Eleven
Monday
The arrest of the Milk Bottle Murderer on Monday morning was something of an anti-climax. Newspapers referred to a ‘Sensational Bank Holiday Dawn Raid’, but truly it was nothing of the sort. Two uniformed officers (one of them Twitten) parked a police car in a quiet sun-filled street at half-past nine and knocked on a door; then they took the murderer peacefully away. No one saw it. The only point of interest was that, before knocking, the officers first removed two bottles of red-top from the doorstep, in case they gave the murderer any last-minute funny ideas.
Constable Twitten – exhausted from his dark night on the shingle, and also from the dash to Hassocks and back by police car – hardly had the strength to pronounce the words he had practised ever since Hendon. ‘You are under arrest for the murders of Barbara Ashley, Andrew Inman and Cedric Carbody. You have the right to—’ But he didn’t get to finish. The culprit, who was dressed and ready, looked him up and down and said, ‘Well, it took you long enough.’ The arrest didn’t even run to a thorough search of the premises. A box was shoved into Twitten’s hands. ‘All the evidence you need is in there.’
The police car dropped him back at his lodgings in Clifton Terrace, but he made it only halfway up the steps to the front door before his legs gave way. For a few moments, he sat there with his head in his hands.
‘Constable, are you coming in? Are you all right? Oh, my darling, I’ve been dying to know, how was the sponge?’ said Mrs Thorpe, opening the door.
He stood up, turned to face her, and made an effort. ‘The sponge was delicious, thank you, Mrs Thorpe. And it was very much appreciated.’
‘Where’s the bag?’
‘Ah.’ He had no idea what had happened to the holdall she had given him. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Thorpe. I can’t even remember the last time I saw it.’
‘Oh, never mind. Are you all right? That’s the main thing. Come in, my darling. Come in.’
The last thing Twitten could face was another of Mrs Thorpe’s relentless interrogations. Once inside, he made a break for the stairs, but he’d achieved only the seventh step when she stopped him. ‘So, did anything happen on the seafront?’
He would have loved to ignore the question, but he couldn’t be rude. ‘It’s been a momentous night, Mrs Thorpe. A momentous night.’
‘You caught them!’
Twitten had to think for a moment. ‘Oh, you mean the milk-bar saboteurs? No. But on the plus side, I’ve just arrested the Milk Bottle Murderer –’ he saw the question forming on her face ‘– and before you ask, I absolutely can’t tell you who it is.’
He managed to attain the first landing before she stopped him again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she called.
‘I’m just very tired, Mrs Thorpe. I need to sleep.’
Fifteen minutes later, she knocked gently on Twitten’s door and took in a cup of tea. He was asleep in his uniform, with his slippery chintz coverlet drawn over him. She placed the tea on his bedside table, then pulled the curtains more tightly together, and crept away.
When the three vans arrived for the setting up of the Barber of the Year competition at the Royal Pavilion, Sergeant Brunswick was outside, waiting. He wasn’t in the best shape, having clearly not changed his clothes since yesterday, or had a shave. It seemed years since he’d last applied any Cossack (‘for Men’). But he’d made a promise to Rodolfo, and even a person who’s just found out that his self-esteem is so low that it amounts almost to a death-wish is obliged to keep his word.
‘Excuse me, mate, I’m looking for a Mrs P. Hoagland,’ he told the driver of the first van, showing his warrant card through the open window. The driver switched off the ignition, and gave him a blank stare.
Brunswick persisted. ‘She’s supposed to be in charge here.’
‘What?’ The man – in a businesslike flat cap and clean buff-coloured overalls – jumped down on to the gravel, and started opening the back of the van.
‘Mrs who?’ he said. ‘We’re a bit busy here, squire, can’t you see? Ron! Open up!’ This last was directed to a member of the crew, who produced a large bunch of keys from his overalls pocket and marched towards the Pavilion’s main entrance.
‘It’s really important,’ said Brunswick.
‘So’s this, mate. We’ve got to get this lot inside and set up before the bloody contestants arrive and start poncing about. It’s been a nightmare getting here. We took a wrong turn on the road, and ended up at some village pond! Someone had turned the bleeding sign!’
‘Well, I need to talk to her. Ask the others.’
‘Oh, all right.’ The man sighed, turned and shouted: ‘Anyone heard of a Mrs Hoagland?’
‘Mrs P. Hoagland,’ corrected Brunswick – as if the initial would jog more memories.
‘A Mrs P. Hoagland?’ yelled the man.
