‘A fortune teller!’
Walter Gomersall, face screwed up in a pantomime of disgust, spat out the words as if uttering the foulest obscenity. The editor of the Clarion often proclaimed that he had no time for people who exploited the credulous. None of the senior reporters present at the morning conference were brave enough to ask how he squared this virtuous principle with hiring Fleet Street’s most highly paid astrologer. But then, Jacob reflected, the life of a journalist is one long battle to reconcile truth and fiction.
‘You have to admit, sir,’ Jacob said, ‘it’s an intriguing story.’
‘I don’t have to admit anything. Sounds like hogwash to me.’
‘I’m the first to accept it’s an unlikely tale,’ Jacob said meekly, ‘but what if there is something in it? What if the Clarion managed to prevent a murder? To save a man’s life after the police sat back and simply pooh-poohed the story…?’
His choice of words was no accident. What if? was a question Gomersall often asked at these meetings; it was a favourite technique for inspiring his writers to come up with the ideas that kept the Clarion one step ahead of the competition.
‘Visions of the future?’ This was Bob Harley, a fresh-faced sports reporter with a flair for snaring scoops about soccer stars and Test cricketers. Gomersall had recently poached him from the Witness, although there were moments when Harley’s juvenile sense of humour tested his editor’s patience to breaking point. ‘Trespassing into Percy’s specialism, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we consult him for his expert opinion?’
Percy Jones was the amiable and inoffensive fellow who masqueraded as Trewythian, the astrologer. This morning he was conspicuous by his absence.
‘He rang to say he won’t be in today,’ George Poyser said. ‘Stomach ulcer playing up.’
‘Shouldn’t he have given us advance warning?’ demanded Plenderleith, a puritan whose column about the City of London served as a pulpit from which he preached economic hellfire and damnation. The current state of the nation’s finances suggested his apocalyptic warnings were as soberly factual as the shipping forecast.
The other reporters sniggered as Harley winced. His faith in Percy’s gifts was being sorely tested by the astrologer’s tips for filling in his football pools coupon. So far his predictions had failed to yield any winnings at all, let alone a jackpot.
‘All right, gentlemen, you will have your little joke.’ Gomersall put his thumbs in his lapels to indicate that he’d heard enough. ‘Trewythian’s horoscopes have brought us thousands of new readers. We need to make sure we don’t lose them over the summer holidays.’
‘Hemlock Bay is very popular these days,’ Jacob was determined to drag the discussion back to The Great Hallemby’s premonition.
Gomersall’s caterpillar eyebrows twitched. ‘Never been there in my life, and I’m a born and bred Lancastrian. When I was a nipper, that part of the county was the back of beyond. Morecambe, now, I spent many a summer afternoon there. Riding donkeys along the beach or watching the miniature railway at the Figure Eight Park. Happy days.’
There was a moment’s silence as the minds of those assembled boggled at the thought of the hefty figure of Walter Gomersall astride a donkey on the sands.
‘My wife and I were talking about Hemlock Bay only last week,’ Poyser said. ‘Her sister lives a few miles away. Since the bridge and new road were built, it’s developed into a smart resort.’
‘Have you booked?’ Jacob asked.
‘No.’ Poyser blushed. ‘Once she heard about the nudist camp, it was out of the question. She says the place sounds like a den of iniquity.’
Harley said eagerly, ‘Nudist camp?’
‘Gymnosophists, they call themselves. They pride themselves on being pure in mind and body. Living in harmony with the environment. I tried to explain the health benefits to my good lady, but she wasn’t having any of it.’
‘Pity,’ Harley said.
‘As far as she’s concerned,’ Poyser said gloomily, ‘nudism is just an excuse for immoral behaviour. So we’ve booked a week in Eastbourne instead.’
‘Sin not Sun!’ Gomersall tugged at his large ears, a habitual aid to thought. ‘Damned good headline. The Naked Truth! Your missus has a point. It’s a while since we ran a story about these cranks who parade around in the altogether. Spielplatz, isn’t that what they call the place?’
Harley raised his eyebrows. ‘Spielplatz?’
‘Anyone would think it’s a branch of the Weimar Republic. What self-respecting English holiday camp gives itself a German name?’
‘Playground,’ Poyser explained. ‘Twelve acres of lawn and woodland, a few miles from St Albans.’
‘Bizarre,’ Gomersall said. ‘Who in their right mind strips off in this climate? Last time I walked on the prom at Great Yarmouth, there was such a gale blowing that I kept my overcoat buttoned up to the neck. Makes you wonder how these folk survive.’
