‘Unlucky for Ted that he hadn’t changed his car,’ Brigit smiled.
‘Unlucky for Ted – or lucky for the inquiry, one might say. When he was interviewed about the girl he was swimming away from he refused to acknowledge that he even knew her. Even though the sea rescue had occurred four years earlier, it didn’t take the police long to spot the connection, and Joanna gave a full statement.’
‘So what happened to Ted after that?’
‘He died.’
Brigit and Grant had stopped for lunch at a coastal pub. As they walked in ‘My Cherie Amour’ was playing on the jukebox. The place seemed frozen in time.
‘Stevie Wonder, 1968!’ he exclaimed. ‘The year of the swimming incident. So many of these pubs are in a time warp.’ Far from being disappointed, he was delighted to scan the surroundings, table skittles in one corner, a shove-ha’penny board in another, signed photographs of lesser-known celebrities behind a copper-topped bar. It had all the paraphernalia of a 1960s’ pub with a bonus – a stunning view of Cornwall’s dramatic coastline.
‘So how did he die, and when?’ Brigit was becoming increasingly interested in Ted.
Her query snapped Grant out of his reverie. ‘Later that year, in 1972. It seems that Big Deal Ted was not doing as well as he would have had everyone believe. His factory had burnt down, there was a problem with the insurance, and he was being treated for depression.’
‘And how does Maigret know all this?’
‘That summer I went out with his daughter Caroline, if you must know. Shortly after we left Cornwall I stayed with the family for a few days. Ted seemed withdrawn, saying little at mealtimes and retreating to his study as soon as he could. What I didn’t know was that he was being treated for manic depression, what’s now called bipolar disorder. He was rumoured to be having electroshock therapy during that last holiday, according to gossip in the hotel. He was a complex man. The approbation of his peer group was very important to him. He felt he had arrived at a type of top table by being able to afford the hotel each year. It gave him a sense of status that reflected, in his estimation, his business success. He particularly cherished acceptance by people from the professions – doctors, accountants and so on – and he used to say, “And me, a humble man from trade.” To lose status with his peer group would have been devastating, and no doubt that was a factor in his disgraceful treatment of Joanna. When I stayed with the Jessops, Caroline and I spent most of the time at the nearby country club, hanging around the bar and playing table tennis with her friends. The relationship fizzled out that autumn, but she wrote to me in November 1972 saying her father had died.’
‘What was the cause?’
‘He was quite overweight, had high blood pressure and was prone to sudden bouts of temper. These days, of course, he would have been treated with pills.’
‘It doesn’t seem as if he would have been mourned very much. What a sad end, even if he sounds rather disagreeable.’
‘Actually there were over two hundred people at his funeral. They came from far and wide. Some were dodgy-looking individuals whom Caroline referred to as “the hoods”, while a number of local friends and acquaintances turned up. Many of them had known Ted since childhood. I suppose at fifty-four he died before most of his contemporaries.’
‘So he wasn’t all bad.’
‘Definitely not. He could be the life and soul of a party. He was a great raconteur and when he was on a roll he could entertain people for hours.’
‘So what do you think went wrong?’ ‘He became tortured by the sins of his past. Clearly he was never able to acknowledge Joanna properly, and her pursuing him to Cornwall on his family’s annual jaunt must have shocked him to the core.’
‘So it should.’
‘Well, whatever, he was apparently never the same after August 1972, and it was only three months later that he had a massive heart attack and died. Of course his decline may have started earlier, but running into Ivan that day at the hotel must have scared the hell out of him. When Ivan saw him again he evidently gave Ted a stare that said “I know what you’ve done, you bastard.” Seeing Ivan that day might have tipped the balance of his health.’
‘How did the police react to the news of his death?’
‘No one really knew. There was a police constable called Stobart who attended the funeral. In fact, he had to take action as the coffin was lowered into the ground.’
‘Why?’
