Resort to Murder

by TP Fielden

  Betty took out her notebook and scribbled something in it.

  ‘With luck your piece will get picked up by the other nationals who’re jealous of the Herald scoop and want to disprove these ridiculous claims. Could be a few shillings in lineage for you if you sell the story on – I’ll give you the name of a chap on the Daily Sketch.’

  ‘Well, that sounds sensible, Mr Rhys, but aren’t I supposed to be catching the bus back to Newton Abbot? I only came in to take those reels of film over to Photographic. And why aren’t you getting Judy to do this, sounds like something right up her street?’ Plus, she thought, Miss Dim can write up a full page in an hour – it takes me for ever. AND I’ve got a date tonight!

  ‘I shouldn’t be saying this, but I can’t trust her not to cause trouble. When there’s a can of worms she’s not happy until she’s taken the top off, turned it upside down, and sprinkled out every last blasted one.’

  ‘Is there a can of worms, Mr Rhys?’

  ‘Certainly not, girl. Just a question of getting things shipshape.’

  Betty sighed, but not much: anything was better than going back to that depressing district office. She still didn’t know why she’d been sent there, though she supposed it was to make way for the new recruit. Three months out of a young life was a long time. Maybe that splash in the Daily Sketch might bring her swiftly back to Temple Regis.

  Or maybe … if it went well … the chance of a job in Fleet Street itself? Betty Featherstone of the Daily Sketch, no less! She picked up her notebook and her shoe and limped happily away.

  Given the goodwill behind this mercy dash, as Fleet Street is apt to describe any well-intentioned act designed to help someone in distress, it was perhaps less than generous for Pernilla Larsson to greet her blonde-haired saviour with such icy disdain. There Betty stood on her doorstep, looking a little chaotic from the sudden shower which caught her as she walked up the drive, but ready and willing to help.

  ‘He won’t see you,’ said Pernilla curtly.

  ‘But Mr Rhys said he’s arranged it. I should come over and … and … correct what the Daily Herald has been saying.’

  Mrs Larsson, whose clothes were purchased in Bond Street, did not like Betty’s trim waist, however damp she looked: it gave her figure the sort of hour-glass undulation which Mr Larsson had always gone for. Despite the patchwork blonde hairdo and mismatched clothes, there was a certain unsophisticated attraction about Betty which was right up her husband’s street. She didn’t want them huddled away together cooking up some fiction – not just for that reason, but also because Betty’s mercy dash could seriously impede her own strategy.

  ‘I’d come back some other time if I were you,’ she said, closing the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Betty sharply and, looking down, Pernilla Larsson could see the reporter’s foot shoved firmly over the threshold. ‘Sorry, but Mr Rhys, my editor, has insisted I come back with a full-page story. He’s cleared it with Mr Larsson – they spoke on the phone this morning.’

  If there’s one thing a reporter dreads more than anything else is going back to the office empty-handed. Why, hadn’t old John Ross been talking about this very thing before he launched into that boring tale about the Commando knife?

  As a cub reporter his news editor had sent him straight back to an armed siege when Ross made the mistake of returning without a quote. ‘They wouldnae talk, they wouldnae answer the door, so I came back. The desk just tol’ me, “Get back on the bus. Go back there, and kick the door in. Say you smelt gas.”’

  Betty had no need to kick in the door, her foot was already firmly established across the threshold and Mrs Larsson, seeing that resistance was pointless, stepped back. ‘He’s on the terrace,’ she muttered.

  Huh, thought Betty, just where he pinched my bottom. She walked out into the sunshine and, formalities dispensed with, she took out a copy of the Herald and placed it before her interviewee.

  ‘They are saying that the Rejuvenator doesn’t work.’

  ‘Untrue.’

  ‘And never has.’

  ‘I have a million letters from grateful patients saying otherwise.’

  ‘Patients?’ said Betty, stiffening slightly. ‘Do they come to consult you, then? Don’t they just buy it mail order from the newspapers and magazines where you advertise?’

  ‘Of course they come here,’ said Ben Larsson, blinking slightly. ‘There must be a hundred come up here to the Retreat every week. I try to see them all, it’s very tiring. But I am dedicated to their well-being.’

