Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

“That will be me, sir.”

  “And we shall need pallbearers. And do you still provide mutes?”

  “They haven’t been in common use for a considerable time.”

  “I’ve been out of touch in Patagonia. Point is, could you handle this?”

  “We would be honoured to make the arrangements for Lady Arabella with our customary taste and decorum.”

  “Excellent. I will call at your offices tomorrow to finalise the details. By the way, before I go, I was hoping to look up the wife of an old friend of mine who sadly passed over on the seven-teenth of November, nineteen fifty-nine. His name was John Tunnicliffe Smith. You handled the funeral arrangements. I don’t suppose you have the address of his widow.”

  “The addresses of our clients are strictly confidential,” he said.

  “That’s a pity,” I said. “I was hoping to ask her whether she would recommend your services for Lady Arabella’s large and costly funeral. Never mind, I can always go elsewhere.”

  There was a discreet cough from the other end of the phone. I imagined Hopkins holding the back of his hand over his mouth in a sort of limp way.

  “I think we may make an exception under the circumstances,” he said. “If you would hold the line for a moment.”

  He put the phone down. I heard leather-soled shoes clump across a tiled floor. The drawer of a metal filing-cabinet squealed as it opened and clanged when it banged shut. The shoes clumped back across the tiles. He picked up the phone.

  He said: “I am sorry to inform you that Mrs John Smith died last year. We handled the arrangements.”

  I said: “That would be Dorothy, John’s wife.”

  He said: “I think there must be some mistake. John Smith’s wife was not called Dorothy. She was Agnes Rita.”

  “It’s surprising how much you forget in Patagonia,” I said.

  I rang off. Wrong John Smith.

  I dialled Arbuckle & Son. A young man picked up the phone, stopped laughing at something, and said: “Arbuckle & Son. Hold the line, please.”

  He put his hand part way over the mouthpiece, but not enough to prevent me hear him say: “And the actress said, ‘I’ve heard of three wise men, bishop, but those are not the kind of gifts I had in mind’.” Loud male laughter sounded down the line.

  The hand was removed from the mouthpiece and the young man said: “Sorry to keep you while I dealt with another client. Son Arbuckle speaking. What can I do for you?”

  I said: “Is Daddy Arbuckle in?”

  “He’s at a cremation.”

  I said: “Your dad mentioned that you might be able to help me with the address of John Smith, whose funeral you arranged in August nineteen sixty.”

  “He didn’t mention it to me.”

  I said: “Since when has he remembered to mention important things to you?”

  “Too true. Who are you anyway?”

  “I’m your dad’s drinking oppo from the pub. The one who tells him the dirty jokes.”

  “You’re not that bloke who wears the pork-pie hat and has a whippet?”

  “That’s me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “John Smith was an old mate of my mine and as the second anniversary of his death is coming round I thought I might take his old missus a few flowers. Trouble is, I’ve lost her address.”

  Son Arbuckle said: “Hang on a minute. I’ll get it for you.”

  He put the phone down. I waited. He picked the phone up.

  He said: “Dorothy Smith – is that the one?”

  I gripped the receiver tighter. I grabbed my pencil.

  I took a deep breath and said: “Old Dolly. That’s the girl. Do you have her address there?”

  “Yes.”

  He gave me an address in Bevendean. I wrote it down.

  I said: “Thanks. Give my regards to your old man.”

  I put the phone down and stepped out of the box. My hands were hot and sticky. I stared down at the piece of paper with Dorothy’s address scribbled on it.

  I felt sure that now I was just one step from cracking the most sensational double-murder story the Chronicle had ever printed. But it wasn’t going to be straightforward. Now I had a double deadline. And a difficult decision to make. I was due for my interview at the Daily Mirror at six o’clock. To guarantee reaching the Mirror in good time I had to catch the four-thirty express to London from Brighton station.

  I glanced at the newsroom clock. Two thirty-five.

