That had my attention. Charles Fox was one of the names the Reverend Purslowe had mentioned as one of his bell-ringing group. The good vicar had practically canonised the banker for the money he'd lavished on the church.
I said: "What more can you tell me about Fox?"
"How long have you got?"
"How long do you need?"
Susan winked. "How about the rest of your life?"
I winked back. "How about we sit at the table over there while we drink our coffee and you give me a five-minute briefing?"
Susan shrugged. "Guess I'll have to put the rest of my life on hold." But she headed for the table and I followed.
I took a swig of the coffee and asked: "I'm guessing from your reaction, Charles Fox is not just another money man on the make?"
Susan gave her coffee a desultory stir with her spoon. "The guy likes to play the pin-striped banker image, but he's really got the business ethics of a back-street bookie."
"Fast and loose?"
"Any looser and those pin-striped trousers of his would fall round his ankles." Susan grinned, then leaned forward more serious. "He took over as chairman of the bank from his father Richardson Fox five years ago. The bank was founded in the eighteenth century as a place for wealthy Quakers to stash all that cash they made from selling porridge oats. They didn't like anyone poking noses into their financial affairs, so the bank's watchword was discretion. Imagine a bank with a 'keep out' sign over the door and you'll get the idea. There are only two branches - one in Gracechurch Street in the City of London and one in Brighton. You won't know where the branches are because they don't have name plaques on the buildings. They say unless you can smell the money, you'll never find your way there."
"That rules me out."
"Me, too," Susan said. "Richardson had run the bank on the same careful lines as his father and his father before him. They looked after the money and kept their names out of the headlines. A discreet mention in the Financial Times when the annual general meeting came round, but that was about it. But when Charles took over it was like a hustler had replaced a hermit."
"Too many big ideas?" I said.
"Too many crooked ideas," Susan said. "Not that anything was ever proved. Charles was as sharp as a shark's tooth. But he didn't realise that when you're swimming with sharks, you may get eaten."
"And did he?"
"Almost, if the rumour mill had it right. Remember that dodgy seafront casino project the crooked property developer Septimus Darke was behind?"
"That was three years ago," I said. I'd faced down Darke after a long investigation and he was still serving time in Lewes prison.
"Charles put up more than a million for the project. Lost the lot. It nearly brought the bank down. If it hadn't been for his wife's money, probably would have done."
"That would be Lady Evangelina," I said.
"You've heard of her?" Susan said.
"Apparently it's a courtesy title because her daddy was an earl. I heard he died a year ago."
“I wrote a story about his death,” Susan said. “The Earl’s title died out because there was no male heir and a woman couldn't inherit. But Evangelina picked up a pile of the folding stuff. As you know, wills are published and I made a point of looking up the sum - it was more than seven hundred thousand pounds. But the money is in a complex trust fund set up only for the Earl and Countess's natural daughter. The terms of the fund are tighter than a mouse's arsehole. They're designed to make sure that nobody outside the family gets their hands on a penny. Evangelina gets the income from it rather than the capital. I wrote a story, but Figgis spiked it. Said people didn't like reading stories about rich people scooping even more boodle. It just depressed them."
I said: "Figgis was wrong about that. It may stimulate jealousy, but that's a powerful emotion and emotions sell newspapers."
Susan nodded. "That's as maybe, but there was an interesting twist in the will. Charles and Evangelina have a nineteen-year-old daughter called Christabel - and she inherited the family mansion, Natterjack Grange."
"I know the place. It's that Victorian pile just north of Sompting village."
"But I bet you don't know this. Since Christabel moved in, she's turned the place into a commune. I've heard it's dropout heaven over there."
I raised an eyebrow at that. "What kind of dropouts?" I asked.
Susan shrugged. "Beatniks, hippies, whatever they call themselves these days."
"I thought beatniks had gone out with Jack Kerouac's beat generation ideas."
