Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “A good-looking man,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  I said: “It’s difficult for me to ask this question, so let me just do it a simple way. The evidence implicating Reggie in Mildred’s murder was circumstantial but strong. What makes you believe he was innocent?”

  “A daughter’s intuition,” she said.

  “Intuition is not evidence.”

  “No, it can be better. Because it’s knowledge that comes from the heart.”

  “Lawyers wouldn’t say so.”

  “Lawyers never got a chance to test the evidence. That’s the damnable thing. Because father died before he could answer the charges, he never had the opportunity to refute them.”

  I thought about that for a moment. Then I said: “We have Magna Carta. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Reggie was never charged, tried and convicted. Therefore, he is innocent in the eyes of the law.”

  “But not in the eyes of the public.”

  “Does that really matter?” I asked.

  “It does to me. The police at the time said they weren’t looking for any other suspects.”

  “It was wartime. The country was facing invasion. The police had other things to do.”

  “That’s not good enough. It’s not enough to stain a good man’s character when he’s dead.”

  “If he’s dead, can it hurt him?”

  “It hurts me.” There was a catch in her voice. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.

  I said: “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  She said: “No, thank you. I’m all right.”

  I tried another approach. “When Arnold Trumper discovered Reggie’s affair with Mildred that must have caused difficulties for his business. Wasn’t he doing some work at the Krazy Kat at the time?”

  She sighed. “There were always difficulties. But, yes, I believe Mr Trumper refused to pay father and told him he wouldn’t be allowed to finish the work. It was particularly difficult because father had almost completed the work there and was owed quite a lot of money.”

  “What did Reggie do about that?”

  “There wasn’t much he could do. Besides, within days he left for France.”

  “Do you know how Trumper completed the work?”

  “I recall somebody telling me that after Mr Trumper had fired my father, he finished the work himself. But, you must remember, I was very young at the time, and most of what I know I learnt later.”

  I said: “If Arnold Trumper is found, I may have to write about it and that may mean mentioning Reggie again.”

  She frowned. “Journalists – like vultures. Picking over the bones of an old hero.”

  I ignored the bird reference. It was far from the worst I’d ever been called. Instead, I said: “Yes, I’d heard that Reggie had been heroic in battle. Tell me about that.”

  She said: “It was in June 1940. Dunkirk. The army was being evacuated from the beaches, but not all of them. Some of them were ordered to stay behind and fight off the Germans.”

  “To give the others time to get away.”

  “Yes. Father was in a detachment that was defending a farmhouse. It was on an important road leading towards the beaches, so it was vital to hold it and prevent Germans advancing up the road.”

  “A rearguard action.”

  “Exactly. After a couple of days, the Germans decided they’d try to take the farmhouse by sending tanks up the road to shell it. Three tanks opened fire on the farmhouse and started to demolish it. The only way to save the farmhouse and protect the road to the beaches was to destroy the tanks.”

  “A desperate situation,” I said.

  She nodded. “Reggie crawled along a drainage ditch beside the road. He was under fire from the leading tank’s machine gun and wounded twice, once in the side and once in his right leg. But he crawled near enough to the tanks to throw anti-tank grenades at them. He put two of them out of action and the third retreated. It meant the others in the farmhouse could hold out for another day and prevent the Germans reaching the beach. Thousands of men were saved because of his action.”

  “But he died?”

  “Yes, there was sniper on the turret of the third tank. He shot father in the head before the tank retreated.”

  “And your father was decorated?”

  “That’s the injustice of it all. There was talk of awarding him the VC posthumously. But when the police announced they weren’t looking for any other suspects, the talk soon stopped.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s not fair.” She was crying now. Her shoulders heaved as some deep emotion inside her broke loose.

  I reached inside my pocket and handed her my handkerchief. She used it to dab her eyes. She was breathing deeply trying to get her grief under control. She blew her nose. Wiped her eyes again.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve no need to be. It is unjust. It should be put right.”

  She managed a thin smile.

  “I can tell you one thing,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I shan’t refer to Reggie as Mildred’s killer in any copy I write. Not unless there is unanswerable evidence that he is.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Can I come and see you again if I get any more news about Reggie?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”

  I got up and moved towards the door. She followed me. I stepped onto the landing, turned to say goodbye.

  She said: “You know that bit about the sins of the fathers being visited on the sons?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s also true of the daughters.”

  She shut the door.

  Chapter 14

  After I’d left Mary Farnsworth’s flat, I climbed into the MGB and sat there for five minutes.

  I was thinking about my next move. Before I’d visited Mary I’d been considering my options. One of them was so risky I wasn’t sure I should chance it. But my meeting with Mary had helped me to make up my mind. There’d been two murders in this town and nobody had yet uncovered the truth about either of them. Mildred’s had been allowed to fester, possibly as a simmering injustice. Barnet’s, I was convinced, was linked to the corrupt casino development Darke was planning for the Krazy Kat site. I admired Ted Wilson, but I wasn’t optimistic he’d get to the bottom of Barnet’s murder if Darke was involved. Darke just had too much influence in the town. He owned too many people. And those he didn’t own, he intimidated.

