Bob, who liked order, had made a list of the children involved.
Kevin O’Dowd—aged 10
Agnes O’Dowd—aged 8
Betty Francis—aged 10
Richard Francis—aged 10
Lionel Roberts—aged 9
Louise Roberts—aged 7
The children sat in a circle on the wood-blocked floor of the school hall. Bob sat awkwardly on a chair apparently designed for midgets but Emma immediately squatted down on the floor next to the children. They were in the primary school attended by all the children and once attended by Annie and Mark, who were now at separate grammar schools in Hove. Outside it was breaktime and they could hear the joyous cries of the pupils playing in the snow. Occasionally there would be a soft thump as a snowball hit one of the high, reinforced windows. From the kitchens came a smell of cabbage and boiled meat. It reminded Bob so forcibly of his own schooldays that he felt a wave of nausea rising in his throat. He had hated school. He didn’t share this feeling with Emma because she was obviously the type to have been teacher’s pet (white socks, neatly plaited hair, hand constantly in the air).
He did think it was odd that all the children were younger than Mark and Annie. There might only be two years between Mark at twelve and Kevin, Betty and Richard at ten but Bob knew that the gulf between primary and secondary school was a vast, unimaginable distance. Besides, Annie and Mark had passed the eleven-plus. They had entered the new, cloistered world of grammar school, the first step in the process of moving away from their childhood playmates. Bob had failed the eleven-plus. Another reason not to mention schools to Emma. He was sure that she had passed with flying colours.
Betty and Richard were Annie’s siblings. Maybe she had been asked to keep an eye on them. Mark was an only child. Maybe he was nervous of children his own age (he had been described as shy and quiet) and preferred the company of these youngsters. Bob looked at Betty Francis and was surprised to find her staring at him. She was very like the photograph they had of Annie (a picture now imprinted on Bob’s brain): pointed face, red hair in long plaits, freckles, greeny-blue eyes. Richard was thicker-set and his hair inclined more to chestnut. He stared up at the high window as if wishing he was elsewhere. There was a febrile atmosphere of fear and excitement in the room.
Emma tried to diffuse the tension by chatting about the snow and elicited the information that Lionel and Louise had travelled to school on a sledge pulled by their big brother Lennie (someone in that family enjoyed alliteration). Betty and Richard had slid down the hill on coal sacks. ‘Mum thought we should go to school like it was an ordinary day,’ said Richard. Bob looked at the twins, sitting very close together on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever see an ordinary day again. Kevin didn’t offer any information about his trip to school and Agnes looked near to tears.
‘We wanted to talk to you about Monday afternoon, when you were playing with Annie and Mark,’ said Emma. ‘I know we’ve already asked you some questions but there might be something you’d forgotten or thought it wasn’t important. There might even be something you didn’t want to say in front of Mum and Dad. You can say anything to us. You won’t get into trouble, I promise.’
The children stared at her, round-eyed.
‘So, you came home from school and you played in the road. Is that right?’
The children were silent and then Betty said, slightly defensively, ‘We’re allowed to play in the road until it gets dark.’
School ended at three, Bob knew, but it got dark around five in November. Those two hours could be vital.
‘Who was playing?’ asked Emma. ‘Just you lot?’
‘Yes,’ said Richard, ‘until Annie and Mark got home.’
‘And they joined in, did they?’
Another silence and then Betty said, ‘Yes. Annie wanted . . .’
‘What did Annie want?’
The children said nothing. Emma looked at Bob. He said, ‘What game were you playing?’
‘I’m trying to remember what I liked to play at your age,’ said Emma. ‘Hopscotch? Skipping?’
‘Tag?’ suggested Bob. ‘British Bulldog? Kiss chase?’ This last got a giggle from Agnes at least.
Eventually Betty said, ‘We were doing a play.’
Emma and Bob looked at each other. ‘A play?’
Betty looked around the circle before continuing. ‘Annie writes these plays and we act them out. We’re her acting troupe.’
Her acting troupe. This explained why Annie sought out the company of younger children. Presumably they were easier to control and direct. Annie, Bob was beginning to realise, was quite a girl. Is quite a girl.
‘What was the play about?’ asked Emma.
‘It was called The Stolen Children,’ said Betty. ‘Richard and I were the parents.’
