newsprint. I looked at the picture. It was Darke all right. Black tie and black heart. The centre of attention.

  My hand tensed. The man sitting to Darke’s right was pictured only in profile. But it was a profile I’d recognise anywhere. Councillor Derek Cross had told me twice that he had never socialised with Darke. But he was sitting at Darke’s table next to the man himself. It got better. The pair were having a toast. Clinking champagne flutes. Smiling. And no doubt plotting.

  I looked up. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You mean…” Henrietta started.

  “Yes. This cutting provides
the evidence I need to ask Councillor Cross some very awkward questions.”

  Around the table, bodies straightened in chairs. Lips turned upwards in smiles. Eyes lit up with delight.

  “And tomorrow morning, ladies, it’ll be chocolate éclairs all round.”

  I hurried back to the newsroom.

  It was late, just after half past nine. A couple of colleagues were still batting out copy on their typewriters for tomorrow’s midday edition. Maisie, the cleaner, was sweeping piles of screwed-up copy paper into a sack. Nobody took any notice of me so I decided to make a call from my desk rather than one of the booths.

  I put the cutting in the middle of my blotter where I could see it and dialled Cross’s number. It was answered after five rings by Geraldine Cross.

  I said: “Sorry to trouble you twice in one day, Mrs Cross, but could I please speak to your husband?”

  She said: “He’s not here.” She sounded a little drunk.

  I said: “Do you know where I can reach him? I need to speak to him about an urgent item of council business.”

  “I think he’s at the Town Hall. A reception for the town twinning association. It might be true. Sometimes it is.”

  I said: “Thank you very much.”

  She said: “You seem to be seeing more of him than me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Suits me fine,” she said and rang off.

  I picked the cutting off the blotter and headed for the Town Hall.

  At the Town Hall the same commissionaire with the peaked cap, toothbrush moustache and sergeant’s stripes that I’d seen that morning was still on duty. I gave him a friendly nod.

  I hurried round to the room with the reception. The town twinners had clearly had a convivial evening. The bar was loaded with empty wine bottles. The buffet table was stripped bare except for a plate with a lonely vol-au-vent.

  Cross was at the far end of the room schmoozing a tall blonde with long legs and a haughty expression. She was wearing a figure-hugging red dress and pearl drop earrings. From the way she kept taking a step back, I guessed she wanted to shake Cross off.

  I walked up to them, handed her my card and said: “Sorry to bust in on your cosy tête-à-tête but I wonder if you’d mind if I took Derek away to ask him a couple of questions.”

  I caught a flash of relief – even salvation – in her eyes.

  She said: “Don’t mind me. I have to be going anyway.”

  She turned to Cross, shook his hand, headed across the room to the exit. It looked to me as if it was all she could do to stop herself breaking into a run.

  Cross simmered with subdued fury. “What’s the meaning of this, Mr Crampton?”

  So we were no longer best friends.

  I said: “This morning you told me that you’d only held business meetings with Septimus Darke. That you’d never socialised with him. Do you still stand by that statement?”

  “Of course. My word is a legend in this council.”

  “Is it really?” I produced the cutting and showed Cross.

  “That figure sitting next to Darke is you.”

  He looked at the cutting.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do. And so will anyone else who sees it. Your wife, for example.”

  “Keep Geraldine out of this.”

  “I hope to do so. But this is you?”

  “Yesh. I mean yes.” His speech was slurring.

  “Drinking champagne with Mr Darke. At his expense”

  “I’m not standing here to listen to your jibes.”

  He moved off at a trot. I followed. We weaved between the tables like a couple of runners on an obstacle course.

  “Why did you tell me you’d never socialised with Darke?”

  “I forgot about the Rotary dinner.”

  “But it was only held in March.”

  “I’m a busy man. I attend many functions. I can’t be expected to remember all of them.”

  We’d reached the Town Hall foyer. It was deserted except for the commissionaire.

  “Was that the only social event you’ve been to with Darke?”

  Cross turned and faced me. His face was flushed.

  “I can’t see what business it is of yours anyway,” he said.

  “Let me explain. Darke wants to build a casino on the seafront. You’re the man who can decide whether the plan gets the go-ahead or not. If Darke is entertaining you with lavish hospitality, people might think he’s buying you off.”

  “That’s an outrage.” Cross was shouting now. The cool councillor act had vanished.

  “Is it?”

