To Run a Little Faster Read online

  The windshield was silted with rain, as though somebody had given it a belt with a hammer, and my mouth felt decidedly unclean, so I stubbed out the cigarette. Where, I wondered, would I find our ace reporter, Mr. Puxley? I dismissed this as being irrelevant and went on to important matters. Why does a public man like Michael Hensman go missing? I ticked off the possibilities, in my head: political funny business, money worries, another woman, a scandal, kidnap, blackmail. He could be dead — by his own hand, by accident, or by what the paper euphemistically called foul play, by which it meant murder. Experience told me that the obvious answer was usually right. I would have put money on some domestic drama, from which friend Hensman had run into either temporary or permanent hiding.

  Towards the bottom of the front page the second lead blurted out the fact that the Metropolitan Police had collared three men for the Midland and Provincial Bank robbery. My story, and someone else had been in at the kill. I skimmed through it to find that they were more concerned with one man the police still wanted for questioning: Oscar Miller, forty-two, described as a garage owner of Catford. There was a photograph of him, heavy-eyed, balding and with incipient bloodhound jowls. He looked more like fifty-two, even though the picture had been taken several years before, when he had last been in trouble. I was surprised they had let him off the Moor, robbery and grievous bodily harm being his more active pursuits. Nasty gentleman, Oscar Miller. A pity, because he had been well educated at one of the lesser public schools, though he had not gone on to the varsity. Folding the paper, I cleaned the windscreen and headed out of Boscastle. Perhaps comrade Puxley was to be found with our colleagues outside the Hensman country cottage.

  About a mile down the road there was a black police car settled comfortably beside a pair of wooden gates, behind which I glimpsed what was probably the white house currently getting free publicity on our front page. The Hensmans may have called it a cottage, but to most people it was a fair-sized detached residence. A gravel drive led back from the gates between rhododendron bushes to an open sweep before the house which was all white pebble-dash and leaded lights. There were flower beds running along the front and around the side. I reckoned it would look a picture in summer. Today it was grey and seedy in the rain. Herbaceous borders are not at their best in February.

  Two uniformed policemen sat in the car. I presumed that this was chez Hensman though there was not a journalist in sight, which was odd because our particular breed tends to behave like a pack of vultures when public figures get into the newspapers. I pulled over and got out of the car. The policemen gave me looks which suggested that I might have just broken several by-laws.

  ‘Press,’ I said trying to be friendly.

  ‘Where from?’

  The one behind the wheel looked terribly young and had dark smudges around the eyes. His youth worried me. You know what they say about policemen and prostitutes.

  ‘London.’ I gave them a squint at my Press card. They didn’t look impressed. ‘I’ve just driven down.’

  ‘Mrs. Hensman’s not seeing anybody,’ said the driver’s partner. He was a little older. About six months, I guessed.

  ‘I see.’ There should have been journalists and photographers all over the place.

  ‘There’s going to be a Press conference at midday,’ the driver said, as though to put my mind at rest. ‘We’ve got the Yard in on this one. Mr. Fox. He’s holding a Press conference at midday at The Falcon in Bude.’

  ‘Really? At The Falcon?’ I stalled.

  A couple of weeks ago I had seen Cagney, or Charles Bickford or somebody in the same position in a film. He had simply said, ‘Come on, officer, give me a break. I need the story,’ and they had let him go straight through. He got the interview, the story, the girl, the pat on the back from the editor, and a commendation from the police for solving the crime.

  I didn’t think it would work with these two. ‘The Falcon,’ I repeated.

  ‘Bude,’ said the older policeman. ‘At noon. All your mates are there, sir.’ He added the ‘sir’ after a suitably humiliating pause.

  ‘Right.’ I took a pace back. ‘Would that be Superintendent Fox?’

  ‘Superintendent Fox, sir, yes.’

  That made sense. I had not met him, but the Superintendent had a reputation. He was also Special Branch.

  ‘Sir?’ called out the driver. I had just reached the car. ‘May I see your driving licence please sir?’ He was not tough or difficult, just letting me know that they were not all bumpkins down here in the west country.

