Headline Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “Precisely. Mildred threatened to tell Farnsworth’s wife everything unless he moved in with her – she sent him a letter saying as much. She obviously wasn’t going to let her Reggie go without a fight. But Farnsworth’s regiment was due to leave from Brighton station the day after he received the letter. In the letter, Mildred had threatened to come and wave him off and tell his wife about their affair at the same time.”

  “Vindictive,” I said.

  “A woman scorned,” he said. “When the train pulled out, Mrs F and the kid were at the station waving flags. But there was no sign of Mildred.”

  “She was dead by then?”

  “The investigating officers believed so.”

  “And where did they find her body?”

  “That’s it. They never have. There was a theory at the time that Farnsworth had buried Mildred’s body on the Downs. A shepherd told the police he’d seen a van similar to Farnsworth’s parked in a lane off the Fulking Road. But you don’t need a body to prove murder. There was a search – as much as there could be in wartime – and the evidence pointed clearly to Farnsworth. He’d decided to stick with his wife through troubled times – and Mildred was threatening to scupper that for him. He had to silence her.”

  “So you arrested him?”

  “No. Trouble was, by the time all this had been uncovered, Farnsworth was just outside Dunkirk. Part of the rear forces fighting off the German advance. He was killed in action – a hero by all accounts.”

  “But he never faced a court of law?” I asked.

  “No. Nor the hangman’s noose. But as far as the investigating officers were concerned, it was case closed. The war was piling up deaths by the thousands. They weren’t going to spend time on one more.”

  “I guess he received his justice the hard way on the battle-field,” I said.

  I picked up my glass and swirled the drink round. The ice had melted.

  “I’m not sure whether there’s a story in it for us,” I said. “Especially as we can’t be certain that Trumper is the victim of a crime. But I suppose I could have a word with this Robert Barnet at the Krazy Kat. See whether there’s anything he remembers which might give a clue as to why Trumper has gone AWOL. And where he is. If there is anything in it, the backstory certainly adds colour.”

  We drained our glasses. I glanced at my watch. I’d stayed longer than planned. And I didn’t want to be late for my date.

  “I’ll let you know if I turn up anything,” I said.

  Ted said: “As it’s Saturday, I think I’ll stay and have another. And I feel a bit peckish.” He nodded towards the bar. “I might have one of those sandwiches.”

  I said goodbye and headed for the door.

  Wilson walked up to the bar and peered at the sandwiches.

  As I went through the door, I could hear Jeff saying: “The fly? I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s only visiting.”

  “This Trumper guy sounds about as fragrant as a wallaby’s bum.”

  Shirley Goldsmith came from Adelaide and didn’t care who knew it. When she was roused, she had a voice that circled a room like a boomerang in the outback.

  We were at a window table in the Starlit Room at the top of the Metropole Hotel. We could see the summer illuminations flashing their gaudy colours along the seafront as far as the Palace Pier. We’d eaten smoked mackerel, tournedos Rossini and Black Forest gateau. We’d drunk Chateau Cantemerle. We were lingering over the coffee and old Armagnac.

  I said, sotto voce: “That’s a sweeping judgement. You can’t be sure.”

  Shirley turned up the volume: “Sure I can be sure. Stands out like a dog’s balls. Didn’t pay his worker’s wages. That makes him as yucky as a dunny can.”

  A waitress at the serving station giggled and dropped a handful of knives and forks. On the next table, a fat bloke with side whiskers and a wine stain on his dress shirt chuckled. A dowager type across the room took out a compact and powdered her nose. It had to be at its best if she was going to look down it at a rough colonial.

  I said: “I expect they can hear you at Ayres Rock.”

  “What do I care?” Shirley said.

  She grinned and it was like the sun coming out from behind a storm cloud. Shirley looked like a model and spoke like a trucker. She had short blonde hair that curled round a face as perfect as a china doll’s. She had blue eyes and wild lips and a lithe figure. She was one of those women who look beautiful but don’t realise it. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress with a tiny silver broach in the shape of a koala bear.

  Shirley was taking a year out to travel the world. She’d turned up in Brighton two months ago and was working as a waitress to finance the next stage of her trip. We’d been dating for six weeks and I hoped she wouldn’t save the money for her next air ticket too soon.

  I took a sip of my Armagnac. “Chances are Trumper will turn up somewhere, sometime with a perfectly ordinary explanation for his absence. Which won’t suit me. Journalists aren’t looking for the perfectly ordinary.”

  “I suppose you’d rather have him croaked and his body thrown down a mineshaft,” Shirley said.

  “There aren’t any mineshafts in Sussex.”

  “Somewhere else then.”

  “Weakens the story. Dilutes the local interest.”

  Shirley spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred. “You journos are cynical bastards. Always looking for the angle. Never thinking about what it means for the poor mug on the other end of the story. How’d you get mixed up in a shonky game like that?”

  “I put it down to a misspent youth,” I said.

  “Running wild in the streets? Like a dingo.”

  “No. Watching too many old films.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I took a sip from my glass. “I think it was when I was about fourteen. I remember it was a wet Saturday night. We – that’s Mum, Dad and me – were sitting round watching TV. There was some ancient movie playing. Made back in the ‘thirties. I think it was one of the early talkies. It was called The Front Page.”

