Publish and Be Murdered (16 page)

Ricketts got out a large handkerchief and mopped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘No, thank you, Mr Amiss. I’ll be all right. I’ll go back to my room now and go on copying the names into the contributors’ book. Duty is duty.’ And with a bowed head he left.

Winterton grinned sardonically. ‘I’m glad Ricketts shed a tear for Willie. He’s likely to be the last as well as the first.’ No one contradicted him. With what was almost a communal shrug, the staff went back to their offices.

‘You were incredibly lucky,’ said Milton. ‘The wire was still taut: in fact, you’ve got off fantastically lightly with just a few bruises.’

‘I’m incredibly lucky too that you’ve been given the investigation. How did you fix it?’

‘I was there this morning when the decision had to be made and the AC thought I was the man to deal with a high-profile case that would attract lots of media attention. I’m thought to be tactful, you see.’

‘Unlike the cops that arrived yesterday. You’d have thought I’d pushed Willie down the stairs, the way they interrogated me. However, I’ll stop cribbing. What’s the plan?’

‘I’m just finishing something off. Then I’ll talk to the forensic people, find a sidekick to stand in for Ellis

‘Oh, bugger. Of course he’s gone off on his holiday with Mary Lou, hasn’t he?’

‘Yesterday. Straight after he got back from his training course.’

Amiss sighed. ‘Can’t be helped. And, anyway, I’ve got you. Now, do you know anything yet that I don’t know?’

‘Only that the wire was tied efficiently just three inches above the step, the optimum height. It was intelligently placed halfway down the second flight to take advantage of the momentum Crump would have built up if he was going down the stairs at any speed. At night he had no chance of seeing the wire. His height and thinness was against him too, for he had a less concentrated centre of gravity than had he been short and fat. He went headlong over the handrail and ended up the mangled mess you saw.’

‘Wish I hadn’t.’

‘You should be getting used to such sights by now.’

‘You know me, Jim. I’m squeamish.’

‘You’re alive. That’s what matters. I’ll be in touch.’

If the newspapers had got excited about Henry Potbury, they went frantic about Willie Lambie Crump. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Amiss to Winterton, ‘I know journalists think they’re the chosen people, but they’re carrying on about Willie as if they’ve been robbed of a Messiah. I mean, for God’s sake, the
Independent
’s described him as a conviction journalist who boldly risked the wrath of his readers to embrace Tony Blair’s vision, and the
Guardian
alleges he was risking his job by shedding the tired and discredited philosophy of a tired and discredited age.’

Admittedly, there were hints of criticism in the papers of the Right: the
Telegraph
even implied that Lambie Crump’s desire to be at the centre of political London might have influenced the paper’s recent drift away from its core values. But all the papers – including the tabloids – were united in shock that anyone should dream of murdering a member of the Fourth Estate. Indeed, said the
Mirror
darkly, there were strong reasons to suppose that Lambie Crump might have come to his death because – in the best traditions of journalism – he put his beliefs before his safety. And of course the more sensationalist journals and indeed radio and television programmes made much of the fact that his death had followed not long after the violent death of another pillar of
The Wrangler
: police, the public was told, were even now examining the two cases to see if they were by any chance connected.

‘Bad business, all this.’

‘Certainly is. And not just limited to Willie, I fear. Even the police are now admitting there’s a fair chance that Henry was dispatched as well. Seems too much of a coincidence otherwise.’

Lord Papworth shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know what to think and I don’t know what to do except rejoice that you – at least – have not joined them in the afterlife.’

‘And find another editor, presumably, and fast.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Papworth, ‘but I shouldn’t think people are actually going to be queuing up to take over from Willie until they’re sure it’s safe. Only a war correspondent is likely to want to command a ship that appears to have a homicidal maniac among its crew. We’ll have to wait until this is all cleared up before we start an editor hunt.’

‘I take your point, Charlie. So what will you do? Get Phoebe or Dwight to stand in?’

‘Don’t think I can. After all, it’s not outside the bounds of possibility that one of them murdered Willie – and even Henry. They’ve got the most obvious motive. Don’t want
The Wrangler
to have the stigma of an editor – even if only a temporary one – being charged with murder. Not quite the image of a paper so hot on law and order.’