  Should I head for the interview and postpone my visit to Dorothy’s house until tomorrow? I hurried across the newsroom and sat down at my desk. I badly wanted that job on the Mirror. But I desperately wanted the Trumper story as well. Could I have both?

  I thought I could.

  I had less than two hours to drive to Bevendean and confront Trumper. I decided it would be enough time. It had to be enough time. I could drive straight to the railway station afterwards and phone in my copy from a telephone box. Then catch the train.

  Figgis would go mad because I hadn’t returned to the office. He might even fire me. But, if I landed the Mirror job, that would be the least of my worries.

  I got up and hurried across the newsroom. Within two minutes, I was in the MGB and cutting up a taxi as I travelled at fifty miles an hour around the Old Steine.

  Chapter 19

  Eight minutes later, I pulled the MGB into the kerb outside Dorothy’s house.

  I switched off the engine and looked around. The street was lined with neatly trimmed grass verges and plane trees. Their branches were thrashing in a strengthening south-westerly wind. On the far side of the road, a couple of small boys were playing hopscotch. A middle-aged lady in a mackintosh rode by on a bicycle. She had shopping piled in the basket on the front. She had her head down over the handlebars as she forced the bike into the wind.

  Dorothy’s house was a modest semi-detached property with pebble-dashed walls. There was a small garden fronted by a privet hedge. A gnome dangled his fishing line hopefully in the water of a small pond. It looked a mundane hideout for a double murderer.

  I got out of the car and walked up to the front door. I wondered what I would do if I found Trumper in the house. My day had been crammed with so much activity I hadn’t had time to give the questions I wanted to ask him any thought. Perhaps, anyway, he would refuse to answer any questions. That didn’t bother me. “No comment” is a damning phrase in most contexts. The thought that he might turn violent briefly flashed through my mind. I dismissed it. He was an old man and I was younger and fitter. But so was Robert Barnet. And he was lying dead in a mortuary.

  There was no point worrying about what might happen. The best approach was to take action and see what developed. I pressed the bell and heard it ding-dong in the house. There was a frosted window in the top half of the front door. I saw the shape of a woman come out of a room into the hall and walk towards the door. She opened it.

  Dorothy Smith was a slim woman in her middle seventies. She had a kindly face but with eyes that looked into the distance as though she were trying hard to remember something. She was wearing a green blouse with a woollen cardigan which had frayed round the cuffs and elbows.

  She said: “Am I expecting you?”

  I said: “Your old neighbour Harriet told me about you. She suggested I look you up.”

  “Harriet? I don’t remember a Harriet.”

  “When you lived in Woodingdean.”

  “Have I lived in Woodingdean?”

  “Yes. Before the war. With your brother Arnold.”

  The mention of her brother’s name brought a hint of recognition into her eyes.

  “Arnold – did he know Harriet?”

  “Yes,” I said. “All three of you were friends.”

  “We were?” she asked.

  “Yes, good friends,” I said.

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “There are so many things I don’t remember.”

  Her eyes peered even further into the distance trying to remember th
ings that had happened so long ago in Woodingdean.

  I said: “I’ve come to see Arnold. Is he here?”

  She said: “He was here, I think, but not now.”

  “Will he be coming back?”

  “I can’t remember what he said. He usually comes back.”

  “Could I come in and wait for a little while?” I asked.

  She looked back down the hall in a gesture that suggested she expected to see somebody. “If you’re Arnold’s friend I expect it will be all right.”

  I stepped through the door and she led the way down the hall and into a small sitting room. It was decorated with green wallpaper which had a leaf motif. Three china ducks flew up the wall above the fireplace. There were two winged armchairs covered in a worn fabric. There was a small television set in the corner. Some women’s magazines lay on a glass-topped coffee table. There was a photograph of a man on the mantelpiece. He was grinning at the camera and holding a golf club. It had to be Trumper.

  Dorothy sunk into her chair with a weary sigh.

