The Sinking Admiral

by The Detection Club

  There was no evidence of busyness anywhere, but the compliment seemed to cheer him up a bit.

  ‘I was doing a profile of him for the Clarion. Local character and all that. It’s an occasional series. You know the kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ve seen a few of them.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘I enjoyed that one you did of the vicar.’

  He brightened up.

  ‘So why were you seeing Fitz?’

  ‘Just to clarify a few details.’

  She raised her right eyebrow. ‘Anything interesting?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Come on, Bob. You’re a seasoned newspaperman. You must have dug up some stuff on Fitz. He was a bit of a mystery man, but you’d have known where to look.’

  ‘I had found a few interesting facts, since you ask. But now he’s dead I don’t want to betray any secrets.’

  Amy did her best to get him to say more, but the more she pressed him, the more he clammed up. Her frustration was giving way to anger, when the doorbell sounded. Bob frowned. ‘I’m not expecting anyone,’ but he pressed the buzzer, and a pinstripe suit containing Willie Sayers came through the door.

  ‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, bowing his head in Amy’s direction. ‘You must forgive my interrupting you.’

  She contemplated offering to vacate the chair and leave them together, but then thought better of it. Maybe Bob Christie’s research into Fitz’s past had unearthed something about the Admiral’s shared history with Willie Sayers. About the young woman who had drowned in the Regent’s Canal perhaps…?

  Bob adopted his challenging look. ‘Amy won’t be staying much longer. What’s up with you?’

  ‘I’d rather wait.’

  Bob sat up straight and managed a bark. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  Willie sighed. ‘Very well then. Actually, come to think of it, Amy might be able to help.’ He turned towards her. ‘Do you know anything about the Templar gold that the Crabwell rumour factory claims was buried near your pub?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. No. Obviously I’ve heard the rumours, but I think they’re complete rubbish.’

  He turned back to Bob. ‘And you?’

  ‘You want to know because…?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Because I like to know what’s going on in my constituency,’ said Willie rather stiffly.

  ‘I’ve heard something about it, but I don’t know details.’

  ‘Anything more than the rumours?’

  ‘No. I reckon it’s just fanciful village gossip.’

  There was a pause, which Amy broke. ‘I’m here because Bob was doing work on a profile of Fitz and I was wondering if he’d consulted any of the locals about it.’

  Bob sat up straight. ‘My sources are sacrosanct.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Bob. I’m not asking you to betray any Cabinet secrets, just to help me find out a bit more about his past, his family history and all that. I was fond of him, you know. As I’m sure you two were.’

  They both nodded rather unconvincingly.

  ‘You must surely have talked to Griffiths Bentley,’ she said. ‘A pro like you.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Once again Bob Christie responded to flattery. ‘Yes, I talked to him, but nothing important was said.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘I heard something about an illegitimate child,’ proffered Willie. ‘But I don’t know who it was supposed to be or who were supposed to be its parents.’

  ‘Fitz’s child?’ asked Amy.

  ‘I just don’t know.’

  She turned to Bob, who shook his head and tried to look mysterious. Amy valiantly threw in a few follow-up questions, but knowing when she was defeated, she left them to it, speculating fruitlessly on whether there was some deep connection between the two of them.

  After the front door had shut behind her, Bob took a bottle of whisky out of his desk drawer and looked enquiringly at Willie. ‘Quick snifter?’

  ‘Thanks, Bob. Just the job on a day like this.’

  But the MP wasn’t as relaxed as he was trying to appear. There was barely masked anxiety in his tone as he asked, ‘What did you actually find out from Griffiths Bentley?’

  The editor hesitated only for a moment, and then he spilled the beans.

  Amy strode off towards the beach, her mind straying into the familiar territory of wondering which of the old bores would be worst to be stuck with on a desert island. From there her mind drifted towards Ben, and how agreeable it might be to be on the sands with him… in rather more clement weather. And in fact in a rather more congenial environment. Barbados, perhaps…?

  She shook herself out of the fantasy and went back to thinking about Fitz. Maybe Griffiths Bentley was the man to give her a lead…?

