The Mother's Day Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  "The latest consignment - the one Hobson picked up on Friday night - will have been passed down the distribution chain by now," I said. “But if you could find Mr Big who put up the finance, you’d be able to roll up the whole operation.”

  Ted nodded morosely. "Yes, and Zach was the last link in that chain. Now he's at the bottom of the well."

  "And you have no idea who Zach reported to?" I asked.

  Ted shook his head.

  "Me neither. So Mr Big walks free as well." I said.

  I ran my hands over my face to get the circulation going. It was late and I was tired. I had a story about the rescue of Barbara from a kidnapper. But I didn't even know what had happened in the hour after she'd flattened me.

  I said: "How did you find me in the glade? Barbara laid me out cold."

  "After she'd floored you, she heard the racket outside Gingerbread Cottage and came charging through the woods. Shirley was stomping around like an avenging fury, cursing you like you were the very Devil. But when she saw her Mum, she just flew into her arms. I ordered one of our cars to take them both back to Shirley's flat. We'll take full statements in the morning."

  "And you explained to Shirley how Holdsworth came to charge in with all bells ringing?" I said. "The last thing she said to me was that we were finished."

  "I told her everything," Ted said. "She's still mad that you broke your promise. She's threatening your manhood if she sees you. But I don't think she'll cut both of them off."

  Ted grinned. "But I don't know which one she'll leave hanging there."

  ***

  I didn't arrive back at my rooms in Regency Square until past two in the morning.

  So late, it wasn't even necessary to sneak in to avoid the Widow. As soon as I opened the front door I could hear her snores echoing down the hall.

  I flopped on my own bed and tried to sleep. But there was too much running through my mind. A couple of days ago, I was confident I could crack an unsolved murder - and roll up a drug gang as a bonus. But even Ted was now dubious about whether the drugs charges would stick. And he'd written off the murder charge - just like hopeless Holdsworth.

  I couldn't get one thought out of my mind - that there was a connection between the murder and the drug ring. If only I could discover it, I'd have enough front-page stories to keep Figgis happy for weeks.

  The thought ran round and round in my mind, like a show pony in a circus ring until…

  My eyes opened and I focused on the bright light through my thin curtains. My nose twitched at the burnt cardboard smell of stewed coffee. Downstairs I could hear the Widow clattering about in the kitchen.

  Reluctantly, I climbed out of bed and then remembered it was Sunday. I wasn't due at the paper, so I might as well climb back in and doze the morning away. But what good would that do?

  I shuffled towards the bathroom like an old man with a double hernia.

  A cold shower can revive even the most tired body. Or so I've been told. But you won't catch me risking any of that treatment. I might catch my death. So I spent five minutes under a steaming shower until the water started to run cold and I knew I'd emptied the Widow's hot tank.

  Ten minutes later I made my way downstairs. I was debating whether to risk a piece of burnt toast in the Widow's kitchen or walk down the road to the local greasy spoon for the full English.

  But I didn't get to make the choice.

  As I stepped off the last tread, the Widow burst out of her kitchen. She hurtled down the hall waving something.

  She said: "Look what I've got, Mr Crampton."

  I said: "What is it - another letter about your lifetime ban from the Mothers' Union?"

  The Widow skidded to a halt on the hall runner and said: "It's a Mother's Day card from my daughter. Today is Mother’s Day."

  "I thought you didn't have any children. That's why you've been thrown out of the Mothers' Union."

  "I asked you to think of a way to get me back in and you ignored it."

  "Not so, I've got plenty of excellent ideas."

  "Such as?"

  "You could say your daughter lost her memory, forgot she had a mother, and has only just recovered it and remembered that she's got you."

  "Those harridans at the Union would never believe an obvious lie like that."

  "Then tell them she was abducted as a child by gypsies and you only recognised her years later when she came to the door selling clothes pegs."

  "Ridiculous. I never buy clothes pegs."

  "Well, this one is a winner. Your daughter's had a sex change operation and he's now your son. You didn't like to mention it because he's sensitive about his wispy moustache."

