Front Page Murder

A Crampton of the Chronicle Mystery

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

My news editor, Frank Figgis, took a long drag on his Woodbine, blew a perfect smoke ring and said: "Have you ever attended a hanging before?"

"I once watched my mother put up some curtains in the outside lavvy," I said.

"The real thing is not so pretty."

"Neither were the curtains. She'd knocked them up out of old blackout material."

Figgis harrumphed. We were in the newsroom at the Brighton Evening Chronicle. It was a brisk December morning and only ten days until Christmas.

Figgis had stopped by my desk to let me know that it would be my byline – Colin Crampton, crime correspondent – on the story telling our readers that Archie Flowerdew had been hung by the neck until dead for the murder of Percy Despart.

"The whole business sounds a bit ghoulish to me," I said. "Especially as Archie is for the drop on Christmas Eve."

"At least you won't need to be in the room when the hangman pulls the lever and the poor sap falls through the trapdoor." Figgis stubbed out his ciggie and tossed the dog-end into my waste bin. "In the old days, reporters got to watch the show from a front-row seat."

"Instead, I'll be standing around outside the prison gates waiting for them to post the notice of execution," I said. "What's the point of that? We know in advance what the notice will say. It just feels like morbid curiosity."

"It's traditional. Hangings and notices of execution go together like Christmas pudding and heartburn," Figgis croaked. His sixty-a-day habit had left him with a voice that sounded like ancient bedsprings wheezing under the weight of a bouncing sumo wrestler.

"It's not traditional for Flowerdew," I said. "It's his first hanging. He doesn't get a dress rehearsal."

"The hangman does," Figgis said. "The day before, the hangman tests everything with a sack of sand about the same weight as the victim. He leaves the sack hanging overnight to stretch the rope. You could mention that when you come to write your piece."

"Any other gruesome titbits you'd like me to include?"

"Certainly not. This is a family newspaper. Just look on the hanging piece as the last chapter in a long-running story."

I nodded. It was certainly that. Since the day Despart's body had been discovered in his studio, the story had provided the paper with a string of headlines:

Police Probe Postcard Artist's Murder
Rival Artist Charged with Despart Killing
Flowerdew Remanded in Custody
Postcard Killing Trial Opens at Assizes
Jury Out in Postcard Murder
Flowerdew Guilty: Sentenced to Hang
Postcard Murder Appeal Fails

Figgis looked uncomfortably around the newsroom. The pre-deadline frenzy was building. Reporters pounded ancient typewriters like they wanted to beat them to death. Or stared at their shorthand notebooks like they were decoding an ancient codex. Or shouted down telephones at reluctant contacts who wouldn't give a straight answer to a leading question. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered under the fluorescent lights. The place smelt of tired bodies and paper dust.

Figgis's mouth twisted into the guilty smile he wore when he was about to say something truly disgraceful.

"Of course, there's one thing that could ruin our hanging headline."

"You mean if Flowerdew's plea for clemency is successful?"

Figgis nodded.

"Far be it for a man's life to deprive you of a front-page splash," I said.

"I didn't mean ..."

I held up my hand. "No need to make your excuses. The plea has been turned down."

Figgis had the grace to make an effort at looking shocked.

"That must be a big disappointment to Flowerdew's daughter."

"You're thinking of his niece, Tammy Flowerdew. Archie never married. He had no children of his own. But Tammy has run the campaign for clemency. And a one-woman campaign at that."

Figgis stroked his chin. "So that's the last we'll be hearing of Miss Flowerdew."

I leaned back in my old captain's chair. "I'm not so sure," I said.

Figgis gave his red braces a twang with his thumbs. It was a sure sign he was happy with the turn of events. Then he loped off to his office.

My telephone rang. I lifted the receiver and a voice said: "Thank heavens you're in the office, Colin. You could just be the person to save my life."

The voice belonged to Barry Hobhouse. He was a middle-aged bloke who worked as one of the subeditors on the paper. He lived with two cats in a one-roomed flat – or it may have been one cat in a two-roomed flat – in the Hanover part of town. Barry was one of life's worriers. Give him a million quid and he'd fret about what to spend it on. This morning, he sounded under more stress than usual.

"Don't worry about it, Barry," I said. "It may never happen."

He said: "It just has. I've put page nine together and the fourth column has come up fourteen slugs short."

In plain English, Barry was telling me the paper would appear with a blank space at the foot the page.

"And you'd like me to magic up some copy to fill it," I said.

"We've eight minutes to deadline."

"Leave it with me, Barry. I'll send the copy boy up with it in five minutes."

"Thanks, Colin. Terrible thing to happen on the last day before my holidays. I'm off tonight for an early Christmas break. Up to Scotland to stay with my aunt McConnachie."

"Don't pig out on haggis," I said.

He laughed and cut the connection.

I reached for my notebook and turned back a few pages. I'd been in Brighton magistrates' court the day before. There were always plenty of minor cases that were never written up for the paper. I just needed to find something long enough to fill the space.

