Died and Gone to Devon Page 10

  The lawyer looked at the reporter with a long and even gaze. ‘OK,’ she said after a long delay, ‘OK.’

  Leaning forward she scribbled something on her notepad, tore off the page, and handed it without a word to Judy. It said:

  Mrs Baines

  35 Ebury Street

  SW1

  ‘Is this…? Er, what exactly…?’ stumbled Judy. Mrs Clifford looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Could you just give me a clue?’

  The prospective parliamentary candidate for Temple Regis shook her head slightly and continued to smile.

  Otherwise her face registered nothing.

  It was ten o’clock by the time Miss Dimont found her way to the lower end of Belgravia. A sharp wind blew down the long street, shining black and wet from an earlier shower. In the distance two Belisha beacons flashed pools of light over the pedestrian crossing while further down, a policeman in his mackintosh cape ambled slowly, counting the minutes till the end of his shift.

  It was the hour in London when everything comes to a halt – people have gone wherever they’re going and are busy having a good time, or else they’ve gone home and are listening to Ray’s a Laugh on the radio. Soon the city would come to life again, at chucking-out time or when theatregoers emerged from the latest musical, but just now there was an eerie silence.

  Far away you could just hear the grinding of gears at Victoria Bus Station as travellers set off on their long journeys through the night, but here in Ebury Street all was still – no traffic, no people.

  Number 35 was like all the others – a terrace house with a Georgian frontage, not too smart but not unattractive. Its stucco front, painted a regulation ivory, gave no clue as to what lay inside. Miss Dimont had absolutely no idea why she was here, standing outside, looking at a tarnished doorknocker, but like all good journalists she had been driven by the story which lured her, urged her, onwards. And now she had to face the consequences.

  Feeling a trifle apprehensive, she stepped forward and knocked.

  There was a lengthy pause, but eventually the door was opened by a plumpish woman in a cream silk dressing gown. She looked at Miss Dimont but said nothing.

  ‘Mrs Baines, I…’

  ‘I had your lot round here earlier,’ said the woman, irritably. ‘I’m fed up with being bothered – can’t you go and find another victim somewhere else – preferably the North Pole? Go away!’

  ‘Who came earlier?’ barked Judy, surprising herself with her vehemence. Not David Renishaw, surely? Or that infuriating man from the News Chronicle?

  ‘Go. Away.’

  ‘No, no, please – just tell me who it was!’

  The woman shifted the weight on her feet. Miss Dimont could see through the open toes of her slippers that she had a taste for adventurous nail varnish.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re from a rival organisation?’ she snorted. ‘Not Jehovah’s Witnesses? What are you – Salvation Army? Well, I can tell you it’s too late for my salvation, dear, so why don’t you just push off?’

  She had a soft face but her voice was tired. Miss Dimont stepped forward – this was the now-or-never moment.

  ‘Sir Frederick Hungerford,’ she said forcefully. It was the only card she had left to play – she had no idea who this woman was, what her connection to the story was, but there was nowhere else to go and this was the last throw of the dice.

  The woman started and her jaw dropped. ‘Are you – Press?’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How on earth…?’ Her pink marshmallow face had turned white.

  Miss Dimont took another step forward – they were now within striking distance of each other – but just as she wondered what her next question would be, a fruity voice from a back room called, ‘Who is it, Millicent? What do they want?’

  I don’t believe it, thought the reporter, I’ve just got my scoop! A senior Member of Parliament has been missing for two days after being attacked in the street, and I’ve found him. He hasn’t been kidnapped, he’s with his… lady friend!

  Her brain moved swiftly. ‘Judy Dimont, chief reporter of the Riviera Express. Just come to make sure Sir Freddy’s all right. Might I have a word?’

  What she didn’t say was ‘Judy Dimont, chief reporter of the Riviera Express. What the devil does this man think he’s playing at? Missing for two days, headlines in all the newspapers, people thinking he’s been kidnapped, police looking everywhere for him, and here he is hiding in the bosom of his popsy!’