But there was no reply, just the slamming of heavy doors and much muscular bustle, as six large barber chairs were unloaded and trundled through French doors into the vast Music Room. This was such an impressive operation that for a while the unshaven and emotionally wrung-out Brunswick just watched and admired it. The way each man performed his allotted task, without a word spoken, reminded him of the many heist movies he’d seen: one man laid down the protective sheets; another set up a generator and uncoiled electrical cables; another kept watch. Brunswick half expected a further man to start drilling through the floor while a colleague stood ready with an umbrella to poke through the hole. (Interestingly, had these hired minions of Mrs Groynes not been in Brighton this morning, posing as deliverymen, they’d have been in Shoreham drilling a hole through the ceiling of a fur emporium’s cold-store in precisely this manner.)
‘She might be with the contestants,’ the man said, after he’d briskly passed Brunswick four or five times, ferrying equipment. ‘This Mrs Hoagland of yours. Unlike us, the barbers got to stay in Brighton last night, so perhaps she did too. Here, you know it was kids who turned that ruddy signpost on the London Road? I’d have wrung their necks but we didn’t have time. Bloody kids. Delinquents, the lot of them. Look at that one, there.’
‘There. If looks could kill, eh?’
Brunswick turned and looked. Peering round a shrub was a tough little face he knew very well. ‘Carlo!’ he called, and ran towards him. But the boy ran faster, cleverly circling the vans and then darting through the Pavilion’s open doors.
‘Hey, you!’ shouted one of the men. ‘After him, Sid!’
‘No, no, I’ll go,’ said Brunswick. ‘I know his dad. But look, if this Mrs Hoagland does show up, warn her she’s in danger, all right?’
Back on the sixth floor of the Metropole Hotel, Mrs Groynes was well aware of the danger she was in – and it was from someone far more terrifying than young Carlo. Yesterday, Terence Chambers’s summit conference had seemed in danger of collapse, and he had murmured about cancelling it. Today, at least, matters had clarified. When she knocked and entered his bedroom at ten o’clock, she found him eating a boiled egg in bed, while his boy Nicky was in the next room, running him a bath.
The good news, she told him, was that the barbering competition was set fair to go extremely well: the equipment had arrived; the barbers were ready; the winner’s certificate already printed; even the protective sheets were (reportedly) beautifully laid. Newsreel cameras would be filming the event later in the day. In short, the bogus barbering side of things was going precisely to plan. On the other hand, the grand summit meeting at the Prince Regent’s antique forty-seven-foot-long banqueting table had, unfortunately, met with fresh setbacks.
‘What sort of fresh setbacks?’ said Chambers, eyes narrowed.
‘Well, put it this way,’ she replied. ‘We’re going to need a shorter table.’
He groaned. ‘How short?’
‘Very short.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, how many this time?’
‘All of them, dear.’
‘What?’
‘Well, everyone except you and me. What can I say, Terry? I did argue they should be allowed to bring their dope and their women. Left to their own devices – well, they just went doolally tap.’ (Doolally tap = insane.)
Chambers reached for his dressing-gown, and went with her to Room 606 (Channel Islands: tax avoidance), where five bodies lay, each with a gun in its lifeless hand.
‘Was this you, Pal?’
‘Me? What have I got to gain by rubbing out the bloke from the bleeding Lake District? I wanted this summit to work, Terry, and if I may say so, I have bust a gut to arrange it. If you hadn’t come down, I had an extremely lucrative Russian sables job to be doing this weekend. But it’s been like cooping up wolves here.’
Sighing, Chambers drew a gun from his dressing-gown pocket and shot them all again – West Country, Scottish Borders, Lake District, Thames Valley, Channel Islands – just to vent some of his annoyance. The man from the West Country said a faint ‘Argh!’ so, interestingly, had not been properly dead – but he was now. Nicky came running when he heard the shots, and it was just good luck that Chambers didn’t shoot him too when he appeared unexpectedly in the doorway.
Chambers sat on the arm of a chair. He was very fed up. ‘Oh, knickers, Pal. Whose idea was this summit thing, anyway?’
‘It was very much yours, dear. I’ve always had better things to do. Those sables at Shoreham – well, that’s a once-in-a-lifetime go. Worth tens of thousands.’
‘If Nicky and me get out of here today, can you and your boys get rid of the bodies?’
‘Of course. West Pier.’ She considered. ‘What about the cars? Do you want any?’
‘That’s all right. You have them.’ Chambers pursed his lips. ‘They’ll all come after me, you know.’
‘I know, dear. From bleeding far and bleeding wide. Even from the Scottish Borders. You have to think fast, Terry. And if you’re thinking of going abroad –’
‘Abroad?’
‘– there’s a ferry from Newhaven this afternoon, as it happens.’
‘No. I couldn’t do that. What about my mum?’
‘And I know a bloke at Shoreham Airport can fly you to Le Bourget at half an hour’s notice, no questions asked.’
