The Dreaming Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  Yes, I’ve acquired a little more knowledge than I’d gathered from Kenworthy’s notes about Marcus Fair-child, whom I now believe also to be one Trufflehound, gossip-sheet writer. And a lot more than friend Meadowcraft told me, for all his attempts to blacken his mystery man in the days before that footnote in Who Killed the Preacher? recorded his death.

  ‘But Mr Fairchild is not your choice as the Boy’s murderer?’

  ‘Choice, Superintendent? I don’t think this is a matter for picking and choosing, as if — ‘ He looked all round. ‘As if I were looking at plants at the garden centre.’

  Rebuked. From above. And justly, as a matter of fact.

  ‘An unfortunate word, sir. But what would be your answer.’

  ‘No, really, Superintendent, though I am willing to respond to your request for my assessment of those individuals, I cannot go further than I have. In any of their cases.’

  ‘Very good, sir. So, alphabetically, we come next, I think, to Miss Patricia Knott.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Knott. A perfectly worthy young woman, of course. Perfectly worthy. But young. Young and — And, if I may say so, rather too forward in giving her opinions on whatever was the subject under discussion, regardless of whether more informed views had been put. Yes, altogether too forward.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  And, yes, confirmation of Kenworthy’s opinion, though his was less pompously stated in his personal notes. Pert little piece, tried to tell me what I should be doing. It had been something like that.

  ‘Harish Nair you’ve already spoken about, sir. So what were your feelings about Barney Trapnell?’

  But again came a magisterial rebuke.

  ‘Feelings? I trust that anything I tell you, Superintendent, is based on more than feelings. No, I had no particular feelings about that fellow Trapnell. He was, as far as I could see, good-hearted in his rough way. No, he was useful in that poor Kumaramangalam was afflicted with occasional weaknesses, the nature of which I never understood. But when that made him too feeble to get about easily, then young Trapnell had his uses. His arms were certainly strong enough, despite the calliper he had to wear on one of his legs. Yes, he had his uses.’

  Dismissed.

  ‘Then finally we come to Barbara Willson.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I said Kumaramangalam’s entourage were a pretty doubtful crew, and that young woman was more dubious than any of them. Frankly, I think she was a prostitute, Superintendent, or that she had been a prostitute. I suppose when she fell under the Boy’s spell she must have reformed. But that type of gutter girl can never be relied upon to go straight, you know. Never, never.’

  Not exactly the sort of view that’s likely to help me when, and if, I come to assessing each of the people who could have got into the Imperial’s ballroom at the crucial time. Among whom I include, of course, Mr Lucas Calverte, former Undersheriff. But which of them one day will I have to interview hour on hour till I get a confession? Will it be Lucas Calverte himself? Or his ‘good-hearted in his rough way’ Barney Trapnell? Or that ‘frankly I think she was a prostitute’ Bubsy Willson? Or, the very opposite, ‘perfectly worthy’ Priscilla Knott? Or the man Lucas Calverte would certainly like to see found guilty of the murder, street trader Sydney Bigod? Or would it have been dead-and-gone Harish Nair?

  *

  Driving back into Birchester, sights set on home at the end of a not unproductive day, Harriet was disconcerted to hear the sharp burble of her mobile.

  ‘Wrong number. Bound to be another bloody wrong number,’ she said aloud.

  But, senior police officer as she was, she felt obliged to pull over on to the verge before having a conversation, however brief and bad-tempered.

  Bad-tempered she certainly felt when she answered. But brief the conversation was not going to be, she knew. It was the Chief Constable calling.

  ‘Yes, sir. Is there anything new?’

  For a moment a jab of exultation rose up in her, despite her reply having been designed to express her discreet fury at this prodding from on high. Could it actually be that Mr Newcomen had changed his mind? That the murder of the Boy Preacher was going to be left lying quietly in the files?

  ‘New, Superintendent? No, there is nothing new. Not unless you have some progress to report. I should have thought that by now you would have had something to tell me.’

