I said: “Do you know where my friend went?”
The waiter shrugged. “He left in a hurry. When the weather’s like this that usually means mal de mer.”
I didn’t think I’d find Trumper throwing up in the lavatory. He’d have gone into hiding. But there couldn’t be many places to hide on a cross-Channel ferry. I had to track him down before the ship docked. Which gave me a little over two hours before we reached Dieppe. I set off in pursuit.
The ship was pitching so heavily now that most passengers were slumped on seats in varying degrees of misery. They sat with glazed eyes or their head in their hands moaning gently. One or two looked up curiously as I loped by.
I found the only way to walk as the ship heaved was to move one side of my body at a time so that there was always one foot planted firmly on the deck. Even so, the ship was tossing so violently I lost my balance every few yards.
I thought about where Trumper would hide. He’d steer clear of the public areas inside the ship because they would be too easy to search. I wondered whether he could have gone down to the car deck. I made my way to the companionway leading to it. The door was locked and there was a sign saying that passengers weren’t permitted to enter during the voyage. There was no way that Trumper could get through. He certainly wouldn’t be able to enter the crew’s quarters without being noticed. One sighting of those teeth would see to that.
Which left only one place he could be. On deck.
Surely, not in this weather.
I staggered over to a companion hatch and looked out of the porthole. Angry waves filled the sea as far as the horizon. The ship rose and fell with them in a deep churning motion. We heaved up to a crest. Plunged down to a trough.
I opened the companion hatch and stepped out on to the deck. I was on the leeward side of the ship, so I was sheltered from the worst of the wind. The wind was driving the rain away from me. The noise was terrible. The howling of the gale competed with the roaring sea. The ship creaked and moaned as the stresses in its plates were tested to the limit.
The rain and spray created a thick mist which cut the distance I could see along the deck. I moved a few yards towards the bow and listened, but all I could hear was the scream of the wind and the thrashing of the sea.
There were plenty of places on deck where Trumper could be hiding. Behind piles of stacked deckchairs. In lifeboats. Behind bollards. Under companionways. I made my way forward, checking possible hiding places as I went. I reached the bows and turned to come back along the starboard side of the ship. I was now on the windward side of the ferry, in the full force of the gale. The wind was so strong I had trouble staying upright. I had to cling on to railings as I inched along the deck, heading towards the stern. The wind-driven rain stung my face like little pins and spray from the waves showered down on me. My hair was plastered to my head. My clothes stuck to my skin. My shoes squelched as I crept along.
Trumper saw me before I spotted him. He was hiding behind a stack of deckchairs which had been lashed to a stairway.
He dashed from behind the stack, slipped and fell heavily on the deck. I moved towards him but the wind forced me back. He scrambled to his feet and loped off in a kind of crab-like sideways shuffle towards the stern. I fought my way into the wind and followed him.
The ship rose out of the water on a wave and seemed to hang suspended in the air. Then it crashed into the trough with a jolt which made the whole vessel shudder. I fell to the deck. Ahead of me, I saw Trumper stumble again. But I was on my feet in seconds and scrambling towards him.
We reached the stern of the ship. There was a small observation area where passengers could sit in fair weather and watch the ship’s wake recede towards the horizon. Now it was desolate, lashed by wind, drenched by spray.
I struggled into the area only feet behind Trumper. I positioned myself so that he couldn’t get out through the exits on the port or starboard sides of the ship. He turned and faced me. His face had contorted into a snarl. The teeth flashed like an Aldis lamp. He clung to the railings, hunched against the wind. He growled something at me. I moved closer, arms akimbo, keeping balance against the gale. We were feet from one another.
“I’m not going back,” he cried. His words carried away on the wind.
“There’s nowhere for you to go now,” I shouted. “I’m taking you to the captain.”
“You and who’s crew?”
“You’re finished.”
“Never,” he screamed.
He hoisted himself up onto the railings and swung his legs over. I moved towards him but the wind forced me to one side. I steadied myself and moved closer.
“It should never have happened,” he shouted.
I wanted to grab him. I inched forward until I was two feet away, but he edged himself along outside the railings. The rain was driving straight into my face. I screwed up my eyes.
“You’ll die,” I shouted.
“But I won’t hang,” he cried.
I lunged towards him. The ship yawed and a huge wave broke over the stern.
A wall of water hit Trumper and knocked him sideways like a puppet cut from its strings. His head cracked on to a bollard and I saw his body go limp. Somehow his arm had locked round the bollard, but as the ship heaved to one side it slid off and Trumper’s body slithered like a lizard’s over the stern.
I threw myself at the railings but I was too late to catch him. In any event, he was already dead. I watched helpless as his body plummeted towards the sea. It hit the water with a splash that barely registered among the heaving waves.
Then another huge wave roared over the stern. The water drenched me. It filled my eyes and my ears.
I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I choked, spluttered. For a moment, I thought I was going to drown. Then I pushed the water from my face, opened my eyes. The air was filled with salty spray.
Twenty yards astern, a sodden suit of clothes rose on a wave, then sunk slowly into the trough.