  One or two boats were sheltering by the quayside at Bude, and The Falcon stood sentinel over the little harbour. There were a few cars outside and no sign of the police. You could see why Fox had chosen The Falcon. It was a pleasant middle-class hotel, not large enough to be vulgarly ostentatious but enough to intimidate the wrong sort of journalist. Inside you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Whatever Mr. Fox thought about using it as his headquarters, the management did not fancy the notoriety. They were polite enough, but somehow you felt as though every member of the staff considered himself your superior.

  A dozen or so people from the London dailies were clustered around tables near the dining-room door: they had made it faster than I. I stood in the entrance for a moment surveying the scene, and caught the eye of a man seated alone at a window table. He paused, then rose and came over. He was in his late thirties with the look of a permanent hangover, running to fat, unshaven with yellow teeth and dirty fingernails. I guessed he had a hide as thick as an armadillo’s and made jokes in bad taste to barmaids.

  ‘Puxley?’

  He nodded. ‘You’re Darrell?’

  ‘I rang you in Newquay. In the small hours.’

  ‘I told the office I’d be here.’

  He directed me towards his table, moving very close to me in a protective, even possessive, manner. I could smell stale sweat and yesterday’s gin.

  A waiter came up with surprising speed. Puxley called him Bernard, as though he had a special relationship with the management. Bernard bore up very well under the circumstances, though his look gave me to understand that he was usually accustomed to serving a better class of person. I ordered a lot of coffee, bacon, eggs, toast and marmalade. Unimaginative, but I reckoned Bernard would forgive me that.

  ‘Christ, you rang me, did you?’ Puxley grinned when the waiter departed. ‘I bet Nancy was happy about that. Better give her a buzz. I suppose.’

  ‘If you can get through. She took the phone off the hook.’

  ‘Bugger,’ he said without much feeling. ‘That’ll be a drama and a half. She knows I’ve got a bit of spare tucked away down here. I’ll give her a ring. Keep her sweet.’

  ‘What about the story?’

  ‘Things up my sleeve,’ he touched his nose with a grubby forefinger. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have the edge on this lot.’ He slouched off in the direction of the foyer and a public telephone box, leaving me to await my breakfast and contemplate the unlikely thought of Puxley’s bit of spare.

  ‘Colleague of Mr. Puxley’s, are you, sir?’ asked Bernard when he arrived with the bacon and eggs.

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘It’s a bad business about Mr. Hensman, sir. Nice gentleman. Very nice gentleman.’

  I knew a cue when I heard it. ‘He came in here often?’

  ‘Not often, sir, no. Not often.’

  ‘But he came in?’

  ‘Two or three times a year, with Mrs. Hensman, yes. They do say that she’s the one with the money.’ Then, as though he suddenly realized that he had allowed the mask to slip, Bernard bowed stiffly. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  There was no point in pursuing it so I addressed myself to the bacon and eggs, keeping an eye on the rest of the room. An elderly couple went past, the husband giving me a look which he probably usually reserved for woodlice. Then, while thinking about woodlice, I saw Puxley come back into the room.

  ‘Got it.’ He slumped into the other chair, he
lped himself to my coffee and fumbled with a ratty package of cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not if you do it quietly,’ I shrugged. ‘Got what?’

  ‘Hensman’s secretary. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet when there’s a few quid in it for me.’

  ‘You fix Nancy?’

  Puxley coughed. ‘That’ll be the day. You ever have woman trouble? I suppose everybody does.’

  ‘Hensman’s secretary,’ I prodded, realizing that I shouldn’t have asked about Nancy.

  ‘I’ve got a way to her if you want to make use of it. Mind you, I don’t suppose the coppers’ll be too pleased.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Local knowledge. Local people always have the edge on you blokes. Like the police: they call in the Yard, but it’s the local blokes who give ‘em the real information. Local knowledge. Pays off every time.’

