A Quarter Past Dead

скачать книгу бесплатно


‘Gorgeous, Moomie,’ said Terry, seizing the initiative, ‘you put a special dress on for me! You look a million dollars! Harrods, is it?’

He said it ‘’Arrods’.

‘C&A, darling. Cost me five guineas.’

‘Gorgeous,’ burbled Terry. You couldn’t tell whether he meant it, or whether it was the standard snapper-patter to create an early intimacy between lensman and subject. Betty had heard it a million times before and wandered off in search of a cup of coffee.

Terry launched into his routine – flattering, cajoling, instructing, begging – and Moomie happily went along with it, her queen-size laugh and roistering personality turning the event into a lively celebration.

‘You’re a bit gorgeous yourself, Terry,’ she said, pouting her lips and leaning forward.

‘Fantastic!’ panted Terry, as he threw himself onto his back on the dance-floor to get the up-shot.

‘Fabulous! Can you spare a couple of tickets for tonight, Moomie?’

‘Have a dozen, darling!’ she laughed, batting her eyelids. And so the courtly ritual continued for the next twenty minutes. The pair may never meet again, but for this short span they had been lovers in all but fact. Such is the compact between photographer and celebrity – a secret contract which no reporter could ever be part of, since photographers flattered and wooed while the scribblers just asked damned awkward questions.

‘Contessa,’ snapped Moomie in answer to Betty’s first question. ‘Strongest support in the business. I’ll give you the name of my fitter if you want.’

Betty blushed – had her intention been quite so transparent? – and stumbled on into the interview. Meanwhile Terry wandered over to the musicians who were lighting cigarettes and drinking cups of tea.

‘One word from me and she does what she likes,’ said Mike Manifold, the band leader, nodding at Moomie.

‘We don’t normally do requests, unless we’re asked,’ added Cornish Pete.

‘You must understand – our music is far better than it sounds,’ said Karanikis.

Terry grasped that these were musicians’ jokes, a polite way of telling him to shove off. The trio really only wanted to sit there moaning at each other – about the management, the accommodation, the number of encores they were expected to play before going into overtime, and the next recording session. So he dutifully strolled off, back out to the lavish entrance hall, with its wide sweeping staircase and important-looking sculpture. He paused for a moment, then went over to the receptionist.

‘Will you tell the lady reporter I’ll be back in a little while? She’ll be half an hour or more with the band. I won’t be long.’

He loaded his camera bag into the boot and drove off through the gates. It took no more than two minutes to arrive at the entrance to Buntorama where he left the Minor in the car park, and strolled away without any apparent purpose. Over in the distance he could hear the funfair going at full tilt, the screams from the helter-skelter cutting through the still morning air.

Terry had a pocket camera with him – he rarely went anywhere without it – and as if to justify his presence in the camp took a handful of snaps. There were a few pretty girls, a couple of irritable pensioners, and a lively group of teenagers. A man and woman got very cross and swiftly parted when he levelled the camera at them – moral trappitude, thought Terry, and moved on.

Soon he reached the management block and, led by instinct, he walked up the steps. There in a corner sat Bobby Bunton in his braces, and Bert Baggs with a tragic look on his face. He thought he’d wander over and have a word with the King, but His Majesty was too busy holding court. So Terry sat down behind a potted fern and waited his moment, watching the dust particles slide through the bright sunlight in their gradual descent to earth. It would take an f1 at 1/24, he calculated, to capture that.

‘. . . then he said to me, “She died on your property, how’s that going to look?”’ This was Bunton’s voice, though since sitting down Terry could no longer see the two men.

‘What we going to do, boss?’

‘It’s blackmail. Blackmail! And all because I…’

‘It wasn’t you, boss,’ came Baggs’ sycophantic tones, ‘it was ’er.’

‘Hardly matters now. This has never, ever, happened before. And just as I’ve got the Archbishop of York to come and do the Sunday service!’

‘’E won’t know, boss. Not as if this is going to end up in the newspapers.’

‘But it is, Bert, it is! We’ve only had the local rag round so far, but in another twenty-four hours the whole of Fleet Street will be here – soaking up our hospitality, writing innuendoes, behaving in that rotten two-faced way they do.’

‘You’ll win ’em round, you always do. Don’t forget we’ve had dead ’uns before,’ came Baggs’ reply. ‘Remember that couple up in Essex…’

‘That was different! They shouldn’t have tried that out!’

‘Within the privacy of their own bedroom, boss!’

‘Oh, shut up!’ burst out Bunton. ‘This is different, I tell you – this woman, dead in bed, bullet through the chest. We might get away with that but the fact that nobody knows who the devil she is suddenly turns it from routine into Page One. Put mystery in a headline and things turn nasty. Trust me, I know.’

