Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “Just had to phone through some copy.”

  “Barnet’s dead,” he said. “Knocked out, then strangled, I’d say. But we’ll be waiting for the pathologist to pronounce on that.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “We need to talk quietly,” he said. “There’s a boozer called the Red Lion round the corner. We’ll go there.”

  We settled into a corner table at the Red Lion with our drinks.

  It was small place with a neat L-shaped bar. The walls were hung with seafaring pictures. There was austere wooden furniture which explained why most patrons didn’t seem to linger long over the drinks. We were served by a blowsy barmaid with blonde hair and a large bosom who seemed put out when she realised we didn’t want sit at the bar and admire her cleavage.

  Wilson said: “I need to know about the events leading up to you discovering Barnet.”

  I described my visits to the Krazy Kat over the past few days and why I’d gone to his flat. I left out the other visits I’d made including my encounters with Darke and Cross.

  Wilson made a few jottings in his notebook. I took a generous swig of my G&T.

  “And that’s all,” he said.

  “That’s all.”

  “And how did you know he was dead?”

  “I looked through the window. I could see his foot poking out from behind the bed.”

  “We looked at that and we could only just see the shoe.”

  “I was standing on a flowerpot.”

  “Were you?”

  He took a good pull at his whisky.

  “And you did nothing else?” Wilson asked.

  “I’d knocked on the door.”

  “Apart from knocking on the door.”

  “Not that I can recall,” I said.

  He wrote it slowly in this notebook. Not…that…I…can…recall.

  He looked up: “I hope so,” he said.

  I lifted my glass and drained the drink.

  I said: “Any clues about who the killer was?”

  Wilson squinted at me over the top of his glass. He took a slug of his whisky and said: “Should there be?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Let’s just say that we’ll be following up several lines of enquiry.”

  “Several?”

  “Yes, several.”

  We fell silent for a moment. Wilson would have found Darke’s card but he wasn’t going to tell me what he made of it. At least, not yet. I’d need to work that out for myself.

  So I said: “If there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get back to the office.”

  “No,” Wilson said. “There’s nothing else. For the present.”

  I walked back into Sokeham Street.

  Phil was just coming down the steps from one of the houses.

  “Anything from the neighbours?” I asked.

  “One or two bits of colour about life in the street. Nothing specific about Barnet,” he said.

  “We’ll meet back at the office at ten o’clock to compare notes and plan coverage for the first edition tomorrow,” I said. “Pass the word to Mark.”

  He nodded.

  I walked on down the street, climbed back into the MGB and drove back to the Chronicle.

  We had a front-page story that would surely reverse the circulation decline. But, somehow, I didn’t feel as good about it as I thought I should.

  Chapter 13

  The following morning I was out of bed by half past six, even though I hadn’t hit the sack until nearly one.

  I had important business I wanted to get underway before serious work kicked off at the Chronicle. It would be a busy day at the paper.

  Nobody stirred in the house as I crept down the stairs. Only the distant rumble of the Widow’s antique boiler and ghostly knockings as airlocks shifted in the plumbing disturbed the silence. I left the house and walked round to the mews. It was going to be another hot day. The air was already warm. I took down the roof on the MGB, climbed in and drove off. I headed towards the seafront and turned towards Hove. A gentle breeze was coming in off the sea and the air smelt good. Fresh and salty. I still had the hot musty stench of Barnet’s flat in my nostrils. A drive by the sea in the open-topped MGB would clear it.

  When I reached Hove, I turned off the seafront and drove into First Avenue, a road of stately Edwardian villas. I parked the car halfway up the street and walked round the corner to St Johns Road. The road had once acted as a kind of mews for First Avenue. But that was long ago. Now the stable blocks had been turned into garages and workshops.

  I glanced at my watch. It had just turned half past seven and the first places were opening. A mechanic’s legs stuck out from under a Brown Humber. A young lad in green overalls had his head bent under the bonnet of a Morris. An older bloke was wrestling with the tyre from a baker’s delivery van. The clang clang of metal on metal sounded from deep inside a dimly lit workshop. The sharp smell of oil cut through the sea breeze.

  I strolled down the mews trying to give the impression I was deciding where to have my car serviced. I was looking for a man I’d heard about but never met. I’d been told that he worked out of a small garage in the mews but that he didn’t make it easy for people to find him. I’d reached the far end of the mews and was retracing my steps before I spotted a black garage door with a wicket gate cut into it. The paint had worn off in places and the wood was rotting at the bottom. Unlike the other premises in the mews, this one had no sign outside advertising its occupant. There was a Judas hole in the wicket.

  The man I was seeking valued his privacy. His name was Kenneth Jones. He’d been known among the Welsh criminal classes as Kenneth the Keys. But that was before the rozzers had made it clear that, as far as he was concerned, there was no longer a welcome in the hillsides.

  I knocked on the wicket and waited. There was some movement behind the door and a slight darkening of the Judas hole. I was being observed. The wicket opened a crack and a man’s head appeared. He was about sixty with a cadaverous face and a wart on his chin. He wore pebble glasses with thick black rims.

