Crooked Herring (2 page)

And this was the complete story as he told it. He and Crispin Vynall had gone out for a drink on New Year’s Eve. They had started at my own local pub – no great coincidence since Henry, as I have said, lived close by, while Crispin lived somewhere over by Brighton. They had decided that the village of West Wittering was a little
too quiet and, at Crispin’s suggestion, had headed into the great metropolis of Chichester, about fifteen minutes’ drive away at legal speeds – ten at the sort of speed Henry would have driven in his vintage Jaguar. They had followed some back roads on the outskirts of town. Henry said he didn’t know precisely where they had ended up but, listening to him, I had a fairly good idea about which place they had visited.

I remembered seeing the New Year School Disco advertised in the local papers for some weeks beforehand. There aren’t in fact that many nightclubs in Chichester. Pubs, yes. Tea rooms, certainly. Garden centres with cafes selling lemon drizzle cake, no problem. Cavernous spaces throbbing with a pulsating beat – not so much. The establishment in question was, as Henry had implied, a club frequented mainly by students and young professionals intent on having a good time. I wasn’t a regular there myself, you might say – I usually preferred Russell’s Garden Centre – but I was pretty sure I knew where they’d been.

Henry continued that he had found it hot and the music deafening. He had suggested leaving, but Crispin had said he liked the company of young people, by which he seemed to mean young female people. So, Henry had sat a great deal of the time in a corner drinking beer, while Crispin cruised the dance floor, occasionally draping himself around a girl thirty years his junior with an ease that Henry had envied. I nodded sympathetically.

It all fitted in with my recollection of Crispin in the bars of conference hotels. Nobody could deny that he
knew how to have a good time if his wife wasn’t watching him too closely. There was agreement, at least amongst crime writers, that Crispin resembled an aging rock star, though there was a lack of consensus over which one. One of the Rolling Stones perhaps, or Rod Stewart, or maybe even Howard Marks, if you wanted to widen the circle to friendly, retired drug dealers. He undoubtedly had the sagging face, the leather jacket, the long, unnaturally black hair and a lopsided grin that hung halfway between easy amiability and unabashed lechery. There was no questioning that he would have been more at home at the club than Henry or I.

Sometime after eleven, Henry continued, Crispin had proposed going on by taxi to another place he knew, where the girls were possibly younger still and the music louder. Henry had politely declined and watched Crispin leave on his own. Then there was a complete blank except for two things. First he remembered the chimes of Big Ben sounding and he had noticed he was in a crowded, low-ceilinged room with copious beams and much brass on the walls. He took this to be a country pub and something more to his liking. Later – or perhaps a little before – he was outdoors, apparently in a wood. It was raining gently and water was dripping from the branches above his head. He could see the spire of the church and, dark against the clouds, its weathervane representing a ship in full sail. He had felt tired. He felt in need of a very strong drink, suggesting perhaps that the pub bit came later rather than earlier. Then he was in his own bed. It was still dark, his bedside clock read 03.54 and a nameless dread was creeping over him. He went back
to sleep until mid-morning, when he woke again, got up and made some coffee. Then he phoned Crispin Vynall. There was no reply.

‘The church,’ I said. ‘The first time round, you didn’t mention the church.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘Maybe your memory of the evening is returning?’ I suggested. ‘Is there any more that you can recall?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. But this time he didn’t reprimand me for repeating my question.

‘How did you get to the church?’

‘I must have driven, don’t you think? Hence the mud on the car.’

‘You shouldn’t have been driving in that state.’

‘Ethelred, I’m saying that I may have murdered somebody. The drink-drive charges are relatively insignificant.’

‘But what if what you half-recall is running somebody over?’

‘There was no damage to the car – just mud.’

‘Very well. You drove back safely in your muddy car. I’m surprised the police didn’t stop you, but you would have been just one of many drunks on the road that night. They can’t stop everyone. It’s an interesting story. I don’t see how I can help you, though. I’d love to, but I can’t.’

We both knew there was at least one lie in that last sentence.

‘I want you to find out what happened,’ said Henry. ‘To investigate. I need to know where I went and I need to know that Crispin is all right.’

