by TP Fielden
‘He told me he’d been to see Sir Freddy on a number of occasions but he was always kept waiting, never given the chance to put his case. Which was, by the way, that the MP had stolen a number of buildings which rightfully were his. That he knew of other examples of what he called this wholesale theft, and that he knew one or two things about Sir Freddy’s private life as well.’
‘What sort of things?’ said Renishaw, suddenly sitting up straight and looking alert. ‘Who was he talking about?’
Betty felt rather pleased with herself. When Renishaw first arrived at the Express it wasn’t difficult to see he’d written her off, whether as a woman or as a reporter she couldn’t tell. Now, all of a sudden, he was paying her very close attention indeed.
Wasn’t it shrewd of her that day to have plucked up her courage, left the courtroom, and chased after Professor Sirraway? She was now not only the Express’s expert on the local MP, but on his tormentor, too!
‘He’s an underdog, David,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I get the impression those are the kind of people you stand up for.’
‘I do. More than you can ever know, Betty.’
‘Well, you should be sticking up for him! Rather than that old goat Hungerford. Saying he’s a menace, wanting to get Inspector Topham to investigate him – that’s not sticking up for the underdog, is it?’
‘Forgive me if I say so, Betty,’ replied Renishaw smoothly, ‘you haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
Betty jumped up. ‘Are you a journalist, David?’ she said, challengingly. ‘Or are you something else? And anyway what are you doing here in Temple Regis – about the most unlikely place in the world for someone with your skills? I can tell how you look down on everyone here, from Mr Rhys to Judy, from me to… to… John Ross over there!’ She pointed her finger at the abandoned subs’ desk with its forlorn sprig of mistletoe and its tawdry piles of waste paper.
‘Actually, John and I get on rather well,’ said Renishaw, taking this outburst in his stride. ‘We’ve quite a lot of friends in common from old Fleet Street days.’
‘Were you ever in Fleet Street?’
‘Why are you suddenly so interested in my past? About my work, my wife, where I come from? And… this word you keep bandying around… underdogs?’
Well, thought Betty, this is making Christmas a lot more exciting than I thought it could ever be! She looked round the newsroom, but there were now even fewer people dotted about its furthermost reaches than before.
‘The cleaners came while you were out,’ she said. Thinking, this much you learn when you enter journalism – if you can’t put out a convincing lie when you need to, you’ve no right to be in the job in the first place.
‘Yes, they came by as they always do at this time of year. They go through the desks to make sure there’s no flammable liquid or other stuff left lying around while the building’s empty over the holiday period. They have pass-keys, they go through everybody’s drawers. Strange, I know, but true.’
Renishaw gave her another of his wintry smiles and waited for her to go on. He’s waiting for me to stumble, she thought, but I can pull this off. I can!
‘They took everything out of your desk and just left it lying about. So careless! Since I had a minute I straightened everything up and put it all back for you.’
‘And while you were at it, you just happened to read what was in there.’
‘Well, no. Looks like you’re writing a book – that’s private, I wouldn’t look at that.’
‘But you saw the prison newsletter, the one with the article about Operation Underdog.’
‘You could hardly miss it,’ replied Betty, giving her untruth every last ounce of personal conviction. ‘Sitting there on top of the pile! Which is what prompted me to ask you these questions – what is Operation Underdog? And have you brought it to Temple Regis with some ulterior motive in mind?
‘Are you a journalist, or are you something else? If so, what are you? And what are you doing in Temple Regis? What’s the jail connection? Are you trying to put someone in jail – Professor Sirraway, perhaps? Or trying to get someone out?’
Betty felt exhilarated at having got all this out in a single coherent line of questioning. But then she had to go and let the side down.
‘And,’ she added, ‘is there really a Mrs Renishaw? Or did you just make that up?’
Fifteen
The way Sid polished a glass was remarkable – he put more effort into bringing it to a perfect finish than it took to swallow the contents. But in his domain, the back bar of the Grand Hotel, he brought his soldierly ways to everything – the shining silver ashtrays, the plumped-up cushions, the neat arrangement of newspapers and magazines on the console tables.