  He said: “We’re closed.”

  I said: “I was hoping you might be as I have private business to discuss.”

  He peered at me through the pebble glasses. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Magnified by the thick lenses they looked like jellyfish wobbling about in a fish tank.

  He said: “How did you find me?”

  I said: “I was recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’d rather not say. I understand discretion is everything in your line of work. Same in mine.”

  “You better come in,” he said.

  I ducked through the wicket. Inside, the place was in darkness except for a workbench illuminated by two bright Anglepoise lamps. The workbench contained a lathe and some other machinery I didn’t recognise. There was a wooden stool in front of the bench. Kenneth sat on it.

  He didn’t offer me a seat so I stood.

  He swivelled on his stool to face me and said: “What’s your name?”

  I said: “Percival.”

  Foolishly, I hadn’t anticipated the question and it was the first name that came into my head.

  I said: “I gather you make keys.”

  “So?”

  “To special order.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Unfortunately, I have lost the key which unlocks the padlock on my bicycle shed. I was wondering whether you could make me a replacement.”

  “Might do. But be cheaper to get a locksmith to cut off the old padlock and fit a new one,” he said.

  “I had considered that, but I want to keep the existing padlock which fits very well.”

  “Of course you do, Percival.” He laid extra stress on my name.

  “Can’t normally copy a padlock key without an original to work from,” he said.

  “I appreciate that difficulty,” I said. “I may be able to resolve it.”

  I pulled out the ha
ndkerchief with the bar of Lifebuoy soap wrapped inside.

  “Fortunately, I’d made an impression of the key just for this unhappy eventuality,” I said. I handed him the soap.

  “Very forward thinking of you,” he said.

  “Prudence is my middle name.”

  “Percival Prudence,” he said. “Has a certain ring to it.”

  His voice had a musical Welsh lilt which didn’t go with his appearance. I wondered whether he’d ever sung in a male voice choir. Kenneth rummaged on his workbench and found a magnifying glass. He studied the soap for at least a minute, making a minute inspection of both sides.

  “I think I can do that,” he said.

  “That’s good news.”

  “It’ll cost twenty-five pounds.”

  “That seems rather steep for a single key.”

  “Could always call the locksmith with the bolt cutters.”

  “No. On reflection, considering a man of your experience, and the skill you bring to the work, I’m sure the price is reasonable,” I said.

  “Only price you’ll get.”

  “I’ll take it,” I said. “Fifteen pounds now and ten on delivery.”

  “Seems fair,” Kenneth said.

  I took out my wallet and handed over three fivers.

  “Be ready by noon tomorrow,” he said.

  “I’ll collect from here.”

  “No. I don’t keep finished goods on the premises.”

  “Very sensible,” I said. “There’s a pub up in the North Laine area of Brighton called Prinny’s Pleasure. I’ll meet you there at twelve-thirty.”

  He scribbled a note on the back of an old cigarette packet.

  I said: “Don’t be late.”

  “Punctuality is the politeness of princes,” he said.

  “Let’s hope it also applies to locksmiths,” I said. “I’ll show myself out.”

  I ducked back though the wicket door and closed it behind me. I spent the time walking back to the car thinking of ways I could disguise a claim of twenty-five pounds for illegal key-cutting on my expenses.

  I arrived at the morning police press briefing twenty minutes later just as Ted Wilson was walking in.

  The room was more crowded than usual. Apart from the regulars – Jim and me – there was a young woman from the Brighton & Hove Herald whose name I’d forgotten, a genial bloke with a beard and big smile called Harry from a local news agency, and three stringers that were representing nationals.

  As there was a murder to announce, Wilson had been drafted in to front the briefing. Fairbrother was there to carry his notes and hand round the tea.

  Ted started by reading a statement written in the kind of official language which the police use to make it look as if they’re in complete control. “Police officers attended a call at an address in east Brighton… They had occasion to use force to enter the premises… A body was discovered on the premises which showed signs of violence… The police are treating the incident as suspicious…”

  When he finished, Ted called for questions.

  I decided to keep my mouth shut. You can give away what you already know in a carelessly worded question. And I didn’t want Jim and the others getting a hint that I knew more than they did.

  So as Ted scanned the room looking for questions, I kept my hand down.

  Jim asked: “Are you looking for any particular suspect?”

  Ted shuffled his papers a bit and said: “At this stage, we’re pursuing a number of lines of enquiry.”

  I whispered to Jim: “He means, ‘we don’t have any names at all in the frame’.” Jim grinned.

  So did I. When you’ve got an exclusive lead into a story, there’s no harm in misleading the opposition.

  One of the stringers asked: “Do you have any theories about the motive for killing Barnet?”

  Ted said: “We’re keeping an open mind on that.”

  I whispered to Jim: “We don’t know what to think about it.”

  Harry, the news agency guy, asked: “How did the killer get into the victim’s flat?”

  Ted said: “We’re examining a range of possibilities.”

  I whispered: “It’s as much a mystery to us as it is to you.”

  And on that inconclusive note, the press briefing broke up.

