To Run a Little Faster Read online

  To Run A Little Faster

  John Gardner

  © John Gardner 1976

  John Gardner has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Michael Joseph Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd

  For Jonathan and Ann

  Friends and Agents

  Prince of the Empire, Prince of, Timbuctoo,

  Prince eight foot round and nearly four foot wide,

  Do try to run a little faster, do,

  The ice is breaking up on every side:

  Hilaire Belloc: Ballade of Genuine Concern

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Extract from The Secret Houses by John Gardner

  Chapter One

  About three miles south of Aldershot he began looking for the turning. The wind was buffeting the little Austin Swallow and on the periphery of his vision he was aware of the wild and dancing trees to left and right. It made him nervous again. He did not care for the alien countryside. Another, larger, car came towards him, its headlights blinding for a few seconds as it passed at speed, rocking the Swallow in a wash like gunfire. A straggle of buildings went by, then he saw the signpost. He turned on to the rough track and bounced in the muddy ruts for half a mile before coming to the five bar gate on the left, just as they had said.

  With the engine stopped the wind seemed louder. Heaven help poor sailors on a night like this, he muttered, fumbling for a cigarette. It was a phrase repeated from childhood; his father had said it on any filthy night, and he should have known, living most of his life down by the East India Docks.

  He lit the cigarette, squinting at his watch in the match light. There were five minutes to spare. Carefully he buttoned his overcoat, turning the collar right up and pulling hard on the brim of his trilby. The briefcase was on the passenger seat and he snapped it open to take out the torch. It was stupid to be so nervous. Dark alleys and the secret places of the city held no horrors for him, but here in the open country, away from buildings and street lighting, it was different. For a moment he stood beside the car, trying to strain his ears for any unnatural sound behind the soughing of the trees in the wind. Nothing.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he picked his way forward, only turning on the torch at brief intervals to check progress.

  Over the gate and along the track between the moaning trees, the collar of his overcoat snug around his ears. Only a couple of weeks ago he had been talked into taking his sister’s kids to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He had been more frightened than the children at the piece where the forest seemed to come alive, the trees taking on grotesque shapes with arms that reached out to trap and ensnare. It was like that now. A branch plucked at his shoulder and he shied away, stomach churning. Then he was in the clearing, and all he had to do was wait and flash the light as instructed. He wrinkled his nose at the country smells, the freshness and cold stinging his eyes.

  The sounds came only vaguely at first, then, through the darkness, he saw the shadows. He raised the torch towards them, calmed by the thought that it would soon be over. Pressing the little sliding button, flashing two brief beams of light, involuntarily tightening his grip on the briefcase with the other hand.

  He did not even see the answering flashes, or hear the thump of the rifles: only the crack as the first bullet split the air over his head. The second caught him full in the face; the third and fourth in the chest, and he was dead long before the muzzle flashes reached his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  There were wars and rumours of wars in 1938. Very biblical, and like most people who didn’t have their heads buried in the sand, I could see the big one coming and didn’t like it. I hadn’t cared over much for the dress rehearsal in Spain. In fact I was most grateful to the Duke of Windsor and Mrs. Simpson, because the paper had pulled me out of the Spanish unpleasantness during the previous June so that I could cover the wedding in France. I never really knew why they did that, but I suppose Guy, with the logic of most editors, linked the whole thing with divorce. After all my own divorce had been splashed all over the Street in 1936, so I expected he thought I would cover the culmination of the great royal love story better than the sour spinster who usually did our society pieces.

  Not that I was one of the elite by-line journalists at the time of my divorce. I wasn’t. Nor was I a gentleman. I had started the proceedings against Sarah once there was evidence that she had been making the beast with two backs — as Shakespeare so graphically put it — with Tommy Carter. A gentleman would have given her cause to bring the action against him. I had plenty of readers’ letters to that effect once the news was out. The paper blew it up of course once I had named Tommy, because he worked for our biggest rival. So the domestic battle between us merely became part of the bigger newspaper war on the Street, and I suppose I really had to thank Sarah and Tommy for giving me the break. Simon Darrell had caught another journalist at it with his wife, so Simon Darrell became newsworthy and, later, worthy of a by-line and special assignments.

  Not that I had really done much since the Windsors’ wedding. I cannot recall what the big political stories were that January, because they did not concern me. But I was one of three people Guy put on to the Midland and Provincial Bank robbery in Mayfair. I quite enjoyed that, even though it led nowhere in the beginning. In the past I had covered one murder and a dozen cases at the Bailey, but this was quite sensational with all the American gangster film trappings. A good first for on the spot crime reporting.

  Late one Tuesday afternoon, just as the bank was closing, four men entered with masks and shotguns — beautifully timed, for the whole staff were out in the front and there were only two customers. They made everybody lie down, took three thousand in notes and forced the manager to open a dozen safety deposit boxes in the strong room. Nobody really knew what they had finally got away with because, as the manager said, ‘We cannot make our clients disclose the contents of the safety deposit boxes.’