  I chewed on a piece of bacon and inhaled the fragrance rising from the coffee. There was a shop that Sarah and I used to get our coffee from in Marylebone High Street: the window full of grinding engines with whirling wheels and the scent drifting out on to the pavement. I suddenly found that I had Sarah on my mind and it wasn’t healthy after two years. She had been there in the background during most of the drive down and for the first time in weeks there was an erotic thought in my head — coming straight from the smell of the coffee. Sarah naked in summer, wearing only a little apron to protect her from splashes of fat as she cooked breakfast in the flat.

  I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. I was starting to get maudlin. We had engaged ourselves in a literary phase during the first year of marriage and read the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock together. Sarah liked Eliot, but for all the wrong reasons. ‘He condenses emotions for me,’ she used to say.

  In one of the eyes of our many hurricanes, during the last days, I asked her what it was like with Tommy Carter. Why him and not me? She replied from The Waste Land:

  When lovely woman stoops to folly and

  Paces about her room again, alone,

  She smooths her hair with automatic hand,

  And puts a record on the gramophone.

  I thought it meant that she would come back, but it probably meant she was simply trapped inside her own loneliness. I came back into the room, time present and mood flippant again, all part of my Jekyll and Hyde nature.

  ‘Come on then,’ I said to Puxley who was staring into space.

  ‘Looked like a ghost walked over your grave,’ he coughed and blew a cloud of smoke across the table. ‘Hensman’s secretary. Jane Patterson. Twenty-four years old. Smart as a guardsman. Fancy, a kid of twenty-four privy to all Hensman’s secrets.’

  ‘You think he’s got secrets?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but I reckon he must have, being on the social ladder and close to government.’

  ‘Why’s he got a place down here?’

  ‘Because his missus likes it. She was born not far away. In Launceston. Where she goes, Master Michael goes.’

  ‘Purse strings?’

  ‘You can say that again. He wouldn’t be an MP if it wasn’t for Mrs. Hensman. That’s what she wanted for a husband, so that’s what she’s got. Not that he makes much of a song and dance about it.’

  ‘And what’s the local knowledge about his disappearance?’

  ‘They don’t reckon it at all.’

  ‘Don’t ...? But he’s gone, scarpered.’

  ‘Not his style. Funny. Mind you, nothing was his style. He was no serious politician that one. Sat on some boards of directors, opened fêtes. Look in Hansard, Simon Darrell. He didn’t speak much. They don’t reckon him in his constituency either.’

  ‘Well, if they’ve got Fox on it ...?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. Christ, don’t tell me you’re a gullible newspaper man. If they find something stinks, we won’t hear of it. Not unless we rout it out. Hensman’s establishment. Fox is an establishment copper. Mrs. Hensman’s got the money. If it’s fishy they’ll stick it in a box and throw away the key. Unless ... that’s why I’m suggesting Miss Jane Patterson.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’

  ‘Friend of mine’s picking her up at Bude station. She’s on her way down from London. Early train. Arrives at eleven. I can arrange for you to meet her at the station instead of my friend. Give you half an hour alone with her.’

  ‘I might miss the Press conference.’

  ‘It won’t start without Fox and Mrs. H., and I don’t think she’ll be there without seeing Miss Patterson.’

  I turned it over. There was no smell to the story as yet, just bald facts and a lot of half-baked, half-formed possibilities running around my head. My head and the heads of dozens of journalists and editors. What if it was a suicide, a murder, or political shenanigans? I’d hate myself if I hadn’t taken a shot at the secretary. On the other hand, what if she was to be a witness ...? Easy, the police would be looking after her and I wouldn’t get near.

  ‘Okay,’ I nodded at Puxley.

  ‘Scoop, wouldn’t you say?’ His teeth were like pieces of kipper.

  ‘We got a camera? My editor’ll need pictures.’

  ‘Joe Prince. Newquay man. I’ve fixed that already, he’ll be at the station.’

  ‘She’ll make no comment, you know.’

  ‘So?’

  I thought a bit about it. ‘As you say. So? I’ll phone the gaffer.’ I pushed my plate away and grabbed at Puxley’s cigarettes. ‘Mind if I take one of these? Good. And a light.’

  The coffee was too hot to drink quickly, so I leaned back, determined to get at least one cup inside me. There was a little bubble of laughter from the other Press men. You could almost hear the disgust rising from the residents at the far side of the room.