‘Nudists are eccentrics.’ Plenderleith was the eternal sceptic. ‘Vegetarians, socialists, and heaven knows what. Behind the hedges that keep out prying eyes, who knows what goes on?’
‘Isn’t it more a question of what comes off?’ Harley’s cheeky grin prompted further merriment.
The editor raised his voice, sounding more like a soap box orator than chairman of a meeting. ‘Gentlemen, please! Let’s remember that the Clarion is a staunch upholder of traditional values and moral decency. We are a courageous and crusading newspaper or we are nothing. It’s our bounden duty to shine a light on the dark corners of society.’
‘Expose the nudists!’ Harley murmured. ‘There must be no cover up!’
Gomersall’s glare was enough to silence a foghorn. ‘We must find out more about what the nudists get up to. No smirking, lad! Tell me, Flint. I don’t suppose there’s any connection between this fortune teller of yours and these so-called nature lovers?’
Jacob swallowed. Knowing the way his editor’s mind worked, he could see himself being despatched to join the sun worshippers. The very opposite of an undercover reporter.
‘None that I know of, sir.’
‘Shame.’
‘We need a man on the spot,’ Poyser said.
‘Hoping to get up to Hemlock Bay without the missus?’ Harley murmured.
Inspiration struck Jacob. ‘I could become a Missing Man, like Lobby Lud!’
Heads turned towards him. There was a brief silence, broken by Gomersall.
‘Tread on the News Chronicle’s toes, you mean?’
Jacob grinned. ‘That’s always a bonus.’
‘We’ve never done anything like that before.’ The editor gave his ear a fierce tug. One of these days, Jacob thought, it would come off in his hand.
‘You mean, we’ve never nicked a gimmick from a competitor, sir?’ Harley asked provocatively.
Gomersall’s patience with him was wearing thin. ‘The Clarion doesn’t steal, lad. It doesn’t even borrow. We make silk purses out of our rivals’ sows’ ears. Got that?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘A Missing Man, eh? Not a bad idea,’ Poyser said judiciously.
‘It just came to me a moment ago.’ Jacob’s attempt to sound modest was an abject failure.
‘You know,’ Gomersall said, ‘that might just be the ingredient we’ve been lacking for the summer season.’
‘How about this?’ Harley leaned forward and held his chin with his right hand in a parody of Rodin’s The Thinker. ‘Flinty could become our very own Clarion Charlie. Maybe we can circulate photos of him, riding a donkey on every beach he visits.’
Jacob was beginning to wonder if he’d made a big mistake. He took a breath but, before he could utter a word, his editor brought the conference to an end with a decisive wave of the hand.
‘Thank you, everyone. Flint, I’m tempted by the idea of you posing as a Missing Man. Let me think on. I’ll give you a shout within the next hour.’
*
Four years ago, the Westminster Gazette had scored a spectacular publicity coup by coming up with the notion of a Missing Man. The newspaper was struggling to survive, and summer’s advent brought a new threat. Once northern workers began their season of wakes weeks – when between June and September one town after another closed its factories, shops, and mills so that local people could enjoy a well-earned holiday – newspapers invariably endured a period of sliding sales.
The inspiration for the Missing Man came from Agatha Christie’s disappearance. Like the rest of Fleet Street, the Gazette had reported breathlessly on the nationwide hunt for the detective novelist after she vanished and abandoned her car near the Silent Pond in Surrey. The ensuing hue and cry had been a journalist’s dream and it prompted some bright spark at the Gazette to invent Lobby Lud.
Agatha Christie had shown it was possible for a well-known individual, whose description was widely circulated, to remain at large even when hiding in plain sight in a well-frequented spa resort such as Harrogate. A Gazette reporter called Chinn was rechristened Lobby Lud, after the newspaper’s telegraphic address for lobby correspondents based in Ludgate Circus, and tasked with making a tour of English seaside towns. Readers were given a photograph and description and told that the first to challenge him with a stipulated form of words would receive a handsome cash prize. All the fun of a manhunt coupled with the chance of a monetary reward.
The stunt proved a roaring success. It didn’t save the Gazette from absorption into the Daily News and then the News Chronicle, but Lobby Lud survived the mergers unscathed. Chinn roamed the coast of England and Wales to this day, to the fury of countless men who bore a passing resemblance to him, and were constantly being accosted by eager readers who thrilled to the chase.
