Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  I said: “My offer depends on you providing me with evidence that will nail Darke. Can you do that?”

  Cross turned back to me: “I’ve never trusted Darke. I’ve kept everything. Every letter, every note, every bank transaction. It’s all in a folder. I keep it in the safe in my study. It was my insurance. Darke is a violent man. I curse the day he walked into my office.”

  I said: “I don’t have much time. Do you want to give me what you’ve got?”

  Cross said: “It looks as though I’ve got no choice.”

  “I can give you twenty-four hours before I go to print.”

  “I need more time. A week at least.”

  “The time limit is not negotiable. Today is Thursday.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s just before noon. The Chronicle will run this story in the mid-afternoon edition which hits the streets at two o’clock on Friday.”

  Cross shook his head in despair. A single tear welled in his right eye and ran down his cheek. The future mayor was thinking about what might have been. He brushed the tear away. Then he stood up and shuffled towards the door. His shoulders slumped and his head drooped forward.

  “I’ll fetch the folder,” he said.

  As he left, a voice said: “Silly bugger.”

  This time, it was Gerry speaking.

  I left Cross’s house with a thick black folder, but without a song in my heart.

  The folder contained letters, bank statements, copies of cheques that had passed between Darke and Cross. There were more than one hundred pages of it. I needed time to study the folder carefully. And I didn’t relish the paper’s lawyer getting involved when I came to write the story. Still, it would make another splash. And that would keep Figgis happy. For the time being.

  Cross’s confession was a step towards cracking the story. But I still hadn’t answered the most important question: where was Trumper? If only I could find where his sister lived, I felt sure she’d be able to throw fresh light on what was happening. I had a niggling feeling that Harriet Sturgess had said something that would help me trace Dorothy. But, try as I might, I couldn’t think what it was.

  But there was still one way I could move the story forward. I hoped a clandestine visit to the Krazy Kat would provide some new clues. But to enter the Krazy Kat, I needed the key to the door. I glanced at my watch. Kenneth the Keys was due for our meeting in Prinny’s Pleasure in ten minutes. I climbed into the MGB, scuffed the gravel on Cross’s driveway and headed down Dyke Road Avenue towards the town centre.

  The dead fly was still in the glass case on the counter when I walked into Prinny’s Pleasure.

  The cheese sandwiches had gone, but the fly now had a sausage roll and a Scotch egg for company. A spider was busy clambering into the sausage roll.

  “Having your lunch here today?” Jeff said. “You could do worse, you know.”

  I said: “I know. I could be eating with Lucrezia Borgia.”

  He gestured towards the glass case. “How about a Scotch egg?”

  The thing looked like a squashed sporran. But not as appetising.

  “You’ll never sell that,” I said. “I’d rather have the fly.”

  “Bet you a quid I sell it by the end of the week.”

  “Even Banquo’s ghost wouldn’t eat that.”

  “So you’ll take my bet?”

  “Just to teach you a lesson.”

  Jeff mumbled something to himself while he poured my G&T and put it down on the counter. I took a swig and glanced round the bar. There was no sign of Kenneth the Keys. I hoped he hadn’t taken my money and disappeared. But I didn’t think so. He had a reputation to live down to.

  I left Jeff trying to scrape out some of the dirt from under his fingernails with the wrong end of a teaspoon and took my drink to a table. I chose a seat where I could keep an eye on anyone who came in. Not that many ever did.

  Kenneth the Keys showed up five minutes later. He came straight over and sat down opposite me.

  “Get you a drink, Kenneth?” I said.

  “Never touch it when I’m working, Percy,” he said.

  “Do you have my special order?” I said.

  “It proved more difficult than I’d expected,” he said.

  “Problems?”

  “Some. With the soap. It was wet when you made the impression, so some of it dissolved slightly afterwards. The impression might not have been completely accurate when I used it. I’ve made the key but it may not work.”

  “What use is that?” I said.