  There was one devil of a row about that as well, because you were only supposed to be able to open those boxes with two keys used together: one held by the client, the other by the bank. The robbery made it clear to everybody that the bank could open the little safes at any time it chose. I remember writing a particularly scourging piece about that revelation.

  Anyway, the villains got away. So much for January.

  February was slow until the twenty-third. On the political front Hitler appointed himself war minister and put von Ribbentrop in as foreign minister. Old Schushnigg promised to release the Austrian Nazis. Anthony Eden resigned, and Chamberlain appointed Lord Halifax as foreign secretary. The war in Spain went on with Franco recapturing Teruel and, on February 21 and 22, Winston Churchill led an outcry against Chamberlain in the House. Michael Hensman went missing at lunchtime on February 23, though I didn’t get to hear about it until quite late that night.

  It had been my free day, after a week during which I had worked on only one decent story and that had nothing to do with Chamberlain, Churchill, Franco, Hitler or even The Thin Man.

  Some poor idiot had strayed on to an army battle range near Aldershot and got himself killed. Guy thought there might just be an angle so I drove down for the inquest which had already been postponed once in order to collect evidence
from an army court of enquiry. In fact it wasn’t a bad story as it turned out. Nobody took the blame, of course. Death by misadventure. The copse in which the man died had only recently been taken over by the war office and absorbed into the larger battle training area. It had been well marked and there was plenty of stiff upper lipped evidence from the army. There was an angle though. The army paid for the funeral, and it made page three. I remember thinking that it was a perverse irony which led a motorist to wander into a wood at night in order to relieve himself, only to be shot dead.

  Anyway, the twenty-third was my free day and in spite of the weather conscience demanded that I should drive down to the nursing home near Southampton to see my old mother. I make it sound like a chore, but it wasn’t really that. I enjoyed getting about and the little green Morris Eight Tourer had been my only extravagance since the divorce. I didn’t get to use it enough.

  It was a foul day and a hard drive; the wind, gusting with some force, gave the rain real slanting power to it, even on the country roads which I used to bypass Winchester.

  She was much the same as the last time I had gone down to see her a couple of weeks before — frail, with the occasional uncharacteristic outbursts of temperament which beset frightened elderly people cornered and trapped by disease. Among the other symptoms, she was still having hallucinations. They had started some weeks ago and on that afternoon, with the rain squalling against the windows of the little ward, she was obsessed with the idea that the nurses had put on some kind of play for her during the previous evening.

  ‘It was a tableau about India, dear,’ she said. ‘I do wish you could have seen it.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mother.’ I was gentle, but they had said they were trying not to humour her.

  ‘Well, they did. It was really beautiful. They had monkeys.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She became pretty lucid about that. She always did when called upon to speak of the pain which; to be fair, must have been pretty ghastly. From that she passed on to grumbling about the way the nurses stole her things, which was a lot of nonsense. Then she asked about Sarah. She couldn’t get it straight even after two years and I had given up the battle of trying to explain.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I said.

  ‘She doesn’t come to see me.’

  ‘No.’ What else could one say?

  It was all depressing, and the drive back to London was equally hard even though there was little or no traffic. I didn’t get back until well after nine and was soaking in the bath when the telephone rang.

  Guy was terse. ‘You know an MP called Hensman?’

  ‘Only by name. Michael Hensman?’

  ‘That’s the joker. We’ve just had a call from our stringer in Newquay. Hensman’s gone missing.’

  ‘In Newquay?’

  ‘No, Boscastle.’

  ‘Where the hell’s Boscastle?’

  ‘Look it up. He’s got a holiday cottage down there.’

  ‘What’s he doing at a holiday cottage? I thought all hell was breaking loose in the House. Votes of censure and the government crumbling.’

  ‘He went down last night apparently. His wife was staying there. Went down to see her.’

  ‘What’s the score?’

  ‘Police very active. Foul play not suspected, but not ruled out.’

  He gave me the stringer’s name, address and telephone number — Puxley, deep in the heart of Newquay.

  ‘And you want me down there?’

  ‘Well, you can’t run it from here.’

  ‘Am I running it or just carrying the can for the political desk?’

  ‘Your by-line’ll be on the story and you’re working for me, not for the political desk, features or the gardening column.’

  ‘It’ll be bloody down there at this time of year.’

  ‘Too bad. That’s where it’s all happening. That’s where he went from and that’s where his wife is — Hensman’s wife. He joined her last night, went out for a drink at lunchtime today and didn’t come back. The car’s been found but no trace of the honourable member for Crayshott East.’

  ‘I’ll go down on the first train in the morning.’

  ‘You’ll get into that supercharged hotrod of yours and go down through the night. I want you there by morning. Puxley’s doing the story for our morning edition. We want you for the follow-up and details of any skulduggery.’