I flipped a page. And there it was. A sorry tale with a seasonal touch. It would save Barry. And please Figgis. I reached for a couple of sheets of copy paper and rummaged in my drawer for a new piece of carbon to slip between them. Cursed that it had all gone. I crossed to fellow reporter Phil Bailey's desk – he was out of the office – and swiped a sheet from his top drawer. I put the carbon between the sheets of copy paper and rolled the set into the carriage of my old Remington. I typed:

Harold Beecher, 26, a warehouse man from Station Road, Hove received an early Christmas present when he appeared before Brighton magistrates yesterday.

The court heard that Beecher was arrested in West Street, Brighton after he had stripped to his underpants, climbed a lamp post and sung several verses of 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer'.

Beecher told the court: "I don't know what got into me. But I think it may have been nine pints of Harvey's bitter with whisky chasers. I realise it is wrong to sing Christmas songs in public in my underwear and I promise it will not happen again."

Chairman of the bench Sir Randolph Abercrombie told Beecher: "This is an outrage against public decency. Normally, I would send you to prison for seven days, but as it's the season of goodwill I will give you a caution. Consider it an early Christmas present."

I rolled the folios out of the typewriter, separated the two sheets from the carbon and spiked the copy. I called over to Cedric, the copy boy, and handed him the top folio.

"Take this up to Barry Hobhouse on the hurry-up," I said. "And then please bring me a new box of carbon paper. And while you're at it you'd better slip this sheet back in Phil's drawer. He's so mean he probably counts them!"

Cedric grinned. "Right you are, Mr Crampton."

He bustled off and I sat back with a nice warm feeling that I'd done Barry a good deed. But the trouble with good deeds I've often found is they come back to bite you on the bum.

Freddie Barkworth downed half a pint of Harvey's best bitter at a swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: "I suppose Tammy Flowerdew has run out of options now the appeal for clemency has been turned down."

Freddie was the Chronicle's chief photographer – a legendary lensman with a reputation for being on the spot to snap the shutter when the elements of a great picture came together in his patient viewfinder.

I sipped my gin and tonic in a manner expected of a responsible drinker and said: "She's exhausted legal options, but Tammy is not the kind of girl to accept defeat."

We were enjoying an after-work tipple in Prinny's Pleasure, a kind of drinkers' dosshouse that passed itself off as a pub. It occupied a corner site in a backstreet in the North Laine part of town. The place hadn't changed for years since the Prince Regent and Mrs Fitzherbert had reputedly held a love tryst in the rooms upstairs. To commemorate the unlikely event, a fading signboard hung from a rusting bracket above the front door. The board featured a portrait of Mrs Fitzherbert with pouting lips, a twinkle in her eye and a dead mouse hanging from her right ear. Or the latter may have been a large flake of peeling paint.

Freddie said: "So what do you suppose Tammy will do next? Anything with a good picture in it would suit me."

Freddie was a little imp of a man with big ears and a cheeky face. He reminded me of a hobbit. He'd been frustrated throughout the police investigation by the lack of picture opportunities. The cops wouldn't let him into the crime scene. And the courts barred him from the trial. Instead, he spent his time sprinting after the Black Maria that brought Flowerdew to court. He hoped to snap a picture of the poor bloke's miserable face peering through the van's window bars.

I said: "What will Tammy do next? I wish I knew."

"She's given no clues when you've spoken to her?"

"I've only interviewed her twice – once after the trial and once before the appeal court hearing. She wouldn't open up. I think she resented the coverage we gave the case. Took it as an attack on her uncle – especially when we reported the prosecution evidence. But we can only print what happens in court. I tried to explain that to her, but she won't have a word said against her uncle Archie."

"Loyal to the last, then."

"And the last is only days away now." I drained the dregs of my G&T.

Freddie nodded at my empty glass. "Another?"

I glanced towards the bar. Jeff, the landlord, was slumped on a bar stool with his head on the counter. We could hear his snores from where we sat.

A lank of his greasy hair flopped over a plate of pork pies. They'd end up stained white by his Brylcreem. But that wouldn't faze Jeff. He'd tell any finicky punter it was special Christmas mayonnaise.

"Seems a pity to wake Sleeping Beauty," I said. "Besides, I've got a better idea. Why don't we go and ask Tammy what her next move is going to be? There could be a story in it for tomorrow's paper. Maybe a picture, too."

Freddie shrugged. "Some chance. Anyway, from what you've said, she probably won't give us the time of day."

"We'll drive to her lodgings and find out."

But it looked as though we were going to be out of luck.

When we called at her lodgings – a small terraced house, a seagull's squawk from the harbour in Portslade – her landlady told us she wasn't in.

"Stomped out of the house not half an hour ago carrying a red holdall that looked as though it weighed a ton. I asked her what was in it, but she just gave me a sly grin and said, 'Just what an artist's niece needs.' She's a crafty one and no mistake; it looks like it runs in the family."