He looked at her. ‘This was you, wasn’t it?’
‘For the last time, Terry, no, it bleeding wasn’t. But you’ve got to think quickly, dear. These useless articles –’ she waved a hand at the ugly heap of bodies that was so hard to equate with the areas of outstanding natural beauty from which they all hailed ‘– are going to be missed, gawd help us.’
Back at the Pavilion, in the deserted entrance hall, Brunswick called out for Carlo. This was a large building, and the boy could be anywhere. It was odd to see it like this: unlit, museum-like, with no one about. When the story of Brunswick’s characteristic bravery was later told, one question was always asked: ‘He went in alone knowing the boy was armed?’ And the answer was: sorry, no, to be strictly accurate, Brunswick didn’t know this yet. But when he did find out, he did not back down.
‘Son?’ he yelled. ‘Come out, now, son. I’m not going anywhere without you. It’s me, Sergeant Brunswick.’
No reply.
‘Your dad’s been cutting my hair for most of my life, son. I remember you as a tiddler. I used to give you sixpence at Christmas, remember? We can deal with this and get you home. Just tell me what’s got into you.’
‘Go away!’ came the response.
There was no sign of the boy, but from the volume of his voice he was nearby.
‘Look, son, we can talk about this.’
‘I’ve got a gun here, rozzer!’
‘What?’ Brunswick was properly shocked. ‘You’re a kid! Where did you get a flaming gun?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Now look, son, this is serious …’
But again, Carlo was deaf to reason. There was the sound of youthful running footsteps: he was heading for the Banqueting Room and the kitchens. A door was opened and shut, and then there was silence save for distant bustling noises in the Music Room at the other end of the building.
Brunswick stood in the entrance hall, considering his options. The sensible thing would be to leave the Pavilion and telephone for reinforcements. But the result of that would be the definite arrest and trial of Carlo Innocenti on an arms charge, which would break his father’s heart. So, in this great moment of truth, Brunswick asked himself what a lone, unarmed policeman with a character-defining abandonment complex would do in the circumstances, and the answer was: risk it.
‘No! Get back!’ called a muffled voice.
The sergeant reached the door to the Banqueting Room, and stood beside it, taking deep breaths.
‘I can hear you out there. Get back!’ called the boy again. ‘I’ll shoot you through the door!’
‘Carlo, you don’t scare me,’ Brunswick said quietly. ‘I’m coming in.’
Twitten had been asleep only a couple of hours when Mrs Thorpe appeared at his bedside, and touched him on the shoulder.
‘Constable, I’m so sorry; there’s someone here to see you. He says it’s very important.’
Twitten glanced at the time on his alarm clock and groaned. ‘Who is it?’ he rasped, thickly. One of his eyes had opened, but the other was still clinging to the possibility of more sleep.
‘It’s Gerry Edlin!’ she trilled. ‘From stage and screen! He’s got information and a guilty conscience, apparently, and says it’s very urgent. And he’s such a lovely man. I’ve always supposed that he was, and he is! He pulled a florin out of my ear!’
A few minutes later, a bleary-eyed Twitten appeared in the breakfast room, and sat down at the table where Mrs Thorpe was gaily pouring Turkish coffee for her exciting guest. She’d brought out the rest of yesterday’s sponge. Even in his unfocused state, Twitten noticed that his landlady was happier in this moment than he’d ever seen her before. A famous, good-looking and entertaining man was in her house, just like in the old days. He had no doubt been telling her hilarious (and unrepeatable) anecdotes about Lady Pru and Frank Muir.
‘Constable.’ Edlin stood up and extended an elegant hand. Even when dressed in a casual suit, he gave the impression of tuxedo, black tie and cabaret-style piano accompaniment. ‘Constable, I apologise for rousing you from your bed, and I do hope you’ll forgive me for not speaking sooner. I’m afraid I have acted badly.’
Twitten waited. He didn’t want to appear rude, but he was far too tired to say ‘Go on’.
‘Coffee, Constable?’ said Mrs Thorpe.
‘Oh, crikey, yes, please. I don’t know if Mrs Thorpe has explained, but I was up all night, Mr Edlin.’
‘Yes, and I’m very sorry to disturb you. But I felt I had to set matters right. On Saturday morning, at the Metropole Hotel, I spotted a familiar face that alarmed me. It alarmed me so much, in fact, that once you’d interviewed us all at the police station, I’m afraid I caught the first train to Exeter.’
Twitten cast his mind back. ‘Lady Pru said you seemed odd, didn’t she? She said you were acting like you’d seen a ghost.’
‘Well, I expect I was. The man I saw at the Metropole works for a notorious London gangster called Terence Chambers. And where this man goes, Chambers is never far away.’