‘And there is some good reason why it should be me rather than you who goes poking around West Sussex in the middle of winter?’

‘I could do it but … and I admit this … I’m frightened about what I may discover. Let me be entirely frank and say I’m not sure I have the guts to go through with it. And you are a better writer than I am – or at least your skills are more appropriate. I write thrillers. If we were both chained in a cellar with the water rising rapidly and rats crawling over our hair, then I’d know what our options were. But you, as you say, write dull and painstakingly accurate police procedurals. You know about gathering evidence and making logical deductions.’

‘Most of the things that the police have access to – CCTV footage, fingerprinting, trained pathologists and DNA evidence to name but four – are completely unavailable to me. Nor can I walk into whichever pub you were in, flash a warrant card and demand that people answer my questions.’

‘I explained why I can’t go to the police,’ he said patiently. ‘Even if I planned to turn myself in, I’d at least like to know first who I murdered and why. Maybe you will draw a complete blank, in which case I’ll have to accept your hypothesis that it was all some sort of dream. But I’d still like you to try.’

Philip Marlowe would have narrowed his eyes and growled: ‘OK, but it’s going to cost you plenty. I hope you’ve got a rich uncle.’ I just said the first two of those words. And the emphasis was on ‘but’. My objections were:

I obviously hadn’t explained it quite that well to Henry, however, because he was looking at me as though we’d just become blood brothers.

‘So, you’ll do it?’ he asked.

‘It would be pointless,’ I said. ‘I’m not a detective and I have a deadline looming.’

‘I thought so,’ he said smugly.

‘Thought what?’

‘You’ve never really done any research into how crimes are solved, other than read Agatha Christie and Colin Dexter. You lack even the most superficial knowledge of police work. It’s exactly what your Amazon reviews say, by the way.’

Fans of Christie and Dexter might have raised their eyebrows at this. Elsie, as my agent, would have simply nodded and said that was the problem she has always had
with my work. But I wasn’t in the mood for constructive feedback.

‘I’ve already explained—’

‘I don’t want a DNA analysis or a report on maggots found at the scene of the crime – just that you ask a few questions and find out what happened on New Year’s Eve. How difficult can that be?’

‘Not difficult at all. You could do it yourself. In any case, with the greatest of respect, we’ve hardly seen each other for months then you suddenly turn up and expect me to drop everything and be a detective.’

‘I actually phoned you on New Year’s Eve.’

‘You sent me a text saying you were out having a good time. I sent you one in return saying I was watching television on my own.’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. I did. I wasn’t looking for an invitation to join you, but at the same time I certainly didn’t get one. It’s a bit late to invite me to join the party now. I am politely declining your offer. You do it.’

‘Apart from all of the reasons I’ve already given, Ethelred, I simply don’t have the time. The
Telegraph
and the
Sunday
Times
have both asked me to write a monthly round-up of crime fiction for them. It will be a lot of work but it will give me the chance to support mid-list authors who deserve to be known better. Authors who don’t normally get reviewed in the national press. Authors who are unfairly rubbished on Amazon. Authors whose sales deserve the real boost that a glowing review from a well-respected crime writer can offer.’

He looked at me significantly.

‘What did you mean about being rubbished on Amazon?’
I asked. ‘Are you saying I’ve had some bad reviews there?’

‘Don’t you check them?’

‘Not often.’

‘Maybe you should. Of course, the only important reviews are still the ones you get in the press. The quality press. The sort of papers
I
write for. When is your next book out, by the way?’

I paused. He might be bluffing, but could I risk it?

‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said, ‘but I’ll just try to establish where you and Crispin were on New Year’s Eve – after that you’re on your own.’

‘That’s very good of you.’

‘If you remember anything else let me know,’ I said.

‘I’ll try,’ he said meekly.

‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. In the meantime, don’t worry about it too much. I can’t imagine you’ve done anything untoward – let alone committed murder. I’m sure it will all be fine.’

I was aware I sounded a little bit like the presenter of
Crimewatch
, who (for the record) never reassured me in the slightest that serious crime was a rare occurrence. Henry, on the other hand, seemed satisfied.