‘Joanna turned up, and while most people were paying their respects she came forward, tossed some earth on the grave and shouted, “Go to hell!” PC Stobart leapt forward and restrained her. He knew who she was, as he had taken a statement from her concerning her biological father a few months earlier.’
Brigit’s thoughts were elsewhere. She was brooding on the man she thought had been following them on the coastal path. Uneasily she recalled seeing a man sitting in his car, deliberately feigning distraction as they drove away.
5
15 AUGUST 1972
Bob Silver rarely stayed the full fortnight. A sharp, dapper and very fit man, he was always on the go, seemingly unable to relax or switch into holiday mode. He would arrive after his family, invariably disappear for a few days during the vacation and then leave early. It was never explained why, other than that he led people to believe he was involved in high-powered meetings and deals back in London. His younger son Justyn was fond of remarking cryptically, ‘He’s important for being important.’
His wife, Margaret, a GP, was agreeable and long-suffering, and their three offspring seemed well adjusted. Henry, the eldest, in his mid-twenties, was a writer of sorts and was pursuing a career as a journalist. He had got a first in English at Oxford, an achievement that didn’t attract the slightest bit of attention among the holiday fraternity. It was seen as insignificant compared with the fact that Justyn was in a rock band; that was really considered something. However, Henry’s left-wing views could start an argument in an empty room – which it certainly became when he hit his political stride. His sister, Fiona, had followed in her mother’s footsteps and qualified as a doctor. Justyn was expected to follow his father into the City but had got involved in a fledgling rock band in his last year at school and was planning to go on tour that autumn. He and his three fellow band members had deferred university places for a year to give their musical career a go. Bob was furious. Justyn nearly didn’t join his family on the holiday that year, but, faced with the prospect of an autumn of piling into a van and playing gigs in unglamorous locations across the length and breadth of Britain, he had decided on some last-minute vacation therapy in Cornwall.
Justyn would appear at odd times in the night and practise yoga – either in the downstairs lounge or else outside, if the dawn was breaking and the weather was reasonable. Tom and Bill used to tolerate him; they liked him and were irritated by him in equal measure, as he often woke them up. Some nights he didn’t go to bed at all. On one occasion he saw his father pull up the drive in his white Jensen at one-thirty in the morning and, distracted from his yoga, went to ask him why he was coming in at that late hour. His father brushed past him, telling him to mind his own business.
Tom, who had been lurking within earshot, went to console the teenager, but Justyn said that was the way his father was. He confided in Tom that Bob wasn’t much of a father, believing that money controlled everything, and he was unable to understand his youngest son not following him into the City. It was probably fair to say that the father–son relationship was at rock bottom. Justyn used to play Leonard Cohen’s song ‘Suzanne’ while he practised yoga. His father had remarked it was the most depressing music he had ever heard, which became the trigger for his son to play the track incessantly.
Bob was an enigma. He defied stereotyping. He could be quite racy and charismatic, and yet his mood could quickly darken. He was involved with the administration of a West End theatre in some financial capacity and was a great supporter of the arts. In fact, the night of his mysteriou
s late-night arrival back at the hotel he had been watching a play at the Minack Theatre on the west coast; it was rumoured that he was a significant benefactor. Bob’s marriage appeared to be somewhat rocky, but Margaret seemed unperturbed by her husband’s late return. Justyn, however, was angry with his father and told Tom he was worried that his parents might come to blows. It was around two in the morning by this time, and Tom had disappeared to get some tea. When he returned Justyn had decided to eavesdrop outside his parents’ room.
All was quiet, so he returned to the lounge downstairs. He asked Tom where the Minack Theatre was, and Tom explained it was a remarkable open-air amphitheatre near Porthcurno. He said that during the summer months plays would start in daylight and finish after dusk. He described its stone seats and its breathtaking backdrop of a shimmering sunset over the sea beyond the stage, where dolphins could often be seen.