  I said: “You look exhausted. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  She looked at me as though she didn’t understand the question. “Have I already had a cup of tea this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll make you one anyway.”

  She said: “That would be nice. You know where the things are, don’t you?”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll find them. Would you like me to turn the television on while I make the tea?”

  I moved over and switched the set on before she could answer the question.

  She said: “I like watching television.”

  I waited while the set warmed up and the test card appeared.

  I said: “There are no programmes on at the moment, but you can look at the picture of the little girl on the test card.”

  She said: “I was a little girl once. I do remember that.”

  I left the sitting room and searched for the kitchen. I found it at the back of the house. The kettle was on the stove. I filled it and put it on a low gas. I wanted the kettle to take its time boiling so that I could have a look around the rest of the house.

  I slipped back into the hall and peeked through the sitting-room door. Dorothy’s head had lolled back in the winged chair and her eyes were closed. I went quietly up the stairs.

  The first room I looked in was Dorothy’s bedroom. The bed was neatly made. There was a worn teddy bear with one ear missing on the pillow.

  I moved across the landing and opened another door. It was a smaller bedroom. The bed had been slept in but not made. A pair of trousers and two unwashed shirts were tangled among the sheets. The dressing table was strewn with papers. Trumper was evidently not a tidy guest. I went in.

  There was a big old-fashioned wardrobe on one wall. I nudged open the door. There was nothing but a few empty clothes hangers. It didn’t look to me as though Trumper was coming back. I crossed to the dressing table and stared down at the papers. Some of them seemed to do with the Krazy Kat, others with Trumper’s personal affairs. I pulled a pen out of my pocket and moved the papers around so that I could see the ones underneath. I didn’t want any of my fingerprints on the papers when the police finally came here.

  There was a completion note from a stockbroker. Trumper had been selling his shares. There were two letters from building societies. He’d closed the accounts. There were several letters which looked as though they’d come from Darke’s solicitors making formal offers for the Krazy Kat. There was a notelet with a picture of a country church on the front. With the end of my pen, I lifted the front flap and read the message inside. It was dated April, nineteen fifty-one and was from Dorothy with her address in the top left-hand corner. She was inviting her brother to Sunday lunch. I let the front fall back. There were a couple of blobs by the country church that didn’t look like part of the design. I got closer so that my nose was almost touching the paper.

  They were patches of blood.

  So this was how Barnet had discovered Dorothy’s address. The notelet would have been among the rubbish in the boxes at the Krazy Kat. He’d have taken it back to his flat. It had been splashed with his blood when Trumper hit him on the forehead. Trumper had had the presence of mind to remove it from Barnet’s flat, but he’d left it here. That was a clear sign that he definitely wasn’t coming back. And, with that kind of evidence left lying around, he didn’t expect to be found either.

  So where was he heading?

  I pushed the papers around some more with my pen. There was an envelope from a travel agent among them. Using my handkerchief as a kind of glove, I extracted a single sheet of paper – it turned out to be an invoice – and read it. Trumper had booked a one-way passage for himself and his car on the Newhaven ferry. I peered closer to read the small print. And felt my heart beat faster. He was due to catch the afternoon ferry. It sailed at ten past four. I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past three.

  Could I reach Newhaven and get on that ferry in fifty minutes? I had to try.

  I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. The kettle was boiling. I took it off the hob and turned off the gas. The tea was in a caddy on the kitchen table. I put some in the pot and poured in the water. I didn’t bother to warm the pot. I found a cup and saucer in a cupboard above the sink and milk in the larder. There was also an opened packet of custard creams. I poured the tea and put a few of the biscuits on a plate. Took them into the sitting room.

  Dorothy woke up from her doze as I came in. “Why are you here?” she said.

  “I’m making you a cup of tea. You remember?”

  She took the cup and saucer from me. I put the biscuits on the table beside her chair. Dorothy sipped the tea.

  “This is a nice cuppa,” she said.

  I said: “I have to go. Will you be all right if I leave?”