  ‘Well, no, sir. The clothes taken from those people thirty years ago have, naturally, been despatched to the Forensic Science laboratory. But I don’t think we can expect to hear anything for some time to come. The rule there, of course, is that current murders take priority.’

  ‘Murder takes priority, Superintendent. I think you’ll find that’s simply the rule. And, may I remind you, this is a case of murder, a case of murder that has attracted considerable public interest. I want you to make that clear to those people down in — Where is it? In Lincolnshire. Get on to them first thing tomorrow.’

  Harriet felt a wave of pure astonishment rise up in her.

  Newbroom, new broom, how avid for publicity can you get?

  ‘Yes, sir, understood,’ she answered stolidly. ‘I am fully aware of the importance of the case you’ve tasked me with.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Superintendent. And perhaps in future you’ll keep me fully briefed. I don’t want to learn at some later date that steps that ought to have been taken were neglected.’

  ‘No, sir. I quite understand.’

  She ended the call, too abruptly to show respect.

  Yes, she thought, I do quite understand. You could hardly have made it more plain. You’re sitting there poised to swoop the moment you can find something to my discredit. God, what’s got into the man? How has he possibly got it into his head that I am somehow a menace to his new-come authority?

  Oh yes, my subconscious was all too right in sending me that blatantly obvious dream. The devil and the deep blue sea.

  Right, the devil’s just advanced one long step towards me, trident at the ready. So how am I going to push back the deep blue sea of a case thirty years old?

  Chapter Nine

  Harriet found next morning, lying in bed for a few extra minutes after John had quietly left to get an uninterrupted hour or so at the towering Majestic Insurance offices, that the rage she had felt as she was driving home the previous evening had by no means left her.

  Christ, she thought, how can a man who’s had a good career in the police, a very good career in fact, how can he, once he gets into a Chiefs chair, run amok in this way? I can hardly believe it myself. I couldn’t have convinced John last night, if I tried for half an hour, that he had said what he did on the phone.

  It’s incredible. But it happened. It really did. For whatever reason, the new Chief Constable of Greater Birchester Police has become paranoid.

  And what am I, the poor bloody object of his paranoia, to do about it?

  Mind blank.

  Then — had she dozed off for a second or two? A momentary dream? — then she knew. The dream had told her.

  Damn it, what I’m going to do today is to follow the most absurd lead I’ve got. I am not going to let myself be dragooned by that man into doing whatever he thinks I should. I’m going to do precisely the opposite. I am going to go down to London and at Time Will Tell, if it still exists, I’m going to investigate Marcus Fairchild, the least suspicious of Michael Meadowcraft’s Seven Suspects, the man who allowed DCI Kenworthy to believe he was from The Times and just happened to be on the scene at the time.

  *

  Even, an hour later, in her cubbyhole office — Mr Newbroom’s poisoned chalice — she did not for a moment waver in her decision. She took a few minutes to give Pip Steadman tasks to carry out in her absence. First, he was to find out whether dead Harish Nair’s wife was still alive and, if so, where she could be found. Then he was to make inquiries about DCI Kenworthy’s bagman, Detective Sergeant Shaddock.

  ‘It’s no use just assuming a man who was on the point of retirement thirty y
ears ago must be dead by now,’ she said. ‘Never assume anything: it’s the first rule. I dare say, if you do track him down, you’ll find he’s gaga and no use to us at all. But tracked down he must be. All those years ago he may have seen something or done something that didn’t get into Mr Kenworthy’s notes, and that something might be the one small thing that will lead us to answer the question the DCI couldn’t.’

  From Pip’s pocket a battered pack of cigarettes, Royals not Marlboros, appeared. And was shoved hastily back.

  ‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’

  When Pip had departed, however, she took care at once to obey Newbroom’s phoned instruction about getting in touch ‘first thing’ with the lab at Cherry Fettleham, fool though she knew she would feel passing on his message.

  She was careful, in fact, when she got through to Dr Passmore, who had been given the six bags of clothing for analysis, to make it clear that it was a message from her Chief Constable she was giving him.

