Admittedly, there were hints of criticism in the papers of the Right: the Telegraph even implied that Lambie Crump’s desire to be at the centre of political London might have influenced the paper’s recent drift away from its core values. But all the papers—including the tabloids—were united in shock that anyone should dream of murdering a member of the Fourth Estate. Indeed, said the Mirror darkly, there were strong reasons to suppose that Lambie Crump might have come to his death because—in the best traditions of journalism—he put his beliefs before his safety. And of course the more sensationalist journals and indeed ratio and television programmes made much of the fact that his death had followed not long after the violent death of another pillar of The Wrangler: police, the public was told, were even now examining the two cases to see if they were by any chance connected.
***
‘Bad business, all this.’
‘Certainly is. And not just limited to Willie, I fear. Even the police are now admitting there’s a fair chance that Henry was dispatched as well. Seems too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
Lord Papworth shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know what to think and I don’t know what to do except rejoice that you—at least—have not joined them in the afterlife.’
‘And find another editor, presumably, and fast.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Papworth, ‘but I shouldn’t think people are actually going to be queuing up to take over from Willie until they’re sure it’s safe. Only a war correspondent is likely to want to command a ship that appears to have a homicidal maniac among its crew. We’ll have to wait until this is all cleared up before we start an editor hunt.’
‘I take your point, Charlie. So what will you do? Get Phoebe or Dwight to stand in?’
‘Don’t think I can. After all, it’s not outside the bounds of possibility that one of them murdered Willie—and even Henry. They’ve got the most obvious motive. Don’t want The Wrangler to have the stigma of an editor—even if only a temporary one—being charged with murder. Not quite the image of a paper so hot on law and order.’
‘If you can’t have someone from outside and can’t have anyone from inside, Charlie, how is that paper going to come out next week?’
‘You’re going to take over as editor.’
Amiss was so shocked that he made an incautious gesture and knocked over his tea. The ensuing mopping of himself, the table and the floor occupied a few minutes during which he had time to collect his thoughts. ‘I’m honoured, Charlie,’ he said as he sat down again, ‘but that idea’s a non-runner.’
‘Give me a better one.’
‘There has to be some retired or freelance journalist who’d come in for a few weeks until things are sorted out.’
‘Don’t want an outsider coming in as a temporary measure, and I don’t think anyone would want to either. It’s going to require great tact to preside over such an interregnum, and I can’t think of any available journalist with such a quality.’
‘But, but…but…’
‘But me no buts, Robert. If you haven’t an alternative, it has to be you.’
Amiss’s mind frantically raced through staff and regular contributors. ‘Amaryllis Vercoe?’
‘Now you’re being silly. How could I put Amaryllis in over Dwight or Phoebe? The whole point with you is that clearly you’re a temporary measure and unthreatening. I’ll tell them you’ll be doing it in cooperation with them, but that you’ll have the authority.’
‘What are the trustees going to say?’
‘Won’t have any trouble from them. I rang Doug Hogwood and Gussie Adderly this morning and they told me to do whatever I thought fit. And Jack Troutbeck, of course, was delighted—she being a chum of yours.’
‘Jack Troutbeck?’
‘Oh, sorry. Didn’t I tell you? She’s Henry’s successor. Appointed as soon as I heard about Willie. I’d been dithering up to then, but this is no time for dithering.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Mine, but the other two were quite happy. She’s a valued contributor with no journalistic ambition—best kind of staff trustee one could have, really. And not knowing her the way I do, they’re comforted by her being in the Lords. One of us and all that.’
Amiss brooded and then shook his head. ‘I just can’t see it, Charlie. I just can’t see how editorial will accept a non-journalist.’
‘They like you. And it was fortuitous that you wrote that tax leader last week. They know you’re capable of being a contributing editor.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘Phoebe told me when I tried this idea out on her.’
‘What was her reaction?’
‘Fine. She’d rather you than Dwight, and Dwight prefers you to Phoebe.’ Papworth looked at his watch. ‘Got to go home: people coming in for drinks. Right, now to practicalities. Spend what you need. For instance, if you need to hire someone to stand in for you, feel free. Or pay out some decent money to journalists. I don’t mind what you do. Just get the journal out.’
***
‘Jolly good,’ said the baroness. ‘It’s very satisfactory that we’ll be running the show.’
‘Correction. Jack. I’m running the show.’
‘I’ll be running the trustees. That means I have power of life or death over you. Mind you, I envy you. Always wanted to have a bash at being an editor. Why didn’t he appoint me?’
Amiss laughed. ‘He did mention on the way out of the Lords that the notion had crossed his mind but he decided you were too barmy. To be precise, he said: “To let someone as opinionated as Jack Troutbeck loose on The Wrangler would be like inviting an alcoholic to take over a pub.” And I must add, Jack, that apprehensive though I am about this job and anxious though I might be to pass on the poisoned chalice, I agreed with him.’
‘You underestimate my prudent streak. But I’m used to being misunderstood and I’m big enough to rise above it. Now, get cracking and pull The Wrangler out of the mire.’ The phone went dead.