  I sighed, reaching with a wet hand for a packet of Players Navy Cut. ‘Anything I should know about Hensman?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Safe seat, no pyrotechnics. A bit colourless, I should say.’

  ‘Nothing devious?’

  ‘If there is, then Evans will come up with it.’

  Evans was the political editor and I hated his guts. It struck me that someone on the political desk would have been the more obvious choice for the story.

  ‘Why me?’ I asked.

  ‘Because you’re good on local colour and crime. You did a great job with the Mayfair bank thing. Political experts might just muddy the water. It could be a domestic blow up.’

  That made sense. The divorce angle again. If Hensman was mixed up with unsavoury sexual doings and heading for the big split, I was the natural choice.

  ‘Thanks a million.’

  ‘Go and make a name for yourself.’

  I nodded at the instrument as he closed the connection.

  Swearing didn’t help. I cooked myself some bacon and eggs, took a short nap, drank a pot of coffee and smoked several cigarettes before setting out into the night.

  On the way out I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wondered how much I had gone to seed since Sarah had left. The hair thinning at the front, the first lines forming around the corners of my eyes; but they were still clear, hazel eyes. The edges of the mouth had taken a decided droop. I smiled a set grin at the reflection, straightened the old school tie and tried to forget I had ever seen the stranger there in the mirror. He looked as though he needed cheering up. Not a bad face if he would only smile.

  The roads were almost empty and I only stopped once for petrol, at some new super garage with lots of lights and tired all-night attendants in red overalls kicking their heels and playing cards. It rained on and off, but I still made Newquay before first light. It was empty. Having driven through the dog watches towards a specific purpose it was as though I had arrived only to find Cornwall closed. Out of spite and fatigue I found a telephone kiosk, fed my two pennies into the slot, and asked the operator for Puxley’s number. Finally a woman answered, her voice blunted by sleep. I pressed Button A.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said, the answer suggesting that I was not going to believe her anyway. She sounded like a woman who was seldom believed by people who telephoned for Puxley.

  ‘I was told to get in touch.’ I gave my name and business. She made no comment. After a silence, I asked if she knew where Puxley was.

  ‘He was over at Boscastle last night — on this story you’re after.’ She made Boscastle sound half way across the world, which it probably was. ‘He hasn’t been home all night.’

  ‘And you don’t know ...?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m not his bloody secretary. Ask her. He comes and goes as he pleases. Try his office; they open at nine.’ Then she put the phone down.

  I tried to call back but the operator told me the line was engaged. She had taken it off the hook. Just like Sarah, I thought; at least, like Sarah before Tommy Carter had kept her happy while I was dashing around gleaning the news. After Tommy turned up in her bed she was much more placid on the telephone.

  I got into Boscastle around eight. It looked as though the plague had hit it: a film of rain hanging in the morning air, nobody stirring in the streets. If I had blinked I might just have missed Boscastle. I nearly did. The only sign of life came from a newsagent and tobacconist. I bought a copy of the paper, a twopenny Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and twenty Players. On my salary I couldn’t really afford to live at this he
ctic pace, but what the hell. Back in the car I nibbled at the chocolate, longed for some hot coffee, and settled down to read the story so far. It was the lead on page one, of course. Chamberlain could have flown off to Berchtesgaden and shot Hitler and the Hensman story would still have been the lead on page one in our paper. We always gave pride of place to human interest stories: that meant murders, kidnappings and the lechery of people in high places. So far nobody could prove that Hensman had been involved in lechery but it was obviously in people’s minds.

  There was a photograph of Hensman with his wife, Beryl, staring out from the page as though surprised by the photographer while engaged in illicit carryings on. I suppose they were if you happened to be on the dole. The photograph had been taken as they were entering some soigné night club. Another picture showed a police car outside a murky looking white house. Very grainy.

  The headline did not smack of originality: MP MISSING FROM COUNTRY HOME. Below were the scant details supplied by Puxley. Michael Hensman, forty-two, Member of Parliament for Crayshott East since 1928 had disappeared before lunch on the previous day. Mrs. Beryl Hensman (described as ‘attractive blonde daughter of wealthy industrialist Richard Hood’) said that he had gone out for a drink around midday. It was quite a normal practice. He would drive into Boscastle or sometimes up to Crackington Haven for a blow along the beach. Normally he was back in the cottage by one o’clock when luncheon was served. The police were not called in until three-thirty, and they found the car, just before dark, near Crackington Haven. It was unlocked and there were no clues as to Hensman’s whereabouts. The police would make no comment as yet and were continuing with their enquiries.

  You didn’t have to be a journalist to know that Mrs. Beryl Hensman had not yet talked to the Press. I lit a cigarette, which didn’t taste too good on top of the chocolate, and considered the questions I would like to put to Mrs. Hensman: such as why had her husband left a busy parliamentary session to dash down to Cornwall?