Publish and Be Murdered (12 page)

‘But Amaryllis!’

‘Meaning she’s young and beautiful, and bright and well born and all the rest of that sickening mixture. So she is. Clearly you hadn’t realized that Henry was actually very attractive to women. Don’t ask me why. I never found a rational explanation for it, even though I was myself one of his victims.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, ’ said Amiss. He struggled to repress a feeling of deep resentment at his friend Henry. Having admired Amaryllis from afar, Amiss had never thought that he himself would have had a chance with her, even had he been in the market. It did not make it any easier that Henry had scored.

‘You don’t think, do you, Amelia, that Ben might have done anything violent?’

‘To Henry, you mean? Oh, if he’d found out about Marcia, yes, quite possibly. Though I’d expect him to beat Henry up in those circumstances. I can’t see Ben doing anything sneaky. But then it’s always possible that he was presented with an irresistible target when he saw Henry plastered beside a full punch bowl.’

She looked at him seriously over her big glasses.

‘I wouldn’t want it pursued, Robert. If Henry got rubbed out for being a philanderer, frankly he had it coming. Much as I loved the old goat, I wouldn’t want revenge.’

‘Umm,’ said Amiss.

12

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Despite Amelia’s relaxed view of murder, Amiss arranged to meet his friend Detective Chief Superintendent Jim Milton the following evening. The first hour was spent on catching up on news, for Milton was just back from America, where he had spent three months unpaid leave visiting his wife, and he knew nothing of
The Wrangler
, beyond having heard of Henry Potbury’s mishap.

‘I think he might have been murdered, Jim.’

‘My colleagues don’t.’

‘Yes, but they show little sign of having thought much about it. Seem to want to get Henry out of the in-tray and into the out-tray.’

‘We’re all bureaucrats now. However, if you think differently, I’ll pay attention. Not that I’ve any chance of persuading them to reconsider unless you’ve got a very strong argument.’

‘I haven’t really. I’m just uneasy. And I liked Henry so much I feel I owe it to him to make sure his death is taken seriously.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘Brilliant journalist, who was less and less productive because of the booze. He’d been associated with
The Wrangler
from his time at Oxford in the nineteen fifties when he wrote such witty and penetrating stuff in student magazines that the then editor invited him to write a series of “Letters from an Undergraduate”. He was an immediate success and when he came down he was offered a job straightaway. Although he was tempted away a couple of times to highly paid jobs elsewhere, he always kept relations friendly and would do the odd think-piece or book review. Really,
The Wrangler
was where his heart was.’

‘So when he got fed up with elsewhere, he’d let himself be persuaded to come back?’

‘Persuaded and bribed. But he was worth it. Until the last few years, apparently, you could rely on him every week for, say, one of the anonymous leaders, a signed article and maybe an important book review. And he was utterly brilliant at the Monday meetings.’

‘The what?’

‘The meeting of editorial staff and some outside contributors every Monday to discuss the line to be taken on the week. He was the intellectual driving force, full of ideas and with a brilliant way of twisting the news to provide a focus for an onslaught on ill-considered reform.’

‘Why wasn’t he made editor?’

‘The proprietor wanted him, but the trustees wanted Willie Lambie Crump and overruled him. Lord Papworth then made Henry the staff trustee as a kind of consolation prize. But disappointment contributed towards Henry taking to the bottle and he started to go slowly downhill.’

‘Why wasn’t he fired?’

‘Lifetime contract. Couldn’t be fired until he was sixty at the earliest.’

‘Sounds as though Papworth had a good motive for killing him. Or you, come to think of it, if it’s cost-cutting you’re at.’

‘I loved Henry,’ said Amiss. ‘He was the person I most enjoyed at
The Wrangler
. We had some great bibulous lunches and even more bibulous dinners: he was riotous company until he fell asleep. Great iconoclast and a magical anecdotalist, awash with wonderful mad stories of the wild days of Fleet Street before it was destroyed by the move of newspapers to Docklands and what he denounced as the long march towards the puritan dawn.

‘I don’t believe that anywhere throughout the present newspaper world nowadays there’s a room into which you could go at four o’clock in the afternoon and sit down and drink and talk ideas.’

