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‘Bobby Bunton,’ insisted Judy. ‘The man Baggs told me he was coming down to visit the camp today, we should try for an interview. I want to get some words out of him before Fleet Street comes nosing around. Get to the bottom of him and Miss Janetti being chucked out of the Marine at the same time.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve just got the new A-36 Infra-red filter.’
‘Many congratulations, Terry.’
‘That’ll take me all morning to get sorted.’
‘Not now it won’t.’
‘You don’t know what it can do. Why, I guarantee…’
‘For heaven’s sake, Terry, toys for boys!’
Terry looked at her steadily. This was, after all, the reporter who nearly missed the scoop last night. The arch of his shoulder against the library counter inferred the superiority he felt this morning, but Miss Dimont knew her man.
She tossed out the bait.
‘You always wanted to meet Fluffles, you told me so.’
This altered things. ‘I could try out the Tri X!’
‘Oh, do shut up about the Tri X,’ said Judy. ‘Let’s just get over there.’
The Marine Hotel was all its rival, the Grand, was not. The Grand looked like a cake whipped up by an excitable Italian pastry-chef, smothered in icing and promising a sweet interior. Its colonnaded halls and fussy décor appealed to the traditionalist, and it was true that in its time it had attracted more than its share of the rich and famous.
After all, when the celebrated actor Gerald Hennessy decided to grace Temple Regis with his glorious presence, hadn’t he chosen the Grand as his watering-hole of choice? It was a shame he had to get murdered before he could set foot in the place, but as a result of his unexpected demise the Grand’s public profile took a significant upswing when his wife, Prudence Aubrey, came to stay instead, trailing behind her widow’s weeds the assembled multitude of Fleet Street’s finest.
And then, to top it all, it had emerged that Marion Lake – the Marion Lake! – turned out to be Hennessy’s secret love-child. And she was staying at the Grand as well! No wonder the iced cake looked down on its smoother rival, the Marine.
The Marine didn’t care. An art deco edifice of immensely elegant proportions, it looked like an ocean liner. Its rectilinear windows were painted a seafoam green, as snooty a colour as you will see anywhere, its vast entrance hall was dotted with sculpture which may or may not have been by Henry Moore. Its staff wore boxy clothes and angular haircuts which made them look as though they’d stepped out of a portrait by Tamara de Lempicka, and if you asked for a cocktail it came in a triangular glass.
Its clientele were urbane sophisticates and, not to put too fine a point on it, rich. They didn’t mind paying 5/6d for a pot of tea when you could get the same in Lovely Mary’s for 1/3d, and as for the price of a bottle of Moët & Chandon!
Despite the discarded front-page splash detailing the ejection of Bobby Bunton and his companion from the Primrose Bar, Judy guessed the King of Holiday Camps would be back for a drink sooner or later.
‘The man has never allowed anybody to dictate anything to him, any time, ever,’ she said to Terry. They were trundling in the Minor out past Ruggles Point, the stately piece of headland from which the Marine stared imperiously back at the lesser folk of Temple Regis.
‘’E’s very short,’ said Terry. ‘A titch.’
‘What difference does that make?’ asked Judy, more interested in the flight of a cormorant, like a low-flying aircraft on a bombing-raid, dodging the wave-tops and searching for fish. The water was a dazzling shade of turquoise this morning, the sun crisping the edges of the wavelets and giving it sparkling life.
Terry, though far from immune to such beauty, was thinking ahead. ‘She’s much taller,’ he said. ‘You can tell.’ Judy turned and glanced at his rugged profile hunched over the steering wheel: in his mind he was composing his picture.
‘He stands, she sits,’ they said simultaneously – the problem was not exactly a new one.
Finally, with this joint decision, harmony was restored. It was hateful when the competing priorities of reporter and photographer drove them apart, for they had long been a remarkable team. Terry turned and smiled at her, his gaze perhaps lingering just a shade too long as the sunlight caught her profile.