"Seems they're still around. But I think the hippies are taking over. At any rate, Christabel has moved a bunch of people into the old house and it's all peace and love. Mostly love, apparently. But that's all I know."
Susan picked up her mug and drained the last of her coffee.
She said: "I can't sit around here any longer unless you're going to propose marriage to me, honeybunch."
"It would be fun, but I don't deserve so much happiness," I said.
"Yeah! I heard Frank Figgis say exactly the same thing about you."
Susan stood up and headed for the door. She was still giggling as she went through it.
But I had a frown. What she'd told me about Charles Fox had made worrying thoughts scamper around in my mind like rats in a sack. Spencer Hooke would have known Fox through the bell-ringers' circle. Blackmailers can sniff out a crook like a vulture smells a rotting corpse. When you're looking for the culprit of a crime, a sound adage is to follow the money. And of all the people Hooke knew, Fox would be the richest. He'd be an ideal target. A rich man with dirty secrets. A blackmailer's perfect sap.
It all led me to a sombre conclusion. Could Fox be the killer who'd run Hooke down on the Bostal road?
He wouldn't do it himself. He'd be rich enough to pay a professional assassin.
It would take some looking into - and with a moneybags like Fox that wouldn't be easy. I'd need to penetrate a defensive circle of secretaries, personal assistants and accountants. Perhaps Fox even had a bodyguard.
I glanced at my watch. There was still half an hour before my line to Australia would come through.
I hurried back into the newsroom, sat down at my desk and looked up Fox's number in the telephone directory. I dialled the number.
The phone was answered by a woman. A voice like the crack of a whip said: "Lady Evangelina Fox speaking."
I turned on my friendly tone and said: "Good morning, Lady Evangelina. This is Colin Crampton, a gentleman of the press."
"I wasn't aware the press had any gentlemen."
"I work for the Evening Chronicle."
"Is that supposed to impress me?"
"It cheers me up most mornings. But the reason for my call is I need to speak to your husband, Mr Charles Fox."
"I know who my husband is," the good lady snapped.
I said: "I was just confirming that I know who your husband is."
"As you're calling to speak to him, I'd assumed that."
"Then could you put him on the line?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"He's not here."
"Do you know where I can reach him?"
"Not at present. But I suppose this evening he'll be with those dreadful bell-ringing people."
"But he's out of contact until then?"
"That's what I've just said. Anyway, why do you need to speak to him? I trust this isn’t more muckraking about my husband's banking affairs."
"At the Chronicle we don't deal in muck. And if any unexpectedly comes our way we never rake it. I wanted to talk to your husband about Spencer Hooke, his bell-ringing companion who was killed in an accident on the Steyning Bostal road."
"I'd heard something about that. But I doubt whether Charles would be able to help you. He rings bells with the others, but doesn't socialise with them. Not our sort. Neither are journalists."
The line went dead.
I sat back for a moment and thought about that. Lady Evangelina so
unded like she cared nothing for bell-ringers - or much for her husband.
I was pondering that when the phone rang again. The operator said she had a line to Australia and did I want to make a call?
I hurriedly reached for my copy of Willings Press Guide and turned to the Australian newspapers. The Adelaide paper with the largest circulation was called The Advertiser. It would be the paper most likely to have a crime reporter. I gave the operator the number.
When I was put through, it took a couple of minutes to persuade the newsroom secretary that I was a reporter calling from England. She finally agreed to connect me to a guy she called the "police and courts reporter".
A brisk voice said: "Bill Freeman."
"Colin Crampton. Crime reporter on the Brighton Evening Chronicle in merry old England."
"G'day Colin. So you're calling from the old country. Has there been a murder round the maypole?"
I gave a diplomatic laugh. "No. It's something else I'm calling about. A missing woman."
I waited for Bill to reply.
The line crackled and I thought I'd lost the connection.
Then Bill's voice, a lot less jokey, said: "What did you say?"
"I said I'm looking for a missing woman."