  “Arnold went as well, I think. Was it today?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked up at me. For a moment, her eyes became clearer. It must have been how she used to look before the clouds of confusion started to gather in her mind. She focused her eyes on me. They looked sad but resigned.

  “He’s not coming back, is he?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought so,” she said.

  She picked up a custard cream, dunked it in her tea and took a bite. She looked at me again but the light behind her eyes had already gone out.

  “I’ve got a nice piece of haddock for later,” she said. “I’ll save some for Arnold.”

  “He’ll enjoy that,” I said.

  I went out and closed the door quietly behind me.

  It was three twenty-four when I jumped into the MGB, revved up the engine and roared away from the kerb.

  I had no choice but to head for Newhaven and hope I reached the ferry before it left. It was clear that Trumper was making his escape. I took the corner into the Lewes Road at thirty and accelerated towards the seafront.

  I briefly considered stopping at a telephone box to call the police, but dismissed the idea. By the time I’d found a box that hadn’t been vandalised, made the call and orders had been passed, there was no guarantee that the police would reach the ferry in time.

  As I reached the seafront, the clock outside the Aquarium ticked onto three thirty-five. I pushed my foot down and the MGB roared up Marine Parade. A road sign said: Newhaven: 9 miles.

  Those nine miles flashed by in a nightmare drive. I vaguely recall a couple of pensioners jumping for their lives as I sped across a zebra crossing, a group of Roedean girls scattering as I hurtled passed the school, and the stern faces of the port officials as I rushed through the formalities.

  As I drove onto the ferry, the hydraulics in the huge car deck’s door hissed and it began to close.

  The door of the car hold clanged shut and I was left sitting in the MGB in the half-light provided by dim overhead bulbs.

  Above me a siren sounded. There was some distant shouting. An engine below t
he deck throbbed rhythmically. Its throttle opened and its beat quickened. The whole ship jolted as it moved away from the quay. It was under way. Next stop: Dieppe.

  I clutched my hands to my head and ran them through my hair. They came away sticky and I realised I’d been sweating. For the last half hour, I had been focused on reaching Newhaven before the ferry left. And now that I was on board I wondered whether I’d done the right thing. The implications of my actions began to sink in.

  I was going abroad in pursuit of a big story without consulting my news editor. A sacking offence.

  I had lost any opportunity of making the Daily Mirror interview at six o’clock.

  And I would be standing up Shirley again for our night to remember in London. There was no way that I could contact Shirley or the Mirror until the ship reached Dieppe.

  I sat in the car feeling slightly sick. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I felt a little better. There was no point in second guessing what I should have done. I’d made my choice – and now I had to justify the decision. I heaved myself out of the car and headed up towards the passenger decks in search of Trumper.

  I wondered whether I would be able to recognise him from the photograph I’d seen on Dorothy’s mantelpiece. But the ferry was not crowded and most passengers were travelling in pairs or in parties. A single man would stand out. I walked the length of the lower deck scanning faces. Trumper’s was not among them.

  I climbed a companionway to the upper deck. I clung on to the rails as the ship heaved and rolled in a heavy swell. There was a lounge where most of the passengers had retreated for what was clearly going to be a rough crossing. Some looked gloomily at spume from waves breaking over the deck. Others lay back, clutching stomachs, and moaning. I made a circuit of the lounge but Trumper wasn’t there.

  I walked back towards the stern where there was a bar and restaurant.

  Half a dozen hardy souls were clinging to the bar as their drinks slopped back and forth in the glasses.

  I moved on to the restaurant. Few people wanted to eat a meal while the ship pitched and yawed. A young couple at one table seemed to have lost their appetite for shepherd’s pie. But a lone diner at a corner table attacked a full plate of fish and chips. He was bent over the table scoffing the food as though it were his last meal. He was in his sixties, but he had thick black hair. He was a big man with broad shoulders. He had a wide face with sagging cheeks and a large nose. He had black eyebrows that met in the middle.