  "Now you're being disgusting," the Widow said. "Besides, I've thought of a better idea. That's where this Mother’s Day card comes into play. I've faked the card. But the old biddies at the Union won't know. I got Mr Patel at the newsagents to sign it so it's not my handwriting."

  I took the card and looked at it.

  "He's signed it Arundhati," I said.

  "It's the unexpected detail in a lie that convinces people it's the truth," the Widow said.

  "Like a woman who's never been further east than the Ganges Curry House in Kemp Town has an Indian daughter?" I said.

  The Widow ignored that and ploughed on. "I'm going to pretend that I had a daughter who was taken from me to give to a wealthy woman who couldn't have children. She never knew who her real mother was until this week."

  I gawped at the Widow like she'd just offered me a rent rebate.

  Or offered to darn my socks.

  Or said I could hold a sex orgy in my rooms.

  "If you don't close your mouth, you'll catch flies, Mr Crampton," the Widow said.

  "What?"

  "Your mouth. It's hanging open."

  I closed it and turned for the door.

  "Aren't you going to congratulate me on finding my daughter?"

  "I hope you'll be very happy together," I shouted as I opened the door and hurried into the street.

  My mind felt like some ancient mechanical device that had just been oiled. It was clanking into action, but not all at once.

  Since I'd first discovered Spencer Hooke's body on the Bostal road, I'd been convinced he'd been murdered.

  There were plenty who’d had the motive to kill Hooke – but not the opportunity.

  But now I knew who’d had both.

  The trouble was I still didn’t know how I could prove it.

  I hoped to find the answer in church.

  Chapter 21

  The Reverend Simon Purslowe stood in front of the altar and made the sign of the cross.

  He said: "May peace and goodwill be with you always."

  Ted Wilson whispered in my ear: "He's got a hope."

  Ted fidgeted like a man who knows something bad is going to happen.

  We were sitting in a pew in the nave of St Andrew's church in Steyning. Ted on my left, Bernard Holdsworth on my right.

  The Mother’s Day service had just ended. The congregation had sung All Things Bright and Beautiful as though they meant it.

  Holdsworth didn't look bright or beautiful. He had a beetled brow and a scowl on his face that could've cracked a stained glass window.

  After I'd steamed out of the Widow's place an hour and a half earlier, I'd driven to the Chronicle's newsroom. I'd called Ted and explained my theory about Hooke's murder.

  He'd listened and said: "Sounds incredible to me, but I suppose if I don't come to the church, you'll find some way to make me look bad in the paper."

  "Would I do that?" I'd said. "But bring Holdsworth."

  I rang off before he had time to ask why.

  Then I'd called Purslowe. I told him two police officers would be attending his service. They wouldn't be bringing their mothers. But they would want to speak to certain members of his congregation after the service.

  It wasn't news that had him ringing the church bells. But, then, he couldn't ring them anyway. One of the six bel
l-ringers was dead, one was in custody on drugs charges, and one had scarpered.

  Three down, three to go.

  I glanced at the front pew. Five of the people who'd each played a key part in this mystery sat there.

  Clothilde bowed her head and gave a little sniff. Her pince-nez hung from its lanyard around her neck. She was wearing a tweed suit and a brown cloche felt hat. She opened her handbag and took out a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes discreetly and put the hankie back in her bag.

  Georgina Staples, sitting next along, patted Clothilde's shoulder. She whispered something in her ear. Clothilde gave a wan smile and nodded. Georgina had caused a stir when she'd walked into the church. She was wearing a low-cut blouse and a mini-skirt which ended a couple of inches below the Book of Revelations.

  Beyond Georgina, Lady Evangelina Fox and Charles Fox sat rigid and tense. Not like the loving pair I’d seen in the photograph of them at Natterjack Grange. In the photo, Fox had towered over the tiny Evangelina. But the anger in their faces seemed to diminish both of them. They looked like a pair who'd just had a ten-round argument. Fox's face could have been chiselled out of granite. He tried to say something to Evangelina but she shook her head dismissively. Fox adjusted his tie and brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from the lapel of his country tweed jacket.