***
‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Rachel. She threw her arms around him. ‘I’m absolutely delighted. And it’s such a good time too. Lambie Crump was taking the paper in the right direction at last and you’ll be able to accelerate the pace.’
Amiss looked at her with alarm. ‘I’m only a caretaker, Rachel. And what I’m caretaking is a right-wing magazine.’
‘I know that. I’m not suggesting you change course any more than Lambie Crump did. Just embrace sensible policies quicker.’
Amiss decided to avoid any argument. ‘This week my ambition is to get The Wrangler out with no blank pages. Next week I’ll be able to think.’
She beamed. ‘You’ll see. You’ll make such a success of it, Papworth might even give you the job permanently.’
‘I’ll do the best I can.’
She hugged him again. ‘Let’s go out to the wine bar and have a glass or two—I mean a bottle—of champagne.’
‘You’re on,’ said Amiss.
Chapter Sixteen
Having neglected to send out a press release to announce his appointment as temporary editor, Amiss had only himself to blame when a Sunday paper broke the news that Lambie Crump had been replaced by a dark horse called Robert Amis (sic), thought to be a little-known member of the wider Amis clan—a rumour which persisted until Martin Amis contemptuously denied it. That newspaper however had done better than the rest of the broadsheets, who had filled a column or two each in speculation about the journalist most likely to succeed Lambie Crump. Many kites were flown: the internal candidates mentioned were Winterton, Amaryllis Vercoe and Wilfred Parry.
***
Amiss spent much of the weekend on the phone reassuring colleagues and contributors and asking for suggestions on how to proceed. After so
me dithering, he decided to move into the editor’s office: there was no point in starting off being apologetic.
The mood of the Monday meeting was friendly. Wilfred Parry made sycophantic noises, and even Clement Webber came as near to graciousness as could have been expected by saying, ‘Well, I suppose you can’t be worse than Willie.’
‘I hope we can get all this mess sorted out soon,’ said Amiss. ‘But however long it takes, we need to do the best we can for the journal. I’ll be relying on all of you. And you’ll understand, won’t you, that since we still haven’t replaced Henry and I won’t be doing much writing, we’ll have to use more outsiders.’
‘But you’ll do some,’ said Phoebe.
‘What I can. But I have the problem that The Wrangler’s politics aren’t my politics.’
‘What are your politics?’
‘I don’t really know. I suppose the best way of describing my politics is that they aren’t anybody’s politics—mostly because I don’t like politicians.’
‘Presumably you’ll be following Willie’s drift towards New Labour, then?’ said Webber sourly. ‘Seeing it’s the politics of people with no politics.’
‘No, Clement, I won’t. I think Willie had got out of touch with the journal’s soul and that’s what I’m here to nourish.’
‘It was the body he liked,’ said Winterton, waving at the grandeur that surrounded them. ‘Incidently, where is the funeral to be? Westminster Abbey? St Paul’s?’
‘No. I talked to his brother and he has in mind something rather more modest. We’re meeting this evening to talk it through. It looks as if it will be a proper Fleet Street event at St Bride’s, probably next Friday—with a memorial service later if there is enough popular demand.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ muttered Phoebe Somerfield.
***
‘I dare say I’ll be able to help you.’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Milton. ‘That’s what you’re here to do.’
‘Oh no…sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Tewkesbury, giving a strong impression that it hurt him to use the title. ‘I meant that I’m pretty knowledgeable about the literary world and all that. English is what I read’—he paused again and looked at Milton—‘I mean studied…at Oxford.’
Milton tried not to show his irritation. ‘I see. So you think you’ll understand these people.’
‘Oh, I think so. Mind you, I wouldn’t read The Wrangler. It’s very out of date and has values that are of no relevance to Britain as we approach the millennium. I mean, obviously when you’re a modernizer you want to read journals that look forward not back. But I know the sort of thing they write about.’ He laughed. ‘There aren’t, I think, very many people in the police force for instance who know about Edmund Burke.’
‘There’s me,’ said Milton.
Tewkesbury started. ‘Oh, really, sir. I didn’t realize you had been to university.’
‘Tewkesbury, even if you’ve never been to university it is possible to read books. However, let us not get sidetracked. I would of course appreciate any insights you might have to bring to bear on this murder. Feel free to make suggestions.’
Tewkesbury leaned forward and addressed Milton with the air of an Englishman of the old school trying to make a foreigner understand. ‘This is an unusual case, concerning unusual people. I have little doubt that the motives are ideological.’
‘What makes you think that, Tewkesbury?’
His sergeant assumed a condescending expression that made Milton want to knee him in the groin. ‘It’s easy,’ he said, ‘to underestimate the venom of the Right when threatened by progress. I can well see that Lambie Crump’s conversion to New Labour would have been a matter that outraged those loyal to the anachronistic beliefs of The Wrangler.’
‘What are you suggesting? That a bunch of outraged readers got together and murdered Lambie Crump in the name of Edmund Burke.’