  ‘Your Chief?’ The tone of almost flabbergasted surprise came down the line as unmistakable as an amber traffic signal.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he’s most anxious for a quick result in the case.’

  ‘Well, if he is, he is. But I’m afraid I’ve got material from a current murder inquiry in front of me, and, as you know — ‘

  ‘It has total priority, of course. I absolutely understand that.’

  Then she felt free to behave in an altogether responsible way about her irresponsible dream decision, if dream it had been. She telephoned The Times and made inquiries about the man who, thirty-plus years ago, had told everyone he was a feature writer for the paper.

  Whoever it was she eventually got through to asked to be given time to find her an answer.

  So she had waited patiently, going once more through DCI Kenworthy’s files to see if there was anything about Marcus Fairchild amid the realms of paper that she had missed. There seemed to be nothing recorded other than that Fairchild was in Birchester for The Times and that he had no apparent reason for murdering the Boy Preacher.

  So, the unmasking of the Trufflehound. Another small coup for the Lateral Detective?

  Her phone rang. The young woman from The Times.

  ‘Superintendent, I have gone through all the employee records for the period you asked about. Luckily they’ve been put on the computer. But it’s quite certain that no Marcus Fairchild was a full-time member of staff. Of course, he may have been a contributor. We used to have some pretty odd pieces under the byline ‘by a correspondent’. But I’m afraid it’s unlikely we’d be able to trace any one particular writer of those — not all that way back.’

  All that way, Harriet thought. It wasn’t so far back into the mists of time when I was at school.

  ‘No, I understand,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very kind, and I think what you’ve told me will be enough. I suppose I can always get back to you if the matter turns out to be absolutely relevant to my inquiries.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course,’ the distant voice said, sounding as if she scarcely meant it.

  Harriet picked up the phone again and rang Birchester Central station about trains to London. There was one she could just catch that would get her there by eleven o’clock.

  *

  Standing in a dingy street on the edge of the City, Harriet looked across at the tall narrow old building which had once sheltered the London office of Time Will Tell, ‘gossip and guesswork periodical’ as the Birchester Chronicle had sniffily described it. She had hoped that there would be some remnant of its existence at least. But there was nothing, not even its name on the dusty plaques listing the various enterprises the grey, aged building now housed.

  Jesus, she thought, have I been a total fool? Going off on something of a wild goose chase like this on the strength of a dream. A dream, damn it. To allow myself to be led away, with not much more than an hour’s consideration, by something I just for a moment dreamt. But, of course, it wasn’t really that. It was Newbroom. If I hadn’t been in such a rage all evening, all night while I slept, all this morning, I would never have set off in that absurdly impulsive way.

  So what now?

  Only one thing for it, of course. Back to Birchester as quickly as possible, tail between my legs, and hope that Newbroom hasn’t been on to me in the meantime.

  She turned away in the direction of the Underground station she had just come from. And an odour of frying sausages swept into her nostrils.

  Damn it, I’m hungry. It must be getting on for midday. At least I’ll get a snack here. I deserve it, even if I did leave the house breakfastless so as to chase after my ridiculous hunch.

  Me, a senior detective, with a bloody good record, following a hunch, a dream.

  Blame Newbroom again.

  In a moment she had tracked down the source of the delicious frying smell. It was a small, old-fashioned cafe. Very old-fashioned, to judge by the sign painted in curly letters above it, Mack’s Sausages Are the Best. No early twenty-first-century clamour like Great British Breakfast Served All Day or Super Traditional Fish and Chips. This place must have been here, just as it is, back in the days when the Boy Preacher was drawing crowds up and down the country to listen to his simple message of peace and plain living.

  She pushed open its door, hearing with pleasure the ding-dong of a real bell clanging out over her head.

  There were a dozen tin-topped tables, a little the worse for wear if truth be told. Only one of them was occupied, by an elderly man with a drooping moustache, head down, chewing away at a plate of sausage and egg. A counter stretched across the far end of the long narrow room, and the ceiling, once white, had turned a yellowish brown from years of tobacco smoke.