‘Watch out!’
But Terry neatly swerved round the donkey being led down to the beach, and they safely turned the corner into the Marine’s front drive.
As they entered the vast entrance lobby a wondrous sound came to them from somewhere deep in the heart of the building. A low, sweeping voice somersaulted over itself and performed some agile gymnastics before rising in a slow portamento up towards a thrillingly high note. Then silence.
‘Moomie,’ said Terry, enthusiastically.
‘Mm?’
‘That’s the new singer you can hear – they’ve got her in for the season. Press call next Monday.’
‘That’ll be Betty with the notebook then,’ snipped Miss Dimont. She didn’t do showbiz.
‘She’s amazing – all the way from Chicago. Wonder how they got her? Normally she does West End only.’
‘Everyone loves a summer season,’ said Judy absently but her thoughts were on the story ahead as she strode purposefully towards the Primrose Bar. It was barely midday but there were already sounds of activity within.
Sure enough in a corner, shrouded by wafting palmettos, sat a short fat man with a pencil-thin moustache and shiny shoes. Next to him, leaning forward, sat one of the most notorious figures of the day, the platinum-haired Fluffles Janetti. Fluffles! Her rise to fame had been unstoppable, partly on account of her impossibly-proportioned figure, but also because of the number of men it had been draped around, from politicians to financiers to actors and now, the King of Holiday Camps, Bobby Bunton.
‘Mr Bunton. I hope you don’t mind,’ started Miss Dimont. ‘Judy Dimont, Riviera Express.’
‘Get yourself a drink,’ replied Bunton without glancing in her direction. He had eyes only for Fluffles.
‘Thank you,’ said Judy, used to such snubs. It was extraordinary how famous people treated the Press like serfs when their very fame depended on nice things being written about them.
‘Miss Janetti?’ pressed on Judy. The famous blonde locks bobbed and turned but did not wave, frozen in time as they were by a lavish dowsing of hairspray. Its noxious aroma just about won the battle with her perfume, thick and syrupy and speaking profoundly (so the manufacturers boasted) of yearning.
‘Yes.’ The voice, far from fluffy, was pure gravel. The eyes were hard and watchful. A tricky piece of work, thought Miss Dimont instantly; how can so many famous men have made fools of themselves over her?
Terry was already focusing on the answer to that question. With the unspoken compact which exists between professional photographers and famous women – of a certain sort – Miss Janetti straightened up and very slowly arched her back. For a moment her famous proportions seemed to acquire almost impossible dimensions.
‘That’s enough!’ snapped Bunton, who hated the spotlight being turned away, even if only for a minute. ‘’Ere you are,’ he said to Terry, straightening his tie-knot and brushing cigar-ash from his lapel. ‘Local rag, is it?’
Several thoughts flew simultaneously into Miss Dimont’s mind. First, why was it that reporters could be ignored, blackballed, shoved aside and generally made to feel like pariahs, while photographers were given a golden key into every rich man’s drawing-room? Second, why was it that everyone referred so dismissively to the ‘local rag’? Their Fleet Street equivalents were never known as ‘national rags’ yet they served the same purpose.
And third, Bobby Bunton had built-up heels on his shoes.
‘Nice,’ Terry was saying in the ingratiating tone reserved for the victims of his lens, ‘now one of the two of you together. Fluffles, can you just go round behind Mr Bunton, lean over the chair, like…’
Fluffles obliged, her considerable expanse threatening to envelop the King’s small head. It was an absurd pose, but one guaranteed to find space in the paper. Terry knew what he was doing all right.
Did Miss Dimont? She wasn’t quite sure where to start. The small man in front of her – even at first glance – was arrogant, manipulative, a liar, a cheat, an adulterer, and a rapacious exploiter of the small incomes and high hopes of millions of working-class families.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said sweetly, and sat down.