‘You’re saying that Chambers is in Brighton?’
‘Well, he was on Saturday.’
‘Imagine, Constable!’ breathed Mrs Thorpe, thrilled. ‘On top of everything else, London gangsters!’
‘Oh, crikey.’ Twitten sat back in his chair. All weekend, he had neglected to ask an important question. If the bogus attacks on the House of Hanover Milk Bar were intended to divert attention away from something criminal, what was that something? He had heard about a consignment of very expensive fur coats being held at Shoreham this weekend. Was it anything to do with that?
‘Did I do the right thing, waking you, Constable?’
‘Of course, Mrs Thorpe. I just wish Mr Edlin had told me this two days ago.’
‘But he was too frightened, isn’t that right, Gerry?’ said Mrs Thorpe.
Edlin, registering the unauthorised use of his first name with the merest arch of the eyebrow, took her hand. ‘I was, Mrs Thorpe. I was petrified. Thank you for understanding.’
‘Call me Eliza,’ she said, breathily.
‘Gladly.’ His eyes widened. ‘Eliza.’
Twitten, ignoring this distasteful outbreak of middle-aged flirting, produced his notebook and flipped some pages. ‘You asked about the possibility of Mr Carbody’s murder being a professional hit, didn’t you, Mr Edlin? I was struck by that at the time. So this was the reason?’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry I didn’t come clean. I’ve had dealings with Chambers once or twice, and he threatened my fingers, Constable.’
‘Gerry’s fingers!’ echoed Mrs Thorpe, entranced. ‘Isn’t that horrible?’
‘Mr Edlin. It would really help if you could remember anything said by this confederate of Terence Chambers. Did you hear him speak? You’re very good at memory things, aren’t you? You do them in your show. Did he say anything about fur coats, for example?’
‘No, nothing about fur coats. But I did hear something. I don’t think it concerned the milk-bottle murders, either, though.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. We know who did those.’
‘You do? You know who killed Cedric? Who?’
‘He’s not allowed to say, Gerry!’ gushed Mrs Thorpe. She really loved being in the know, this woman.
Twitten flipped open his notebook and licked his pencil. ‘So, do you remember what you heard?’
‘Yes, I remember precisely – even though it made no sense grammatically. He said – and this is word for word – “And when it’s over on Monday, we do groins.”’ Edlin shrugged and laughed, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. ‘I’d like to know how anyone does groins, wouldn’t you?’
Down at the House of Hanover Milk Bar, Mr Shapiro was pretty happy with the ice creams, the tables, the bunting and the brass band, and he was resigned to the presence of the large red-and-white cow, whose name was Pansy. Evidently the milk-marketing supremo had insisted on the bovine element, so that was that.
The Milk Girl was due to arrive at two o’clock with a bigwig from the Milk Board and the faithful Mr Henderson. There would be a quick unveiling of a plaque, then a speech concerning the exciting way forward for milk marketing, then photographs with and without Pansy. Then, at half-past two, Inspector Steine of the Brighton Police would present an award in the shape of a gold-plated ice-cream scoop to the winner of the 1957 Brighton Evening Argus Knickerbocker Glory Competition.
Steine was already present, and seemed to think that his own job was by far the most important of the afternoon. In the past few days he had dutifully sampled Knickerbocker Glories all over town and come up with a shortlist of two contenders – a shortlist he refused to disclose. Only once or twice, incidentally, had he been aware of Ben Oliver watching him from outside and making notes, while an Argus photographer captured the incriminating images. The intended caption for these photographs was, of course, ‘Inspector Steine: eating flaming ice cream at a time like this!’
Just one element was troubling Mr Shapiro about this afternoon’s upcoming festivities, but it was a big one. It was the fact that forty-five police constables had (on firm instruction from Inspector Steine) linked arms to form a cordon around the front of the building and were instructing the public to move along because there was nothing to see.
‘Inspector Steine, we can’t have this,’ said Shapiro. ‘This is a public event. We start in half an hour. There’s a crowd of expectant people, and the way things stand they can’t get anywhere near us.’
Steine sighed. ‘It’s a public event in a location that has been threatened on several occasions, Mr Shapiro. We talked about a police presence this afternoon. You agreed it would be a good deterrent.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t mean you should deter everyone from coming in!’
‘Mr Shapiro—’
‘I imagined one or two men mingling with the crowd and keeping an eye on things. I want people to come and buy ice creams and milkshakes and sandwiches, and to remember this as a happy day. One of your men just caught a little boy in swimming trunks trying to break through the cordon and threatened him with his truncheon!’