‘Well, what are you going to say to – you know?’ said Baggs.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him to go public. It’ll ruin me – finish the business. The Archbishop of York, Bert, the Archbishop!’

‘We can always cancel him.’

‘How will that look when Fleet Street gets a hold of it?’

‘If only I’d known,’ said Baggs dolefully, ‘I’d never have let her in in the place. She looked an odd ’un, sounded it too. I blame myself.’

‘Go on doing that and you’ll be out of a job. You’ve got to help me think of something – and quick!’

Things suddenly went silent and when Terry looked up, there was Bobby Bunton standing over Terry with a thunderous look on his face. ‘What the fuffin’ fuff are you doing here?’ he demanded.

Eagleton, a cool hand in times of crisis, looked up with a relaxed smile on his face. ‘You know, Mr Bunton, those pictures I took last week of you and Miss Janetti turned out so well I thought I’d drop some prints off. Might look nice in a frame on your desk.’

Bunton eyed him sideways. ‘OK,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Thank you. Where are they?’

‘Back in the car,’ lied Terry with a smile. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were here first.’

‘Well, give them to Baggs. I’m going off for lunch.’

‘I will, sir. And…’

‘Yes?’

‘Miss Janetti, sir. The editor asked if she would do a separate interview, talking about her life as a dancer. A few more nice photos. Wouldn’t take up too much of her time, make a nice Women’s Page feature.’

‘Fix it up with Baggs,’ said Bunton, still uneasy. ‘Were you listening in just now? To our private chat?’

‘Me? Certainly not!’ said Terry. ‘That would be rude, wouldn’t it? My editor Mr Rhys doesn’t like his staff being rude to people.’ The vein of sarcasm in his tone was barely evident.

‘Very well, then,’ said Bunton and strode off.

Terry was in no hurry to leave. He wandered out of the management block into the sunshine and took a deep breath. Everywhere there were smartly blazered staff marching in earnest with fixed smiles on their faces. Given the stiff south-westerly wind which was blowing up, their apparent joy seemed misplaced – but obviously they’d all taken their happy pill with breakfast.

In robust denial of the elements the holidaymakers milled about the sports field, tennis courts and bowling greens dressed as if a tropical heatwave was only just around the corner. Their faces, however, puckered at each new gust of wind, and the ladies hugged their cardigans tighter. None looked as though their spirits would be raised by a visit from an archbishop.

Terry was wandering towards the funfair with no apparent purpose in mind when he felt the back of his jacket being tugged, hard. He turned to see the pink-cheeked Baggs.

‘What’re you doin’?’ said the under-manager, his tone not friendly.

‘Just taking a look around,’ said Terry, ‘it’s a free country.’

‘Not exactly. You have to have a pass. Otherwise we’d have every Tom, Dick and Harry from Temple Regis poking their noses in. People save all year to have their holiday here, you know, it’s not a free show.

‘You come with me,’ said Baggs, and holding on to Terry’s coat pulled him towards a low chalet with a sign hanging outside. It said ‘The Sherwood Forest’.

‘In ’ere,’ ordered Baggs. Terry obliged.

‘Usual,’ said Baggs to the barman. ‘And whatever ’e’s ’avin’.’

‘Now,’ he said, ‘what was you doin’ earwiggin’ my conversation with Mr Bunton? I saw you listenin’ in.’

‘Not me,’ said Terry.

‘Yes you was. I was watchin’ you in the mirror.’

‘I was waiting to give Mr Bunton the prints of him and Fluffles.’

‘Oh, yes? Where are they, then?’

‘In the car. I told him.’

Baggs leaned forward. His breath revealed this was not the first glass of usual he’d swallowed this morning.

‘Listen. This is a very tricky time for Mr Bunton, what with this murder on his property and the Archbishop due any time. Business is good down here in Devon, but it can turn on a sixpence with just the wrong word in the Press. As it is, we’re waiting for the Fleet Street mob to turn up and make a nuisance of theirselves, so we don’t need any more grief from the likes of you.’

Terry just smiled. Baggs saw he was failing to make his point.

‘Look,’ he said aggressively. ‘You’ve had your fun ‘ere. You’ve got all the pictures you need. Mr Bunton has been very generous with his time, and now I want you to scarper, get it?’

‘You’re asking me to leave?’ said Terry.

‘Moochin’ round ’ere, snoopin’.’ A fresh glass of the usual had been put before the under-manager, though nothing for Terry. ‘I want you to ‘oppit, otherwise something nasty might occur.’