He was a diligent worker, and an even more diligent listener.
‘So you see, Frank,’ he said, pulling the Portlemouth beer-tap with caution, ‘I thought I’d better let you know.’
‘Much obliged, Sid. Tell me again, only slower, and don’t leave anything out.’
Those years in the desert had left a lasting imprint on both characters. Sid was glad of his hotel uniform, a reassuring emblem of order and rank. His white tunic was immaculately pressed, its gold buttons polished to a dazzling sheen, with the small gold-wire epaulettes adding just the right amount of dignity. The medal-ribbons, discreet enough, told their own story.
Inspector Topham never wanted to don a uniform again, and tried hard never to think about what he’d seen in battle. Wearing a suit, a waistcoat and a felt hat relieved him of memory.
Yet the two were drawn together by their history, sharing a brotherhood not easily expressed in words.
Deeds, though, were something else, and Sid had been keeping his ears open.
‘I heard ’im on the blower out in the corridor,’ he said. ‘Saying it was a good ’un, so good he’d prob’ly have to stay here over Christmas. He’d already called his lady friend and told her to get on the train.’
He leaned over the bar. ‘Interpol, ’e says. Interpol’s closing in. They’ll be here in a few days, ’e said, but I need to be ahead of them. ’E was asking for they down t’other end of phone to authorise a huge sum of money.’
‘Bribery, like?’ said Topham.
‘Like a bath tap you can’t switch off. The money, I mean. ’E asked for a thousand, and judging from the smile on his face when he came back in ’ere, he’d got it.’
‘Go on,’ said the copper, gazing deep into his Portlemouth.
‘The gist of it was, ’e didn’t know the name of the chap Interpol was after and ’e needed to grease a few palms to find out. There’d been a murder. Interpol was on the murderer’s tail, and they were homing in on Temple Regis.’
‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ said the Inspector, ‘how does he know all this? I haven’t had a word from Interpol!’
‘Chum in Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, them,’ spat the copper. ‘They treat us like hayseeds, never give us the time of day. When I was up in London on that goose-chase involving the MP, they talked to me as if I was the village idiot.’
‘Anyway,’ said Sid, oblivious to inter-force rivalry but very keen on his priceless nugget of information, ‘Mr Inkpen said ’e needed to grease a few palms.
‘But,’ he went on, ‘this is the point, Frank. ’E said it would be the icing on the Christmas cake, this Interpol lark. ’E said when they pounced, it would make the front page for weeks and weeks. Temple Regis, the Murder Capital of Great Britain! ’E was reeling off all those murders – Hennessy, the beauty queen, Larsson, and that Patr—’
‘I know, I know,’ snarled Topham. ‘No need to remind me, Sid! But it’s ridiculous – how can I possibly investigate a crime when I don’t know the name of the victim, and I don’t know the name of the perpetrator?’
Sid put down the glass he’d been polishing.
‘If nobody’s officially informed you, it’s not your problem,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let ’em come, I
say, and just stand well back.’ He was wondering whether Interpol could afford the Grand’s bar prices.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ said Topham. ‘If Interpol come in here and make an arrest, that little toad Inkpen is going to drag all the other cases in when he writes his story. How’s that going to make me look, with two years to retirement? What’s the Chief Constable going to say? I don’t want to end up on traffic duty, Sid, just when they should be sending out to the engraver’s with my gold watch.’
‘Tell you what, Frank,’ said Sid, looking over the copper’s shoulder. ‘Back in the old days in the desert you used to say Meet fire with fire – remember? Here’s your chance to do just that, mate.’
Topham span round to see Rex Inkpen loping cheerily towards the bar.
‘Ah, Frank!’ said the reporter, just a trifle patronisingly. ‘Have you thought over our little chat? It’s not too late to change your mind – I’d be so happy to get you and the missus away on a nice sunny holiday somewhere.’
‘Plenty of sunshine in Temple Regis,’ growled Topham.
‘Not this time of year. What’s that – a pint of Portlemouth?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Pint of Portlemouth, please, Sid, and a large VAT 69. On my tab. So what d’you say, Frank – have you ever been to the Canaries?’
