The Beach Party Mystery: A Crampton of the Chronicle adventure (Deadline Murder Series Book 5) by Peter Bartram

Author:Peter Bartram [Bartram, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Bartram Partnership
Published: 2020-11-05T20:00:00+00:00

I’d rung the bell on Puttock’s front door three times before I suspected he’d scarpered.

But I haven’t been a crime reporter all these years without letting a little thing like an unanswered door put me off. Of course, I was forgetting. I was now an entertainment reporter. Still, I knew that folks with something to hide, didn’t answer the door when the press came calling. They crept under the table or stowed away in a convenient wardrobe.

So I walked up a passage at the side of the house and tried the backdoor. I rattled the handle like I was Burglar Bill. Locked. Rattling would usually get a hidden culprit to break cover. Nothing.

There was a frosted glass window in the door. I tried peering through, but it made the room behind look like a heavy mist had settled in.

I could’ve tried the other windows, but there didn’t seem much point. Puttock clearly wasn’t at home. But when was he coming back?

Maybe Sharp-eyed Sylvia at number sixteen could throw some light on the matter.

She had her front door open before I was halfway up her garden path. There was a big grin on her face.

“Didn’t think it would be long before you were back, now that this has happened,” she said.

“Now what’s happened?”

“Old Puttock’s flown the nest.”

“I know. I’ve just called on him.”

“I saw you. And you went round the back when you shouldn’t have.”

I smiled. “I won’t tell if you won’t. When did he leave?”

“Just after lunch. I was just grilling a Welsh rarebit when I heard a taxi draw up.”

“How did you know it was a taxi?”

“They always sound their horn with a couple of beep-beeps to alert their fare. Well, I pulled the rarebit out from under the grill – because there’s nothing worse than burnt rarebit – and had a quick peek. Puttock crept down his garden path like he’d just snuck out of the Bank of England with the day’s takings. Had a suitcase with him big enough for them, as well. Heavy, too. The cabbie had a couple of tries to heft it into the cab.”

“I don’t suppose you know where he was going?”

“Who do you think I am? Madame Arcati? I’m no clairvoyant.”

“Did you note the number plate on the taxi?”

“I’m not Fabian of the Yard, neither. But I’ll tell you this. From the size of the luggage, Puttock was going a long way away – and he didn’t plan to come back any time soon.”

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