balancing a cup of tea on his bony knees, while opposite sat the small but cocky figure of Rex Inkpen.
‘I really can’t do anything to help,’ the policeman said.
‘My newspaper would be very grateful to you. Cover your expenses, kind of thing.’
Inspector Topham looked blankly at him. ‘I didn’t hear that,’ he said. ‘And I think now if you’ll excuse me…’ and he started to get to his feet.
The one thing to be said about the old copper was that he was incorruptible. It wasn’t the first time Fleet Street had promised to buy him a nice holiday or a small boat – heaven knows, when Gerald Hennessy was murdered, he could have retired on the promises made by the visiting press corps!
An old soldier with a distinguished war record, Topham knew the law and believed in it. It’s just that he wasn’t very good at viewing it from the other end of the telescope – the view adopted by the criminals, large and small, who occasionally wafted through Temple Regis.
He sat there in his shiny shoes with his brilliantined hair looking very much as he was – an upright, honest, decent fellow with insufficient guile to see life the way criminals did. It made him a wonderful fellow but a poor detective.
Rex Inkpen, chief crime reporter for the News Chronicle, was probably a better sleuth, though as a human being, less upright. Behind his wire-framed spectacles lurked a devious mind only partially camouflaged by his earnest look and feigned diffidence.
Inspector Topham’s visits to the Grand were usually confined to the private bar, where he could consume a pint of Portlemouth without being bothered, but it was his duty to see what the national press were getting up to when they swung into town, and so here he sat with his cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.
Only now he was on his feet. He was too old to be bribed!
‘Sit down, sit down… sorry, I think you must have misunderstood,’ said Inkpen smoothly. ‘It’s just that many of your fellow policemen feel… undervalued, as you might say. All those hours they put in, all the danger, all the anxiety if they don’t get things right. It’s nice when someone outside the Force values what they do – and that’s all that the Chronicle’s trying to do, Frank.’
The detective did not like being addressed by his first name, but had the good manners to sit down again.
‘Look,’ Topham explained, ‘we have enough trouble from the local press. They dog my footsteps’ – he was thinking of one in particular – ‘and pass judgement on my results. Ill-informed judgement which puts up the backs of the general public.’ And the Chief Constable, too.
‘Honestly,’ said Inkpen, a word he misused often, ‘Frank, it’s a way of saying thank you. We come down here and write a feature spread about you – about how this sleepy little resort has a disproportionate number of crimes, and yet you have a fantastic success rate in clearing things up.’
It’s Christmas, thought Inkpen, when all right-minded criminals go on holiday. There’s nothing for me to write about, and my editor gets very angry if he sees me with my feet on the desk telephoning my girlfriend at the company’s expense – so please say yes, or I’ll get put on general duties.
Say yes, and I can spend a week at the Grand, buying you drinks and telling you what a nice fellow you are – and at the end of it I’ll make you a hero and at the same time make enough profit on my expenses to pay for the Christmas presents.
‘Well, maybe,’ said Topham, who hated the idea but had been getting grief recently from the Chief Constable about the size of his department. ‘But you do understand, Mr Inkpen, you may not pay me a brass farthing. You can make a contribution to the Widows and Orphans Fund.’
‘I assure you it’ll be a generous one,’ lied Inkpen. ‘And thank you.’
He picked up his notebook. ‘So, just to get started I want to talk to you about the Patrikis case. Then that double murder involving the beat group, and of course the tragic death of Gerald Hennessy – what a fine actor he was, too!’
‘It was his widow I felt sorry for,’ said Topham, relaxing. He had a soft spot for Prudence Aubrey, the widow, and it wasn’t just because she knew his old commanding officer.
‘Our greatest screen actor,’ purred Inkpen. He’d got the old boy going now.
‘Mm.’
‘But let’s start with the Patrikis case. Extraordinary to have a woman shot dead in a holiday camp. A mystery woman too – no clues – how did you unravel that one?’
Suddenly Topham was on his feet again. He could see where this was going, and the prospect did not please. Each of the cases Inkpen mentioned had been solved – not by him, but by the infuriating Miss Dimont and her ragbag collection of followers. Any further discussion of these famous cases could only draw attention to that.
‘Look Mr… er… Inkpen,’ he said. ‘I’d better just check with the Chief Constable that he approves of the nation’s attention being drawn to the, er… unusual level of capital crime in Temple Regis. Maybe we can talk later today, or tomorrow…’
‘That’s absolutely fine,’ smiled Inkpen. ‘I fancy a stroll along the front before tea. I’ll drop into your office tomorrow morning.’
And if I’m not there, it’ll be because of the unusual level of crime I have to attend to, thought Topham. This was a terrible idea and I don’t know why I agreed to meet you in the first place. After all, and to put it bluntly, you’re a journalist.
Both men picked up their hats.
‘Just one thing,’ said Inkpen. ‘Have you had any calls from Interpol in the past couple of weeks?’
The Inspector didn’t like to admit he’d never had a call from Interpol, and only knew of their existence by reading Inspector Maigret.
‘There’s something going on which might affect your manor,’ said Inkpen conspiratorially.
‘Is that why you’re here? Not for this so-called heartwarming feature on Temple Regis and its fearless detectives?’
‘Oh – no, no, no!’ laughed Inkpen, fluttering his notebook as though a dead moth might drop out. ‘Not at all, Inspector, I assure you – I’m here to write a wonderful piece about your great successes.’
Since when did a Sunday newspaper write anything nice about anybody? thought the copper, and jammed his trilby on his head.
‘So, Interpol?’
‘If we have, it’s a police matter,’ replied Topham gruffly, and marched off down the hotel’s thickly carpeted corridor.
His polished boots did not take him far. As Inkpen sloped off towards the front door and the bracing sea air, Topham made a sharp left wheel into the private bar.
‘Afternoon, Sid.’
‘You’re a bit early, Frank, it’s only half past four. I’m not supposed to be serving for another hour.’
‘Call it a leftover from lunch,’ said Topham, ever practical. ‘Have you had any press men in here in the last couple of days?’
‘I bleedin’ wish they would,’ said Sid, reaching for Topham’s pewter tankard. ‘Things are a bit quiet.’
‘Well, get yourself ready, I have the feeling we’re in for a visit.’
At this, Sid brightened. When something juicy happened in Temple Regis – which, to be honest, was quite often – Fleet Street’s finest would roll into his hotel, take over the bars and the restaurant, and spend money like it was going out of fashion.
‘What is it this time?’ said Sid, levelling off the Portlemouth and handing it to his old comrade.
‘Murderer on the loose, an Interpol special. Complicated story.’