A Quarter Past Dead. TP Fielden
people, thought Miss D – but would they know a story if they tripped over one on the promenade?
‘Here,’ she said, brusquely, ‘drink these!’ and pushing her way back out of the door, she was just in time to see Terry behind the wheel of the Minor, gunning the motor while impatiently waiting for a couple of pedestrians to get out of his way.
‘Terry!’ she shouted, but the office car veered away, the photographer bent forward with a look of steely determination on his face.
Just then Peter Pomeroy hove into view. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you over at Buntorama? For heaven’s sake, Judy, I do expect more from the chief reporter!’
It was unlike sweet Peter to say a harsh word, and it hurt.
‘What’s going on?’ said Miss Dimont, for once in a fluster.
‘Woman found dead, for heaven’s sake,’ said Peter urgently. ‘Shot. Surely you know? For heaven’s sake, why aren’t you with Terry?’
‘He went without me.’ It sounded so lame.
‘Well, get over there as fast as you can. There’s just time to re-plate the front page for the last edition. Five hundred words. In half an hour, not a moment later. Get going!’
Ruggleswick was the part of Temple Regis most people preferred to ignore. Just as townsfolk rarely discussed the snooty enclave of Bedlington-on-Sea, hiding behind the headland and pinching its nose in case a bad smell wafted its way, so too it was for Ruggleswick – people didn’t want to be reminded of Buntorama and the type of people it attracted.
The feeling was mutual. The camp’s guests had to clamber aboard a bus in order to get into a town which, on arrival, perplexed them with its prettiness. Instead they mostly idled their days away at Ruggleswick, being bullied by Redcoats and indulging in unsavoury practices.
At least that’s what most Temple Regents thought. There was almost no visible evidence of moral turpitude, however, when Miss Dimont finally arrived at the holiday camp aboard Herbert, her trusty moped. Dressed in an undistinguished livery of grey-blue paint and with a gaping pannier-bag contributing an ungainly lopsided look, Herbert nevertheless was a trustworthy aide and companion – one who could be guaranteed to get her to a story far more nippily than others, like Terry, burdened with an office car.
Except tonight.
‘You promised!’ hissed Judy when she finally caught up with the runaway lensman. ‘You absolutely promised!’
‘All finished now,’ said Terry, with a smarmy smile. ‘I’m off back to the office. Not much to see, I wouldn’t waste your time if I was you.’
This only compounded the fury she felt.
‘Never mind the dead body, Terry,’ she said tartly, ‘what about the spark-plug? You promised me you’d put a new one in Herbert this morning. I could’ve got the garage to do it but you said you’d…’
‘Ooops,’ said Terry, carefully winding the wiggly cable of his flashgun into his camera bag, ‘I’ll do it tomorrow, Judy.’
‘I couldn’t get the engine started! And while we’re on the subject of negligence, Terry,’ went on the reporter, standing in his way with hands on hips so he couldn’t leave, ‘why did you just shoot off like that? Couldn’t you wait just a moment for me? For heaven’s sake, it was me who went to get you a drink!’
‘It was an emergency.’
‘You knew I’d have to come up here to get the words to go with your picture.’
‘Picture’s worth a thousand words,’ said Terry. He often said this, and it got more infuriating each time. ‘Pictures sell newspapers, not words.’
Miss Dimont shook her head so hard some of her corkscrew curls came out of their pinnings. She was lovely when she was angry, thought Terry, and he levelled his Leica at her.
‘Put that down! Tell me why you shot off like that!’
‘Shouldn’t you be gettin’ the story?’
‘Tell me!’
‘If you want to know,’ said Terry, ‘it was that look on your face back in the Fort. I came in the door and started telling you about this new Tri-X film and you just rolled your eyes up to the ceiling in that way of yours and…’
‘Heavens, Terry, it’s like me talking about buying a new typewriter ribbon! Tools of the trade! It was boring!’
Terry gave her a look. ‘Let’s see if Herbert can get you back to the office in one piece,’ he replied, meaning the spark-plug. ‘Lucky for you it’s downhill most of the way.’
‘No, wait!’
‘Bye.’ He clunked the door of the Minor shut with a complacent thud and sped off back to civilisation, leaving Miss Dimont with no clue as to where to start.
They’d met at the entrance to the Ruggleswick Camp – Terry on his way out, Judy coming in – so now it was her turn to make her way towards what had been, in its army days, the guardhouse. Nowadays it was the camp’s reception, brightly lit with neon tubes and festooned with posters advertising Bobby Bunton’s other holiday resorts, but even now you wouldn’t be surprised to find a platoon of armed soldiers tumbling out of the doors to stop your escape.
‘Are the police still here?’ she asked a pimply youth reading a comic.
‘’Oo wants to know?’ said the fellow without raising his eyes. Clearly Bobby Bunton had yet to include the rudiments of etiquette in his staff training.
‘Miss Dimont, Riviera Express.’ She didn’t want to make it sound too important – people had a habit of saying, ‘No Press!’ at the slightest provocation – on the other hand, she wanted to jerk the youth out of his torpor. There were only twelve minutes left to find the body, discover what had happened, parry the stonewall response of the police, parlay a fact or two out of them in return for who knows what promises, find a phone, and file copy to the impatient Peter Pomeroy.
‘Inspector Topham’s expecting me,’ she said, without the slightest clue whether the old warhorse was on the case this evening, or out dancing with Princess Margaret.
The lad looked up. ‘Row Seven,’ he said, ‘only they call it Curzon Street now. Last ’ut on the left.’
Bearing no resemblance whatever to its Mayfair namesake, Curzon Street had dismally failed to shake off its resemblance to an army barracks. The best that could be said was its hutlike appearance softened in the growing dusk and the purple clouds which backlit it gave a glow, an allure, which would last until nightfall and dissolve with the morning light.
Down the end, where a Londoner might expect Park Lane to be, she could see the red tail-lights of the police car, and a pool of light spilling from a couple of brightly lit windows.
‘Not now, Miss Dimont, if you please.’ Inspector Topham must have turned down the Princess’s invitation to dance this evening. He was never very helpful in such circumstances but at least Judy knew where she stood with him.
‘Dead woman,’ she said authoritatively, maximising in two words the extent of her knowledge of the case. She hoped Topham thought she knew more.
‘Shot,’ she added after a brief pause – just that little extra bit of info, held back for maximum effect, to help do the trick.
‘Mm,’ said Topham in a stonewall sort of way.
‘Murder,’ asked Miss Dimont, her voice rising now, ‘suicide? Or was it just an accident?’ The sarcasm was lost on the policeman, whose way of sweeping unwelcome deaths under the carpet was all too familiar.
‘A shooting fatality,’ came the stolid response. ‘Woman