Crooked Herring Read Online Free Page A

seeing Henry Holiday? He’s a writer, like me.’
    ‘You a writer, then?’ he asked brightly.
    ‘Yes, I’m sure I’ve told you that. Maybe you’ve seen my books in the shops? I write mainly as Peter Fielding, but also as J. R. Elliott.’
    ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘But I only look in the crime section. What sort of thing do you write?’
    ‘Crime,’ I said.
    ‘Just crime?’
    ‘Well, some romantic fiction under another name.’
    ‘That would explain it, then,’ he said. ‘I don’t read romantic fiction.’ He was about to turn and go and check on a food order, when I added: ‘So,
did
you see Henry then? He was in with yet another crime writer: Crispin Vynall.’
    ‘Henry … Henry … Let me think … I’m not sure,but I certainly did see Crispin Vynall. I’ve read some of
his
books. They’re brilliant – there’s one where some kidnappers take this little kid and then video him being made to drink bleach so that the parents will—’
    ‘Sorry, Denzil, could I just stop you there and get you to tell me about Henry?’
    ‘What does he look like?’
    I did my best to describe him. Denzil nodded encouragingly.
    ‘I sort of remember him,’ he said, probably meaning he had no recollection at all. ‘Weren’t you with them, though? I can almost picture the three of you over there by the fire, chatting away – the two of them getting on like nobody’s business and you slightly out of it, sipping a half of bitter.’
    I put my half of bitter onto the counter. ‘No, I was at home,’ I said.
    ‘Shame. On your own on New Year’s Eve. And your friends a few yards away in the pub. You’d have thought they’d have sent you a text or something asking you to join them. You ought to get out more.’
    ‘It didn’t bother me. There was a really good programme on meerkats or something. I had all the excitement I needed. You don’t remember anything else about Crispin Vynall? What he was talking about, for example?’
    ‘I wouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. As a barman you don’t. What’s said at the Old House at Home stays at the Old House at Home. But it was definitely Crispin Vynall. I’m pretty sure you came over to the bar and introduced him to me.’
    ‘That must have been Henry. I wasn’t here.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘Absolutely sure. I had meerkats to look after. What time did they leave, then?’
    ‘Mr Vynall must have left around ten or ten-thirty. I’m pretty sure of that, because a family came in and sat over there by the fire, and they’d been there at least an hour or two by midnight. Yes, maybe closer to ten than ten-thirty.’
    ‘And Henry left with him?’
    ‘Well, I don’t remember seeing him afterwards – let’s put it like that.’
    ‘Though, equally, you don’t remember seeing him before.’
    ‘That’s very true.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been helpful.’
    I wondered whether I should tip him for this information. I was sure that was what Marlowe would have done. A five spot slipped across the bar that would lead to a phone call a couple of hours later with a vital clue. Denzil wasn’t really used to tips, and there was a danger that money passed across the counter for no apparent reason would simply unsettle him. As it happened, by the time I’d made up my mind the information was worth around 25p, Denzil had already gone to check on the food. He didn’t come back. I replaced the coins in my pocket, finished my drink and went out into the cold, wet day.
     
    As I say, I was pretty sure where they had gone next. There simply weren’t that many options. Chichester is better for afternoon tea than nightlife. If Philip Marlowe had gone in search of seedy joints where naive punters are milked of allthey have by twenty-year-old girls with world-weary faces and bright-red lipstick, he’d have drawn a complete blank. But I did know one nightclub.
    It was more out by the ring road than actually in Chichester, in as desolate a spot as