‘If you can’t have someone from outside and can’t have anyone from inside, Charlie, how is that paper going to come out next week?’

‘You’re going to take over as editor.’

Amiss was so shocked that he made an incautious gesture and knocked over his tea. The ensuing mopping of himself, the table and the floor occupied a few minutes during which he had time to collect his thoughts. ‘I’m honoured, Charlie,’ he said as he sat down again, ‘but that idea’s a non-runner.’

‘Give me a better one.’

‘There has to be some retired or freelance journalist who’d come in for a few weeks until things are sorted out.’

‘Don’t want an outsider coming in as a temporary measure, and I don’t think anyone would want to either. It’s going to require great tact to preside over such an interregnum, and I can’t think of any available journalist with such a quality.’

‘But, but… but…’

‘But me no buts, Robert. If you haven’t an alternative, it has to be you.’

Amiss’s mind frantically raced through staff and regular contributors. ‘Amaryllis Vercoe?’

‘Now you’re being silly. How could I put Amaryllis in over Dwight or Phoebe? The whole point with you is that clearly you’re a temporary measure and unthreatening. I’ll tell them you’ll be doing it in cooperation with them, but that you’ll have the authority.’

‘What are the trustees going to say?’

‘Won’t have any trouble from them. I rang Doug Hogwood and Gussie Adderly this morning and they told me to do whatever I thought fit. And Jack Troutbeck, of course, was delighted – she being a chum of yours.’

‘Jack Troutbeck?’

‘Oh, sorry. Didn’t I tell you? She’s Henry’s successor. Appointed as soon as I heard about Willie. I’d been dithering up to then, but this is no time for dithering.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Mine, but the other two were quite happy. She’s a valued contributor with no journalistic ambition – best kind of staff trustee one could have, really. And not knowing her the way I do, they’re comforted by her being in the Lords. One of us and all that.’

Amiss brooded and then shook his head. ‘I just can’t see it, Charlie. I just can’t see how editorial will accept a non-journalist.’

‘They like you. And it was fortuitous that you wrote that tax leader last week. They know you’re capable of being a contributing editor.’

‘How did you know about that?’

‘Phoebe told me when I tried this idea out on her.’

‘What was her reaction?’

‘Fine. She’d rather you than Dwight, and Dwight prefers you to Phoebe.’ Papworth looked at his watch. ‘Got to go home: people coming in for drinks. Right, now to practicalities. Spend what you need. For instance, if you need to hire someone to stand in for you, feel free. Or pay out some decent money to journalists. I don’t mind what you do. Just get the journal out.’

‘Jolly good,’ said the baroness. ‘It’s very satisfactory that we’ll be running the show.’

‘Correction, Jack. I’m running the show.’

‘I’ll be running the trustees. That means I have power of life or death over you. Mind you, I envy you. Always wanted to have a bash at being an editor. Why didn’t he appoint me?’

Amiss laughed. ‘He did mention on the way out of the Lords that the notion had crossed his mind but he decided you were too barmy. To be precise, he said: “To let someone as opinionated as Jack Troutbeck loose on
The Wrangler
would be like inviting an alcoholic to take over a pub.” And I must add, Jack, that apprehensive though I am about this job and anxious though I might be to pass on the poisoned chalice, I agreed with him.’

‘You underestimate my prudent streak. But I’m used to being misunderstood and I’m big enough to rise above it. Now, get cracking and pull
The Wrangler
out of the mire.’ The phone went dead.

‘It’s wonderful news, ‘ said Rachel. She threw her arms around him. ‘I’m absolutely delighted. And it’s such a good time too. Lambie Crump was taking the paper in the right direction at last and you’ll be able to accelerate the pace.’

Amiss looked at her with alarm. ‘I’m only a caretaker, Rachel. And what I’m caretaking is a right-wing magazine.’

‘I know that. I’m not suggesting you change course any more than Lambie Crump did. Just embrace sensible policies quicker.’

Amiss decided to avoid any argument. ‘This week my ambition is to get
The Wrangler
out with no blank pages. Next week I’ll be able to think.’

She beamed. ‘You’ll see. You’ll make such a success of it, Papworth might even give you the job permanently.’