  ‘The people who come here, surely, they’re members of the Lazarus League? The worshippers?’ Though their presence in the town was never acknowledged by the Riviera Express, the cranks who’d joined Larsson’s weird health-and-worship cult at the height of his commercial success still trailed from time to time through the streets of Temple Regis.

  ‘The League believes,’ said Larsson firmly. ‘Everyone has a right to believe in whatever they wish, don’t they, Miss Featherstone, in this great country of yours? Freedom of this and that, of which you’re so proud?’ He paused and eyed her appraisingly up and down. ‘Why don’t we have a drink?’

  ‘Look,’ said Betty, ‘please don’t take offence – I’ve been asked to put these points to you. The Herald says that people who’ve used the Rejuvenator have injured themselves with it.’

  ‘They should read the instructions.’

  ‘One man was severely burnt around his … oh,’ said Betty, flustered, ‘you know where.’

  ‘Misapplication of the device. I will get Lamb to bring out the correspondence file to show you just how many people swear by it. Please, if you are writing this, include something from one or two of their letters.’

  Betty was coming to the end of her list of questions. She was rather hoping they wouldn’t run out before the drinks tray was wheeled over. Sitting on the terrace, looking back down the estuary with the miraculous gardens beneath, was better than the dreary shoebox she’d been occupying in Newton Abbot.

  ‘And it’s also said that many have overstretched themselves to buy the Rejuvenator when they can’t afford it. And when it doesn’t work they ask for their money back, but they get no response.’

  Larsson laughed. ‘Nobody should buy something they can’t afford, that’s not my fault. And we have a marvellous easy-terms scheme spread over a year or eighteen months if they can’t pay the cash.’

  ‘Not being able to return them to you?’

  ‘Miss Featherstone,’ said Larsson, leaning forward and turning on the charm, ‘the Rejuvenator is a sensitive scientific instrument. Who knows what people do with it once they have it in their own home? I do not have a repair facility at my factory, simple as that.’

  ‘Well, what should they do with them then?’

  ‘Pass them on to a friend,’ Larsson said bleakly. ‘What would you like? I usually have a glass of Tio Pepe at about this hour.’

  ‘That girl,’ said Shirley Kerswell for lack of a better topic of conversation. She and Eve Berry were sitting in the Expresso Bongo just off Market Square. ‘Miss Dittisham.’

  ‘I never ever saw her before that last heat,’ said Eve. ‘It’s a complete mystery. She just suddenly appeared out of nowhere.’ She rattled her cup, trying to make the soap suds which passed for Italian coffee in Temple Regis collect in the bottom of her cup so she could spoon them out.

  ‘Mavis broke her ankle when her high heel collapsed. They had to find someone in a hurry.’ Shirley took out a mirror and repainted her lips – the nice young waiter would be along in a minute to freshen their cups – ‘I do know she came from London. You could tell by the way she walked.’

  ‘Incomers not allowed,’ frowned Eve, a stickler for the rules. ‘These are supposed to be local heats.’

  ‘Mr Normandy said it wouldn’t matter, she wouldn’t get through to the next round anyway. You know, I sometimes wonder if these beauty pageants aren’t all a bit of a fix.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be
in them,’ snapped Eve. Hers was not to reason why and anyway she knew which side her bread was buttered when it came to fat old Normandy.

  ‘Anyway, she didn’t show up for the Temple Regis qualifier, maybe she realised she wasn’t going anywhere. Probably pushed off back to London.’

  ‘Didn’t fancy her perm,’ said Eve, ‘did you?’

  ‘I always use Twink myself.’

  ‘Looked professional though. Must have cost a bit.’

  ‘Wonder what can have happened to her, though. She told me she had a boyfriend who was coming down here for the summer. Hush-hush though.’

  ‘Probably married.’

  ‘Didn’t say. I expect so.’

  Only partially drowned by the hiss of the coffee machine, on the jukebox a young man was warbling about the onset of summer and how kissing a girl might make his flat-top curl. Shirley and Eve spent quite some time debating what this might entail.