  And, for all the newish statutory notice on one wall saying No Smoking, that smell still lingered.

  Harriet forgave every sniff of it, little though she usually liked having to eat in such an atmosphere. And into her mind once again there came the stale cigarette odour from the past that, as little Mr Popham had greeted her coming out of the Imperial’s ballroom, had taken her suddenly back to the time of the Boy’s murder and fired her with the determination to resolve it, however many years ago it had taken place.

  ‘What can I do you for, love?’ the man behind the counter boomed out.

  He was all of a piece with his surroundings, and must indeed be Mack whose sausages were best. Robust, bald-headed, red-cheeked, a blue and white striped apron across his considerable turn.

  ‘You can give me a plate of your delicious-smelling sausages, if you will.’

  ‘Right here behind me, me dear. And a nice cuppa?’

  Harriet, who in truth preferred coffee, and straight from the cafetiere at that, decided on the spur of the moment that, yes, tea, good, strong tea, was what should accompany that plate of sausages.

  She watched while Mack scooped them out of his wide frying pan.

  ‘There’s something else you could perhaps help me with,’ she said on an impulse. I’ve been looking for the office, over the way, of a magazine called Time Will Tell.’

  ‘That lot,’ Mack roared out. ‘All been gone this many a year. Rum, they were. A right rum lot. Communists and all sorts. All right, mind. All right when you got to know them. But it was the old duck as used to come to do their typing as I really liked. And she really liked my sausages, she did. Got it out of me one day where I get ‘em from, and for years she’d come back every now and again and buy herself a half-pound from my butcher round the corner. Always came in here when she did, say good morning. But a half-pound only, mind you. Won’t go having no good guzzle, old Ma Wetherleaf. Enough’s enough, that’s her motto. Enough’s enough, and a bit too much. But I liked her. I liked her, for all her mousy ways. One of the old sort, that’s what she is. One of the old sort.’

  Harriet stopped him as he was opening the hatch in his counter to take her plate to one of the tables. A thought had occurred to her. A wisp of an idea.

  ‘No, no, I’ll carry them over,’ s
he said, taking hold of the plate and the mug of tan-brown tea. ‘But, tell me, Miss Wetherleaf, was that her name? It’s one I’ve never heard before.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s it she is. Miss Wetherleaf. Funny old name. Known her for years.’

  ‘And you say she used to be a typist at Time Will Tell?’

  Mack smacked his forehead with a huge, meaty hand.

  ‘No, no,’ he boomed. ‘I tell a lie. I tell a lie. Not a typist. No. Something else. Told me all about it once. Yes. Yes, that’s it. Copy typist for those recording machines. No, she used to come up, once a week, twice, and collect the big reels their writers used to send ‘em with their stories. All different now, of course. My little grandson got one of them mini things you can put a message on, and he sends me them sometimes. No bigger than a packet of fags. ‘Course I can’t hear them, haven’t got the whatsit. But he likes to do it, he likes to do it, and I never lets on.’

  Harriet set down the fragrant plate, which was beginning to burn her fingers, on the nearest table.

  ‘Bread and butter, love?’ Mack inquired. ‘Comes with the order.’

  ‘No. No, thank you. This will be more than enough. But, tell me, does Miss Wetherleaf still come up to buy her sausages? How often does she look in on you?’

  ‘Oh, she don’t come here no more. Journey too much for her, I expec’. She’ll be getting on a bit. She weren’t no chicken back in the old Time Will Tell days. No, it’s been a year — two — since I seen her.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know where she lives, by any chance, would you?’ she asked.

  Standing by the table, she waited with more anxiety than she liked to show for the big cafe owner’s answer.

  ‘Gawd bless you, no,’ Mack said cheerfully. ‘Only known the old bat thirty or forty years, but we weren’t never on what you call intimate terms. Oh, dear me, no.’