‘Thanks, Ethelred,’ he said, and he shook my hand.

‘Just out of interest,’ I said, ‘what
are
my options if I’m chained up in a cellar with the water rising rapidly?’

‘Don’t worry. The girl you met in chapter three should have worked out where you are and is already on her way with chain cutters,’ said Henry.

‘And if she hasn’t?’

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Henry.

Later I briefly contemplated phoning Elsie to ask her advice. Had I done so, things might have been very different. On the other hand, judging by Elsie’s subsequent conduct, things might equally have been exactly the same. Or worse. We’ll never know really. Not now.

The Old House at Home is no more than a ten-minute walk from where I now live. It is a large but rather cosy pub situated in the middle of the village, just where the main road from Chichester turns abruptly to the left and, rejecting as impractical the idea of fetching up against the dunes of East Head, elects to wander off toward Bracklesham. It is functional rather than picturesque, a Victorian building modernised so often that it has the air of having been constructed at no particular time and to no particular plan. But it has a bright and well-cared for appearance. It is the sort of place you’d readily stop if you wanted to break your journey for a meal, or that you’d call in on with the family on the way back from the beach. It also seemed like as good a place as any to start asking questions.

I know the barman well enough to call him Denzil and
he knows me well enough to blink a couple of times, frown and call me Mr Treasurer or, on one occasion, Mr Treacle. It’s a tricky name.

‘Thanks, Denzil,’ I said as he pushed a half of bitter across the bar. Then I added casually: ‘I suppose you don’t remember who was in on New Year’s Eve?’

‘Now you’re asking,’ he said, with total accuracy but little elucidation. ‘Pretty much everybody was in, as you will have noticed yourself.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ I said.

‘Weren’t you? I could have sworn I served you.’

‘The night before, maybe,’ I said.

‘Really?’

If I had been hoping for total recall, this wasn’t it.

‘Do you remember seeing Henry Holiday? He’s a writer, like me.’

‘You a writer, then?’ he asked brightly.

‘Yes, I’m sure I’ve told you that. Maybe you’ve seen my books in the shops? I write mainly as Peter Fielding, but also as J. R. Elliott.’

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I only look in the crime section. What sort of thing do you write?’

‘Crime,’ I said.

‘Just crime?’

‘Well, some romantic fiction under another name.’

‘That would explain it, then,’ he said. ‘I don’t read romantic fiction.’ He was about to turn and go and check on a food order, when I added: ‘So,
did
you see Henry then? He was in with yet another crime writer: Crispin Vynall.’

‘Henry … Henry … Let me think … I’m not sure,
but I certainly did see Crispin Vynall. I’ve read some of
his
books. They’re brilliant – there’s one where some kidnappers take this little kid and then video him being made to drink bleach so that the parents will—’

‘Sorry, Denzil, could I just stop you there and get you to tell me about Henry?’

‘What does he look like?’

I did my best to describe him. Denzil nodded encouragingly.

‘I sort of remember him,’ he said, probably meaning he had no recollection at all. ‘Weren’t you with them, though? I can almost picture the three of you over there by the fire, chatting away – the two of them getting on like nobody’s business and you slightly out of it, sipping a half of bitter.’

I put my half of bitter onto the counter. ‘No, I was at home,’ I said.

‘Shame. On your own on New Year’s Eve. And your friends a few yards away in the pub. You’d have thought they’d have sent you a text or something asking you to join them. You ought to get out more.’

‘It didn’t bother me. There was a really good programme on meerkats or something. I had all the excitement I needed. You don’t remember anything else about Crispin Vynall? What he was talking about, for example?’

‘I wouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. As a barman you don’t. What’s said at the Old House at Home stays at the Old House at Home. But it was definitely Crispin Vynall. I’m pretty sure you came over to the bar and introduced him to me.’

‘That must have been Henry. I wasn’t here.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely sure. I had meerkats to look after. What time did they leave, then?’

‘Mr Vynall must have left around ten or ten-thirty. I’m pretty sure of that, because a family came in and sat over there by the fire, and they’d been there at least an hour or two by midnight. Yes, maybe closer to ten than ten-thirty.’

‘And Henry left with him?’