  Soon they were joined by Molly Churchstow, whose triumphant success in Paignton a few weeks ago ensured that, as the bearer of that town’s satin sash, she could sit alongside Shirley and Eve. One might be forgiven for thinking the earth had tilted on its axis, for here seated at one table were three of the most glamorous women in Devon – if popular opinion was the judge – Miss Paignton! Miss Salcombe! Miss Exmouth!

  There was the usual post-mortem amongst these three on how the latest competition had gone: they were rivals, but they were friends. Or maybe it was the other way round.

  ‘At least there weren’t any protests this week,’ said Molly, once she’d settled down and checked her make-up in her gold compact. She took out a packet of Kensitas and offered them round.

  ‘Have you ever heard the like?’ said Shirley, thinking back to the dust-up in Paignton. ‘Who the devil did she think she was?’

  ‘Some daft old bluestocking. They make such fools of themselves. There was another one when we were doing Miss Dartmouth, d’you remember?’

  ‘Not like this one, though. This one was really mad, wasn’t she, shouting and screaming? Thank heavens they got her out before the judges arrived.’

  Molly lit their cigarettes. ‘Needed a bit of manhandling, I’d say’ she said lugubriously, and they all laughed. They found it difficult to understand a woman who claimed that dressing up in nice clothes and parading before a paying audience was in some way demeaning.

  ‘She kept going on about how we were being exploited,’ said Shirley. ‘Do you feel exploited?’

  ‘Only when he doesn’t pay our expenses on time. I mean, it’s so costly finding the clothes when you start out. Till they begin giving them to you for free.’

  Eve nodded. ‘But he makes so much money. Have you seen that new Jaguar? You’d think he could at least pay us an appearance fee – after all where would he be without us?’

  ‘He knows we can’t resist,’ said Molly without bitterness. ‘I mean, you can win a holiday.’

  ‘Butlins!’

  ‘You go to London. The hotels, the cars, the nice drinks. And sometimes there’s a hunk.’

  ‘They only want one thing.’

  ‘So do I, sometimes.’

  The jukebox was playing Tommy Steele. The conversation veered back to the protestor ejected from the Paignton eliminator. ‘She lives here in Temple Regis, that old bat,’ said Molly. ‘I seen her the other day. She looked the other way.’

  ‘I know her too,’ said Shirley, who used to work at the Town Hall before fame whisked her away. ‘She comes to fix the clock in the tower when it goes wrong.’

  ‘Strange job for a woman, maybe that’s why she’s so peculiar about beauty pageants,’ said Eve. She wanted to move the conversation on. ‘That Cyril.’

  ‘Creep,’ said Shirley.

  ‘Why do we allow him,’ said Molly, more a statement than a question, for they all knew the answer. Beauty pageants had lifted them out of the rut, set them apart, offered them luxuriant dreams, and allowed them access to another world. The price was being treated like cattle.

  ‘At least he’s not like that other one – Ernie,’ said Shirley. ‘All hands.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  ‘I don’t think Cyril’s interested,’ said Eve, always surprised when men weren’t interested.

  ‘He was past it years ago.’

  ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Molly. ‘You should have seen him with that replacement girl. You know …’

  ‘Dittisham.’

  ‘Yes, what was her name? Something very strange.’

  ‘Too posh for round here,’ said Shirley.

  ‘Anyway I saw old Cyril with her. There was definitely something going on there, you can always tell.’

  The young man brought more coffee. ‘That’ll be three-and-six, please, Your Majesties.’

  ‘Have you noticed how small boys are always cheekier than the tall ones?’ said Shirley drily as she reached for her purse.

  ‘Saw your photo in the paper,’ said the brilliantined lad, unchastened. ‘You’re all beauty queens, aren’t you?’

  He went to fetch the paper. There they all were, lined up by the swimming pool, the flower of Devon youth challenging the world with their beauty, accomplishments (the organisers always insisted on their being expert in something – macramé, home embroidery, world atlases), and their bosoms. The photograph was taken in full sunlight and they were all squinting slightly, but they had dazzling smiles.