  The woman had adopted the stance of a doorman at The Ritz – undesirables were not going to pass through her portals. But just then the gentleman in question came up behind her, curious to know what was going on. He did not like what he saw.

  ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he blustered, recognising Judy instantly.

  ‘I might say the same, Sir Frederick.’ What the devil are you doing here when the whole world is looking for you? ‘Don’t you realise the police…?’

  The politician stuck his head out of the door and looked quickly up and down the street. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said angrily. ‘Wipe your feet.’

  How impertinent, thought Miss D, deliberately stepping over the doormat. When she entered the sitting room it appeared to be garlanded in feathers and shawls – a bit like Athene’s little corner back at the Express, but without the spirituality.

  Sir Freddy took up position with his back to a large ornate mirror, a towering presence in the small room with a large whisky glass in his hand. ‘Sit down!’ he thundered, and in the confined space his words sounded like cannon fire.

  ‘I’m not going to ask what you’re doing here, Miss, er…’ he began. ‘I’m just going to say a few words to you, and then you can get right back on the train down to Temple Regis.’

  The reporter fished out the notebook from her raffia bag without a word.

  ‘Put that away!’ he ordered. ‘Just listen to what I have to say, then get out. Millie, you push off for a minute while I talk to this… person.’

  He’s shameless, thought Miss Dimont, he’s going to bluff this out.

  ‘I don’t know how you found this address,’ he began, ‘but I consider it an invasion of my privacy. Everyone – MPs included – is entitled to a small corner of their lives which remains a personal matter. I expect you have jumped to conclusions in discovering me here, but you may well be incorrect in your assumptions. I do not need to remind you of the laws of libel.

  ‘Furthermore,’ he blustered on, ‘I have the telephone numbers of your proprietor and your editor and I shall be ringing them the moment you leave. You will not write about my presence here, and if you do, you can expect the worst.’

  Miss Dimont was unabashed. ‘Your private life is your private life,’ she lied, ‘but you seem to be overlooking something, Sir Frederick. You’ve been missing for two days, the police are out looking for you and, by extension, for the people they suppose abducted you. Yet here you are, apparently unharmed, having a comfortable evening in. Does Lady Hungerford know you’re safe?’

  ‘You leave Lady Hungerford out of this!’ he bellowed. ‘She’s not… not a well woman.’

  ‘Well, just tell me this, and I’ll go. What happened outside the House of Commons, and what are you doing here when people are looking for you everywhere?’

  ‘How did you find this address?’ Hungerford demanded. His fist tightened around the whisky glass.

  If only you knew, thought Judy. ‘I have my sources,’ she replied, using the age-old response reporters give when they a) have found out something by accident, b) paid someone to blab, or c) been struck by a bolt of divine providence.

  ‘Well,’ said the MP, ‘I’ll give you credit. Nobody else has managed it. Last thing I expected was to be rumbled by my local rag.’

  ‘We don’t call it a rag. It’s a newspaper.’

  ‘Good for wrapping fish and chips, that’s all. That editor of yours, Rhys, what a complete waste of…’

  ‘He’s
a very distinguished journalist,’ snapped Judy, surprised to hear herself saying it. ‘He balances the interests of the community. He puts things in the paper and you wonder why, equally he leaves things out and you wonder why. But it’s a successful formula. Above all his goal is harmony and well-being.’

  Actually, that’s true, she thought to herself in surprise. He may dither, he may dissemble, but his newspaper is very popular, and if his choices sometimes appear bizarre then maybe he’s entitled to have made those choices.

  ‘He’ll do as I say,’ said Sir Freddy with a sneer. ‘This is a complicated business and I’m not having it upset by the interference of a local… rag.’ He repeated the word slowly, deliberately.

  ‘Well, you go ahead and call him,’ said Judy. ‘Right now Inspector Topham of the local CID is over at Scotland Yard – I came up on the train with him – and the first thing I shall do when I leave here is telephone to let him know you’re well.’

  Although, thought Judy, I may not do that tonight. I first want to get my story in print and I don’t want Scotland Yard stealing my thunder.