  She rang him on her way back to the Admiral Byng, but there was no reply. Nor was there the other dozen times she tried throughout the rest of the day. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll just have to have a word with him after the funeral. He’s bound to be there.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Hypocrites,’ Amy muttered to herself under her breath.

  Though the regular Sunday congregation rarely achieved double figures, the church was packed for the Wednesday afternoon funeral. Of course Fitz had been a popular resident of the village – no doubt about that. And even more popular for his recent distribution of free drinks at the ‘Last Hurrah’. Amy should have been pleased to witness so many friends assembled to see him off. But she strongly suspected that people had heard the rumour that the service would be televised. And indeed, now she looked towards the pulpit, she noticed Ben’s cameraman Stan stationed discreetly beside a pillar, his lens sweeping the beaming mourners.

  Meriel Dane must have arrived early. She was sitting, or perhaps posing was the correct word, in the front pew, occasionally turning to her neighbour to make some observation and, in the process, allowing the camera to catch her profile. Every now and then she dabbed one eye with a handkerchief, using the other to check whether Stan was filming her or not. Willie Sayers had also opted for an early arrival, and gained a front row seat where the camera could not fail to notice him. He was dressed in a very smart black overcoat and seemed ready to adopt the role of chief mourner, or chief anything, if requested to do so. Bob Christie had conversely positioned himself at the rear of the congregation, as if to observe the various comings and goings. She saw him scribble something on a notebook, then pause and lick his pencil. Did pencils really need to be licked, or was it just something he’d heard that journalists did? The latter probably. He pulled a face, but whether because he’d spotted something or whether he just didn’t like the taste of pencil was unclear.

  A few rows back from the altar sat DI Cole and DC Chesterton. There was an expression of complacency on the older officer’s face. He had used his influence to ensure that the coroner was finally happy and speeded up the process that had led to a suicide verdict being recorded. So far as he was concerned, another case had been neatly wrapped up with a bow on top. And his recurrent fear – that his slowness in reaching solutions to crimes might lead to Scotland Yard being brought in – had once again not been realised. Back at the Admiral Byng, all the police impedimenta had been removed from the Bridge, and life at the pub could continue as normal. And here he was, DI Cole with his subservient sidekick DC Chesterton, attending the victim’s funeral ‘out of respect’. One of the most satisfactory conclusions to a case that he could remember.

  Greta Knox entered hurriedly, as most people had, and deposited a dripping umbrella at the back of the church. The rain must have got even worse, Amy thought. The church was beginning to smell of damp raincoats and damp wool. Greta looked around for a space where she could sit, started towards it, then frowned, reined back and looked again.

  As well she might. Amy’s first impression had been that the church was packed, but now she saw that the packing was both partial and selective. Though most pews contained as many damp parishioners as they could reasonably be
ar, one or two were almost empty – a fact explained by the geographical distribution of leaks from the roof. Water dripped from a great height, splashing onto the oak pews. Latecomers had, it would seem, a choice between standing at the back and getting wet. Well, everyone would get wet enough when they had to go outside for the burial itself, even those who had bagged themselves a dry seat now. Amy smiled briefly, then realised her predicament was precisely the same as Greta’s. Where would she sit? Or stand? She was relieved to see Ben wave at her and point to the spot beside him. As she edged, apologetically, along the pew towards Ben, she heard him say: ‘I saved a seat for you. I thought you might be a bit late, having to get rid of the drinkers and close up the pub.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with genuine gratitude. Ben had positioned himself in the middle of things, and had been early enough to lay claim to a yard or so of hard but dry seating. Then she added: ‘You look like shit warmed up.’

  ‘I feel like shit warmed up,’ he said, not about to mention the part that Teacher’s had played in his condition. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night.’

  Guilty conscience? Amy wondered briefly. Of course, he was playing things fairly straight now – all the indications were that Fitz’s death had put on hold whatever hatchet job he had had planned for a failing pub. The programme, if it ever made it to the screen, would now have to be something more far more sympathetic. It would become, Ben had promised her, a eulogy to a popular landlord and pillar of the community. A diamond geezer. Still, Ben must have plenty on his conscience from previous projects. And the fact that he was on the side of the angels one minute didn’t mean that he still would be the next. Potential viewing figures were everything. Amy wondered idly how far he’d go to increase his viewing figures. As far as murder…?