  Molly was pleased since the photographer had angled his shot to favour her, so she handed the boy a nice fat tip. ‘Can I keep the paper?’

  ‘Sure.’ He winked. ‘See ya later, alligator.’

  The other two had started talking about Cyril Normandy again but Molly continued to leaf through the paper in the hope of finding more shots of her. As she closed it, her eye caught the headline on the front page.

  MYSTERY OF WOMAN

  FOUND ON

  TODHEMPSTEAD

  SANDS

  The body of a woman has been discovered on the private beach at Todhempstead, police revealed this week.

  The woman, in her early twenties, was fully clothed but had no possessions to identify her. Temple Regis police say they have consulted the Missing Persons Register but the body does not fit the description of anybody on their list. They describe the woman as being blonde, in good health, and well nourished. They refuse to say how she died.

  ‘We would urge anybody who was on the Sands on Monday morning to make contact with the police on Temple 1212,’ said Sergeant Gull of Temple police.

  Todhempstead Sands, a private beach, was in the news recently after its owner Dick Bradford imposed a 1/3d fee on anybody wishing to walk their dogs there.

  ‘Hey,’ exclaimed Molly, ‘look at this!’

  Her friends obliged.

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Shirley, ‘you don’t think …?’

  ‘Can’t be,’ said Eve.

  ‘It could,’ said Molly, firmly. ‘Do you think we should telephone in?’

  NINE

  Inspector Topham sat in the bar of the Grand Hotel and stared into his pint as if somewhere in its depths lay the answer to the dead blonde. There had been other pints and other dead bodies, and if the Portlemouth Ale did not always come up with an answer it could at least soothe away the unease and anxiety which came with upholding law and order for the townsfolk of Temple Regis.

  He took a sip, so slow he might almost have been touching his lips with Communion wine, but apart from tickling his palate the beer did little to bring immediate rewards.

  The girl wasn’t local, no. That much was established after an artist’s likeness (they couldn’t use a photo, poor thing) had been posted outside police stations all over the county. There’d even been a mention in the SOS segment on the BBC’s Home Service – surely, even if she’d come from Liverpool, someone must be missing her?

  That it was murder was now beyond doubt – the pathologist had given it to him straight just an hour ago – a detailed account of a brutal blow, follow
ed by another, to the side of her head. Metal object with an edge, delivered by someone slightly taller, right-handed. Topham had been to see the corpse and listened to the pathologist’s dispassionate report while he looked down on the remains of this wasted young life. No getting away with passing it off as an accident now; no more evading the ugly truth.

  That was why he was sitting in the Grand. There was nothing especially tragic about the death of a man in battle – he’d seen too many – but a fresh young girl like this, it was upsetting. He wondered about her mother and whether she was still imagining her girl was away somewhere having a lovely time with her friends – the promise of the wedding and the grandchildren that were never to be …

  ‘Summat wrong with the beer?’ inquired Sid the barman, for Inspector Topham wasn’t drinking.

  ‘No, Sid, just thoughts. Thoughts.’

  A terrible racket was coming from the Cocktail Bar down the corridor. ‘What’s that all about?’ asked the inspector, cross that his sombre thoughts should be disturbed by hilarity.

  ‘That’ll be Mr Normandy, the beauty queen man. Spending his ill-gotten gains. You know they ’ad over three thousand people up the Lido for the pageant? That’s the way to rake it in!’

  Frank Topham was only half listening.

  ‘Those poor girls,’ went on Sid, for he’d spent most of the day with nobody to talk to, polishing his glasses and cleaning the beer pipes, ‘they come in ’ere the other night – they ’adn’t got the price of a gin between them. They made a fortune for that Mr Normandy and they get blummer all for it.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘One of ’em told me she ’ad to borrow the train fare off of her mum just so’s she could take part in the pageant. They all live in hope, y’see,’ said Sid. ‘If they win, it’s like winning the pools only nicer, what with the sunny holidays and free flimsies. O’ course, they never do. Instead they’re in here clubbing together to buy a round while their lord and master next door is pouring champagne down his throat like there’s no termorrer.’