‘So who do you think might have killed him?’

‘In his professional life, I can only think that it could have been to do with his performance as a trustee. First, he bitterly opposed Lambie Crump’s recent lurch towards New Labour and away from the journal’s core belief in the evolution of institutions. And second, he would have virulently opposed any attempt to change the terms of the trust in such a way as to make the journal vulnerable to the whims of a proprietor.’

‘So you think the editor or the proprietor had a vested interest in getting rid of him?’

‘Lambie Crump, yes. Though I doubt if he’d have the balls. Charlie Papworth, no. It was his son who wanted the trust altered. Not him.’

‘Not very strong reasons for suspecting murder, then.’

‘I grant you that. I’m just not happy. And I wish the police had given the idea more house-room.’

‘I’ll talk to someone.’

‘Thanks, Jim. Now tell me about America.’

‘Interesting. And it provided the opportunity for Ann and me at last to make our decision.’

Amiss waited.

‘We’re going to get a divorce.’

‘Oh, Jim. I’m very sorry. I like Ann so much.’

‘So do I. And she seems to like me too. But it’s no use.’

‘Was it just geography in the end?’

‘More than that. I couldn’t do what she wanted. I don’t just mean that she wanted me to move to America. That was really an excuse. What she really wanted was for me to give up a career that she had come to despise. And to show I had the balls to make a go of a new line of work in a totally new environment.’

‘And don’t you?’

‘I don’t want to. Maybe I’m opting for safety. Or maybe the truth is simply that with all my grumblings and resentments about the way the Met has gone I’m doing something I think I do well and don’t want to leave the field clear for the bastards. So I won’t and I don’t and I think it’s unreasonable of Ann to force me to choose between her and my profession and my country.

‘America and I wouldn’t suit. Ann loves it because it throbs with energy and it’s given her a completely new career. I’m too English in my bones to adapt, as well as being too much of a policeman to walk away. We were happy together for a long time and we’re both grateful for that but the time apart revealed the differences we never faced. Ann is idealistic and emotional: I suppose I’m pragmatic and sceptical.’

Amiss sighed. ‘Modern women are very demanding, aren’t they? Do you remember the old days, when they didn’t necessarily despise us?’

‘Too long ago for either of us to remember, surely.’ Milton sounded rather bitter.

‘Sometimes,’ said Amiss dreamily, ‘I think we should just sit back and let them take over the world, while we learn to sew and lie on chaise longues eating chocolates.’

‘We wouldn’t look good in negligees.’

‘Anyway, they won’t give us that option,’ said Amiss. ‘They want us to be chefs in the kitchen, wimps in the living room, studs in the bedroom and masters of the universe outside the home. Tell you what. Let’s get pissed. Ann’s ditched you, Rachel’s away doing important things and tomorrow’s Saturday.’

‘You’re on,’ said Milton, and signalled to the barman.

‘It’s a shame about Ann and Jim,’ said Rachel. ‘Though I suppose it’s inevitable when they view things so differently. Personally, I agree with her that he should have done the courageous thing.’

‘But he’s a good policeman, and, mostly, he loves the job.’

‘Perhaps so. But he’s never known anything else.’

‘You’re always complaining that the trouble with me is that I didn’t stick with a career.’

‘You took the career-flexibility path to extremes, however.’

‘I suppose that’s true. Anyway, the other thing is that Jim’s seeing if Henry’s case can be reopened.’

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

Rachel stopped peeling potatoes and looked squarely at him. ‘Do I gather that you’re trying to make a murder out of an accident?’ She dried her hands and walked over to him. ‘Let’s sit down for a minute.’ They sat down at the kitchen table and she took his hands in hers.

‘Robert, I know you think I’m being very crabby recently and I know we’re looking at things differently. I’m sorry for my part in all that. But I’m angry now because it seems that when the conditions for a murder mystery don’t exist, you need to create them.’

‘Are you suggesting I murdered Henry in order to make my job more interesting?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t always be flippant. What I mean is that everybody seems to think Henry died as a result of an accident, but for some reason you are determined to prove otherwise.’

