by TP Fielden
‘That’s when I bought the camel on expenses. Technically, of course, I still own it…’
‘The judge at the Old Bailey instantly cleared the court and ordered me to stay behind. What I told him then – well, it changed the whole course of the trial…’
‘General Montgomery… it was after El Alamein. He told me – in strictest confidence, of course…’
‘That Rachman, call him a slum landlord if you must, but he pours the finest single malt, I can tell you…’
If the peerless Peter Potts had been listening, he could have supplied the punchline to each and every one of these shaggy dog stories – they were hauled out in the Palm Court or the dining room every time Fleet Street rode into town, which was often. The yarns never changed, though those who told them sometimes did. But who cared, in the safety and comfort of his five-star hotel, whether they ever set foot in the desert or advised a High Court judge? It was the way you told ’em that counted.
The cheers and shouts rang down the hall and through the doorway into the private bar, where Sid was applying his customary elbow grease to a couple of dozen wine glasses, in anticipation of breakages next door.
Against the bar, watching idly, leaned Inkpen of the News Chronicle.
‘Has he been in?’
‘He’ll be along soon.’
‘Here’s a tenner. Keep us happy, will you?’
Sid smiled and bowed very slightly.
‘And no interruptions – not like last time when you let that woman from the local rag come and interfere.’
‘Yers, Mr Inkpen. Was you thinking of having some champagne this evening, like yesterday?’
Now he had a real story, not like at Christmas when he was here on a fishing expedition, there would be less scrutiny of Inkpen’s expenses. ‘Why not,’ he said. ‘That Pol Roger was a bit on the dry side, though.’
‘Known for it, sir. Why don’t you plump for the Moët & Chandon? Always a safe bet.’
‘Make sure it’s nice and cold.’
At that moment Frank Topham appeared in the doorway but on spotting Inkpen started to back out again.
‘Frank! Welcome! I was hoping to see you.’
‘You again,’ said the Inspector moodily. ‘I’ve only got ten minutes and I like to drink my pint in peace.’
Despite this, Inkpen skilfully guided the policeman to a banquette where a freshly pulled pint of Portlemouth already awaited. Behind them could be heard the crack of a champagne cork.
‘Shame nothing ever came of that murder series we were planning for the paper,’ said Inkpen engagingly. ‘Yet here we are, back again, another death on the doorstep.’
‘I may live very far from London but I’m not a complete idiot,’ replied Topham. ‘You wanted to turn this town into the Murder Capital of Great Britain – that rubbish about my brilliant sleuthing skills was all my eye and Betty Martin.’
‘On the contrary, Inspector, on the contrary! But water under the bridge now. How’s that Portlemouth?’ Without waiting for a reply he blustered on: ‘We know each other, Frank, we can trust one another.’
The policeman emitted a noise from the back of his throat.
‘More than you can trust any of those jackals out there who’d sell their mothers for a handful of small change. No, Frank, the best way for us to cover this murder – this poor, unfortunate woman – is for you to brief me privately, and I will then circulate the info to the rest of the press pack. That way, if we can establish an agreement, I can keep them out of your hair.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Club rules, Frank, club rules!’
‘Let’s just take it as it comes,’ said the Inspector, drinking but refusing to be led up the rosy path.
‘Then, of course, what I was saying to you at Christmas – a holiday! Maybe a small boat to potter round the harbour. There’s always a…’
‘I told you,’ snarled Topham, ‘I don’t take bribes!’
Inkpen didn’t blink. ‘Ah yes, silly me. A misunderstanding. I’m sure the Widows and Orphans Fund could do with a few extra pounds, though.’
‘Whaddya want?’
‘You do realise, don’t you, that this is a unique occurrence? No political candidate has been murdered before during a general election campaign. Ever! This will put Temple Regis on the map!’
And in just the way the Mayor, the Chief Constable and the Coroner would love to see it, thought Topham bitterly, but said nothing.