  But he didn’t own or intimidate the Chronicle. I’d made my mind up. I would take the risk and, if it came to it, the consequences. But to do so, I would need Shirley’s help.

  I glanced at my watch. Twelve-fifteen. She’d be working at the restaurant. With luck, I’d be able to get her alone for five minutes to explain what I had in mind. I turned the ignition key. Revved the engine a couple of times. Then I took off towards the seafront.

  “Are you crazy? That’s the loopiest scheme I’ve ever heard.”

  Shirley and I were standing in the back yard of the Happy Tripper restaurant, a seafront eating house for holidaymakers, where she worked as a waitress. The menu promised “home cooking”. It didn’t mention whose home.

  I’d walked in as Shirley was serving up two plates of meat and three veg to a couple of likely lads dressed in sporty shirts and kiss-me-quick hats. They seemed more interested in Shirley than the stuff on their plates. I could hardly blame them.

  Shirley did a double take as I walked through the restaurant. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak to you. Urgently.”

  “I’m working.”

  “I know.”

  “Then nick off.”

  “This is important.”

  “So is my job.”

  “This can’t wait.”

  Shirley frowned. “Go out the back. I’ll see if Marco will give me a five-minute break.”

  I’d only had to hang arou
nd among the dustbins and crates of empty beer bottles for a minute before Shirley came through the back door like a one-woman whirlwind.

  And that’s when I’d explained my plan. And taken the full force of her explosion.

  “It’s not crazy and it’s not loopy,” I said. “It’s the only chance I have to get the information to link Cross to Darke and then find what they’ve done with Trumper.”

  “But you intend to search Cross’s dustbins?”

  “Yes.”

  “At his own house?”

  “That’s where he keeps them.”

  “The guy will kick your arse right out into the street,” she said.

  “He won’t know I’m there.”

  “You going to disguise yourself as a fruit fly?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I shall do the search at night.”

  “Under cover of darkness.”

  “That’s the plan. And that’s where you come in,” I said.

  “Count me out, bozo. No way I’m rootling about in someone else’s garbo.”

  “You won’t have to rootle in any garbo. I need you as a look-out in the street.”

  “And what exactly would I be looking out for? Apart from a nutcase with his head in a dustbin.”

  “I’ll be at the back of Cross’s house. I won’t be able to see what’s happening in the street.”

  “And you want me to do this, just so you can take down some little chiseller.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  I told her about my visit to Mary Farnsworth. I talked about the deep sense of injustice Mary felt. I spoke about the need to find the truth. I described the corrosive way the likes of Darke and Cross were ruining people’s lives in Brighton. I said I was going to do it anyway whether she helped or not. Shirley’s face moved from outrage to concern as she listened.

  “That’s why I’m risking my career to do it,” I said.

  She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “Well, if you’re determined, I guess someone’s got to be there to bail you out when the blue meanies grab you.”

  “You’ll help?”

  “I’ve got a nasty feeling I’m going to stick out like a koala without a gum tree.”

  Marco’s head appeared round the kitchen door.

  “Hey, Shirley, we’ve got nine plates ready for service,” he said. “And those two guys with the funny hats want to know when you get off work.”

  Shirley made her way towards the kitchen.

  “Tell them November,” she said.

  I met Shirley at nine o’clock after she’d finished her evening stint at the restaurant.

  We went for dinner at Antoine’s Sussex Grill, where the food was always delicious. A treat before the dangerous work to come.

  “The condemned man ate a hearty dinner,” Shirley said as I cut into my chateaubriand.

  “He ate a hearty breakfast,” I said.

  “Who cares if it’s the last supper?” she said.

  “It may well be for me if tonight’s plan doesn’t work out.”

  Shirley popped a last slice of rare fillet into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “That was great tucker.” She put down her knife and fork. “So what’s the dastardly plan, Moriarty?” she said.

  I said: “Cross lives in Dyke Road Avenue. It’s a posh area, as you’d expect with an estate agent and councillor on the make. Think Nob Hill with lawnmowers.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “I conducted a quick reccie this afternoon. His house is a big detached place. There’s a passageway up the side and a gate that leads round to the back. I don’t think the gate will be locked, but I should be able to climb it, if it is.”

  “This I’ve got to see.”

  I ignored that and said: “The problem is that Dyke Road Avenue is quite a busy road. There’ll be traffic on it all night. So I need you to keep watch and give the all clear when I come out.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of pre-arranged signal. Perhaps you could make a call like a duck-billed platypus.”

  “They don’t make calls.”

  “Then whistle a couple of bars of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as the all clear.”

  “So the jolly swagman can appear.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose while you’re playing swagman I’m going to stand out like a polar bear on Bondi beach,” Shirley said.

  “That’s where we’ve had a bit of luck. There’s an old tram shelter about twenty yards from the house. You can hide in there and nobody will see you. Not unless they walk right by and look in. Which is unlikely.”

  “For your sake, I hope so,” she said.

  “One last point,” I said. “We’ll obviously have to leave our visit until Cross and his household are in bed and they’ve fallen into the land of nod. So I suggest we don’t start until around two.”