I wouldn’t have known it was Trumper, if it hadn’t been for the teeth.
I battled my way back inside the ship and pressed the emergency klaxon.
Staff came running. They went on deck and searched the sea, but the ferry was ploughing on to France. It could not turn back in the teeth of the storm.
The captain appeared. He asked me what had happened. It was a straight question. I considered for a moment whether I could give a straight answer. The fact that a man had been lost overboard would be reported to the authorities as soon as we reached France. The French newspapers would soon find out that Trumper was English and the British press wouldn’t be far behind. I’d nailed the biggest story the Chronicle had had for years and I didn’t want Houghton on the Evening Argus scooping me. Which he could do if he picked up on the news quickly. After all, he was in England and I would be stuck in France.
So I replied that the man overboard was somebody I’d met for the first time in the restaurant (technically true). I said he’d seemed very troubled about some matters (true). He went out on deck and, as I was worried about him, I followed (true). He climbed over the rail at the stern and a wave washed him overboard (also true).
The captain asked me if I knew the man’s name. Another straight question. And an awkward one. If Houghton got hold of the name, and realised that Trumper was the owner of the Krazy Kat, he could well connect it with Robert Barnet’s murder. A wily old operator like Houghton would know that Trumper’s death at sea, in those circumstances, was no accident and he’d be on the hunt for the full story. But, like George Washington, I could not tell a lie. So I told the captain Trumper’s true name, omitting the detail that he owned a miniature golf course in Brighton. The captain seemed satisfied with that information and let me go.
After that, I was taken to the crew’s quarters where I took a hot shower and my clothes were dried in front of an electric heater. My jacket ended up wrinkled and creased like an old dog-blanket. And the collar had been singed black by the heater.
We docked in Dieppe two hours late because of the storm.
I took a room in a small dockside hotel and put a call through to the Chronicle.
I spoke to the duty reporter and told him to get hold of Figgis at home – or more likely in the pub – and call me back. Forty minutes later Figgis rang. I told him everything that had happened. I said I was already working on the splash for tomorrow’s paper.
He said he’d speak to His Holiness about bringing out a morning edition to hit the streets at nine o’clock, three hours ahead of the normal midday paper. It would be the first time since D-day that the paper had produced a “morning special”. I said I could phone over copy for it in about an hour. I told him I’d catch the early-morning ferry back to Newhaven, which arrived at eight o’clock, and bring a more detailed background piece that could run in the midday edition.
He agreed and said: “And don’t forget we’ll need receipts for all these expenses you’re running up.”
I rang off. Then I called Shirley’s home phone number. I let the phone ring for two minutes, but there was no answer. I thought of Shirley in London being stood up again and wondered what revenge she’d take – that’s if she spoke to me again.
For the next hour, I worked on my story. After I’d phoned over my copy, I tried Shirley’s number again. There was still no answer. Then I went to bed. But I didn’t sleep. I lay awake wondering whether I’d ever be able to make it up to Shirley. And I thought about the Daily Mirror interview I’d missed. The Trumper story should have been the ace that guaranteed me the job. It had proved to be the joker. By two in the morning, the storm had blown itself out. But, in some kind of weird after-reaction, my stomach had started churning.
When I walked into the newsroom at ten to nine the following morning, work stopped and everyone gave me a rousing cheer. As a modest sort, I naturally blushed becomingly. Newsroom copies of the “morning special” had just come up from the machine room. The headline splashed across all eight columns in one hundred and forty-four point type read:
DOUBLE KILLER DIES AT SEA
Phil Bailey passed me: “Great story,” he said. He looked me up and down. “Shame about the jacket.”
Susan Wheatcroft gave me one of her winks and said: “All at sea? You can breast my billows any time you like.”
Figgis’s head appeared from around his office door. “I want to see you now.”
I went in and closed the door behind me. Ted Wilson was sitting by Figgis’s desk. He was studying the Cross file. Figgis sat down behind his desk and lit up a fresh Woodbine. The smile lines on his face had gone into overtime. He was so happy he’d have smoked two fags and had one up each nostril as well if he could.
He said: “His Holiness has invited me out to lunch. First time I’ve broken bread with him since Coronation Day.”
I said: “Just the single invitation, was it?”
“Oh, and he asked me to pass on to you that he thinks you’ve done ‘quite well’.”
“We don’t want me getting big-headed,” I said.
Wilson said: “I’ve already got a team at the Krazy Kat investigating the eighteenth hole. I had a call just before I left the office that there is definitely a body there, but it will be some time before we can confirm it is Mildred.”
“Not so much a hole in one as one in a hole,” I said.
“We can do without your tasteless cracks,” Figgis said.
Wilson said: “Before you two get involved in that, can we come to this file.” He pointed to the Cross folder.
Figgis put on his serious face.
He said: “Mr Crampton was given this folder by Councillor Cross and passed it to me. I naturally asked the paper’s lawyer to look at it and he has advised me to hand it to the police. Hence our meeting.”