‘I gather Mrs Clifford had no close family,’ probed Inkpen, ‘so no husband or jealous boyfriend as the prime suspect?’
‘She was upright. Pillar of the community,’ replied Topham, showing his contempt. ‘Much liked, very efficient as a solicitor, devoted to the idea of improving things. A truly worthwhile human being.’ Unlike some I could name.
The implied insult missed its target. ‘Obviously the main suspects, then, have to be the Labour candidate and the Liberal – they have the most to gain.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous – they’re women!’
‘It’s been known,’ said Inkpen. ‘You’ve heard the name Lizzie Borden, I’m sure.’
‘There are others,’ teased Topham.
‘Such as?’
‘Use your loaf, man!’
Inkpen struggled with this for a moment while Topham downed his pint. Finally the penny dropped: ‘What?! Are you saying that Freddy Hungerford could be a suspect? He didn’t want to retire so he killed his successor to get the seat back again?’
‘If you like. You could try walking that round the block, see where it gets you.’
‘Ha! Ha! Inspector, do you know how long I’ve been a crime reporter? I’ve lost count of the years! In my time I’ve dealt with bank robbers, rapists, extortionists, torturers – you name it. But the trickiest people to deal with are slippery coppers like you. Coppers, until they’ve been smoothed over, who are prepared to taradiddle their way from here to Timbuktu!’
‘Does smoothing over include buying them a boat?’
‘Usually.’
‘My wife’s a bad sailor.’
‘I told you, the Widows and Orphans Fund.’
‘Gets taken bad even if she steps in a puddle.’
‘Yes, yes, I get the message.’
‘She gets sick,’ pressed Topham, his voice increasing in volume. ‘But not as sick as I get when I come across people like you. We aren’t here to take free holidays, or boats, or sugar-bags filled with cash – we’re here to protect the public and uphold the law. That may sound strange to you, but that’s how it is in this manor.’
Inkpen didn’t even blink. ‘Interpol,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Interpol, Inspector. You remember we talked about them when we last met. They were due to come and pay you a visit.’
‘I don’t recall anything like that.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Inkpen, shaking his head.
‘Another pint, Frank?’ It was Sid looking unctuous, the tenner warming nicely in his breast pocket.
‘Nah.’
‘Sure, Frank?’
The copper was torn. The Portlemouth had quickly disappeared and he was ready to go. On the other hand he couldn’t leave without learning what intrigues Interpol were planning on his patch.
‘Here y’are, Sid,’ he said, and emptied a pocketful of half crowns, shillings and sixpences onto the table. ‘Have one yourself.’ He didn’t ask if Inkpen wanted more champagne – the glass had already been refilled.
‘Go on then,’ he said to the reporter.
‘One good turn deserves another,’ said Inkpen smiling.
Holding back his irritation, Topham replied with a forced wink, ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’
‘Only on that condition, and that alone, I’ll tell you what I know,’ said Inkpen. He really was a stinker.
Topham nodded vaguely.
‘They were due to come here at Christmas but, like everybody else, they have budget constraints. At the same time
they were hunting down a big gang that was importing drugs and weapons, all sorts, from France. This case got sidelined, but they’re on their way back now, I’m told.’
‘Who are they after?’
‘A man murdered his wife and fled the country. He changed his name and hopped about the Continent for a bit, finally they think they’ve got him.’
‘Name? Age? Description? And what’s he doing in Temple Regis – if he’s in Temple Regis.’
‘I haven’t been told any more for the moment. This comes from… a friend, in London. I’m assuming that when the time’s right they’ll let you know. Which is why we’re having this cosy little chat, Inspector.’
Topham looked at him, stony-faced.
‘This may sound a bit far-fetched,’ went on Inkpen, ‘but I’m the kind of chap who likes to take a long shot on the gee-gees. While my colleagues next door are stumbling around looking for the home-town killer of your Mrs Clifford, I have this other theory.’
‘Which is?’