  The MP did not like the sound of this. He poured himself another whisky and sat down. He did not offer Judy a glass.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said eventually. ‘I will talk to you, off the record.’

  Not something your successor is prepared do, Judy thought mischievously. Watch out for the whoppers!

  ‘I will admit that my disappearance is not what it seems. I can’t tell you why, but I can tell you what happened. If I do, will you hold off telling the police until late tomorrow?’

  Willingly, thought Judy. It suits me just fine – I get my ‘Express Discovers Missing MP’ scoop, and you hand yourself in. ‘It depends,’ she said, slowly. The man was too much of a bully to give in easily.

  ‘Let me put it to you this way,’ went on Sir Freddy, flashing a practised smile. ‘Certain things have occurred which will have an effect on the rest of my career. It has made life very difficult indeed, and I am seeking to adjust things. I need time, and I need not to be disturbed.’

  ‘What things?’

  The MP looked at her witheringly. ‘I’d hazard a guess and say you know nothing about politics.’

  ‘Would she like a cup of tea?’ Millie put her blonde head round the door, curious to know what was going on, not whether Judy was thirsty.

  ‘Yes,’ said Judy, wishing to prolong the moment.

  ‘No,’ said Hungerford, wishing her out of the house.

  ‘I’ll just get myself one, then.’

  ‘Mrs Baines,’ said Sir Freddy, ‘has been a great comfort at this difficult time. I trust you will understand the need for discretion.’

  ‘But… what actually happened?’ burst out Judy. ‘Why are you here? Hiding? Police looking everywhere for you? The whole country turned upside down by your apparent kidnapping?’

  ‘Are we off the record?’ said Sir Freddy, finally handing her a glass of whisky.

  Eleven

  Pushy though he was, the one thing to be said for David Renishaw was he knew when to leave well alone. He might be able to show Rudyard Rhys how to run a newspaper but he had better sense than to tell Terry when to point his camera.

  They were sitting outside a sprawling thatched cottage in Hatherleigh, the ‘foreign’ part of Devon, which it turned out was every bit as beguiling as its Riviera cousins to the south and west. Both men had done the usual – knocked on the door, peered through the windows, lifted the dustbin lids, interviewed the cat – but each attempt at winkling out Hector Sirraway met with the same defeat.

  ‘We’ll wait,’ said Renishaw. So both settled back in the Morris Minor and looked out of the window.

  When that got boring, Terry got out his camera and started polishing it. Renishaw took out a notebook and started scribbling. The minutes dragged.

  An hour later, nothing had changed. Doorstepping is a jaw-crackingly dull business and rarely leads to an improvement in relations between those who undertake it.

  ‘You like this suit?’ said Terry. ‘Hepworth’s, seven guineas. I thought I’d splash out.’

  ‘A bit shiny.’

  ‘That’s what adds the class.’

  They resumed their silence.

  ‘Did you bring a Thermos?’ said Terry, after half an hour.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think I’ll switch the engine on, get a bit of heat going.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Another hour passed.

  ‘Won’t be long before the pub opens.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘What d’you think?’ said Terry.

  ‘Give it another hour.’

  They waited.

  Terry spent most of the time pondering the merits of a new lens hood he was thinking of buying, while Renishaw appeared to be writing the new War and Peace – his pen never stopped moving. Finally, Terry could bear it no longer:

  ‘You seem to be busy.’

  ‘I can’t bear to waste time,’ said Renishaw, without looking up. ‘Life’s too short, you have to keep adding to the things you’ve done, brick upon brick, stone upon stone, before they come to take you away.’

  Terry wasn’t quite sure what he meant by this. ‘Is that a story you’re writing?’

  ‘You might say so. In a manner of speaking.’

  Well, thanks, thought Terry, I’m fed up with this doorstep malarkey and I’m fed up with you. I’ve never known the time pass so slowly. Bring back old Judy any time, at least we could have a good argument!

  ‘Time to go,’ he said finally, and since he was in the driver’s seat it looked like he’d get his way. ‘And anyway, it was a pretty useless idea coming up here in the first place. If this Sirraway chap attacked the MP and kidnapped him in London, how was he going to get him all the way down here? It’s over two hundred miles.’