  “I think it will work. But you can never be certain with a job like this.”

  “That’s most unfortunate. I was hoping to get my bike out of the shed later and go for a cycle along to Hove Lagoon.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do. If you don’t want the key, I’ll keep the fifteen quid you’ve given me but won’t charge you the other ten. Can’t say fairer than that.”

  I said: “I need my bike badly. I’ll take a chance.”

  I reached for my wallet, opened it and gave him two fivers. He took the money, shoved it in his trouser pocket and handed me the key. He stood up.

  “About the guarantee,” he said.

  “You give a guarantee?” I said.

  “No. You give me the guarantee.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t want any comebacks from the use of the, er, merchandise.” He balled a fist and studied his fingernails. Decided he’d seen enough. Switched his attention back to me.

  “There could be unpleasant consequences if there are,” he said.

  “No need to worry on that score,” I said. “If I have to reveal where I got the key, I’ll say I bought it from a man in a pub.”

  I left Prinny’s Pleasure in a quandary.

  Should I go back to the office and study Cross’s folder or head straight to the Krazy Kat and try out the key? If I went back to the office, there was no telling what I might get involved in. No doubt Frank Figgis would have something that he wanted me to look into. He’d be angry that I hadn’t been around all morning, but he’d calm down when he realised what I’d got. Besides, mining what I hoped would be a rich seam of information from the Cross folder could take hours. So I climbed back into the MGB and headed for the seafront.

  I parked about two hundred yards along Madeira Drive from the Krazy Kat. I didn’t want the car seen too near the place in case it was spotted by someone I knew.

  I climbed out of the car and walked slowly back along the Esplanade. The breeze was freshening. A storm was coming in from the west. A seagull rode the wind. It looked as though it was suspended above the beach. A couple of tourists picked over the postcards in a stand outside a shop. An old newspaper blew across the road and wrapped itself round a lamppost, flapping like a pennant.

  There was no sign of activity at the Krazy Kat. I’d been concerned that there might be a permanent police presence at the place. But I guessed that Wilson regarded it as peripheral to his enquiry. I walked round to the door. I reached into my pocket for the key. I took it out and inserted it in the padlock. It slipped in easily enough. I turned the key but it wouldn’t budge. It looked as though Kenneth might have been right. Perhaps the soap had distorted the impression.

  I took the key out, gave it a quick rub to remove some grit and slipped it back in again. This time I didn’t push it right in. I gently turned the key to the right. It moved, snagged, and then turned completely. The padlock sprang open. Colin Crampton, master cracksman.

  I removed the padlock, opened the door, went in and pulled it shut behind me. The ticket office smelt damp and musty. A thin film of dust had settled over the ticket machine and the other equipment. But there was no dust on some of the other surfaces. They’d had things on them which had recently been moved. It looked as though the police had been here and conducted a perfunctory search.

  I went into the back room. The boxes were all over the place, some partly unpacked, others stacked from floor to ceiling. There was a large pile of old Evening Chronicles on
the floor. I picked up the top copy. It was from June nineteen forty. The third lead on the page was a story about Mildred’s disappearance. It said the police were investigating and that there were some “disquieting circumstances”. The piece mentioned that Mildred was the wife of Arnold Trumper, the owner of the Krazy Kat. In the absence of photographs of Mildred or Trumper, the paper had used a picture of the Krazy Kat, which didn’t reveal much. The photo showed the place surrounded by hessian screens, presumably erected during the building work which Farnsworth was supposed to be working on when he wasn’t canoodling with Mildred.

  I picked up another back issue of the Chronicle from the pile. This time the story was second lead. The police were still hunting for Mildred. But now they were concerned there might have been “foul play”. The report said police had searched the room at the guest house where Mildred had been staying and taken away “some letters”. It didn’t say what they were but they were bound to be letters between Mildred and Farnsworth. I thought it was likely they revealed that Mildred was threatening to blow her affair to Farnsworth’s wife. That would certainly put Farnsworth in the police’s frame as a possible suspect.

