‘He didn’t finish the last one.’
‘We can deal with that. It doesn’t matter. They’ve made a hundred and four episodes of Midsomer Murders but the original author only wrote seven books. And look at Sherlock. They’re doing things Doyle never dreamed of. With a bit of luck we’ll do a dozen seasons of The Atticus Adventures. That’s what we’re going to call it. I never much liked the name Pünd – it sounds a bit too foreign and you may not agree with me but I think the umlaut on the u is really off-putting. But Atticus is good. It reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird. Now we can go ahead and get a decent writer in and that’ll make my life a whole lot easier.’
‘Haven’t the public had enough of murder?’ I asked.
‘You’re joking. Inspector Morse, Taggart, Lewis, Foyle’s War, Endeavour, A Touch of Frost, Luther, The Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Cracker, Broadchurch and even bloody Maigret and Wallander – British TV would disappear into a dot on the screen without murder. They’re even bumping people off in the soap operas. And it’s the same the world over. You know, they say in America that the average child sees eight thousand murders before they leave elementary school. Makes you think, doesn’t it.’ He finished the rest of his coffee as if he was suddenly anxious to be on his way.
‘So what did Alan Conway want?’ I asked him. ‘When you saw him two weeks ago?’
He shrugged. ‘He complained about the lack of progress. He had no idea how the BBC works. It can take them weeks to answer the phone. The fact of the matter is that they didn’t like his script. Of course, I hadn’t told him that. We were trying to find someone else to take over.’
‘Did you talk about the option?’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated for a moment, the first time I had seen any flaw in the armour of his self-confidence. ‘He told me there was another production company he was talking to. It didn’t matter that I’d already invested thousands in The Atticus Adventures. He was quite ready to start all over again.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
‘We had lunch at his house. It didn’t get off to a great start. I was late. I got held up at some endless roadworks at Earl Soham – he said it had been like that for weeks – and he was in a bad mood. Anyway, we talked. I made my pitch. He promised to get back to me. I left about three in the afternoon and drove home.’ He glanced down at his empty cup. He was keen to be on his way. ‘Thank you for the coffee. It’s very nice to meet you. As soon as we get a green light for production, I’ll let you know.’
Mark Redmond walked out, leaving me to pay for the coffee. I could have murdered him myself. I didn’t need to be a fan of Midsomer Murders to recognise a motive when I heard one and it occurred to me that when it came to suspects, in the league of sheer bloody obviousness, Redmond had just put himself at the top of the list. Even so, there was one thing I wasn’t expecting. Later that afternoon, when I signed into the Crown, I flicked back a few pages in the guest registry. I was acting on a whim – but there it was. Mark Redmond’s name. He had been booked into the hotel and stayed there two nights. When I asked the receptionist, she remembered him leaving after breakfast on Monday morning. He and his wife. He hadn’t mentioned that she’d been there too.
But that wasn’t relevant. The fact was that he had actually been in Framlingham at the time Alan died. In other words, he’d been lying. I could think of only one good reason why.
After the funeral
The reception rooms were crowded by the time I got to the Crown. There had only been about forty people at the funeral and it had felt a little sparse but in the confines of the front lounge with two fires blazing, red and white wine circulating, trays of sandwiches and sausage rolls laid out, there was something close enough to a party atmosphere and even a few of the hotel guests had joined in on the grounds that free wine and food were worth having even if they had no idea who had actually died. Sajid Khan was there with his wife – I recognised her from the sliding photograph – and greeted me as I came in. He was in an unusually cheerful mood, as if his former client had been filed away rather than buried and a whole new business opportunity had begun. James Taylor was standing next to him and muttered just three words as I made my way past. ‘See you tonight.’ He clearly couldn’t wait to leave.
I found Charles who was deep in conversation with the Reverend Tom Robeson. The vicar was much larger than he had appeared in the cemetery. He certainly towered over Charles and the other guests. Seeing him more closely, and out of the rain, I was also struck by how unattractive he was. He had the dull eyes and the slightly misplaced features of a boxer who has been in too many fights. He had changed out of his robes. He was wearing a worn-out sports jacket with patches on the sleeves. As I approached, he was making a point, jabbing with a half-eaten sandwich.
‘… but there are villages that simply won’t survive. Families are being split up. It’s morally unjustifiable.’
Charles glanced at me a little irritably as I joined them. ‘Where did you go?’ he asked.
‘There was someone I knew.’
‘You left very suddenly.’
‘I know. I didn’t want them to get away.’
He turned back to the vicar. ‘This is Tom Robeson. Susan Ryeland. We were just talking about second homes,’ he added.
‘Southwold, Dunwich, Walberswick, Orford, Shingle Street – all along the coast.’ Robeson had to make his point.
I cut in. ‘I was interested in the address you made at the funeral,’ I said.
‘Oh yes?’ He looked at me blankly.
‘You knew Alan when you were young?’
‘Yes. We met a long time ago.’
A waiter went past with a tray and I snatched a glass of white wine. It was warm and sluggish, a Pinot Grigio, I think. ‘You suggested that he bullied you.’
Even as I spoke the words, it didn’t seem likely. Alan had never had much of a physical presence and Robeson must have been twice his size when they were kids. He didn’t deny it though. Instead he became flustered. ‘I’m sure I said no such thing, Mrs Ryeland.’
‘You said he demanded a place in the cemetery.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the word I would have used. Alan Conway showed exceptional generosity towards the church. He made no demands whatsoever. When he asked if he might one day be laid to rest in the cemetery, I felt it would be deeply ungrateful of me to refuse even if, I will admit, I had to request a special dispensation.’ The vicar was glancing over my shoulder, looking for a way out. If he had squeezed his hand any tighter, his glass of elderflower juice would have exploded. ‘It was a great pleasure to meet you,’ he said. ‘And you, Mr Clover. If you’ll excuse me …’
He slipped between us and waded into the crowd.
‘What was all that about?’ Charles asked. ‘And who was it you met when you went rushing off?’
The second question was easier to answer. ‘Mark Redmond,’ I said.