‘That the Interpol candidate came here to kill her. Came from a long, long way away, and with one purpose – to do away with Mirabel Clifford, the squeaky-clean parliamentary candidate with a skeleton in her closet.’
‘What makes you say that?’ said Topham, sharply. ‘You don’t know the man’s name or anything about his background – this is just make-believe.’
‘Let’s just say I have an instinct, Frank,’ said Inkpen, sipping his champagne. ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘don’t let me sound critical. But for years I’ve travelled the world in search of criminals for my newspaper, and I have the huge financial backing to pursue the stories I do, in the way I want, and not be interfered with. Can the same be said of you?’
‘Five minutes ago you were talking about what an amazingly successful detective I was.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Inkpen riposted. ‘This is a hunch, but it’s one I believe in and one I’m pursuing. I’m looking into Mrs Clifford’s background, and when I find that skeleton I’ll find the person who killed her. If it’s a race between us, Inspector, I’ll get to the finish line before you do.’
Topham stood up. ‘Thank you,’ he said, slowly, ‘for the drink, and for the lecture on successful policing. I can tell you now that I’ve heard nothing from Interpol, and until I do, I’ll stick to what we do best down here – routine policing. It’s routine which will uncover the wretch who did away with a much-loved member of our community.’
‘Well,’ said Inkpen, serenely pouring himself another glass of Moët, ‘good luck, Frank. I can tell from where I sit that you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
Across town the process of persuading people it is possible to walk on water was well under way. The Labour candidate was earnestly promising a startling number of changes, all of which would benefit Temple Regis directly the moment she was elected. It truly was remarkable what benefits political change could bring in such a short time.
‘The joy of rhetoric,’ said David Renishaw acidly. ‘Just like marshmallow – pop it in your mouth, gone in a matter of seconds.’
‘Mm?’ said Terry, who was using the Hassleblad today. He had a love-hate relationship with it and it occupied a disproportionate amount of his thinking time.
‘They’re all the same,’ went on Renishaw, as if Terry was listening. ‘No real commitment. No desire to help… the underdog. Why do we bother? Why… do… we…’
They were standing on the edge of a crowd watching Lilian Smee giving a very creditable speech, but the reporter didn’t have his notebook out; instead he moved his feet around in jerky fashion and bobbed his head up and down.
‘You OK?’ said Terry, noticing his agitation.
‘It’s all such a waste of time. The whole process. You can’t believe in politicians – they’re liars and cheats. Murderers.’
‘Not round here they’re not,’ replied Terry, levelling his camera at an earnest-looking young married with her toddler. ‘This is Devon, mate.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ growled Renishaw. ‘Anyway, I’ve got all I want here, what about you?’
‘Yup.’
‘On to the Town Hall then.’
The two men, with absolutely nothing in common beyond receiving their wages from the same source, made their way from Up Street round to the Civic Centre. As they marched up the steps, a man in a pinstripe suit stopped them.
‘Press? I’m Hamish Madden, part of Sir Freddy’s team. Thanks for coming – there’ll be some drinks afterwards which I’m sure you’ll appreciate. Be quick, though – he’s about to start!’
It was extraordinary how many people could find time, during their working day, to listen to an old gasbag run through a gamut of old jokes, patronising remarks and hopeless dreams of the future, but the crowd was plentiful and Sir Freddy Hungerford was playing up to them.
‘Look!’ hissed Renishaw as Hungerford launched into a list of his lifetime achievements. ‘Over there, Terry! It’s Sirraway!’
Indeed, there was the disgruntled academic, wedged in at the front of the crowd waving a placard. ‘Watch out for him, Terry, he’s going to do something. He will!’
Terry obligingly pointed his camera at the miscreant and waited. Renishaw was right – Sirraway seemed to be working himself up, repeatedly challenging Sir Freddy’s remarks.
‘The advantage of having continuity in your sitting MP…’ burbled Hungerford.
‘Cheat!’
‘The advantage of having continuity in…’
‘Liar!’