‘I’ve been to hotter places than that, Mr Inkpen.’
‘You have only to say the word. But meantime I’m ready to lob a nice donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund in return for your memoirs. Why don’t we go and sit down?’
The two men, with very different goals in mind, made their way to the other end of the bar and slid onto a red plush banquette. Sid tiptoed over with a silver platter.
‘I know your game,’ said the policeman, pushing the crisps away. ‘You’re here to make a monkey out of me, but it ain’t going to happen.’
The reporter stretched out his legs and looked across the table. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he lied. ‘You’ve done a great job here and my newspaper wants to tell the rest of the country what an amazing achievement you CID boys have chalked up in Temple Regis.’
‘If you turn that story on its head,’ riposted Topham, ‘it comes out as, What an amazing place Temple Regis is – more dead bodies floating about than round the Titanic.’
‘Ha! Ha!’
‘And if you think you’re going to come in here and show us up, you’ve got another think coming.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Oh yes?’ said the policeman heatedly. ‘You think I don’t know about your Interpol line?’
‘Well, I was only asking you over our nice cup of tea together whether they’d been in touch.’
Topham stared at him hard. ‘About the murder. About the murderer on the loose. About the murderer on the loose holed up in Temple Regis.’
‘Ah!’ said Inkpen with a conspiratorial smile. ‘So they have been in touch, then!’
I wish I were a better chess player, thought Topham, I need to know what move to make next. He thinks I know more than I do while I haven’t a clue as to how much he knows. He has the advantage, while he thinks I have the advantage.
‘I have the advantage over you,’ he said experimentally. ‘I know what’s going on, while you’re footling about trying to make a story for your newspaper. Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll try to fill in the gaps?’
For a moment Inkpen looked startled. ‘From what I’d been told, I got the impression the Temple Regis police had been kept in the dark. Deliberate strategy to reduce the risk of leaks.’
‘You’re a journalist,’ said Topham. ‘And a Fleet Street journalist at that. You can have no idea what goes on at a local level, when all you do is spend your time and money buying drinks for your chums in Scotland Yard.’
‘Fair to me, Frank, I’m now spending time with you. And I’ve just bought you a pint.’
Topham looked at the glass of Danegeld in front of him. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch a drop when Sid brought it over, but he’d been so intent on their conversation there was now only a third of it left.
‘Tell me what you know, then. If you want my help.’
‘Cooee, Inspector!’ called a melodious voice from the doorway. ‘Missed you on the train coming home! What a waste of time all that was!’
It was Miss Dimont: ‘Can I join you? Just been in to check on the arrangements for my mother, she’s staying here for Christmas.’
The policeman was furious. Just when he thought he was going to get something out of Inkpen, the nosiest woman in Temple Regis turns up and spoils the moment.
‘Bit busy just now,’ he said, shortly.
Miss Dimont ignored this. ‘A pint of the usual, is it? And what would your gentleman friend like?’
‘We’re just doing some business,’ said Inkpen in superior tones. ‘If you’ll excuse…’
‘Now, Frank,’ reprimanded Judy, ‘I have not met this gentleman before. But I have a very sharp nose, and the odour rising from his side of the table suggests to me he is a reporter. What’s more, he is not a reporter from anywhere round these parts. And so I deduce from his demeanour and his clothes that he is from Fleet Street.’
‘Very clever. I’m Inkpen, News Chronicle. And you are?’
‘Your country cousin. Judy Dimont, chief reporter on the Riviera Express. Isn’t it usual for you lot to drop in and pay us a courtesy call when you’re in town? Weren’t you thinking of coming by the office to say hello?’
‘Didn’t want to bother you.’ When he smiled and showed his teeth, Inkpen looked particularly vulpine.
‘We like to keep tabs on what’s going on. Not unreasonably. Are you here about Sir Freddy Hungerford?’
‘Sir Fredd—?’
‘MP,’ said Judy crisply. ‘Beaten up in the street, went missing. Found safe at home, nobody the worse for wear, soon to go to the House of Lords. End of story.’