Steine didn’t care. He was still trying to make up his mind between the Knickerbocker Glory from Luigi’s (best fruit content) and the Grand Hotel’s (better nuts). The Metropole’s effort, with the best will in the world, had been inferior on every count: ice cream (watery), construction (sloppy), spoon (dirty), wafer (soft). Worst of all, the waitress had whisked away his glass before he had consumed the glacé cherry he had kept for last. There was no way, as a man of honour, that he could give this important award to Metropole Mike, whatever the consequences.
Mr Shapiro’s thoughts, however, were not concerned with the merits of Knickerbocker Glories. ‘Inspector, we could have a riot here at this rate!’
‘Oh, pish.’
‘Don’t pish me.’
‘I can and I will. A riot?’
‘Look, it’s a hot day. This event has been advertised all week, and people want to see the Milk Girl. A crowd has been forming for two hours. I can see juvenile delinquents out there, with quiffs. Things could turn ugly. Please disperse these men at once!’
‘Well, I have my reasons, Shapiro. Very serious reasons.’ Steine opened his briefcase, which contained the note from the well-wisher, the gun and the photograph identifying Metropole Mike. ‘Have the mounted policemen arrived yet?’
Shapiro was aghast. ‘You ordered horses?’
‘Look, I am trying to prevent a bloodbath here. Or at least contain it. You’ll understand later.’
Outside, there was movement, and a sound of cheering (and booing) as the cordon briefly broke ranks to allow Pandora Holden and Mr Henderson through, together with a red-faced Mr Hayes from Head Office. All of them looked flustered, and Pandora was in tears. It was the first time in her life that she’d been booed.
‘What on earth is going on here, Shapiro?’ demanded Hayes. ‘Why are there so many police? It’s extremely unpleasant.’
‘Ask Inspector Steine, sir. I’ve demanded that he send the men away, but he won’t listen.’
Hayes turned to Steine. ‘This isn’t a Cup Final, Inspector. It’s the peaceful opening of a milk bar. With a frightened cow. Have you gone raving mad?’
Another movement outside, and more booing, announced more authorised arrivals, as Ben Oliver and his photographer were allowed in.
‘Oliver, what are you doing here?’ said Steine, annoyed. But before he could explain that this wasn’t a place for a crime correspondent because a crime was being averted, the first stone was thrown by a member of the crowd outside. It was a fairly small one, and it bounced off the white summer helmet of a constable in the cordon, who staggered slightly but remained upright. Both inside the milk bar and without, there was a communal intake of breath.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Shapiro. ‘That was close.’
‘I agree. But no harm done,’ said Steine. ‘So I think—’
But then a second, and much larger, stone was hurled at the milk bar, over the heads of the police, and it was watched by everyone as it flew. Viewed from inside, it got bigger and bigger—
‘Get down!’ yelled Shapiro.
Then the stone crashed through the picture window and Steine was aware of glass shattering and a piercing scream from Pandora, and a violent surge in the crowd, and Mr Henderson shielding the Milk Girl under a table, and Shapiro shouting, ‘This is all your fault, Steine! Write it in the paper, Mr Oliver. This was all his fault!’
‘I resent that, Shapiro,’ called Steine, from his own position on the floor behind the ice-cream counter.
But his words went unheard as the policemen outside reached for their truncheons, and the incident later known in Home Office files as the Utterly Preventable Milk-Bar Riot got under way in earnest.
As he raced along the seafront towards the Metropole, Twitten was aware of the unusually turbulent crowd noise emanating from the beach, but chose to ignore it. He was on a mission to warn Mrs Groynes. He had no plan, of course, and no weapon. All he knew was that she was in danger from the notorious Terence Chambers, and that he must save her if he could. Had he paused for a second, would he have reconsidered the impulse that drove him? After all, she was a very wicked and devious criminal; a world without Mrs Groynes would be a better one. Plus, an underworld assassination would be a fitting end for her.
And yet, as he ran along – past the busy cinema entrances and the colourful humbug shops and the packed, vinegary fish-and-chip restaurants – his mind kept returning to the way Mrs G had helped him in the past couple of days: coming to him with Officer Andy’s dying words; nudging him towards asking the right questions about the Milk Bottle Murderer. Above all, she had comforted him in that flipping pitch-dark Punch & Judy tent and brought him a sausage sandwich when it was over. In exchange for that life-saving breakfast alone, he must warn her.
But he appeared to be too late. A worrying scene was unfolding outside the Metropole as he approached. Chambers and Mrs Groynes were standing on the front steps, with an unknown man confronting them, and a uniformed hotel doorman watching in patent horror. They both looked anxious, and Chambers had put up his hands. Mrs Groynes was evidently trying to reason with the man, but he was waving something at them, and it looked like a gun.