‘Everyone is so thrilled you chose Temple Regis for your holiday camp,’ she lied.
‘It has done wonders for the town.’ Another stinker.
‘All that silly opposition last year.’ We nearly saw you off, but for the whopping great bribes you paid a couple of councillors.
‘And look at the success of it all!’ One dead body, unexplained.
‘I want to write something nice about Buntorama,’ not necessarily, ‘so maybe we can clear up this shooting business with your help, Mr Bunton.’
For some reason the King chose not to look Miss Dimont in the eye. Instead he fixed his gaze on Fluffles.
‘People get excitable when they go on holiday,’ he sighed, as if having someone shot on the premises was a weekly event. ‘They’ve been saving up all year, it’s going to be the best fortnight they’ve ever had, then they come down here and don’t know what to do with themselves. That’s why I provide so many distractions – the funfair rides, the keep-fit classes, the dance competitions. These people work hard all year, they never have a moment to themselves.’
He took a swig from a heavy goblet. ‘Suddenly their time’s their own and after a few days they go a bit nuts. Some take to drink, some go off with other men’s wives, and a hell of a lot of them just sit down and have an out-and-out row. Men and women – the age-old story.’
He got up as if to signal the interview was over. A famous man, a rich man, he had generously given of his time and his wisdom to the local rag, and now it was time to get back to the business of making money.
Miss Dimont remained in her seat and elaborately turned over a page in her notebook, her signal to Bunton the interview was far from over. She could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye, even though he appeared to be summoning the wine-waiter.
‘So that’s what it was,’ said Judy, ‘just a domestic argument?’
‘Yup.’ Bunton was flapping his hand at some far-distant minion.
‘Man shot his wife dead?’
‘What else,’ came the dead-ball reply. ‘The clock ticks. He can’t stand her a moment longer, it’s driving him crazy. Clock chimes the quarter-hour and – bam! He’s glad it’s over.’
Fluffles was too busy with her powder-compact to pay attention to this shockingly arbitrary supposition. She stretched her lips and grinned in ghastly fashion back at her reflection.
‘She wasn’t married.’
The King spared his interlocutor a look. ‘How do you know?’
‘No wedding ring.’
‘Proves nothing.’
‘Had registered on her own,’ insisted Judy. ‘Had not been seen with anyone. Her neighbours in the chalets either side confirmed that.’
This was not strictly true, in fact it wasn’t true at all, but when interviewees are nasty or unhelpful or contemptuous, it does no harm to give them a prod. Bobby Bunton wouldn’t know what Patsy Rouchos’ neighbours had seen or hadn’t but he did know something, and Miss Dimont was determined to get it from him.
‘She wasn’t a holidaymaker in the ordinary sense of the word,’ she said, half-guessing. ‘Could she have been here on business? Or waiting for a boyfriend who didn’t turn up – is that what it is?’
Bobby Bunton stared hard at her, as if for the first time. ‘It. Really. Doesn’t. Matter,’ he said through yellow, oversized front teeth. ‘She’s. Dead. A. Tragedy. Our. Hearts. Go. Out. To. Her. Family.’ The effort from issuing these words seemed to have exhausted him and he leaned against Fluffles’ pillows. Fluffles looked at Miss Dimont with hatred.
‘Ah,’ said Judy, ‘so you do know who her family is, and therefore presumably you know what she was doing here.’
She paused. ‘You see, Mr Bunton, Temple Regis is thrilled to have Buntorama here but it would be a concern to townsfolk to think that people come down here with guns. And then shoot people with them. It’s just not that kind of place, you know – we have a reputation as being one of the safest resorts in the West of England.
‘So, you see, a simple explanation is so much better for them than a mystery. “MYSTERY DEATH” is an unsettling thing to read in a headline, whereas “DEATH AS A RESULT OF A DOMESTIC DISPUTE” – or whatever it was that happened – they can swallow much more easily. Less unsettling. So I need your help.’