"In Brighton or in Adelaide?"
"In Adelaide."
"That's what I feared."
Something was wrong. I said: "Why do you fear that?"
"Because here in Adelaide, we've had two women go missing in the past three months. And both turned up murdered."
If blood could run cold, mine would have turned into an Alpine glacier.
I heard my voice quaver as I asked: "Do you have names for these women?"
"Engraved in my memory. I covered the stories. Delia Waters and Alice Kemp. Both middle-aged women in their forties and fifties."
I sighed with relief. Neither was Shirley's mum.
I said: "Have the cops caught their killer?"
"No. And the blue meanies believe he'll kill again. That's why my ears turned into radar dishes when you mentioned a missing woman. Who is she?"
"She's Mrs Barbara Goldsmith."
I explained about Shirley's mum. About the letters Shirley received every week. About the fact there hadn't been a letter for five weeks. And about the fact that Shirley hadn't been able to raise her mum on the telephone.
"I was wondering whether you could call at the house, perhaps talk to the neighbours, pick up any information."
Bill said: "If it's what I fear I'll be round there in an hour."
I gave Bill Barbara's address. He promised he'd check it out as a priority. But he warned that the time difference meant he might not be able to get back to me until tomorrow.
I replaced the receiver with a shaky hand. My heart thumped in my chest and I shivered.
I sat at my desk and stared blankly at my typewriter. I couldn't believe that Barbara Goldsmith had been murdered. There were plenty of other reasons why she could have gone missing. I tried to construct scenarios to explain why Shirley hadn't received the weekly letter from her mum.
But every time I came back to a murdered woman. The cold urgency of Bill's words kept repeating themselves in my head. "If it's what I fear, I'll be round there in an hour."
And another thought was pounding in my brain: what should I tell Shirley?
Chapter 11
Sometimes it can be kind to tell a lie.
Like when the mother of the bride has a giant boil on her nose and asks you whether she's ever looked better.
Like when your grandmother asks whether the black lump on your plate which looks like a cremated toad isn't the most delicious scone you've ever eaten.
Like when your girlfriend is ten thousand miles from her mother and wants to know why she hasn't been in touch.
An hour after I'd put down the phone to Bill Freeman I met Shirley for lunch at Marcello's.
I had a mushroom omelette. Shirley had a ham salad.
I had a secret. Shirley had a worried frown.
Shirley picked at her food while I explained how I'd contacted Bill Freeman on The Advertiser. I kept it as upbeat as I could without giving Shirley any false optimism. But I didn't mention the serial killer - or hint that was the reason why Barbara hadn't been in touch.
I felt bad about not telling Shirley about my fears. But perhaps they'd prove groundless and she would only worry needlessly.
Shirley speared a piece of tomato with her fork and said: "I guess we'll have to wait until Bill checks in tomorrow. He's an ace cobber doing this when there's nothing in it for him."
I swallowed a mouthful of omelette and said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?" Shirley said.
"I just burnt my mouth on a hot mushroom," I lied.
"I'll sure be relieved when I hear from my Ma," Shirl said.
"Until then, try and find something to take your mind off it."
Shirley finished her salad and clunked her knife and fork back on the plate. "As it happens, there is something. I've had another work offer in the post this morning."
"That's great," I said.
For the past year, Shirl had been working as a photographer's model - mostly fashion shoots for small magazines. In recent weeks the work had become more regular.
"Is the money good?" I asked.
"Very good. Trouble is I can't decide whether this is the kind of work I want to do."
"What kind of work is that?"
"It's modelling for a clothes catalogue."
"You've done that before."
"Not this kind of catalogue. The catalogue is called Night-time Whispers."
"And I'm guessing whoever reads it won't be whispering their prayers."
"Yeah. Let me put it this way. The kind of gear they want me to model wouldn't keep you warm on a cold night."
Shirley rummaged in her handbag and fished out something about the same size as a thin paperback book.