Twitten was too far away to intervene. He could only watch as Mrs Groynes swung her handbag hard into the man’s face and yelled, ‘Terry, run! Go where I told you! I’ll deal with this!’
And Chambers fled. He crossed the road at full pelt, zigzagging through slow-moving coaches and buses, and threw himself down the steps towards the beach. Twitten ran to help Mrs Groynes, and to apprehend the man with the gun. ‘Police!’ he shouted and blew his whistle. But the man with the gun climbed into a large car with running boards and drove off. Meanwhile, the hotel doorman – whose assistance might have been useful at this point – fainted on the spot.
‘I’m here, Mrs G!’ Twitten called, panting as he ran. ‘Who was that? Who was threatening you? Where did Chambers go? Are you all right, Mrs G? Are you all right?’
While chaos reigned at the House of Hanover Milk Bar, all was dark and quiet in the Royal Pavilion Banqueting Room, which was shuttered against the daylight. The only things the two scenes had in common were: a) people hiding under tables, and b) firearms in irresponsible hands.
‘Where are you, son?’ called Brunswick.
‘Stop calling me that, I’m not your son,’ came Carlo’s voice (from under the table). ‘And I’ll shoot you if you come any closer, so back off!’
‘Hah!’ said Brunswick, with feeling. He pulled out a chair and sat down. He felt strangely calm. If this was to be the day he gave his life in the line of duty, at least it was in an interesting location. ‘Look, tell me why you’re doing this.’
Carlo said nothing, partly because he had only contempt for people as old and square as Brunswick, but also because, if he was honest, he had largely forgotten why he was doing this. Also, he felt a bit silly being on all fours underneath a table, despite the slight tactical advantage.
‘All right. If you’re not going to tell me why you’re here, I’ll tell you why I am. How about that?’
‘What? Leave off. You’ve got a screw loose, you have. You’re mental.’
‘Well, you might be right.’ Brunswick laughed. ‘Here, have you ever heard of low self-esteem, Carlo? I hadn’t heard of it myself before last night. I thought all that sort of thing was claptrap, I really did. But now I’ve heard of it, it’s funny, I can’t flaming well stop thinking about it.’
‘What’s that got to do with me and my gun?’
‘I’m not sure. But I’ll tell you why I’ve got it, shall I? This low self-esteem of mine. My parents, you see, apparently they didn’t love me. In fact, they blooming upped and left me.’ He laughed again. ‘Blimey! Whoo, blimey, I said it out loud! I can’t believe I said that, Carlo! Whoo!’
Under the table, the boy closed his eyes and physically cringed. It would be fair to say that no other conversational topic would have made him quite as uncomfortable as this one.
‘Whereas you, you see – well, your mum died, that’s true, but your dad loves you more than anything, doesn’t he? He’d do anything for you. So that’s why I keep thinking, There’s no way Carlo can have this low self-esteem thing, is there? But that’s what you seem to have, son! I mean, that’s why you went and got yourself a gun!’
Carlo was bewildered. He’d seen any number of black-and-white films in which tragic mixed-up juvenile delinquents curled their lips and aimed guns at policemen. Always the coppers came slowly towards them, saying ‘Give me the gun, Johnny’ to a crescendo in the hopped-up music, while the camera moved closer and closer to the delinquent’s sweaty brow and huge pupils. Then there was the inevitable bang! – and the next thing was either the noose or the electric chair, depending on the film’s country of origin. Just Carlo’s luck to get this clueless loony, who took no interest in cinema.
‘Aren’t you going to say, Give me the gun, Carlo?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘You want me to say, Give me the gun?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Would you give it to me if I asked, though?’
‘Of course not.’
‘No point, then. It would be a charade. No, I’ve had it with all that. The thing is, son, if I survive this afternoon, I might be leaving the police.’
‘Stop it. Stop talking.’
‘It was last night I made the decision.’
‘Oh, God. Shut up!’
‘You see, it was explained to me why I keep putting myself in danger. I always thought it was because I was brave! Well, that’s a laugh. It turns out I actually want people to shoot me.’ Brunswick laughed again. ‘Work that one out, eh? I even want you to shoot me – you! It’s what I think I deserve. Ha! What a game, eh? Just like you think you deserve to be hanged for killing this Mrs P. Hoagland that you’ve never even met. It’s not about her, you see, son, is it? This Mrs Hoagland, whoever she is. It’s all about you.’
There was a knock at the door, which made Brunswick jump.
‘Are you all right in there? Did you find the kid?’ It was the barber-chair delivery man, calling from outside. ‘We’re not authorised to use that room, you see. The door should have been locked.’
‘Give us a minute!’ Brunswick called back. Then he peered under the table in the gloom and for the first time came face to face with Carlo, who was – startlingly – on his knees just three feet away, with the gun pointed straight at Brunswick. The sergeant didn’t flinch. ‘Look, son, shall I ask this bloke to telephone for an ambulance, or are we going to be all right?’