  “Not seen that on the square screen. Don’t believe it’s played in Oz.”

  “I don’t think Mum and Dad were paying much attention. Mum was knitting and Dad was checking his pools. But I was riveted by the story.”

  “Plenty of sex and violence?” Shirley asked loudly.

  The dowager type spluttered into her coffee.

  I smiled. “Very little of either. It’s a story about a journalist who’s planning to quit the muck-raking newspaper he works for. He wants to get a respectable job and marry his fiancée. But he stumbles across a big story and it takes over his life. He can’t resist it. And, of course, he has a crafty old editor who exploits his dedication.”

  “So he doesn’t get the dinkum job? Or marry the girl?”

  “That’s right. But he does something that’s more important to him. He writes a big story for his newspaper – a story that rights a wrong. That saves an innocent man’s life. I can remember sitting on our old horsehair sofa and thinking ‘I want to be like that’.”

  “Righting wrongs?”

  I smiled and took another sip of Armagnac. “Why not? If there’s the chance to do it. Trouble is, the only stories I seem to get these days are about dirty old men under the West Pier who can’t keep their trousers buttoned or disappeared golf men who’ve left their balls behind.”

  “Sex and mystery – that’s what interests the public,” Shirley said. “Don’t knock it.”

  “Sure. But what interests the public is not always what’s in the public interest. There is a difference. If I’m to make a name on this paper, what I need is a story which makes a mark because it stirs up the town and gets under the skin of important people. Reveals their dirty little secrets.”

  “Makes a nuisance of yourself, in other words.”

  “You can’t be a good journalist if you’re afraid of being a nuisance. And, anyway, journalism should throw light onto the rich and powerful – especially th
ose who like to lurk in the shadows.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  “I guess so. A campaigning newspaper should seek justice for those who can’t get it themselves. Does no harm to circulation either.”

  “More important than finding your vanished golf man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or wedding bells?”

  “Hey, it’s the journalists who are supposed to ask the questions.” I picked up my Armagnac. “Shall we finish these and go on?”

  Shirley looked hard at me. Her pupils dilated when she was suspicious. “When you say ‘go on’ do you mean ‘on’ as in your place or ‘on’ as in my place?” she said.

  I grinned. “I was thinking your place. But I’ve got a golf-course assistant to interview in the morning. So there won’t be time for you to bring me breakfast in bed.”

  Shirley finished her Armagnac. She put down the glass with exaggerated care.

  “Do you know the big difference between Australia and England?” she said.

  “No.”

  “In Australia, the sharks are all in the sea.”

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, I battled along the seafront towards the Krazy Kat in a force-seven gale.

  The weather had changed as swiftly as one of those new reversible raincoats I’d thought of buying in Hannington’s. The thunderstorm had broken during the night. Now heavy grey clouds, like soggy wet blankets, raced through the sky. Summer bunting snapped in the wind. Last night’s chip wrappings rustled along the gutters. Waves crashed and roared over the shingle. The air smelt like a fishmonger’s slab.

  But I was feeling good. So good, I’d even brought Shirley the full English in bed. With two eggs. She’d eaten the lot, then turned over and gone back to sleep. After a busy night, a girl needs nourishment and rest.

  I trudged round the corner by the Aquarium and crossed the road to the Krazy Kat. It was closed. A blind drawn down over the ticket-office window announced the Sunday opening hours as ten o’clock to six o’clock. I glanced at my watch. Ten past ten. Not a good omen. Perhaps Barnet had done a runner as well as Trumper. The Krazy Kat was going to the dogs.

  I decided to do a bit of reconnaissance. On the front of the building was a large painted signboard, faded with age, featuring a cartoon cat that looked like the character from George Herriman’s comics that I used to enjoy as a kid. It was standing on two legs and holding a golf club. It was dressed in plus fours and a checked sweater. It had a baggy cap on its head. This was presumably the moggy that gave the Krazy Kat its name. I couldn’t spot the logic of a cat playing golf. But then I’d never been able to understand the point of golf anyway. Who was it said the only trouble with golf is that it spoils a perfectly good walk? I couldn’t remember.

  I strolled round the ticket office to see whether the sides and back revealed anything. The place was larger than I’d expected – big enough to serve as a staff room and general store as well as selling tickets. It was built out of red bricks that had mildewed with age. There was one door secured with a heavy padlock. There were a couple of windows on the seaward side. The windows had crusted with salt and been targeted by seagulls. I peered through them. Inside, heavy net curtains hung with cobwebs. I couldn’t see much beyond.

  Beside the ticket office was a little wicker gate that opened on to what I suppose you’d call the golf course. I pushed it open and walked through. There were no fairways, sandy bunkers or well-tended greens. This wasn’t the sort of course where you’d turn up with a mashie niblick over your shoulder. There were eighteen miniature fairways covered in some kind of green felt material that simulated grass. Each fairway was surrounded by a little brick wall. Some of the fairways had little hills, others sharp corners, one had a tunnel, another a bridge. The only thing the place had in common with a real golf course was the frustrating need to get a small ball into an inconveniently located hole.