  But she didn’t voice such thoughts as she said, ‘Really? A bit restless? Like Lady Macbeth?’

  Ben frowned as if distantly remembering a warm afternoon in the Lower Sixth. ‘Lady Macbeth…?’

  ‘“Out, damned spot!”’

  Ben nodded. ‘Of course. It was the dog that kept her awake all night, wasn’t it? Sorry. It’s just…’ He looked briefly over his shoulder and then continued in a very low whisper indeed: ‘I can’t get it out of my head that Fitz’s murderer is here, in this church, now.’

  ‘It could have been suicide…’ Amy said teasingly.

  Ben shook his head. ‘We both know that’s not true. Anyway, that’s certainly not the line we’re planning to take in the…’

  ‘What line you’re planning to take?’ demanded Amy. ‘You mean the documentary is now about the murder? You promised…’

  ‘Sorry – bad choice of words. There’s no line. Nothing about amateur detective work. I promise you, that’s right out. It’s just about good old Fitz. Loved by all. Missed by all. A diamond geezer.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. The diamond geezer. It will be a eulogy. Straight up.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘Because you are cynical and world weary. Whereas I still have the idealism of youth. On the other hand – wouldn’t it be amazing if the killer gave himself away at the funeral? I mean, can you imagine the ratings? They’d be through the roof.’

  Amy’s gaze was glacial.

  ‘OK. OK. Sorry. Forget I said that too. We’re here to honour Fitz. Nothing else. It’s not about ratings or even winning a BAFTA, though wouldn’t that be great…? Great for Fitz, I mean. Very fitting and a lasting memorial to somebody I’d describe as a diamond geezer… Amy, stop looking at me as if I’m something you’ve found sticking to the sole of your shoe. It’s the lack of sleep. I mean well, but it’s all coming out wrong. I realise I’m just blathering.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amy. ‘You are blathering all right. But you sort of have a point all the same. I don’t want a friend’s death turned into fifty-five minutes of entertainment – but we do want to see Fitz’s killer caught, and the police are honestly getting nowhere. Maybe Stan will pick something up on film. You really think that the murderer might reveal himself somehow?’

  ‘Or herself. We have to be politically correct.’

  ‘You think that conceding women can kill makes you some sort of feminist?’

  Ben hesitated.

  Amy shook her head. ‘For your information, you’re still blathering.’

  ‘I told you: it’s the lack of sleep.’ It was true. All he wanted to do was to curl back into his bed and sleep off the excesses of the last two days. The hangover seemed to have split his brain down the middle and was now grinding the two parts together. ‘But I’ve just got to stay awake this afternoon and watch everyone. People are a bit conscious of the camera… It’s more likely they’ll let their guard slip when they think Stan’s filming elsewhere. Can you help me watch them? And elbow me hard in the ribs if I do drop off.’

  ‘Elbow you hard? It would be my pleasure, Ben.’

  ‘Did you see Meriel, by the way?’

  ‘Auditioning for her new cookery series in the front row?’

  ‘Yup. And Willie Sayers?’

  ‘Three to the right, looking sincere and compassionate. The caring constituency MP.’

  ‘You caught his expression?’

  ‘Didn’t need to. Bob Christie’s at the back, making notes. And someone who from your description must be Greg Jepson’s there too, working on his tablet, no doubt making a few more millions. I’m not sure what the protocol is about bringing tablets into church – unless you’re Moses, of course. Oh, and there’s that schoolgirl.’

  ‘Schoolgirl?’

  ‘The one you pointed out to me. I told you, she kept trying to order drinks at the Admiral Byng although she was underage.’

  ‘Oh, Tracy Crofts.’

  Why on earth would she be at Fitz’s funeral, Amy wondered. She doubted whether the girl had even met him.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ben went on, ‘who else should be here?’

  Amy considered for a moment. ‘Where’s whatshername, your buddy from uni?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Ben.