  I was first out of the door before Jim could collar me. I had the edge on him with this story so far. And I hoped that my whispered asides would persuade him that I knew nothing more than he did. But the next big break would be nailing the killer. And I wanted to be the first to break that story, too.

  In a strange way, I felt I owed it to Barnet.

  When I walked into the Chronicle newsroom ten minutes later, there was a big-story buzz about the place.

  The day before, the newsroom seemed to be running in slow motion. Now there was real tension in the air. Phil Bailey barked questions down his phone. Mark Hodges hit the keys on his battered typewriter with deadline vigour. The copy boy bustled about with a snap rather than a shuffle.

  I walked over to my desk and batted out a couple of pars about the press briefing to add to the copy I’d already written. I called for the copy boy and sent the folios up to the subs.

  Then I sat back and thought about my next move. Figgis would be expecting a running story which meant something strong enough for the front page tomorrow. Another splash. But there were puzzles about this story I couldn’t unravel. For a start, I couldn’t work out why Wilson hadn’t arrested Darke. The business card at the flat at least had to point the finger in his direction, even if Darke had an explanation for it – which he certainly would. Perhaps Wilson didn’t think that Darke had been behind the killing. I’d only had a few minutes to look round Barnet’s flat. Wilson and his team had had hours to conduct a thorough search. Perhaps they’d discovered something which turned their suspicions in another direction. If so, Wilson wasn’t saying at the moment.

  Then there was the question of Trumper’s disappearance. Was Darke behind that? It had originally seemed likely to me, but Wilson’s failure to arrest Darke made me wonder. Perhaps Trumper had merely disappeared to get himself out of Darke’s way. If so, finding him could be the key that unlocked the mystery of this story. But I simply couldn’t begin to think of where to look. Trumper could have gone to ground anywhere. Trumper’s sister should surely be able to shed some light on the mystery, but as I didn’t know where she lived, I couldn’t ask her. I couldn’t think of a way to trace her, although I had a nagging feeling at the back of my mind that Harriet Sturgess, Trumper’s neighbour, had said something which could have helped. But I couldn’t remember what it was.

  I was thinking about all this, when my phone rang.

  I lifted the receiver and said: “Colin Crampton.”

  A woman’s voice said: “Mr Crampton, I’ve got your note.”

  I said: “Who’s speaking, please?”

  She said: “It’s Mary Farnsworth. You left a note at my flat yesterday. I’ve been away and returned this morning.”

  “Of course, I did. Sorry.”

  “The note said you wanted to see me about my father.”

  “Yes, if I could. I spoke to your friend Joan Smith.”

  “She was my late mother’s friend. But we’ve kept in touch.”

  “Anyway, I was wondering whether I could talk to you about your father.”

  “Why do we have to rake up that business again?” she asked. There was pain in her voice.

  “It appears that Arnold Trumper, whose wife was killed, has disappeared. His employee has also been killed,” I said.

  “I can’t see how this is relevant to my father after all these years.”

  “I’ve written a background piece for today’s paper and I’ve mentioned the story about Mildred’s murder. But Joan told me yesterday that both you and she don’t believe your father was guilty of the killing. I’ve suggested in the piece that the idea that the case was open and shut was wrong.”

  “Have you?” She sounded surprised
in a good way. “I haven’t seen today’s Chronicle yet.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was twelve minutes past ten.

  I said: “The presses will start printing the midday edition in three minutes. If you like, I could bring one round to you. I’d like to speak to you anyway.”

  There was silence on the line for a moment while she thought about that. Then she said: “I could see you in about an hour if that’s convenient.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  I replaced the receiver. I sent the copy boy to collect some copies of the midday edition.

  Mary Farnsworth was a young woman turning into an old woman before her time.

  She had black hair which already showed the odd fleck of silver. She had an attractive open face but there were more frown than smile lines around her brown eyes and her small mouth. She was wearing a cream blouse and tan slacks. She had a crucifix on a silver chain round her neck.

  The sitting room was at the front of the flat and looked out over Palmeira Square. Sun was streaming in the windows so the room was brightly lit. It was not flattering to the three-piece suite covered in some worn red velvet material. The musty smell of old cooking clung to the fabric. A Siamese cat slunk around in the background.

  I handed Mary a copy of the Chronicle and said: “The background piece is on page three.”

  She sat down in an armchair, took up her glasses from a side table and turned to the page. I sat down opposite and waited while she read the article.

  She took off her glasses and looked at me.

  “It’s painful to have all this brought up again,” she said. “But at least you’ve been fair to father.”

  She got up and crossed to a bookcase. She took down a picture of a tall man in a private soldier’s uniform.

  “This is father… Reggie,” she said. “Taken the day before he left for France. He was a corporal in the Sussex Rifles.”

  I took the picture from her and looked at it. The family snap had been taken on the seafront. I could see the Palace Pier in the background. He was a handsome man with even features and a dimple in his chin. He had fair wavy hair. He wore his uniform well. He was smiling but I thought I could detect worry lurking at the back of his eyes. Perhaps he was thinking about what might await him in France. Or what Mildred had in store. I handed the picture back to Mary.