She pushed it across the table.
I looked at the cover. It showed a statuesque blonde wearing a pair of black lace panties, peek-a-boo bra and a saucy smile.
I said: "I've just decided what I'm buying you for Christmas."
"Forget it, buster. And that's just the more respectable gear."
I flicked over a few pages. There were baby-doll nighties trimmed with feathers. There were basques sculpted like egg-timers. There were panties trimmed with faux mink. There were bras that could hoist watermelons. There were stockings with fishnets that could catch a salmon. There were lacy garters that would snap anyone to attention.
I put the catalogue down.
I said: "I can imagine you modelling this gear, but I'm not sure I'd want other people seeing you in it."
Shirley grinned: "You say the nicest things - sometimes."
"So what's the verdict?"
"I'll turn them down." She picked up the catalogue. "I'll bin this."
"Yes. Better not leave it for Marcello. He'll go blind if he reads this."
Shirley dumped the catalogue upside down on the table.
I glanced at the back cover. A headline read: Fifi Le Bonbon models our Naughty November collection.
The colour picture showed a young woman with auburn hair styled in curls. She was wearing a transparent pink nightie with black stockings and red suspenders. But it wasn't the bedroom gear that had me riveted. (Honest!) It was the face. The woman had rouged cheeks and carmine lips. She wore heavy blue eyeshadow and had long false lashes, like rare spiders. She had piercing green-blue eyes which looked direct at the camera as if daring the lens not to fall in love with her.
I thought of Andrew Marvell's poem To His Coy Mistress. But there was no false modesty about this girl. Old Marvell would certainly have allowed one hundred years to praise her eyes and two hundred to adore each breast. And there was no need for this madam's coyness to turn to dust. It had the moment she'd put on the gear.
Because I'd met her just the day before.
When she wasn't parading in
her underwear, Fifi Le Bonbon was better known as Georgina Staples, proprietor of the Steyning tuck shop.
***
As I powered the MGB towards Steyning, I couldn't get the picture of Georgina in her pink nightie and black stockings out of my mind.
But not for the reason you're thinking.
If Spencer Hooke had seen the picture as well, he'd find a way to turn it to blackmail. He'd put the screw on Georgina. And he wouldn't be satisfied with a bag of toffees or a few gobstoppers. Hooke would have wanted hard cash.
The tuck shop relied on sales to boys from the school. If the headmaster heard about Georgina's saucy side-line, there's no saying what he might do. But, most likely, he'd ban boys from using the shop. Georgina would watch her little business melt away like an ice-cream sundae on a hot day. She'd have a strong motive to keep her modelling secret. But would she resort to murder?
I slowed the car as I drove through the narrow street in the mediaeval village of Bramber. Hunched timber-framed cottages with leaded windows crowded alongside the road. I glanced at the ruined castle which loomed over the place. It seemed like an emblem of what the Hooke murder story was all about - ruin.
Reputations in tatters.
The Night-time Whispers catalogue lay on the passenger seat beside me. I'd persuaded Shirley to lend it. After I'd confronted Georgina with it, there was no telling what she might do.
But I was determined to find out.
***
I parked the MGB a few yards down the street from the tuck shop. I stuffed the catalogue in my jacket pocket and climbed out.
It was early afternoon, a brisk day with fluffy white clouds scudding across a blue sky. Further down the street, I could see a couple of elderly ladies strolling arm-in-arm towards the church. They didn't look the Night-time Whispers type.
I walked towards the tuck shop wondering how I should handle the interview. If Georgina wanted to pose in her undies for a catalogue, that was her affair. It wasn't a crime. If I questioned her about it, she'd be entitled to tell me to mind my own business and show me the door.
But when I reached the shop's door, a sign in the window read: "Closed". There was a blind pulled down behind the door.
I rapped on the door.
Not like a schoolboy wanting some sherbet lemons.
The Mother's Day Mystery Page 9