  ‘You know,’ said Amy, ignoring Ben’s studied innocence. ‘That bitch-mutton-dressed-as-lamb Ianthe.’

  A cough from the other side of Ben answered that question.

  ‘Hi, Ianthe,’ said Amy, sinking back into the pew.

  She heard Ben suppress a juvenile snigger. He’d dropped her right in that one. Well, if he fell asleep, it would now be down to Ianthe to elbow him hard in the ribs, because, after that cheap trick, Amy wouldn’t be doing him any more favours. Not in this life.

  For a while they both sat there not speaking, the expectant hum of conversation all around them. Amy flicked through the prayer book. Ben, staring, cranium aching as though it had been scoured with wire wool, was reading the Decalogue, written in very faded gold lettering on a board behind the pulpit. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ he mouthed silently. Why was that only number six? Making graven images was a relatively minor offence, surely? Who on earth rated that as number two? He wondered whether there was any scope for a reality show based on the Ten Commandments, one commandment getting voted off by the public every week until The Nation’s Favourite Commandment could be revealed…? The problem was that the only prohibition most people remembered was the one about not coveting your neighbour’s ass.

  Ben felt, rather than heard, a gentle swish as Ianthe shifted in her seat, nyloned leg rubbing against nyloned leg in a way that he had always found vaguely erotic – even at a funeral. Maybe especially at a funeral, when eroticism was in short supply. While Ianthe’s charms were clearly invisible to Amy, in Ben’s book she was still a very attractive woman. Especially in a short black dress and black stockings. He was increasingly coming around to the idea that they had gone to bed together at university, though he couldn’t remember any of the details. Maybe it was worth chatting her up a bit, seeing if something could be rekindled…? You never knew. He turned to her and said: ‘Ianthe, I’ve been thinking…’ and then, annoyingly, his sleep-
deprived mind went blank again.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Erm…’ He really needed to do better than this. She was looking at him with mild interest, turning rapidly to bemused pity. Oh, God! What should he say to amuse and impress a publisher that he might want to sleep with if all else failed? ‘It’s funny,’ he heard himself announce, ‘if we were in a crime novel, now would be about the time we’d discover the Second Body.’

  Wrong thing to say. Ianthe scowled at him. ‘If I were ever in a novel, I assure you that it would not be a crime novel.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because all the crime novels that come across my desk are totally unrealistic. Still influenced by the so-called Golden Age, following fatuous rules formulated by some idiot called Ronald Knox.’

  ‘Oh yes, I made a programme about those once,’ said Ben. ‘His Decalogue. Crime novels weren’t allowed any identical twins, no Chinamen either.’

  ‘All bloody nonsense!’ Ianthe snorted. ‘All crime fiction is bloody nonsense.’

  Fair enough, he thought. You’re talking to me like I’m an idiot. And I am an idiot. A sleep-deprived and hungover idiot, but an idiot for all that. He sighed, yawned, and studied the gold leaf Decalogue again. ‘Thou shalt not steal’ was at number eight, he noticed, just after adultery. Maybe that was it? They could get the viewing public to vote, and each week they’d rearrange the order? ‘This week’s big faller, down from number five, “Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother”. And a new entry at number nine, “Eat Five a Day”…’

  ‘Crime writers!’ Ianthe exploded. It was one of those sauce bottle moments. At first she had refused to be drawn. Now it all flooded out onto Ben’s plate. ‘Formulaic tosh! Six or seven suspects all of whom have a chapter devoted to them so that, by the end of each, the reader is manipulated into thinking that this is the killer. Then, when he’s finished the first draft, the writer reads it all through again, decides which was the least likely suspect, and then pins the blame on that one, regardless of the actual evidence presented. And, my God, the number of fictional serial killers that there are out there! I mean, in real life, how many do you get? One or two a year? If that? And yet crime fiction is stuffed with them. Every bloody crime is committed by a serial killer – preferably one who mocks the police by leaving elaborate clues – clues that it is clear will eventually convict him. Does he realise that? Of course he does, but he still leaves the stupid clues. Because he’s stupid.’