Jacob had no wish to squander his time by masquerading as a Missing Man. For a few days, however, it might make a change. If Gomersall was happy to pursue the idea, he’d have the perfect opportunity to sniff around Hemlock Bay without arousing suspicion. Perhaps he could spend time with Rachel and Martha. The shrill of his telephone broke into his reverie.
‘Flinty? Harwood here. Traced your fortune teller for you.’
‘Good work,’ Jacob said. ‘I definitely owe you a…’
‘Several pints, I’d say. Anyway, here’s what you need to know. Gareth Bellamy was sacked from his last job for pilfering.’
Jacob sat up. ‘Tell me more.’
‘He worked in the office of an architect in Bangor and dipped his hand in the till. Not the cleverest thief. He was found out within twenty-four hours. Said he was behind with the rent. He was adamant that he meant to reimburse his employer out of his next pay cheque.’
‘Naughty, though.’
‘Very. And it cost him his job. He did have one stroke of good fortune. His employer had a soft spot for him and was kind-hearted enough to beg the police not to prosecute. Said he felt sorry for Bellamy. The fellow must have a silver tongue.’
‘I did find him quite plausible. As for the larceny, I suppose it was a first offence.’
‘First time he’d been caught, at any rate. Bellamy didn’t quite get off scot-free. The bobbies gave him a thick ear and told him to get out of town.’
Jacob’s conversation with Bellamy was making more sense. The man had lied to him. An understandable lie, perhaps, but significant because it destroyed his credibility.
‘I got the impression he didn’t have much time for the police.’
‘Now you know why. He skedaddled from his lodgings and nobody in the town has seen hide nor hair of him since. You know how hard it is to find jobs in this day and age. Without a testimonial from your old place of work, you don’t stand a chance.’
‘Which led him to tell fortunes on the pier at Colwyn Bay?’
‘Exactly. Though if he was that good at seeing what the future holds, you’d think he would have avoided getting caught in the first place.’
‘Thanks very much for your help. Forget about the pint, by the way, I’ll send a bottle of bubbly. You deserve nothing less.’
*
‘Think of it as an experiment, sir.’ Jacob was in a breezy mood. ‘A trial run. If I make a go of playing the part of a Missing Man at Hemlock Bay, you’ll know it’s worth asking a cub reporter to take on the role for the rest of the summer.’
Gomersall nodded. ‘Makes sense. You can see for yourself whether there’s anything in this wild story about a murder.’
‘Absolutely, sir.’ Jacob coughed. ‘Getting back to the Missing Man, I’m not sure how long my inquiries will take. I’d hate one of our readers to identify me straight away. Build the suspense, that’s my motto.’
‘Fair enough. What do you have in mind?’
‘How about a Mystery Man? You could print a photo of the back of my head, something that looks fascinating but gives little or nothing away.’ Jacob felt himself getting swept along on a surge of enthusiasm. ‘I could wear dark glasses as well as a hat. Perhaps glue on a moustache.’
Gomersall tugged his ear. ‘We might publish your silhouette. Smoking a pipe.’
Jacob cringed inwardly. He loathed the smell of tobacco. But he sensed he was winning his editor over. ‘The locals will love being in the national spotlight. Tourists will flood into town. Special coaches, traffic jams, jostling crowds. Countless Clarion readers in hot pursuit of a hundred-pound prize. The sort of money that can change your life.’
‘Steady on, lad, I was thinking of a tenner a day, absolute maximum. Don’t forget, there’s a lot of people earning a shilling an hour, and that’s if they’re lucky enough to have a job.’ Gomersall pondered for a moment. ‘Five pounds might be plenty. I don’t like to skimp, but in hard times, people are glad of any sort of money prize.’
Jacob waved a hand with the airiness of one to whom money is no object, at least when he isn’t paying. ‘Whatever the bean counters can justify to drum up publicity.’
‘All right, when do you want to start?’
Jacob had given this some thought. It didn’t make sense to wait until the summer solstice was upon him. Once he was at Hemlock Bay, it wouldn’t take him long to decide whether or not there was any truth in Bellamy’s yarn.
‘No time like the present, sir.’
‘Very good. You may as well get cracking.’
As he left Gomersall’s office, Jacob found himself whistling the same tune that Martha had hummed the previous evening. He could barely restrain himself from bursting into song.
So just let me be beside the seaside!
I’ll be beside myself with glee
and there’s lots of girls beside,
I should like to be beside, beside the seaside,
beside the sea!