‘As I was saying – but really, ladies and gentlemen – don’t you agree? Isn’t it utterly appalling to come all the way here just to be…’
‘THIEF!’
What happened next was a blur – to Terry, and to most of the audience. One moment David Renishaw was by his side, but the next—
‘Watch out, he’s got a knife!’ shouted the reporter at the top of his voice, launching himself through the crowd towards Sirraway. The tightly bunched bodies gave way only gradually, so that Renishaw had to punch and barge his way through to get to the front, almost as if in slow motion.
Somehow sensing he was in danger, Sirraway tossed his placard into the crowd and tried to get away, but Renishaw finally burst through and floored the academic with a single punch. The old boy was having none of it, however, and fought back vigorously – for a moment it was hard to tell who would emerge victorious. Renishaw was shouting ‘Knife! Knife!’ which deterred most of the crowd from separating them, but finally they were pulled apart.
‘You’re crazy,’ panted Renishaw, facing his opponent, ‘wanting to kill an old man like that!’
‘It’s you who’s crazy,’ panted the professor, tearing off the necktie which had been pulled tight during the mêlée and whose knot was now under his left ear. ‘I haven’t got a knife – what the devil were you doing saying that I had?’ He pocketed the tie and looked ready to come at Renishaw.
The reporter stepped back. ‘Well, it looked like it,’ he snarled. ‘And don’t tell me you didn’t want to kill that old man up on the stage!’ He looked round, appealing to the circle of people surrounding him, then up at the microphone. ‘It’s OK, Sir Frederick, you’re safe now!’
The MP peered down with a mixture of disgust and amusement on his face. ‘Get those people out of here!’ he ordered, careless of who was the assailant and who his defender. ‘I have a speech to make!’
The two men stood staring at each other when Renishaw suddenly broke free and threw himself at Sirraway. Again the men were parted, then frogmarched out the room.
Terry stood there nonplussed, his cameras swinging helplessly around his neck. Never in all his years in newspapers had he seen anything like it – a reporter attacking a member of the public!
‘Nothing to do with me,’ he told startled bystanders, and pushed his way out of the hall in disgust.
He missed what happened next. A mighty round of applause greeted the conclusion of Hungerford’s speech – extra cheers
for his being so brave in the face of a violent attack – but by that stage Terry was well on his way to cover the Liberal candidate, Helena Copplestone, who was speechifying outside the public library.
Everyone else had adjourned to the anteroom in the Town Hall where, strictly against the rules, Hamish Madden was handing out free drinks. He looked as though he’d had a few himself already.
‘Excellent, excellent, what a good speech,’ the Mayor, Sam Brough, was saying to Hamish. He was wearing his mayoral chain and had a blue delphinium in his buttonhole.
‘Another, Mr Mayor, go on!’
‘No thanks. Three’s enough at lunchtime.’
‘Will you come this evening? The Con Club? Slap-up dinner, don’t forget.’
‘If I can. Now, where’s Sir Freddy? I’ll just say goodbye – work to do!’
‘I think he just stepped down to the men’s room.’
‘I’m going that way myself.’
And so it was that the Mayor of Temple Regis, the most worshipful Samuel Brough, was the one to discover the body of Sir Frederick Patrick Slingsby Hungerford KBE sprawled out on the floor of the men’s room of the Temple Regis Conservative Club.
His open eyes told the story well enough, that all life had been extinguished by a necktie drawn tight around his throat.
Twenty-Three
The chase after Hector Sirraway was chaotic, mismanaged, determined and very angry. The police, the crème de la crème of Fleet Street’s crime correspondents, local constituency party workers – even the beleagured staff of the Rivera Express – all set off in hot pursuit.
The difficulty was in finding the man.
As in most murder cases, the trail went cold almost instantly. The shock of discovering Sir Freddy’s body consumed the early minutes of police thinking, and by the time a co-ordinated plan had been established, Sirraway could well have whistled his way down the street to Regis Junction, bought a ticket, hopped on the first Pullman Express and steamed cheerily off to the other side of the world.