  Evangelina flashed Fox a contemptuous glance as he did it. She was wearing a smart lime green skirt and jacket. It looked like the kind of pricey clobber she’d have picked up at a West End dressmaker. I couldn’t see into the pew but I was willing to bet she was wearing a pair of shoes with killer heels, just like she was in the photo. She fiddled with the rope of pearls around her neck. She raised her eyes to Heaven. But she wasn't going to get much help from that direction today.

  At the far end of the pew, Christabel stared at the stained glass behind the altar with her dreamy eyes. She was wearing a green kaftan. She had rings on her fingers and fancy bangles around her wrists. She'd plaited her hair with multi-coloured ribbons.

  The Reverend Purslowe stepped down from the pulpit and watched the last of the congregation straggle out of the church. The huge oak door slammed shut with a thud that sounded like the crack of doom.

  Purslowe turned to the five and said: "I'm so sorry about this. Can we please keep this brief? Mrs Purslowe's got a leg of lamb in the oven for lunch and she becomes quite touchy if it's overdone."

  Ted Wilson stood up and faced the group. Gave his beard a couple of nervous strokes.

  He said: "I'm a police officer."

  "Tell us something we don't know," Fox said irritably.

  "Very well. We're here to talk about two subjects you won't normally find mentioned by the vicar from the pulpit."

  "What subjects?" Evangelina said.

  "Murder and drug smuggling," Ted said.

  Everyone shot one another nervous looks. Georgina put her hand to her mouth. Christabel reached for Evangelina's hand. Clothilde looked down at the hymn books in the front of the pew.

  Fox barked: "Fine way to end a church service, vicar."

  Purslowe started to say something but Ted stopped him.

  He said: "I know how news travels along a grapevine in a small village. So you'll all have heard about the incident at Natterjack Grange last night."

  "You call it an incident," said Fox. "I'd call it a riot."

  "Be quiet," Evangelina hissed.

  Ted pointed at me and said: "As Mr Crampton was involved in the incident," - he stressed the word - "I'd like him to explain something to you."

  I stood up and moved towards the pulpit. Resisted the temptation to climb into it. What I had to say might sound like a sermon. But it wouldn't have any of this bunch shouting hallelujah.

  I said: "Last night I was nearly dropped down a well. I almost joined your former bell-ringer Spencer Hooke up at the Pearly Gates. A character called Zachariah - Zach for short - tried to kill me. He'd been living in an old woodsman's cottage on the Natterjack estate. But he was no woodsman. He was the fixer in a drug-smuggling ring."

  The five shot one another more nervous looks.

  "Happily, his fixing days are over. He was the one who ended up at the bottom of the well. But as the Duke of Wellington said after the Battle of Waterloo, it was a damned close-run thing. And an unnecessarily dangerous thing as well. We could have cornered and captured Zach alive if it hadn't been for the clumsy intervention of a police officer who roared up at the last moment with all bells ringing. Isn't that right Detective Inspector Holdsworth?"

  Holdsworth glared at me. "You can't speak to a police officer like that. I'll sue you for slander."

  I said: "Your case won't get far. Because it wasn't just a clumsy mistake to have the police car bell ringing, was it?"

  "What are you insinuating?"

  "You've been taking pay-offs from Zach to keep quiet about his drug smuggling operation."

  Holdsworth jumped up and wagged an angry finger at me. "You don't have a shred of evidence to support that allegation."

  "Last night while Zach was trying to throw me down the well, I warned him that police had arrived and would arrest him. He sneered at me and said something that didn't register with me at the time, but has now. He said, 'Those cops haven’t come to arrest me.'"

  I strode up to Holdsworth. Our faces were inches apart. I could smell whisky on his breath.

  I said: "You roared up like the Keystone Cops in a circus parade to warn him to get out fast."

  Holdsworth gave me a nuclear-powered hate glare and turned his back on me. He stomped to the other side of the church and leant on a pillar. His lips puckered into a petulant pout.