Justyn determined to take a group of friends to the theatre and bought seats for the following night. So Suzie Hughes-Webb, Caroline Jessops, Danny Galvin and Grant Morrison crammed into Justyn’s Peugeot 204 and drove off to see the première of a play, a story based on the life of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Not long after it started, a terrible storm swept in. Thunder rolled as lightning struck almost directly overhead, and the principal players on the stage were soaked. The sea was several shades of black and grey, and Holmes had to ad-lib, ‘What a terrible night to be out, Dr Watson.’
That night at the Minack Justyn and his friends spotted Bob with a young male companion. They appeared to be on cordial, even intimate, terms. Bob and his friend had watched The Tempest the previous evening, according to another hotel resident who had spotted them.
‘I knew it. I knew it,’ Justyn announced to the group.
Grant didn’t believe he did for a moment but thought Justyn might have found the answer to a puzzle. On the way back to the hotel the five friends stopped off at a pub in St Buryan, very much a spit-and-sawdust boozer. Justyn’s father walked in a few minutes later with his escort and ordered drinks before spotting the group of teenagers at a nearby table. Startled, he began to stammer an introduction to his friend; this was highly unusual, given how self-assured and articulate Bob usually was. The younger generation viewed the scene, judgements written large on their faces, which generally glowered disapproval. Bob and his companion, Clive, downed their drinks in a hurry. Bob said they had to go, as he had to be in London the next day for an important meeting. Justyn, the eldest of the group and probably the most mature, remarked casually that it was a good job homosexuality had been legalized five years earlier. Overall, he seemed pretty relaxed about the situation, commenting it was ‘just a drag’, smiling, aware of his ironic use of word. The most awkward moment occurred when Herb Alpert’s ‘This Guy’s in Love with You’ started playing on the jukebox just as Bob and Clive were uttering hurried goodbyes.
Back at the hotel the teenagers dispersed around midnight after a late-night drink and some banter in the large lounge. Justyn, however, knew he was not ready for sleep and waited until he was alone before seeking out Tom. They talked for hours. Justyn confided in him the evening’s events at the Minack and afterwards at the pub, asking him for advice.
Tom hesitated before replying, in the low boom of his powerful voice, ‘I think you need to get him to see a doctor as soon as possible. I’ve heard about this condition, and I know some folk around here recommend electroshock treatment.’
Justyn regarded him quizzically and registered, with some clarity, the generational differences between them, no matter how much he liked Tom. He thanked him for his time and wise words, struggling to prevent himself from laughing at his own insincerity and resisting vocalizing his prevailing thought: Man, you are far out.
He entered the lift to go up to his third-floor bedroom, but just as the door was closing he saw his father walking into the hotel lobby, having rung the doorbell and been let in by Tom. He checked his watch – it was five-thirty in the morning.
6
17 AUGUST 1972
Richard Hughes-Webb leant across the table at dinner that evening and in a barely audible voice lambasted his wife. ‘You bitch, you filthy little bitch.’ With that he calmly stood up from the table, removed his white linen napkin from its position wedged above his bow tie and walked out of the restaurant. His wife, Yvie, a diminutive but striking woman who worked tirelessly on her appearance to belie her middle age, remained at the table triumphant as their children, Suzie and Tony, looked aghast.
A dramatic event earlier in the day had triggered this. Richard’s first wife, Estelle, had paid an unexpected visit to the hotel. Theirs had been a short marriage, no more than five years, but the damage they did to each other would last until death parted them. While Richard had moved on, remarried and become master of his universe, both personally and professionally, Estelle very definitely had not, and she loathed Richard all the more for his apparent success and happiness.
After the divorce she had taken a young lover, a sculptor, who persuaded her to move west to Cornwall. It wasn’t long before she caught him with someone closer to his own age, and her hatred for her ex-husband took centre stage in her life once more. She knew he went to Cornwall each August and at which hotel the family stayed; she had learnt this from a mutual friend. One day she hired a driver to take her from her home in St Mawes near Falmouth to the hotel, having ascertained Richard’s presence there from a call to the switchboard. She arrived around six-thirty in the evening after drinking all day.