The boy shrugged, insolently, but he was well out of his depth.
‘I’ll tell him to get the ambulance, then?’
‘Well.’ The boy shook his head. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘I mean, I don’t know. Leave me alone, you’re confusing me, you weirdo.’
‘Better be on the safe side, then,’ said Brunswick, and called, ‘Here, mate!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Could you call for an ambu—’
‘No!’ said Carlo. ‘Stop. Don’t do that.’
‘An ambulance?’ the man called back. ‘Okey-dokey!’
‘No!’ called Carlo.
‘Look, we’ll need one if you’re going to shoot me, son. It stands to reason. Even if you kill me.’
‘No, don’t get one. Tell him not to.’
‘Why?’
‘Just don’t get one, I said. Here, you win.’
And the boy, deflated, handed over the gun.
‘Oh, thank gawd you’re here, dear,’ gasped Mrs Groynes, as Twitten escorted her back inside the hotel. ‘I know you’ve had a trying weekend yourself, but you wouldn’t believe what Chambers has been up to. I wanted to tell you all along, but I was too scared. Quick, get in the lift. You need to see this.’
A couple of minutes later, they were on the sixth floor, and Mrs Groynes had produced a key. ‘Come and see, dear. Come and see what Terence Chambers has done. And I warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.’
At this point, it might be useful to remember that just three days earlier, Twitten had complained of the amount of carnage he’d personally witnessed since arriving in Brighton. He had felt so oppressed by the number of people he’d seen shot in the head (three), that he had devised a ‘rest cure’ for himself consisting of ‘rounds’, so that he could experience the ‘subtle diurnal rhythms’ of the town. As he had declared to the AA’s Mr Hollibon on Friday evening, ‘I can’t help feeling that another brutal murder in Brighton by an unknown hand with complicated motives would just about finish me off!’
So when the door to Room 606 was opened to reveal the ten dead and stiffening bodies of the (former) summit delegates, it was fair enough that Twitten let out an actual scream, and needed to be slapped. Then he opened his eyes and screamed again, and Mrs Groynes hit him quite hard – after which he finally gathered his wits enough to ask, ‘Who the flip are they, Mrs G? What the flip happened here? I mean, what the flip?’
‘It was Chambers, dear.’
‘Oh, my God. How many are there?’
‘Ten.’
‘He invited them all here and then killed them. He’s gone stark raving mad, dear. This will stir up all sorts in the national criminal community. You can’t imagine.’
‘But who are they all?’
‘Big cheeses, all of them. Villains from every part of the country. Look, this’ll help; I’ve typed a list.’
‘What?’
‘Here.’ She produced a sheet of paper from her handbag.
‘Thank you. But hang on, you typed a list?’
He took the paper from her, and stared at it. It was in the form of a table headed: ‘Killed by Terence Chambers, Bank Holiday 5 August at Metropole Hotel’, with five columns headed ‘Name’, ‘Age’, ‘Address’, ‘Fiefdom’ and ‘Misc.’ Every box had been helpfully filled in.
‘I’ll explain later. But right now, you’ve got to follow him, dear. He’s scared that someone’s already after him, so I told him to head for that House of Hanover place on account of all the coppers there, and demand protective custody. Would you recognise him?’
Twitten thought back to the umpteen images of Chambers pinned up in Officer Andy’s bedroom. ‘Of course. I recognised him just now. But I nearly forgot why I was here in the first place. To tell you what someone overheard on Saturday morning: that Chambers planned to kill you today, once it was over.’
‘Oh, I knew all about that, dear.’
‘You did? Oh, thank goodness.’
‘But thank you anyway. Now go on, and take the list with you. Go!’
Chambers had indeed been scared by what had happened outside the Metropole, when a man with a strong Geordie accent had approached him and pulled a gun.
‘This is for Hardcastle,’ the man had said. But before he could shoot, Palmeira had sloshed him with her bag, and told Chambers to run. Once across the road, he threw himself down the steps to the beach and sprinted along the Lower Promenade towards the House of Hanover Milk Bar where – as Palmeira had predicted – there was so much police presence that Hardcastle’s man wouldn’t dream of following. ‘What you want to do is get inside as quick as you can,’ she had told him. ‘The inspector’s my man, and always has been. You’ll be safe once you’re on the other side of the cordon. Just say you’re from the Metropole, and he’ll understand. It’s our code, dear. Our code for: Look after this bloke and I’ll see you all right.’
So he obeyed her instructions, forcing his way through the rioting crowd, and it will be no surprise that this was the last thing Terence Chambers ever did.