‘I’ll do the best I can.’

She hugged him again. ‘Let’s go out to the wine bar and have a glass or two – I mean a bottle – of champagne.’

‘You’re on,’ said Amiss.

16

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Having neglected to send out a press release to announce his appointment as temporary editor, Amiss had only himself to blame when a Sunday paper broke the news that Lambie Crump had been replaced by a dark horse called Robert Amis (sic), thought to be a little-known member of the wider Amis clan – a rumour which persisted until Martin Amis contemptuously denied it. That newspaper however had done better than the rest of the broadsheets, who had filled a column or two each in speculation about the journalist most likely to succeed Lambie Crump. Many kites were flown: the internal candidates mentioned were Winterton, Amaryllis Vercoe and Wilfred Parry.

Amiss spent much of the weekend on the phone reassuring colleagues and contributors and asking for suggestions on how to proceed. After some dithering, he decided to move into the editor’s office: there was no point in starting off being apologetic.

The mood of the Monday meeting was friendly. Wilfred Parry made sycophantic noises, and even Clement Webber came as near to graciousness as could have been expected by saying, ‘Well, I suppose you can’t be worse than Willie.’

‘I hope we can get all this mess sorted out soon,’ said Amiss. ‘But however long it takes, we need to do the best we can for the journal. I’ll be relying on all of you. And you’ll understand, won’t you, that since we still haven’t replaced Henry and I won’t be doing much writing, we’ll have to use more outsiders.’

‘But you’ll do some,’ said Phoebe.

‘What I can. But I have the problem that
The Wrangler
’s politics aren’t my politics.’

‘What are your politics?’

‘I don’t really know. I suppose the best way of describing my politics is that they aren’t anybody’s politics – mostly because I don’t like politicians.’

‘Presumably you’ll be following Willie’s drift towards New Labour, then?’ said Webber sourly. ‘Seeing it’s the politics of people with no politics.’

‘No, Clement, I won’t. I think Willie had got out of touch with the journal’s soul and that’s what I’m here to nourish.’

‘It was the body he liked,’ said Winterton, waving at the grandeur that surrounded them. ‘Incidently, where is the funeral to be? Westminster Abbey? St Paul’s?’

‘No. I talked to his brother and he has in mind something rather more modest. We’re meeting this evening to talk it through. It looks as if it will be a proper Fleet Street event at St Bride’s, probably next Friday – with a memorial service later if there is enough popular demand.’

‘Don’t hold your breath,’ muttered Phoebe Somerfield.

‘I dare say I’ll be able to help you.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ said Milton. ‘That’s what you’re here to do.’

‘Oh no… sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Tewkesbury, giving a strong impression that it hurt him to use the title. ‘I meant that I’m pretty knowledgeable about the literary world and all that. English is what I read’ – he paused again and looked at Milton – ‘I mean studied… at Oxford.’

Milton tried not to show his irritation. ‘I see. So you think you’ll understand these people.’

‘Oh, I think so. Mind you, I wouldn’t read
The Wrangler
. It’s very out of date and has values that are of no relevance to Britain as we approach the millennium. I mean, obviously when you’re a modernizer you want to read journals that look forward not back. But I know the sort of thing they write about.’ He laughed. ‘There aren’t, I think, very many people in the police force for instance who know about Edmund Burke.’

‘There’s me,’ said Milton.

Tewkesbury started. ‘Oh, really, sir. I didn’t realize you had been to university.’

‘Tewkesbury, even if you’ve never been to university it is possible to read books. However, let us not get sidetracked. I would of course appreciate any insights you might have to bring to bear on this murder. Feel free to make suggestions.’

Tewkesbury leaned forward and addressed Milton with the air of an Englishman of the old school trying to make a foreigner understand. ‘This is an unusual case, concerning unusual people. I have little doubt that the motives are ideological.’

‘What makes you think that, Tewkesbury?’

His sergeant assumed a condescending expression that made Milton want to knee him in the groin. ‘It’s easy,’ he said, ‘to underestimate the venom of the Right when threatened by progress. I can well see that Lambie Crump’s conversion to New Labour would have been a matter that outraged those loyal to the anachronistic beliefs of
The Wrangler
.’