Wilson said: “I can see that this folder gives me quite sufficient grounds to arrest Septimus Darke on charges of corruption, money laundering, tax evasion, intimidation of public officials, and, for all I know, dropping toffee wrappings under the Litter Act.”
“Not bad for a start,” I said. “You can get on to the serious stuff like grievous bodily harm and murder later.”
Wilson said: “Point is, I’m going to need to get a warrant for his arrest from a magistrate and I don’t want the Chronicle running a story about the contents of this folder before I’ve had time to do it.”
“How long will it take?” Figgis asked.
“I reckon I can be ready to make an arrest by about two this afternoon,” Wilson said. “I need time to study this folder before I move.”
Figgis scratched his chin. He drew deeply on his cigarette, blew the smoke at Wilson. Wilson put his hand over his nose. Figgis didn’t seem to notice.
“I think we can live with that,” Figgis said.
“Excellent,” Wilson said.
“Providing I can be present at the arrest,” I said.
Figgis grinned: “As I was about to add myself.”
Wilson said: “What? That would be highly irregular.”
“This whole case is irregular,” I said. “You’re going to be the hero of the town for nailing Darke. And who’s handed you the evidence to do it?” I indicated the Cross file. “All neatly filed, too.”
Wilson picked the folder up again. Opened it and flipped through the pages. He nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay,” he said. “I suppose I owe you that. But you stay outside the room while I actually feel the collar.”
“Agreed,” I said. “I’ll wait there with the photographer.”
“Photographer? By God, you push your luck, Crampton. One day it’s going to run out on you on the edge of a cliff.”
Figgis stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another.
“That’s all agreed, then,” he said. “We’ll get the Darke arrest into the ‘night final’ and run with a fuller story including background from the folder tomorrow. Or as much as the lawyer will allow since you’ll presumably have laid charges by then.”
Wilson stood up. “Well, I’ve got a racketeer to arrest. Nice to have met you, Mr Figgis.”
Figgis extended a nicotine-stained hand.
“I’ll come down to the lobby with you,” I said to Wilson.
We left Figgis’s office and walked down to the reception area in silence.
Wilson pulled me over to a quiet corner. He had a mischievous look on his face which I’d never seen before.
“Consequences,” he said.
“Consequences?” I asked.
“Yes, I was just thinking about the consequences of me telling you about Trumper’s disappearance at Prinny’s Pleasure last Saturday.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “The stories I’m getting from that are providing me with more splashes than I’ve had since I joined the paper.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “As it happens, it’s rather served my ends as well. Darke has been paying off at least three officers in the force to my certain knowledge. It’s made it very difficult for an honest cop like me to investigate Darke when he’s got his own narks on the inside.”
“Who are these officers?”
“Can’t mention names at the moment. But I have a feeling they’re facing their nemesis.”
“Will you be able to prove they’ve been taking pay-offs from Darke?”
“Don’t know. Probably not from this file, but when we search Darke’s home and office, who knows what we’ll find.”
I thought about Darke’s business card which I’d seen in Barnet’s flat. Wilson had never mentioned it, but it had puzzled me why he’d never questioned Darke about Barnet’s murder.
So I asked: “But you never had Darke tagged as Barnet’s murderer?”
“Should I?” Wilson gave me a sharp look.
“Just thought he might be a suspect.”
Wilson relaxed a little. “We did find one of Darke’s business cards at Barnet’s flat. But I never had him in my sights as the killer. For a start, murderers don’t generally leave their busines
s cards at the scene of the crime. And when we tested it for finger-prints, it was clean. You’d at least have expected the see the prints of the person who gave it and the person who received it. It had been wiped and placed there by someone wearing gloves. That immediately suggested to me it was a blind – intended by the real killer to point us in the wrong direction.”
“But you’ll arrest Darke now as an unintended consequence of the tip you gave me in Prinny’s Pleasure,” I said.
“Not entirely unintended,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“When I told you about Trumper, I guessed you’d make the Darke and then the Cross connections. You’ve blown the case wide open from the outside. Especially as I couldn’t do it from the inside because of Darke’s stool pigeons.”
“You’re saying you gave me this tip knowing that I’d make all the connections and you’d get the evidence to arrest Darke?”
“Thought it likely.”
“And you never thought to mention that to me?”
“Would have spoilt your fun. Besides, rat up a drainpipe – that’s you when it comes to a mystery.”
“Not exactly the description I’d have chosen,” I said.
“Darke’s money has bought a lot of protection in this town,” Wilson said.
I said: “Are you saying that when we met in Prinny’s Pleasure you were setting me up.”
Ted grinned. He held up the Cross folder triumphantly as though he’d just been awarded a school prize on speech day.
“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that,” he said. “Had interesting consequences, though, didn’t it?”
He put on his hat and went out leaving me with my mouth hanging open and feeling rather foolish.
Chapter 21
I was desperate to get in touch with Shirley.
I needed to apologise for standing her up again. To tell her that this time I would make it up to her. To explain that it had all been in a good cause. Although, on reflection, perhaps I wouldn’t put it quite like that.
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