  Renishaw turned to him. His eyes were bright with an overabundance of intelligence and to be frank, just a little bit spooky. ‘Not so useless, Terry. You see, if he is what I think he is, Hector Sirraway has plans for our local MP. And where better to hide him than down here?’

  ‘Yes but…’

  ‘He told Betty his family still owns a load of old buildings on and around Dartmoor. He has an abnormal grudge against Sir Freddy. If he wanted to do something with him – maybe make an example, I don’t know – then this is the place to bring him.’

  ‘No, but…’

  ‘We don’t know for certain he kidnapped Sir Freddy – it could be someone else – but he’s the one who, as we’ve seen, bears him a grudge enough to want to denounce him in court and to bellow in the street that he’s ten different shades of horrible. I think he’s got a screw loose and, whatever he’s done with that man, he’ll come back here sooner or later to rest up.’

  Terry couldn’t deny the logic of this but was fed up anyway; it was an hour’s drive back to Temple Regis and darkness had fallen. He turned the ignition key.

  ‘Wait!’ Renishaw suddenly jumped out of the car and raced over towards the cottage. Terry flipped on the lights and behind the five-bar gate you could just see two spectacled eyes blinking in the near darkness. He watched as Renishaw wrenched open the gate and got the professor by the lapels.

  ‘What’ve you done with him? Where is he?’ shouted the reporter.

  ‘Get off me! Get away!’ cried Sirraway in a shrill voice, pulling away. He made for the back door but Renishaw grabbed him again and managed to land a couple of punches on the professor’s back before he jumped inside the door and slammed it.

  ‘I’m calling the police! Nine-nine-nine! I’m calling them now!’ shouted the muffled voice on the other side of the door. Renishaw shot forward and wrestled with the handle – for a man so slightly built, he certainly was muscular.

  ‘Leave it off!’ shouted Terry, running over. ‘You’re scaring him! Can’t you see he’s frightened?’

  ‘Frightened? I should say so!’ shouted Renishaw, shouldering the door. ‘He’s a kidnapper! Kidna
pper! They’re all cowards at heart!’

  Even to Terry this seemed a little extreme, and as Renishaw shouldered the door again, Terry could see a strange look in his eye.

  ‘Leave off! Leave it out!’ he ordered, pulling Renishaw away roughly. ‘You’ve gone too far! Too far! Get back in the car – I’ll take care of this.’

  He strode round to the front door, his movements caught in the glare of the Minor’s headlights, before adopting the time-honoured doorstep tradition of kneeling down, lifting the letterbox and calling through it.

  ‘Mr Sirraway, sir! Sorry about that, a bit of a misunderstanding! We’re from the Riviera Express – can we have a word?’

  Silence.

  ‘Only take a minute.’ Terry’s knees were a bit gyppy, he couldn’t stay down there for long. ‘Just a quick word.’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘I’m a colleague of Betty – you know, the blonde reporter. With the hairdo. She said how helpful you were.’

  The door opened a fraction. ‘I told her all I wanted to say. What are you after? Why did that man attack me?’

  ‘My colleague is… he can get a bit jumpy. Not used to our ways. I’m very sorry,’ said Terry. Before the minute was up he was inside the door and saying just the one spoonful, thank you, while Renishaw sat shivering outside in the Minor.

  ‘Now, Mr Sirraway.’

  ‘Professor.’

  ‘Yers. Have you been to London?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I go quite often. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No, I mean have you just come back from London?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Now that the upset had subsided, the professor seemed more interested in his tea than anything else. He was stirring it with a pencil he’d taken from his top pocket.

  ‘Just asking,’ said Terry, thinking quickly. ‘Betty will want to know.’

  ‘She’s very nice,’ said the Prof, absently. ‘I told her all I…’

  ‘She’ll want to know where you’ve been the past forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Why?’

  Terry was stumped for a moment. ‘For the… the… report she’s doing on you.’