‘Well, I don’t remember seeing him afterwards – let’s put it like that.’

‘Though, equally, you don’t remember seeing him before.’

‘That’s very true.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been helpful.’

I wondered whether I should tip him for this information. I was sure that was what Marlowe would have done. A five spot slipped across the bar that would lead to a phone call a couple of hours later with a vital clue. Denzil wasn’t really used to tips, and there was a danger that money passed across the counter for no apparent reason would simply unsettle him. As it happened, by the time I’d made up my mind the information was worth around 25p, Denzil had already gone to check on the food. He didn’t come back. I replaced the coins in my pocket, finished my drink and went out into the cold, wet day.

As I say, I was pretty sure where they had gone next. There simply weren’t that many options. Chichester is better for afternoon tea than nightlife. If Philip Marlowe had gone in search of seedy joints where naive punters are milked of all
they have by twenty-year-old girls with world-weary faces and bright-red lipstick, he’d have drawn a complete blank. But I did know one nightclub.

It was more out by the ring road than actually in Chichester, in as desolate a spot as you’ll find within a five-mile radius of any prosperous cathedral city. Its concrete exterior blended well with the warehouses and carpet showrooms that were its immediate neighbours. I chose from the hundred or so empty spaces in the car park, slotting my silver Volvo neatly between the white lines, close to one of the other three cars that were already there. Then I picked my way round the puddles and found the only unlocked door into the building.

At three o’clock on a winter’s afternoon, the interior was dark and echoing. It succeeded in being both cold and stuffy. The walls were painted a matt black that probably did not feature at all in the Farrow & Ball colour chart and that seemed to close in on you as you watched. A vast and complex array of lighting equipment, which at the moment produced no light at all, was suspended from the black ceiling. A large stage was flanked with massive speakers and topped with turntables that currently did not turn and amplifiers that had nothing to amplify. It was the people and the noise that made this a venue worth coming to. At the moment it was an empty box, awaiting nightfall, when punters would take advantage of the £8 wristband deal and perhaps the offer of four Jägerbombs (whatever they were) for £9.95. The only action on the dance floor was an old guy in brown overalls pushing a broom in a leisurely manner. Nothing suggested that I was welcome. My footsteps echoed accusingly as I crossed the floor.

Of course, I was going to be out of place here at any time of the night or day. The club’s website showed a packed room with nobody over the age of twenty-five. At the time when I might have found an establishment of this sort interesting, none of its existing clientele would have even been born.

The assistant manager, once summoned by the man with the broom, looked as though he had qualified only recently as an adult. His chin sprouted fluffy ginger hair that might have been meant as a beard. He shook his head. ‘They left hours ago,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘If you’re looking for your son or daughter – we kicked the last of them out at around nine o’clock this morning. Our staff have to get some sleep too.’

‘I’m not looking for one of my children. Actually I don’t have any children and almost certainly never will have, but that’s beside the point.’

‘How can I help you, then? We’re not serving drinks at the moment.’

I’d pondered on the journey here exactly what I was going to claim to be. I could simply say that my friend thought that he might have murdered somebody shortly after leaving the club, but there are times when the truth, however straightforward, simply has the wrong sort of feel to it.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I said.

He gave me a resigned nod of the head. I got the impression that the arrival of private detectives on the premises was more or less normal. Not welcome exactly, but not exactly unprecedented.

‘My client runs a business in Portsmouth,’ I said. ‘He thinks his head of finance may not be playing absolutely straight with him – that he’s passing confidential information to a rival. We have information that he met up with somebody from the rival firm here on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Could be. I’m not sure how I can help.’

‘Do you recognise either of these faces?’

I passed him two author publicity photos, downloaded from their respective websites. Neither really looked like a typical head of finance, but Crispin Vynall, in his leather jacket and sunglasses, might have passed on a good day for a bent head of finance. Henry wasn’t wearing a bow tie but he still had about him the air of somebody who had recently escaped from an Ealing comedy. Allowed access to the petty cash, he would have hot-footed it to Le Touquet with the nearest chorus girl. They would, I realised, have appeared to the average onlooker as a slightly odd couple, for all that they wrote pretty similar types of books.