‘Ah yes, I believe I saw something…’
‘It was Page One of the Daily Herald. You read the papers, do you, Mr Inkpen?’ She was bristling at his breach of protocol, invading her home turf without letting anyone know. She decided to lob in a hand grenade.
‘Or perhaps you’ve come about the mistress? The News Chronicle likes that kind of juicy story, doesn’t it?’
‘What mistress?’ Inkpen was caught off-guard. Was he missing a scoop?
‘Share and share alike,’ said Judy, turning to wave three fingers at Sid – a Portlemouth, whatever Inkpen’s sluicing down, ginger beer for me – ‘tell me first what brings you to this joyous part of the world.’
Inkpen and Topham looked at each other. The big-time crime reporter most certainly wasn’t about to share his great scoop with someone from a local rag. On the other hand, the policeman could see the advantage of getting the Interpol story out into the open.
‘He’s got a murderer on the loose,’ said Frank with satisfaction, swallowing the rest of his pint.
‘Oh yes?’ said Judy. She didn’t sound all that impressed.
‘Mr Inkpen here is hot on the tail of a man who Interpol are desperate to get their hands on. He’s hiding out here in Temple Regis.’
‘Oh really? D’you think the population is safe, Inspector?’
‘Or he could be in Cornwall,’ added Topham sardonically. ‘Or Timbuktu.’
‘Ah. Less chance of our Christmas being spoiled then. If he’s in Cornwall. Who’s the miscreant, Mr Inkpen?’
‘Call me Rex. I can’t tell you that.’
I can’t tell you that because I haven’t got a clue. I was in the Lamb of God, round the back of the Yard, with old Charlie Berry the other night. It was late, we’d had a few; he mentioned they’d heard from Interpol HQ that their boys were coming down to Temple Regis, looking for a chappie who’d topped somebody. But then he clammed up. So I did some checking in the cuttings library and discovered there’d been a few murders down here, pretty good ones, an
d on that basis convinced my bosses I had a huge scoop on my hands.
‘Oh go on,’ smiled Judy, pushing the whisky glass encouragingly towards him. ‘Give me a hint.’
I wish I could, dear. If this old copper doesn’t open up and tell me what he knows, I’m going to spend Christmas in this very expensive hotel agonising about what the desk is going to say when I tell them the story doesn’t stand up. And then, when they look at my expenses sheet…
‘I don’t think I should.’
‘Come on, then, Inspector Topham – you tell me. The story’s going to come out sooner or later, and a word or two from you will allow me to write about Temple Regis CID’s involvement. Don’t want all the glory going to those foreigners coming in and invading our pitch!’
Both men looked at her, mute. Neither of them had a clue what to say next but neither would admit it.
‘Tell me about the mistress,’ said Inkpen, jinking sideways.
Shall I? thought Judy. It’s a story which will never get printed in the Riviera Express – how would Temple Regis look to the outside world if we revealed their long-serving MP was a liar and cheat? And that was only as far as his marriage was concerned – there was all the other business involving Professor Sirraway, the illegal property deals, outrageously helping himself to other people’s possessions. And then the way he’d made his fortune by bleeding dry a succession of feeble women.
Why not tell? she thought. Why should a man like Hungerford get away with appearing to be such an upstanding pillar of the community when he was rotten to the core?
‘Where do you stand on the matter of hypocrisy, Mr Inkpen?’
‘Ha, ha. Good one. I work for a Sunday newspaper.’
‘Seriously. Your answer will determine whether I tell you what I know about Sir Frederick Hungerford and his popsy.’ And then you can tell me about Interpol, so make it good.
Inkpen took off his wire-framed spectacles and huffed on them. He polished them, then continued to stare at them as if they were to blame for any shortcomings in his answer. He really was a bit of a ham.
‘The public has a right to know,’ he intoned, as though this exonerated all Fleet Street’s misdeeds at a single throw. ‘Whoever’s in the public eye – actor, judge, politician, financier – if they pretend they’re something they’re not, if they hide their baser instincts behind a veneer of respectability, we’re entitled to know.