  I said: "My suspicions about you started when you refused to treat Hooke's death seriously. You knew that if it became a murder case, an outside team of detectives would come in. They'd interview everyone in the area, including the residents of Natterjack Grange. Including Zach. The last thing he wanted was police attention. He paid you to treat the case as a less important hit-and-run."

  "How would I know about any drug runners?" Holdsworth blustered.

  "You gave the game away when I interviewed you: 'Hardly anything happens in Shoreham harbour that I don't get to hear about.' Those were your exact words, weren't they? And you did get to hear about the drug smuggling through the harbour. But you were paid by Zach to turn a blind eye. When the anti-corruption squad examine your bank accounts, I'm betting they'll find deposits you won't be able to explain away."

  Holdsworth moved to a pew and sat down heavily. He folded his arms across his chest. The mute of malice pose.

  Ted crossed the church and rested his hand on Holdsworth's shoulder.

  He said softly: "It's over, Bernie."

  Holdsworth looked up at Ted. His eyes had clouded. "I never meant it to get this far," he said.

  Ted said: "I have officers waiting for you outside. It's better if you surrender yourself to them."

  Holdsworth nodded. He stood up. His shoulders hunched and he looked like an old man. He walked slowly to the back of the church, opened the door, and stepped outside.

  The place fell silent.

  Then Fox said: "So, a bent copper. Is that why you kept us? We'll be on our way." He went to stand.

  Purslowe said: "If that's all, perhaps we can get off to our lunches."

  I said: "It's not over yet, vicar. That was a sideshow. Now we can turn to the main event."

  "Will this take long?" Evangelina said. "I've got a goose roasting in the oven and I don't want it to burn."

  I said: "Your goose will be well and truly cooked by the time you leave here."

  "What do you mean by that?" she snapped.

  "Let me explain," I said. "I knew about three players in the drugs chain - Hobson, Griffiths and Zach. But I didn't know who the money man behind the racket was. And now that Zach lies dead at the bottom of the well, I shall never be able to ask him. But the answer came to me this morning. When I was at Shoreham harbour on Friday evening, I heard Tom Hobson tell his assoc
iates: 'I've netted the money from the big fish on the way'. Who could the big fish be? I'd followed Hobson from the church where he'd attended a bell-ringing practice. He'd not stopped during his drive from Steyning to the harbour. So he had to have collected the money at the church."

  "This is going nowhere," Fox said.

  "It's coming right back to you, Mr Fox. When I saw you enter the church that evening you had a bag - a kind of satchel - looped over your right shoulder. I believe the money for the drugs deal was in that satchel. When you came out, you were empty-handed. I can just see you handing Hobson the satchel in a quiet corner before you both climbed up to the bell loft for the practice."

  "A jury would laugh that evidence out of court," Fox said.

  "They won't laugh at the evidence of the satchel. At the harbour, I’m certain Hobson transferred the money from the satchel to an oilskin which he hid in the bottom of a lobster pot. There were three other witnesses who saw him do it. One of those witnesses - Steve, who tried to kill me with a forklift truck - is handcuffed to a bed inside Southlands hospital and he'll confirm the money came from that satchel."

  "Except that you don't have the satchel."

  Ted stepped forward. "My men are searching the hut."

  I said: "When they find the satchel, they'll discover your fingerprints all over it."

  "I'm a respected banker," Fox said. "Why shouldn't I have money in a satchel?"

  I said: "You're a broke banker. Skint. You've had a string of bad deals. You had to find a way to keep solvent. When your daughter Christabel introduced you to Zach, you spotted another wheeler-dealer. And, as it happened, Zach had been no stranger to the drug scene in New York, where Christabel met him. But I'm prepared to accept that Christabel didn't at first know about Zach's hard drugs trade."

  Christabel looked down at her feet.

  I turned back to Fox: "With Zach's Yankee contacts and your Brit ones, it wouldn't have taken the two of you long to cook up an international drugs operation. And where better to run it from than a remote cottage on an estate where the other residents were too spaced out to know what was going on?"

  "No-one will ever believe that."