  A third copy of the Chronicle had a story that the police wanted to question an unnamed man – that would have been Farnsworth – in connection with Mildred’s disappearance. So they’d read the letters and drawn the appropriate conclusion. There were other copies of the Chronicle, each containing items about Mildred. The story had run on for more than a month until a final article said that the man whom police had been hunting had been killed in action in France. From the way the pages in the newspapers had been folded back, I guessed Barnet had been going through the copies and following the story as it developed. I didn’t bother to study the papers too closely as there would be copies back in the Chronicle’s morgue.

  Besides, I was looking for the box labelled Ministry of Food: National Dried Milk. It was the one that Barnet had had his head in when I’d surprised him on my second visit. The one he’d hurriedly closed to prevent me seeing inside. It had vanished.

  I started to search through the pile of boxes on the floor when I heard a scratching outside, underneath the window. I froze. Moved to the side of the window where I couldn’t be seen. I held my breath.

  The scratching started again. Then a bark.

  Ruff, ruff.

  A dog. Nearby there would be an owner. The last thing I wanted was a dog walker nosing round the place and noticing the door wasn’t locked. I willed the mutt to clear off, but the scratching got louder.

  A voice called out from the other side of the building: “Lassie.”

  That was all I needed. Somebody poking around outside and an eponymous Hollywood hound bent on a starring role. It’d be just my luck if the creature emulated its namesake, burst through the door and pinned me to the floor while its owner called the cops.

  I pressed myself harder into the wall.

  “Lassie, here boy.”

  Lassie scuffled outside. A figure paused by the window. A shadow fell across the room.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Ruff, ruff.

  “Naughty boy for running off like that.”

  Ruff, ruff.

  “Now, what’s in here?”

  I turned my head slowly. A woman had pressed her face against the window. The glass distorted her features. The nose was bulbous. The lips were thick. The eyes were bloodshot. They were magnified by the glass. She was peering round the room. She was bound to see me.

  I edged along the wall away from the window, towards the corner of the room. My hip connected with the table. I couldn’t move any further. She couldn’t fail to see me if she looked this way.

  Ruff, ruff.

  “Now what’s that you’ve got?”

  Ruff, ruff.

  The face disappeared from the window.

  “Nasty. Dirty. Put it down, boy.”

  Ruff, ruff.

  “I expect you’d like a run on the beach.”

  Ruff, ruff, ruff.

  Slowly, I let out a deep breath.

  Feet and paws crunched on shingle as they moved off.

  Carefully, I moved to the window and peered out. Mistress and mutt were bounding across the pebbles.

  But if I’d needed any persuading, I now realised I needed to work quickly. There was no telling who else might turn up. Even Wilson and his finest having a second look.

  I moved over to the tallest pile of boxes and started to lift them on to the floor. It was heavy work. Within a few minutes, I was sweating, scrabbling around over boxes and covered with dust.

  I found the National Dried Milk box five minutes later. It was right at the back in a corner. It was behind three piles of other boxes. A casual searcher would never have noticed it. I didn’t think that Wilson would have ordered all the boxes searched. I heaved the box out. It was heavier than I’d expected. I humped it over to the table and thumped it down. I pulled back the flaps of the lid and peered in. It was full of bundles of old scorecards from the course. I lifted the bundles out one by one. They felt damp and smelt of mildew. It looked as though the box was full of them. I wondered whether Barnet had taken whatever he’d secreted in the box and refilled it with the scorecards.

  But I didn’t think so. Because, then, there would have been no point in hiding the box under all the others in the corner.

  I found what I was looking for at the bottom of the box, underneath a faded poster advertising the Krazy Kat. There was a small pile of letters and an old copy of the Chronicle. I took them out and looked at them. It would take me time to read them and I didn’t want to hang about in the ticket office longer than necessary.