Fortunately, to the assistant manager, they were just a couple of guys who, being over thirty-five, would shortly qualify for their free bus passes. ‘I think there were a couple of older blokes in that night. Might have been them. Might have been somebody else. Might have been you. Difficult to say.’

He raised an eyebrow. Well, I was definitely an older bloke. No getting away from it.

‘I wasn’t there myself,’ I said.

‘No?’

‘One of them looks a bit like me in some ways, but he’s shorter.’

The assistant manager looked again at the head and
shoulders shot and then at me. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said.

‘You can’t remember what time they arrived or left?’

‘Not really. Why should I?’

‘You wouldn’t have any CCTV footage?’

‘The camera over there’s broken. It’s just for show. But we’ve got a camera that works out in the car park. We’d have pictures from that.’

‘Can I look at them?’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘But you’ve got it and know how to work the equipment?’

‘Of course I can work the equipment. It’s only a bloody DVD player. Any idiot can work that.’

‘Yes, of course. Why can’t I see it then?’

‘Data Protection Act.’

We looked at each other. I had no idea what the Data Protection Act said about CCTV and suspected he didn’t either.

‘There’s a little known clause in the Data Protection Act that stipulates that if you don’t get caught, then you can’t get into any trouble. I promise you I’ll keep the information to myself. I just need to know that they were both here.
My client
needs to know they were both here. It’s fine to let me see the video. It’s a question of law enforcement.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

We looked at each other again. This would take more than a five spot.

‘Fifty quid,’ I said, taking out my wallet.

‘Well, why didn’t you say so before? The machine’s in the back office. Do you know how to work it?’

‘No,’ I said.

Having been given a five-minute tutorial on which buttons to press, I spent an interesting half an hour watching blurred shots of cars arriving and leaving, but mainly just staying where they were. Every now and then some human figure would flit across the screen but it was really just about the cars. White ones. Black ones. Silver ones. Colours didn’t show up so well; red and green were much of a muchness. Slightly earlier than Henry had given me to understand, I picked up Henry and Crispin standing by Henry’s Jaguar, Crispin in front, Henry mainly hidden behind him, but clearly identifiable. Then there was another shot in which they were almost right under the camera – this time you would have had to have known Henry well to have identified him by his right elbow, but it was a good one of Crispin. Then they were gone. I continued to work my way through the shots, expecting Crispin Vynall to emerge first and perhaps get into a taxi, followed some time later by Henry. It was around eleven-fifteen when Henry appeared and, almost as large as life, walked determinedly across the car park. Moreover it was definitely Crispin Vynall who was with him, following a few paces behind. Crispin’s route was slightly less direct than Henry’s – he looked as if he was about to trip over his own feet. They both got into the car. In the next shot the car had already gone. I went back to the earlier picture and checked. No doubt they were still together then. Did Henry perhaps drop Crispin at this second club he had mentioned?

The assistant manager looked round the door.

‘You got what you needed? It’s just that the boss will be back soon. You wouldn’t want to have to slip him fifty quid too.’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ve got all I wanted.’

‘You’re lucky you came in when you did. I was about to wipe the disc clean. We don’t have a lot of storage on that machine. And the quality’s not great as you will have observed yourself. Boss says we’re going to buy a new one soon, but he says a lot of things.’

‘I’ve got all I need,’ I repeated. ‘You can delete anything you like as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Thanks for that. I appreciate it.’

I paused, then said: ‘If you do remember anything else about either of the two gentlemen, maybe you could let me know?’

He shrugged. He wasn’t planning to phone me but he wanted me off the premises. ‘Do you want to leave me your name and a contact phone number?’

I scribbled them on a scrap of paper.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And do you want to let me have the name of the guy you’re investigating?’

I could, but he’d only Google him and find out that he was merely a crime writer, and not an accountant of any sort.

‘Sorry. Data Protection Act,’ I said.

I took a last glance at Crispin Vynall, for the moment following Henry across the car park, but soon to be deleted for ever. Was he lurching drunkenly in Henry’s wake, or had he perhaps just stumbled as the picture was taken? I had no way of telling.