‘That’s a bit far-fetched, sir, if you forgive my saying so. But I shouldn’t put it past Clement Webber. He is, after all, fanatically Thatcherite.’
‘So, in many respects, is New Labour,’ said Milton. ‘Now can we please get on with checking alibis.’
***
‘My God, how I miss Ellis.’ Milton threw himself on the sofa in Amiss’s room and closed his eyes. ‘What they’ve given me in his place…’
‘Well, what have they given you in his place? Somebody thick?’
‘Thick’d be a damn sight better than what I’ve been given. “He’s just the man for you, sir,” I was told brightly. “We know you like the clever ones and there’s one of the cleverest ones available right now. DS Tewkesbury is a real intellectual.”’
Milton covered his face in his hands. ‘Drink?’ asked Amiss sympathetically. ‘Gin and tonic?’
‘And plenty of it,’ said Milton, with feeling. Amiss went over to the corner cupboard, poured Milton’s drink and took it to him.
‘Aren’t you having one, Robert?’
‘Got to meet someone in the pub shortly. Can’t afford to get pissed during the week any more now I’m doing a job for which I’m completely unqualified. I’ve got about ten minutes or so. Tell me what’s the matter with him,’ asked Amiss.
‘Self-satisfied, smartarse git patronizing the poor old copper who hasn’t even been to university.’
‘You’re not just being sensitive about that, Jim, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robert. When was I ever sensitive about Ellis having been to Cambridge?’ He took a large swallow. ‘But I can’t stand superior prigs.’
‘But Ellis is a bit of a prig.’
‘Oh, come off it, Robert. He has priggish tendencies, but plenty of imagination and compassion and knows about dark nights of the soul. But this little creep is thoroughly pleased with himself and convinced that the world will be a better place if everyone does what he says. He’s the worst kind of arrogant little prat.’
‘New Labour?’ asked Amiss.
‘I’ve met self-important little Tory prats as well.’
‘The only way of dividing the sheep from the goats that makes any sense to me is to classify them as Cavaliers and Roundheads. And New Labour measure up worse than the Tories here. They don’t understand that real enjoyment is a good in itself: they partake of the good things of life, but they do so austerely. There’s never any suggestion that they’re capable of having a riotous time. Everything has to be so fucking moderate. They’re so bloody austere they make you almost warm to Bill Clinton. At least he got into trouble through dropping his trousers.’
‘So did our foreign secretary.’
‘Ah yes. But he showed no signs of enjoyment. Anyway, enough of this. Are you going to slap Sergeant Tewkesbury down?’
‘No, I’m not, or not yet anyway. At the risk of sounding as sanctimonious as he is, I do try to get the best out of my staff even if they’re personally objectionable. And I suppose he’s got brains. I just have to hope that his colleagues knock some of the more objectionable characteristics out of him. Anyway, he’s what I’m lumbered with and I’d better make the most of him.’
‘So how are you going about this? Will you be interviewing us here? Do you want a room?’
‘Not yet. We’ve got the preliminary statements, and over the next few days we’ll be sorting out alibis and all that sort of thing. I want to do some nosing round Lambie Crump’s private life. Tewkesbury obviously thinks I’m wasting his valuable time, since he’s made up his mind already that the motive is ideological: Crump was slain for going over to New Labour.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m keeping an open mind. Phoebe Somerfield, for instance, from what you’ve told me, might have had good reason to want to murder him for ripping her off all those years. Or of course like Winterton she might have wanted t
he editorship.’
‘Or Ben or Marcia might have taken vengeance over his wayward way with semicolons.’
‘Or Miss Mercatroid might have brought in an Islamic hit squad.’
‘And we haven’t even considered who had any reason to do for Henry.’
‘All in good time, Robert. All in good time. I’ll be off now. I’ll be in touch, but my guess is we’ll be along on Monday.’
***
Amiss quickly gathered that Joe Crump was not one of his brother’s greatest fans. ‘I couldn’t stomach the Lambie bit, to tell you the truth,’ he said to Amiss over pints of beer in the pub around the corner from The Wrangler. ‘First it was demanding we call him Willie instead of Bill, and then he took my mother’s maiden name and tacked it on when he went up to Oxford. Right load of pretentious twaddle, if you ask me. Double-barrelled names with hyphens are bad enough: those without are the last straw.
‘Still, I suppose we’ll have to respect his wishes and do his service the way he’d want, which no doubt means some fashionable clergyman and lots of poncy High-Church carry-on.’ He winced. ‘Maybe even incense. And to think the Crumps have always been Presbyterians.’
He swallowed some more beer. ‘To be honest,’ he said lugubriously. ‘I hate the very thought and don’t know where to start. I don’t even know what hymns he liked. We only ever met every couple of years or so.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Can you help? What I’d really like you to do is settle the whole business with that vicar.’
‘I have a friend who’ll sort it all out,’ said Amiss. ‘She has tame clergy at her beck and call. Now, let me get you another pint.’
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