  I put them to one side and refilled the box with the old score-cards. I hefted the box back into the corner and heaved the other boxes back into position as best I could. By the time I’d finished, I was breathing heavily and the collar of my shirt felt damp.

  I left the storeroom as close to how I found it as I could remember, slipped through the ticket office, and went out. I refixed the padlock and locked it. I glanced up and down the Esplanade. Nobody looked askance or pointed and whispered behind their hands.

  I crossed the road and went into Marcello’s. Suddenly, I was feeling very hungry.

  Chapter 17

  I sat in Marcello’s eating cheese on toast and studying the papers from the Krazy Kat.

  At the other end of the café a young couple sucked at strawberry milkshakes and stared into each other’s eyes. An elderly woman in a thick coat and a felt hat dunked digestive biscuits into a mug of tea. A business sort with a whispy moustache munched a ham sandwich and puzzled over the Chronicle’s crossword.

  I doused my cheese on toast with Worcestershire sauce, took a bite and picked up the papers I’d taken from the National Dried Milk box. There were four Xeroxed sheets held together with a paperclip and a note written on a single sheet of blue Basildon Bond notepaper. There was also an old copy of the Evening Chronicle.

  I looked at the Xeroxes first. They were all copies of letters from Mildred to Arnold Trumper. They were all written on the notepaper of the Sillwood Guest House (“no animals or children, running water in all rooms”). The first was dated Tuesday the fifteenth of April, nineteen forty. It read:

  Dear Grump Face,

  I’ve got your latest letter. It’s no use you complaining about me and my little bit of fun. You can’t talk. I know what you’ve been getting up to with that Enid Knightly from the Wellington Boot. Twice knightly, if you ask me. Her knickers go up and down so fast it amazes me they don’t catch fire. The little trollop. Just your type. So don’t you start on me. And don’t you think I’m not going to stand by my rights. I’ve as much right to my half of the Krazy Kat as you, you mean stinker. So you sort it out and give me my share of the money. Or else you’ll know what for.

  Yours truly,

  M Trumper

  Mildred had a colourful turn of phrase and a forthright feminist attitude. With a little trainin
g, I could have seen her making a career on the Chronicle’s woman’s page.

  I ate some more cheese on toast and turned to the second letter. It was dated Friday the eighteenth of April, nineteen forty and must have been written in reply to one from Trumper. It read:

  Dear Smelly Pants,

  Have received yours of the seventeenth inst. Now listen to me. You and your wandering willy are not going to diddle me out of my share of the Krazy Kat. It’s my name on the title deeds of the property as well as yours. I own half of it and I’m going to have it. So just you try to stop me. Get the money and let me have it. If you can drag yourself away from that public bar whore.

  Yours truly,

  M Trumper

  I was beginning to build up a picture. This was a lady who knew her rights and was determined to have them. I crunched on through the cheese on toast and picked up the third letter. It was dated Monday the twenty-second of April, nineteen forty. It read:

  Dear Seagull Poo,

  In fact, seagull poo has got more class than you have. Especially in your choice of bar-room tarts. This is to let you know that I’ve been to see a lawyer and he says that I can sue you if you don’t pay up. I may even get the whole thing, because you’ll be stuck with the legal bills when I win my case. (Ha! Ha!) So I’m giving you until the end of the week to give me my rights and hand over the money. Or else it’s the courts for you, you warty old toad.

  Yours truly,

  M Trumper

  The final letter was dated Friday the twenty-sixth of April, nineteen forty. It read:

  Dear Whelk Slime,

  Well, I was pleased to see from your latest letter that at least you’re seeing sense. I don’t know where you’ve got five hundred pounds to pay me, what with the money you spend on that primped-up prossie, but I don’t care. You always were a sly one, Arnold Trumper, and I should have listened to my mother before I married you. I will come round to the Krazy Kat at half-past seven tomorrow. There better be no tricks and you better have the money.

  Or else.

  Yours truly,