The landlady gave her name as Brenda Winklemann. "Don't forget to spell it with two Ns." She was a squat lady with a mountainous bosom that bizarrely reminded me of a holiday I'd once spent in the Peak District.

I said: "Does Tammy normally go out with the holdall?"

"Never seen it before – and you couldn't miss it in that colour. To tell you the truth, my first thought was that the girl was doing a runner to avoid paying the rent. But, to be fair to the lass, I've always found her as honest as the day is long. Twenty-three hours, isn't it?"

A droopy lid levitated briefly over her left eye like a moth in front of a flame. Brenda had winked at me.

"Did Tammy say where she was going?" I asked.

"The little madam said I'd find out soon enough."

"How?"

"She didn't say."

"Did she say what she was going to do?"

"She said, 'I'm going to do what Uncle Archie does best.' I hope she didn't mean knock off some poor bugger. Pardon my turn of phrase."

I grinned. "Don't mention it."

"As she stepped into the street, I wagged my finger at her and said, 'Don't do anything stupid.' And do you know what she turned round and said?"

"No."

"'I won't do anything that hasn't been done before.' She had a really determined glint in her eye when she said it. That girl's going to end up in trouble."

I thanked Brenda for her help and turned to leave.

She tugged at my shoulder. "If you're writing an article about Tammy, I don't suppose you could mention I'll have a vacancy for a new lodger in a few days. Can't see the poor girl staying on after the ... well, you know."

"I know," I said.

She shut the door.

Freddie and I climbed into my MGB.

"So that's got us nowhere," Freddie said. "Back to the pub?"

I thought about it for a bit. "I'm not so sure that we can't work out where Tammy's gone."

Freddie twisted in his seat and looked at me. "How so?"

"Well, Tammy told her landlady that she was going to do what her uncle Archie does best."

"Murder rival artists," Freddie said.

"Don't be flippant. What Archie indisputably did best was to draw and paint. In this case, I think it's the painting that's important."

"Why?"

"Because I've got a sneaking suspicion that red holdall was heavy because it contained paint and brushes. Remember, she told Mrs Winklemann the bag contained 'just what an artist's niece needs'."

"What would she be doing with that at this time of night?" Freddie asked.

"Think back to what Tammy said when Mrs Winklemann told her not to do anything foolish: 'I won't do anything that hasn't been done before.' But what has been done before – and only last Easter? I'll give you a clue: it used paint – lots of it."

Freddie's eyes widened. "So she's going to paint a slogan on the side of the Town Hall."

Months earlier, in April 1963, ban-the-bomb protesters on the way to their annual rally in Trafalgar Square had painted their peace symbol on the Town Hall. Council workmen had painted over it within hours. But not before Freddie had captured it for the Chronicle's front page.

"If my reasoning is correct, that's where she's ultimately heading with her holdall," I said.

"Ultimately?"

"She won't try now because there'll be too many people about. My guess is she's hiding up somewhere and will turn up at the Town Hall with her pot of paint between two and three in the morning. Nothing stirring then – not even the pigeons. The question is: can we find her?"

I looked at Freddie. He looked at me. The unspoken question that passed between us was: shall we put in the unpaid overtime for a good story?

We didn't even need to put the answer into words. We were both newspapermen.

But by two fifteen the following morning, we felt like we'd wasted the night.

"Can you think of anywhere else she might be?" Freddie asked.

I scratched my head. "We've looked in every pub in central Brighton. Every cafe, too. We searched the railway station and the bus terminus in Pool Valley. We've looked under both piers."

"So we're beaten?"

"Let's give it another half-hour," I said.

We were sitting in my MGB. I'd parked in West Street opposite the ice rink. The place looked dowdy and run down, and there were rumours it would close.

I pointed at the building site next door. A huge, new entertainment centre – a monster in concrete – was being built. "That's going to be the ugliest building in Brighton," I said to Freddie. "Even the artist's impression makes it look about as attractive as a glue factory."

"If he wasn't so fat, the old Prince Regent would be turning in his grave," Freddie said.

I slapped my hand to my forehead. "We're idiots!" "We are?" Freddie sounded unsure.

"We've forgotten the most famous building in Brighton."

"The Royal Pavilion. Surely even Tammy wouldn't paint a slogan on that?"

I switched on the ignition, pressed the starter button and put the car into gear. I pulled out into the deserted road and raced towards the Royal Pavilion.

I aimed the MGB like an arrow through the triumphal arch into the Pavilion Gardens. I stamped on the brake. The car slid sideways and scuffed the gravel.

Tammy had been cleverer than we'd expected. She'd painted her slogan – Archie Flowerdew is Innocent – on the double doors of the main entrance in bright red paint. Then she'd chained herself to one of the pillars of the porte cochère. There was rarely anyone in the Royal Pavilion Gardens at this time of night. Tammy would have had plenty of time to go about her work unobserved.