  I reversed the charges of the trunk call to Guy. He was in conference and it took a couple of minutes to get him alone.

  ‘Simon, you dug up anything?’ I could see the cluttered office and almost hear the traffic down below in the Street.

  ‘The police have called a Press conference at midday.’

  ‘We know that. Everyone knows that. I mean anything really new. What’s the feel of it?’

  ‘It’s got no feel. I’m pursuing one line, but it’s almost a non-starter. Don’t worry though, we’ll make out.’

  ‘I should hope so. Simon, he is an MP; they don’t go missing every day of the week. What did he dash off down there for?’

  ‘The world’ll know that when Mrs. Hensman speaks. She’s the oracle and the police are keeping her to themselves. You know it’s a Special Branch job?’

  ‘Yes, Fox. Be careful of him, Simon, he’s not the greatest upholder of the freedom of the Press.’

  ‘I had heard. I may need a little help,’ I added.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Hensman’s life turned inside out.’

  ‘Evans already has people in his constituency and at Whitehall. They’re turning over every stone.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘Especially his wife. Just file some copy this afternoon.’

  I went back into the foyer where a peroxide blonde was doing paperwork at the reception desk. She glanced up, looked right through me and scratched her head. I went over and leaned across the desk.

  ‘Is Mr. Fox in?’ I asked.

  She did not smile. ‘Superintendent Fox will be back at noon. Will you leave a message?’ She still looked through me, and scratched her head again.

  ‘Be careful,’ I gave it the confidential tone. ‘You don’t want to get that bleach under your nails.’

  Puxley was waiting by the dining-room door trying to talk with Bernard who was doing an impression of a waxwork.

  ‘Come on,’ said Puxley, ‘I’ll introduce you to Fred.’

  ‘Who’s Fred?’

  ‘The taxi driver who’s going to be taken suddenly ill.’ I began to get cold feet.

  Chapter Three

  Fred was a runt of a man with a beaked nose and quick bird
like movements. Welsh-born, he had lived in Cornwall since his demobilization in 1919. He must have been in his early sixties and seemed uncertain about the deal: uneasy about doing business with Puxley. Yet it was also apparent that he needed the money. He looked worried and you could see the indecision in his eyes. He had a 1934 two-and-a-half-litre Twenty Oxford, was his own master, and obviously had the Hensmans marked as regular clients.

  ‘Look, Fred, you’re ill,’ grinned Puxley as though the driver’s vacillations were amusing. ‘Who’s to know? You got took sick this morning. You know me, I was here when it happened. Put the blame on me. I said I’d see Miss Patterson was picked up and taken over to Boscastle, if the coppers ask.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr. Puxley.’

  ‘You look rotten, Fred. I’d get over to the doctor now. In the meantime here’s something to ease the pain.’ He started to count out the crisp one pound notes into Fred’s not unwilling palm.

  ‘You think I’d better go and see the quack then?’ Fred’s voice had an unmistakable Welsh lilt, though some of the vowel sounds were overlaid with west country throatiness.

  ‘Too right you’d better see the quack,’ Puxley nodded. ‘You don’t want to have to lie to anyone. How is the pain now, Fred?’

  ‘Right in the guts.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to get into trouble with them London coppers. The ones round here can be right buggers, so God knows how the London ones’ll act up.’

  ‘They can’t do anything to you for being ill, and getting a mate to pick up a fare. You should worry.’ Puxley tapped the five notes lying on the little man’s palm. Fred appeared to think about it for another fifteen seconds. Then he shrugged and handed over the keys.

  ‘Good lad, Fred. I’ll see the car’s left back here with the keys. You get off to the surgery now. Get some medicine.’ He passed the car keys over to me. ‘I’ll show you the route out then I’ll get back to The Falcon. You’ll see Prince at the station, he’s all set for the snaps.’

  The tourer was parked next to Fred’s taxi and I patted the bonnet as I passed. Puxley was taking good care not to be around when I picked up the Patterson lady. A real fixer, Puxley. I wondered how long it would be before someone fixed him.