  “And let me tell you, if you persist with these slanders, you better look for another job. If you can get one. By the time I’ve finished with you, they won’t even let you write the gardening notes on the Isle of Arran Sporran.”

  He turned on his heels and stormed out. I watched him go. Sauntered over to the door.

  “His nibs doesn’t seem happy,” the commissionaire said.

  “When they start making idle threats you know you’re winning,” I said.

  “It was the same with the Gerries,” he said.

  I nodded at him and said: “Goodnight”.

  Bong.

  As I stepped out into the street the Town Hall clock was striking ten.

  Bong.

  I came up hard as though my feet had just been bolted to the pavement.

  Bong.

  An invisible hand closed round my heart and made it beat faster.

  Bong.

  A black thought chased through my mind.

  Bong.

  I’d missed my date with Shirley.

  Bong.

  I was supposed to meet her at the Duke of York’s cinema at seven forty-five.

  Bong.

  We were going to see To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Bong.

  By now the poor creature would be long dead.

  Bong.

  So would my relationship with Shirley if I couldn’t find her and explain why I hadn’t been there.

  Bong.

  I wondered what she’d done when she’d realised I wasn’t turning up. Would she have stormed off or seen the flick by herself? She’d’ve been as angry as a dingo denied its dinner. But, being Shirley, she’d have also been practical. She’d’ve seen the film on her tod. I was certain of it. I didn’t know how long the film lasted but I thought if I could get to the cinema in the next few minutes I’d stand a good chance of meeting her coming out. Trouble was, the Duke of York’s was a good mile from the Town Hall.

  So I got my feet moving and ran down the road towards the East Street cab rank. The street was crowded. I sashayed around strolling lovers and stumbling drunks. I leapt over a stray dog. I darted between late-evening traffic.

  I raced into East Street. And came face to face with a taxi queue that snaked down the street as far as I could see. I hurried to the head of the queue, barged ahead of a middle-aged couple and shouted: “Emergency. Someone’s dying.”

  They stepped back. I glimpsed the shock on their faces as I wrenched open the cab door and threw myself in beside the driver.

  He was an old bloke with a whiskery chin and a beer belly.

  I slammed the cab door behind me.

  He said: “Hospital?”

  I said: “Duke of York’s cinema.”

  He said: “I thought someone was dying.”

  “I meant to say something.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “I believe it’s a mockingbird,” I said.

  “Bloody joker,” he said.

  He put the car into gear and we took off.

  The lights were still on in the foyer of the Duke of York’s when I arrived.

  I paid off the cabbie, jumped out and raced into the deserted foyer. I could hear the film still playing. A commissionaire slouched by the ticket kiosk. He was wearing a scarlet uniform with lots of gold braid. He looked like a general in a Ruritanian army. He was picking his nose while eating
a box of popcorn.

  I walked up to him and said: “What time does the film end?”

  He stuffed a handful of popcorn in his mouth and said: “Finishes in ten minutes.” Bits of popcorn sprayed out of the sides of his mouth. His index finger disappeared up his right nostril.

  I moved swiftly to the other side of the foyer to wait.

  I paced up and down looking at the posters previewing forth-coming attractions. If Shirley wanted to see another film with me – and that was looking like a big “if” – we could choose from That Touch of Mink or Carry on Cruising. It didn’t seem much of a selection.

  At last, the doors to the auditorium banged open and people streamed out. There were lots of thoughtful faces. They were still digesting the film’s messages. It hadn’t been a comfortable evening’s entertainment. The stream had slowed to a trickle when Shirley walked through the door.

  She was with a man.

  He was about twenty-five. He was tall and slim. He had an intelligent face with a strong chin. He was wearing a red sloppy-joe sweater and jeans. He was talking in an animated way to Shirley, using his hands a lot to emphasise points.

  She was engrossed in what he was saying. They crossed the foyer. Neither of them noticed me. They were wrapped up their conversation. They pushed through the doors into the street. They stopped walking and faced one another. He said something. She said something. He extended his hand. She took it. She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled, turned, walked off.

  I hurried out of the cinema. I came up behind Shirley and said: “I’ve been looking for you.”

  She turned. She frowned. She said: “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?”

  I said: “We had a date.”

  “We had a date three hours ago.”

  “I’m very sorry. I was held up on a job.”

  “Were you?”

  “It was important. I want to tell you about it.”

  She stomped off towards the town centre. I tagged along beside. We jostled through crowds on the pavement.

  I said: “It’s not only the story we need to talk about. There’s something else. It could be big for both of us.”