‘But there’s a chance it wasn’t an accident. And if it wasn’t, I want that known. I think that’s the least I can do for Henry.’

Rachel got up. ‘What’s the use?’ she asked, and went back to the sink.

13

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‘Hmmm,’ said the baroness. ‘Maybe you’re right, but you’ll need a lot more evidence. You’ll have to sniff around. Now, do you want to know how I got on with Sharon McGregor?’

‘Should I? I hadn’t really thought about it. The last I saw of you both, you appeared to be in cahoots, but later events put that out of my mind.’

‘You should want to know about her. She’s going to matter to you.’

‘Tell me then.’

‘We went off to dinner and she thought I was wonderful, naturally. I’ve got her coming down to a St Martha’s feast soon. I’m hoping for great things – i.e. large cheques – from her if I play her right.’

‘What things? Who is she?’

‘Surely you’ve heard of her? She’s one of the richest women in Australia. Correction – one of the richest
people
.’

‘How did she get it? Inheritance? Divorce settlement?’

‘Well, well,’ said the baroness. ‘I never thought to use such a word to you, my lad, but I feel impelled to point out that you have made a deeply sexist assumption. Our friend Sharon owes nothing to any man, unless you count those she’s impoverished on her climb from the gutter to the penthouse. She’s some broad, I can tell you.’

‘I feel quite embarrassed,’ said Amiss. ‘I do apologize for my unwanted inference.’

‘God, you’re so malleable. And apologetic. Why can’t you just stand your corner and point out to me that until very recently it was a safe bet that rich women were rich because of their husbands or fathers and that it’s PC crap to accuse anyone of sexism for making such an assumption.’ She shook her head. ‘Let me have men about me that have balls.’

‘Oh, shut up and get on with it, Jack. Stop playing games.’

She beamed. ‘Have to keep you on the hop. Without plenty of mental gymnastics, how will we defeat the enemy?’

‘What enemy?’

She threw out her arms and hit a passing waiter a smart blow. He winced painfully, but she paid no attention. ‘There’s always an enemy. The important thing is to be fit and ready for him.’

‘Or her,’ said Amiss.

‘When it comes to enemies, I am, as they persist in putting it these days, gender-blind.’

‘Anyway, how
did
she make her money?’

‘Transport. Started out charging her schoolfellows a knockdown price for driving their cars from parties. Saved enough for a down payment on one of her own and had a fleet of sixty taxis within two years. By her early twenties she was leasing company cars and within five years had moved into buses, coaches, light aircraft and helicopters in the States as well as Australia. Personal fortune of three hundred million as of last count, but she’s greedy for more. I expect she’s moving in on the UK transport industry. There’s plenty of scope.’

‘Married?’

‘Thinking of ditching Rachel?’

‘No, I couldn’t marry a woman with fingernails that long. I’d go in fear of my life. She probably uses them to stab people in the back.’

‘May I take your order, sir? Madam?’ The waiter sounded irritable.

‘In due course,’ said the baroness firmly. ‘But first I need to know the answer to some questions. What fish have you in the bouillabaisse?’

‘The usual, I expect.’

She gazed at him reprovingly. ‘There’s no such thing as the usual ingredients. They change from location to location and chef to chef. If you don’t know the answer, go and ask.’ Scowling, the waiter departed.

‘Poor bugger,’ said Amiss. ‘What does it matter, Jack?’

‘We’re talking about food. When it comes to food, everything matters. Now where were we? Oh, yes. I was going to tell you that Sharon wants to buy
The Wrangler
.’

‘She
what
?’

‘You heard.’

‘Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Well, I can’t think she imagines she’s going to make money out of it, so she’s either dipping her toes into the newspaper business or she’s social-climbing. I’m inclined towards the latter, though I have to say…’

The waiter returned and took up his position beside her. ‘The bouillabaisse, madam. It consists this evening of crab, prawns, cod and salmon.’

‘That isn’t bouillabaisse. Bouillebaisse is made exclusively with seafish. What you are offering is fish soup. Tell the chef you could be sued under the Trades Descriptions Act.’