She could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye, even though he appeared to be summoning the wine-waiter.
‘So that’s what it was,’ said Judy, ‘just a domestic argument?’
‘Yup.’ Bunton was flapping his hand at some far-distant minion.
‘Man shot his wife dead?’
‘What else,’ came the dead-ball reply. ‘The clock ticks. He can’t stand her a moment longer, it’s driving him crazy. Clock chimes the quarter-hour and – bam! He’s glad it’s over.’
Fluffles was too busy with her powder-compact to pay attention to this shockingly arbitrary supposition. She stretched her lips and grinned in ghastly fashion back at her reflection.
‘She wasn’t married.’
The King spared his interlocutor a look. ‘How do you know?’
‘No wedding ring.’
‘Proves nothing.’
‘Had registered on her own,’ insisted Judy. ‘Had not been seen with anyone. Her neighbours in the chalets either side confirmed that.’
This was not strictly true, in fact it wasn’t true at all, but when interviewees are nasty or unhelpful or contemptuous, it does no harm to give them a prod. Bobby Bunton wouldn’t know what Patsy Rouchos’ neighbours had seen or hadn’t but he did know something, and Miss Dimont was determined to get it from him.
‘She wasn’t a holidaymaker in the ordinary sense of the word,’ she said, half-guessing. ‘Could she have been here on business? Or waiting for a boyfriend who didn’t turn up – is that what it is?’
Bobby Bunton stared hard at her, as if for the first time. ‘It. Really. Doesn’t. Matter,’ he said through yellow, oversized front teeth. ‘She’s. Dead. A. Tragedy. Our. Hearts. Go. Out. To. Her. Family.’ The effort from issuing these words seemed to have exhausted him and he leaned against Fluffles’ pillows. Fluffles looked at Miss Dimont with hatred.
‘Ah,’ said Judy, ‘so you do know who her family is, and therefore presumably you know what she was doing here.’
She paused. ‘You see, Mr Bunton, Temple Regis is thrilled to have Buntorama here but it would be a concern to townsfolk to think that people come down here with guns. And then shoot people with them. It’s just not that kind of place, you know – we have a reputation as being one of the safest resorts in the West of England.
‘So, you see, a simple explanation is so much better for them than a mystery. “MYSTERY DEATH” is an unsettling thing to read in a headline, whereas “DEATH AS A RESULT OF A DOMESTIC DISPUTE” – or whatever it was that happened – they can swallow much more easily. Less unsettling. So I need your help.’
As Bunton took a swig from his glass Judy reflected, not for the first time, how difficult it was to worm information out of habitual liars. Yes, she had lied herself to wrest information out of the King, but those were white lies, little ones. Bunton’s were of a much deeper hue.
Then again, she thought, looking at the pint-sized individual opposite, how much harder a reporter’s life is than a photographer’s. Terry just ambled in here, didn’t introduce himself, got his camera out and took a picture which would occupy as much space in the paper as her words. Job over and done in a matter of seconds while she, Judy, had to beaver away at screwing information out of this tight-mouthed wide boy. It could take all morning.
It was why she loved the job so much. The challenge!
‘I like to do my best for the local press,’ said Bunton, who’d evidently undertaken a snap re-evaluation of the woman sitting opposite him. ‘We rely on you, at each of our resorts, to maintain a connection between our business and the local folks. Even so, you won’t want this in your paper.’
‘What is it we won’t want?’
‘This woman, the dead woman, she was a prossie. A working girl. She was coming over here to the Marine from the camp, sitting in the bar here, waiting to pick someone up.’
‘Oh.’ Miss Dimont took off her glasses and polished them. Such things were not unknown, but here – in Temple Regis! A lady of the night!
‘I saw her in here the night of the – disturbance,’ said Bunton. ‘You can always spot ’em a mile off.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Dimont, recalling the scrapped front-page article from last night’s paper. ‘I wanted to ask you about that. Seems a little high-handed of the Marine to ask you to leave.’
‘Kick me out, more like. But,’ said the little man proprietorially, ‘as you see, we’re back here buying the Marine’s drinks at their extortionate prices. Always ready to take our money!’ He had more success this time when he beckoned the waiter. ‘What’s yours?’
‘No thank you,’ said Judy. ‘So what exactly happened?’
Bunton threw his thumb at Fluffles’ embonpoint. ‘You tell her, darlin’.’
The courtesan straightened her hair and glanced down at her abundant heritage. ‘Outrageous!’ she squawked. ‘You can still see the bruise if you look closely enough. They were outrageous!
‘We’d been in here for a few hours, Bobs was doing business on the phone and then talking to someone at the bar, I got a bit bored. I do like a man to pay attention!’ she said pointedly and flapped her hand at Bunton’s belly. ‘So yes, I’d had a glass or two and I decided to go over and break it up.’
‘That’ll do,’ said Bunton, with a warning glance. ‘What she’s trying to say, Mrs, er…’
‘Miss Dimont.’
‘Yers. What she’s trying to say is that as she got up she slipped on some liquid on the floor. I mean, they charge so much you’d think they’d have staff looking after you properly if you spill your drink – they should have wiped it up immediately.’
‘Anyway, Bobs,’ intervened Fluffles, not to be denied her moment, ‘it was all your fault. If you hadn’t spent so long chatting to that person I wouldn’t…’
‘What actually happened,’ said Bunton, cutting in, ‘Fluffles got up, slipped on the drink, went over. Someone came over and helped her up…’
‘Split my dress,’ chimed in Fluffles cheerily. ‘That got everybody’s attention – including his!’
‘Hardly needed splitting,’ said Bobs, ‘you was showing everything anyway.’
‘It got him away from her, anyway,’ she said to Miss Dimont. ‘So then I told him off – look at me, I says, covered in drink, my face bashed in from falling over, one of my heels broken, my whatnots falling out – if you’d left her alone none of this would have happened.
‘Then she came over, and I let her have it with my handbag. Bitch. She just stood there looking all superior, kind of looking down her nose at me, one heel on one heel off. I tell you, she’ll remember that handbag!’
‘Er, sorry, can we just go back a moment?’ asked Judy. ‘This lady we’re talking about at the bar. The one your Bobs was talking to all evening.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Yes, I’m sure. But, she was the one from Buntorama, the, er… prossie?’
‘Never seen a cheaper-looking tart.’
‘She was the one who was shot?’
‘A bullet never found a more deserving home,’ said Fluffles magnificently, pushing out her chest as she wiggled out of the chair.
They were in the Minor speeding back to the office, and Terry was humming to himself.
‘Take