  “What are we going to do until then?” Shirley asked.

  “I thought we could sit it out at your place.”

  “Sit it out?” Shirley said.

  “Well,” I said. “Not exactly sit.”

  We left Shirley’s flat at five to two.

  We climbed into the MGB and drove out of central Brighton. The town centre was busy but after we passed Seven Dials, the traffic thinned. We saw only three other cars while driving up Dyke Road. I parked in a side street close to Cross’s house to get the car off the main drag. We got out and walked towards the house.

  We turned into Dyke Road Avenue. There was no traffic. In the distance, a late-night dog walker was silhouetted by a street lamp. He turned into a side street and disappeared. We were alone.

  I pointed to the tram shelter. “Wait in there and keep a sharp eye open,” I said.

  After much discussion, we’d agreed that Shirley would give one long low whistle if she saw anything that was likely to cause trouble.

  “I must be as hare-brained as you to get mixed up in this cockamamie scheme,” she said.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said.

  Shirley took up her post in the tram shelter and I made my way towards Cross’s house. In my pocket, I had a pair of rubber gloves and a small torch. I was carrying three old newspapers under my arm – copies of the Evening Argus in case I had to drop them and make a run for it.

  I reached Cross’s house, stood behind a tree and studied the building. There was a faint light on in the hall but the remaining rooms were in darkness. I thought the hall light was probably left on for security. The bedrooms at the front of the house were dark.

  I moved forward, opened the front gate and crept up the driveway. I walked round to the side of the house and found the gate. I tried the handle. It didn’t move. It felt locked. I tried it again. This time harder. It clicked open with a sound that echoed off the walls of the neighbouring houses. I stood rigid and cursed my carelessness.

  I waited for two minutes and listened intently. There was no movement in the house. I heard a car drive by in Dyke Road Avenue heading towards the town. No low whistle.

  I moved round to the back of the house. Cross had a large garden. I could see a lawn which stretched away into the darkness. I looked along the back of the house for the dustbins. There weren’t any. There was a pathway along the back of the house. I followed it to the far end of the building and looked out into the garden. No sign of dustbins. I stood still, wondering what to do.

  A light came on in the house immediately above me. It was on the first floor. I looked up. A fanlight was open in the illuminated window. I crept into the shadow of the wall and waited. There was silence for half a minute. Then the sound of a lavatory flushing. Cross, or one of his household, was paying a nocturnal call of nature.

  The light went out and I waited quietly for another five minutes. Then I turned round the corner and examined the passageway which ran down the far side of the house. Halfway down was a door. I peered in. The room was partly lit by the light from the hall. It was the kitchen.

  I crept on and fo
und the dustbins just beyond the kitchen door. There were two of them, round metal bins with lift-off lids. I took out my torch, switched it on and had a closer look at them. They were old and stained. The lid handle had come loose on one of them. I moved closer.

  Something rushed out from between the bins. It flew between my legs. I jumped, knocked against one of the bins. It rattled. A fat rat scurried down the passage and disappeared into the garden. I took a deep breath and listened carefully again. Nobody stirred in the house. In the street, I heard another car. This time it sounded as though it was heading out of town. No low whistle.

  I lifted the lid on the first bin. A dragon’s breath of rotting vegetables and curry sauce rose up to greet me. I stepped back and gagged. I took a deep breath and moved forward, shone the torch into the bin. It was about a quarter full. Mostly food leftovers and old packaging as far as I could see. I replaced the lid.

  In the street, another car drove up the road out of town. Immediately, another came the other way. I heard it decelerate and stop. A moment later two car doors slammed. I strained to hear. No low whistle. Probably neighbours returning from a night out.

  I moved to the bin with the broken handle lid. I carefully took off the lid and put it on the ground. I shone the torch in. This bin was full. The smell wasn’t so bad, and I guessed that perhaps they kept the other bin for kitchen refuse and this bin for general household waste.

  I laid out a couple of the old newspapers on the ground and started to empty the bin item by item on to them. Two copies of The Daily Telegraph. A shoe box. An invitation to a dog show. Some advertising circulars. A squeezed toothpaste tube.

  As I took out the items, I laid them on the newspaper in lines so that I could put them back in the reverse order to which I’d taken them out. That way, if anybody looked, they wouldn’t know that a bin bandit had been at work.

  I continued my search. A couple of spent batteries. A light bulb. Three ladies’ stockings. A few birthday cards. (Mrs Cross’s.) An empty aspirin box. A pair of underpants with a large hole. A back issue of Golf Monthly. A paid electricity bill. Some old envelopes.

  I shone the torch on them. A couple were blue Basildon Bond hand addressed. They looked like personal letters. There was an envelope from the gas board. Another from Sussex County Cricket Club. A third buff envelope which could have come from anywhere. The final envelope was larger than the others. It was white and made out of better-quality paper. It was addressed to Mr Derek Cross. The back of the envelope was printed with the name of the sender: Mulholland & Steer, Private Bankers, Leadenhall Street, London EC3.