As Bunton took a swig from his glass Judy reflected, not for the first time, how difficult it was to worm information out of habitual liars. Yes, she had lied herself to wrest information out of the King, but those were white lies, little ones. Bunton’s were of a much deeper hue.
Then again, she thought, looking at the pint-sized individual opposite, how much harder a reporter’s life is than a photographer’s. Terry just ambled in here, didn’t introduce himself, got his camera out and took a picture which would occupy as much space in the paper as her words. Job over and done in a matter of seconds while she, Judy, had to beaver away at screwing information out of this tight-mouthed wide boy. It could take all morning.
It was why she loved the job so much. The challenge!
‘I like to do my best for the local press,’ said Bunton, who’d evidently undertaken a snap re-evaluation of the woman sitting opposite him. ‘We rely on you, at each of our resorts, to maintain a connection between our business and the local folks. Even so, you won’t want this in your paper.’
‘What is it we won’t want?’
‘This woman, the dead woman, she was a prossie. A working girl. She was coming over here to the Marine from the camp, sitting in the bar here, waiting to pick someone up.’
‘Oh.’ Miss Dimont took off her glasses and polished them. Such things were not unknown, but here – in Temple Regis! A lady of the night!
‘I saw her in here the night of the – disturbance,’ said Bunton. ‘You can always spot ’em a mile off.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Dimont, recalling the scrapped front-page article from last night’s paper. ‘I wanted to ask you about that. Seems a little high-handed of the Marine to ask you to leave.’
‘Kick me out, more like. But,’ said the little man proprietorially, ‘as you see, we’re back here buying the Marine’s drinks at their extortionate prices. Always ready to take our money!’ He had more success this time when he beckoned the waiter. ‘What’s yours?’
‘No thank you,’ said Judy. ‘So what exactly happened?’
Bunton threw his thumb at Fluffles’ embonpoint. ‘You tell her, darlin’.’
The courtesan straightened her hair and glanced down at her abundant heritage. ‘Outrageous!’ she squawked. ‘You can still see the bruise if you look closely enough. They were outrageous!
‘We’d been in here for a few hours, Bobs was doing business on the phone and then talking to someone at the bar, I got a bit bored. I do like a man to pay attention!’ she said pointedly and flapped her hand at Bunton’s belly. ‘So yes, I’d had a glass or two and I decided to go over and break it up.’
‘That’ll do,’ said Bunton, with a warning glance. ‘What she’s trying to say, Mrs, er…’
‘Miss Dimont.’
‘Yers. What she’s trying to say is that as she got up she slipped on some liquid on the floor. I mean, they charge so much you’d think they’d have staff looking after you properly if you spill your drink – they should have wiped it up immediately.’
‘Anyway, Bobs,’ intervened Fluffles, not to be denied her moment, ‘it was all your fault. If you hadn’t spent so long chatting to that person I wouldn’t…’
‘What actually happened,’ said Bunton, cutting in, ‘Fluffles got up, slipped on the drink, went over. Someone came over and helped her up…’
‘Split my dress,’ chimed in Fluffles cheerily. ‘That got everybody’s attention – including his!’
‘Hardly needed splitting,’ said Bobs, ‘you was showing everything anyway.’
‘It got him away from her, anyway,’ she said to Miss Dimont. ‘So then I told him off – look at me, I says, covered in drink, my face bashed in from falling over, one of my heels broken, my whatnots falling out – if you’d left her alone none of this would have happened.
‘Then she came over, and I let her have it with my handbag. Bitch. She just stood there looking all superior, kind of looking down her nose at me, one heel on one heel off. I tell you, she’ll remember that handbag!’
‘Er, sorry, can we just go back a moment?’ asked Judy. ‘This lady we’re talking about at the bar. The one your Bobs was talking to all evening.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But, she was the one from Buntorama, the, er… prossie?’
‘Never seen a cheaper-looking tart.’