‘He says he’s from the Metropole, Inspector,’ said a red-faced constable, holding Chambers back from the relative calm of the milk bar.
‘Oh, my God,’ said Steine, under his breath. The moment of truth had arrived. ‘Let him in.’
‘Yes, I’m from the Metropole,’ said Chambers, meaningfully, walking towards Steine.
‘Thank you, yes. I heard.’
Inspector Steine did not act at once. While Chambers stood waiting, and the riot continued to rage outside, Steine quickly opened his briefcase, re-read the note from the well-wisher and studied the photograph again. Then, when he was completely satisfied, he took out the gun and shot Terence Chambers, twice, in the chest.
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Chambers, as he fell.
‘What are you doing?’ yelled everyone else.
‘You fucker,’ said Chambers, expiring. And then he was still. He had fallen in an interesting star shape, as it happened, but sadly there was no one present who cared enough about such things to take note.
‘Well, I hope I never have to do anything like that again,’ said Steine, putting down the gun. ‘I am happy to explain my reasons, but right now I suppose someone had better arrest me.’
Outside, the sound of the gunshots had a salutary effect. Most of the rioters ran off with their hands over their heads, while others (who perhaps had more experience of such situations) stood still, with their hands raised. The police cautiously lowered their truncheons. Was it over? Pansy the cow took the opportunity to release a stream of hot urine, which made everyone look around. But there was no question: the riot was over, and inside the House of Hanover Milk Bar, all was tensely quiet.
Ben Oliver stared. ‘That was Terence Chambers!’ he whispered, excitedly.
Steine frowned. He had no idea what Oliver was talking about. The man he had killed was Metropole Mike, and it was self-defence based on information received. ‘Look, before you start, I had to do that. I can explain. The gun isn’t mine. I got this note—’
‘You killed Terence Chambers right in front of me!’ shouted Ben Oliver, running over. ‘I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!’ He was very excited. ‘Quick, Phil. Take the picture! Inspector Steine has just wiped out the most villainous man in England. This is huge. Huge! Is there a phone here, Shapiro? I need to call my editor!’
Twitten arrived, breathless, and took in the scene. ‘Is that Chambers?’ he gasped. ‘Oh, crikey, is he dead?’
‘The inspector shot him.’
‘What? The inspector?’ This was difficult to process. ‘Did you, sir?’
‘Yes, but I can explain, Twitten. This man is not—’
‘Oh, well done, sir. Bally well done!’
‘But listen—’
‘I can’t believe it! I can’t believe you did that! Where did you even get the gun? You never carry a gun!’
‘Twitten, calm down. And for the last time, will someone please arrest me?’
‘But this couldn’t be better, sir. I mean, for you. It will make your reputation all over again, sir! Killing Terence Chambers, after he’s just wiped out the ten top villains in the country—’
‘Is that why he was in Brighton?’ asked Oliver, quick on the uptake as always. ‘He’s been wiping people out here?’
‘I just saw the bodies, Mr Oliver. Ten! From places like Manchester and Birmingham and – a bit weirdly – Truro and Saint Helier. It’s a bally bloodbath. They’re on the sixth floor of the Metropole. What a great story for you, Mr Oliver. All those men destroyed in one go, and then the perpetrator shot by Inspector Steine. It’s like – well, I have to say, it’s like the Middle Street Massacre, only better.’
‘Look,’ said Steine, firmly, and getting everyone’s attention. ‘Look, I can see you’re all excited, but that simply isn’t what just happened.’
‘Isn’t it, sir?’
‘No!’
Twitten gave the inspector a meaningful look. ‘Well, personally, I can’t wait to see the film they make about this, sir. You, alone, shooting the infamous baddie – it’s like bally High Noon!’
Everyone looked at Steine, and then down at the corpse of Terence Chambers, and then back at Steine. He still hadn’t quite grasped the situation, but slowly it was dawning on him.
‘Look, I don’t know where you even got the idea …’ he began, but then he trailed off and stopped talking, a quizzical expression on his face. Certain words were finally beginning to penetrate his mind – such as:
It will make your reputation all over again.
It’s like the Middle Street Massacre, only better.
It’s like bally High Noon.
Calmly, he replaced the well-wisher’s note (that read: Shoot Metropole Mike before he can shoot you; it’s your only chance to preserve the integrity of the Knickerbocker Glory Competition) in his briefcase and snapped it shut.
‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Of course you are. I was just being modest.’
‘Oh, bally well done, sir.’
‘This man is the notorious London thug Terence Chambers and no one should arrest me – obviously – because I shot him in the line of duty. Now, all these people he just killed at the Metropole Hotel – I don’t suppose anyone’s got a list of their names and addresses?’