She told the driver to wait and staggered through the entrance of the hotel. She made it to the reception desk, where she immediately went on the offensive. ‘Anyone seen that bastard ex-husband of mine? What’s his name – Rickety Humphrey-Bumfrey.’ With that she collapsed in a heap.
Richard was not best pleased to be called down to reception as he was running his pre-dinner bath. A man of routine, he always dressed formally in black tie for dinner, and he and Yvie were always in the bar at seven on the dot to place their order from the day’s menu before being shown to their table at seven-forty-five. Yvie would match his elegance with her hair in a bird’s-nest bun, stiff with hairspray, wearing a floor-length floral-print maxi gown with flowing sleeves that concealed her high platform shoes, chosen to buy her a few more inches. Her deep plunging neckline indicated a woman very much aware of her charms and prepared to display them. Their marriage had its tempestuous moments, but it was Estelle who seized the headlines that day.
Angered by the rude interruption to his cherished routine, the abhorrent vision of his former wife – an inebriated wreck of a human being – lying at his feet provoked an angry roar that could be heard throughout the hotel. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
‘Don’t be cross with me, Richie. I only want a little love and affection.’
At this point he picked his ex-wife off the floor and threw her over his shoulder, aided by Arnie Charnley, who then helped steer them out of the hotel. The two men saw the parked car in the drive, and Arnie hurried to open a back door through which Richard dumped the hapless Estelle. He gave the driver £10 and told him to take her home and never to let her darken his doors again. As she was driven away Estelle, barely conscious, her face smeared in rouge and crimson lipstick, cast a desperate glance at her former husband that was simultaneously pitiful and furious.
Richard walked calmly back inside the hotel, checked himself in the hallway mirror, adjusted his bow tie and proceeded to the bar to order a scotch on the rocks. By the time Yvie had joined him the story of Estelle’s brief appearance was already well known.
His mood was not improved at dinner by Yvie goading him on another subject. ‘So, Richard, what have you been doing in Zennor today?’ she inquired, knowing this grenade would explode the moment it was delivered.
He decided to surprise his antagonistic spouse by ignoring the question and continuing to consume his cream of cauliflower soup, slurping louder than usual.
‘Oh, come on, don’t pr
etend to Suzie and Tony you haven’t spent the day …’
With that he cursed angrily and left the dining-room. He wasn’t prepared to enter into controversial dialogue with his second wife any more than he was with his first. He knew Yvie was intent on humiliating him about a relationship she was convinced he was conducting at his cottage in Zennor.
But he had other reasons for not wishing to discuss the subject. He knew that earlier in the day the police had made a discovery in an outhouse in the garden of the cottage. They had found parasite worm eggs containing infected larvae. Richard, upon being questioned, revealed that he had taken these from a London teaching hospital for use in experiments carried out on animals for the advancement of research into heart disease. The police had referred the discovery to their forensic team, who considered that worm eggs could be placed inconspicuously in food, as a result of which an intended victim could suffer life-threatening ascariasis infection. Richard had assured them that a human would need to eat extraordinarily large quantities for the toxin to have any serious adverse effects on his or her health. However, he was well aware that he was being monitored by the police, a thought that did not sit comfortably with him. So when Estelle made such an unwelcome intrusion back into his life and then Yvie decided to bait him he lost control.
The scene in the restaurant that night would have probably been quickly forgotten but for the fact that it was witnessed by the Vernon family at the next table. The son, Robert, wasted little time in telling his teenage friends at the hotel, ‘We often see them argue, but this was really heavy.’
Richard’s grey day was soon to become his black night. Upon leaving his family mid-meal he walked down the long hotel drive to the Office, which was situated a hundred yards on the right along the road leading to Carbis Bay. There he waited for an hour or so, knocking back several whiskies on his own. Eventually he was joined by a female companion, Grant’s mother, Rose Morrison, who drove with him to his cottage at Zennor. The assignation went largely unnoticed except by Hector Wallace, the hotel’s Olympian imbiber, who had already taken his customary place on his stool at the bar.
Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice Page 3