  I was thinking about whether to wait around to see whether Barnet turned up or slope off for a coffee when a voice behind me said: “Can I help you?”

  I turned. The voice came from a short youth with a prominent nose, thin lips and zits on his chin. He was wearing a green windcheater and jeans.

  He said: “Customers are not permitted to enter the playing area until the course is officially open.” He had a high-pitched voice which couldn’t quite pull off the commanding-presence bit.

  I said: “I’m not a customer.” I walked over to him, flashed a smile and added: “You’re Robert Barnet.”

  He looked worried and said: “You’re not from the police?”

  I fished in my pocket, took out a card and handed it to him.

  He took it as though I were serving him a writ, looked at it and relaxed a little. He said: “Evening Chronicle. The local rag. I suppose you want to talk about Mr Trumper.”

  I ignored the “rag” bit and said: “If you can spare a few minutes.”

  “I’m very busy,” he said.

  I looked up and down the deserted seafront. In the distance, a couple of figures in pac-a-macs huddled in a shelter.

  “I can see you’re rushed off your feet,” I said.

  He frowned. The zits on his chin jiggled into a surly arrangement.

  “I suppose I could spare you a minute,” he said.

  We moved round to the ticket-office door. Barnet pulled a small bunch of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the padlock and we went inside. The room was small and smelt of dust. There was a door leading somewhere else – probably to the storage accommodation at the back.

  Barnet said: “I considered becoming a journalist once, but there’s no money in it.” He started fiddling with a ticket machine and cash box, getting ready to open.

  “But you decided to become a crazy-golf ticket man and get rich.”

  “Only for the summer. I’m at London University studying law. Plan to become a barrister. That’s where you can make the big money. Especially company law. When large firms start suing one another you can really cash in.”

  “Very public spirited of you,” I said.

  “What’s the money like at the Chronicle?” Barnet asked.

  “Same as here,” I said. “Mostly round. The bigger denominations are printed on paper.”

  He looked puzzled. Then he laughed, a kind of high-pitched croak. He sounded like an angry crow.

  He said: “I get it. Mostly round. It’s a sort of joke.”

  “Yes, a sort of joke. And this is a sort of golf course. Did Mr Trumper give you any indication that he planned to take a few days off?”

  My sudden change of topic threw him off balance. The zits took on a worried formation. “I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said.

  “Of course not. I could simply write, ‘Mr Robert Barnet, a law student at London University, who is employed at the Krazy Kat golf course, was not willing to answer questions about Mr Trumper’s disappearance.’”

  “But that makes it look as though I’ve got something to hide.”

  “It’s a factual statement which accurately reflects what you’ve just told me.”

  “I could sue you for libel.”

  “No you couldn’t. You wouldn’t have a case. And, even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to afford the barrister. As you say, they make big money. Unlike golf-course ticket attendants.”

  Barnet slumped on the stool by the ticket window. The zits took on a defeated look.

  “It’s true this doesn’t pay much,” he said.

  “Downtrodden workers, eh?” It was time to pick him up again and make him receptive to the serious questions.

  “I need the money.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “My grant is very small. It doesn’t cover my living expenses. Then there are the textbooks to buy. Law books cost a small fortune.”

  “So it’s a costly course.”

  “I don’t even think my earnings this summer will cover next year’s expenses.”

  We fell silent. He seemed
to be thinking about his money problems. I let him ponder that for a moment. He did something with the ticket machine. He was thinking about his next move.

  Then the zits tried a smile and he said: “Have we got off on the wrong foot? Could we start again?”

  “Let’s do that.”

  Barnet said: “In fact, I’ve got an excellent idea. Let’s talk over a round of golf.”

  The last thing I needed was a round of golf. In a force-seven gale. But, perhaps, Barnet would open up as we strolled round the course.

  The wind had stiffened by the time we stepped on to the first tee. I put down my ball, took a generous swing with the putter and whacked it along the fairway. It bounced off the back wall and plopped into the hole.

  “Hole in one,” said Barnet.

  “Pure luck,” I said. “Tell me about Mr Trumper. Was he a good employer?”

  Barnet put his ball down. “Don’t have much experience of employers. But, yes, I suppose he was – is.”

  “And he had a regular routine?”

  “Sure. Arrived every day before we opened. Stayed behind to count the takings after we closed.”

  “What are you doing about the takings now?”

  “I count them and lock them in a strong box in the back room.”

  Barnet gave his ball a clinical tap. It rolled up the fairway, teetered on the lip of the hole and dropped in.

  He grinned: “When we’re not busy, Mr Trumper lets me practise.”

  We moved to another hole.

  “Did Mr Trumper appear to have any financial worries?” I asked.

  “I know he didn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve become quite a confidante. I’ve been able to put him straight on a few legal points.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated that.”

  I stooped to retrieve my ball from a hole. It came out covered in green slime. I showed Barnet.

  “Advise him to clean out these holes did you?” I said.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. They’re supposed to drain away when it rains but they haven’t been cleaned out for years.”

  “But he’s not taken your advice.”