‘I was one of the children,’ said Agnes suddenly. ‘I was called Star. Louise was my long-lost brother.’ The younger children started to giggle. ‘And Lionel was the policeman.’ Lionel smiled shyly at Emma and Bob as if to acknowledge their kinship.
‘What part did you play, Kevin?’ asked Bob. He had already identified Kevin as the potential leader of the group. He was a large boy with a definite presence, cropped-haired and fiercely freckled, saying little but frowning when it seemed that the others were getting too voluble. Bob noticed that Betty had glanced at Kevin before telling them about the play.
Kevin fixed Bob with a steady pale gaze before answering, ‘I was the Witch Man.’
‘The Witch Man?’
‘The Witch Man who steals children and eats them,’ explained Agnes, who seemed to have recovered her spirits. She leant forward now, eyes sparkling. ‘He steals children and keeps them in a cage until they get fat enough to eat. All the villagers are scared of him. At night they say to their children, “Children, children say your prayers . . .”’
To Bob’s surprise the other children—except Kevin—joined in.
‘Children, children, say your prayers.
Children, children, stay upstairs.
Children dear, don’t stay out late,
or the Wicked Witch Man will be your fate.’
Emma didn’t look at Bob but he could see the shock in her shoulders and spine.
‘Did Annie make that up?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes,’ said Agnes. ‘She’s good at making up songs and rhymes.’
‘What about Mark?’ asked Bob. ‘What did he do?’
‘He was her assistant,’ said Betty, sucking on the end of her plait.
I bet he was, thought Bob. He betted Mark had played second fiddle to Annie from the day that they met. It probably suited him just fine.
‘So, in this play,’ said Emma, shifting position on the floor, ‘the Wicked Witch Man steals the children and eats them?’
‘No,’ said Betty proudly. ‘That’s what you’re meant to think but in our play it’s the parents who’re going to kill the children and blame the Witch Man. It’s a twist, you see. Annie likes twists.’
Brian Baxter (the ‘uncle’ was purely courtesy) lived at the top of Freshfield Road, near the racecourse. His house was bigger than the terraces where the children lived and boasted a large, overgrown garden.
‘Can you wait for me?’ Edgar asked the driver. ‘I might need you.’
The man saluted silently. On the way there they had passed the first jeep and a group of soldiers searching the undergrowth opposite the racetrack. Edgar had a sudden awful presentiment that the hunt for the children would end here, under the snowy piles of rubbish in this suburban garden. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself as he negotiated the icy front path. Brian Baxter is probably a perfectly harmless man who just enjoys the company of young children. He was already imagining the arrest. It was why he’d asked the jeep to wait.
The path was icy but it showed signs of having been cleared recently. This must mean that Brian had been out of the house today. To go where? It was a long walk to any shops and there was a bitter wind on the race hill sending whirlwinds of snow eddying into the air and falling in drifts on either side of the road. Even the jeep had had trouble at the brow of the hill. Why had Mr Baxter felt the need to leave the house?
Edgar knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. The man who answered was not the seedy monster who had begun to grow in Edgar’s imagination but an eminently respectable-looking man in a blazer and tie. He was grey-haired, slightly below average height, wearing owlish glasses and a belligerent expression. He looked like a retired bank manager.
Edgar introduced himself. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Stephens from the Brighton police. We’re speaking to everyone in the area about the disappearance of two children. Can I come in?’
‘You’d better,’ said Brian. ‘It’s freezing out there.’ He said it accusingly, as if the weather was Edgar’s fault.
The house was unexpected too. Neat sitting room, hardback books standing to attention, large gramophone, small table with The Times spread out on it. Was that why Brian had ventured out in the snow, to buy his daily paper? Maybe he, like Edgar, was a fan of the cryptic crossword. Try as he might, Edgar couldn’t imagine a child in this room.
‘We’re investigating the disappearance of Annie Francis and Mark Webster,’ he said, taking a seat on a hard-looking sofa. ‘I believe you know them.’
Brian didn’t attempt to deny it. ‘I know all the children,’ he said.
Edgar waited. Brian took off his glasses and polished them. ‘I suppose it looks odd to you,’ he said at last.
‘Why don’t you explain?’ said Edgar, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Brian stood up. ‘Let me show you.’ Edgar followed, his skin crawling. What was he about to see? A gruesome collection of teddies, puppies and other child-bait? Was he about to encounter the dark side of this strange, neat little man? He wished that he had called for backup before knocking on the door.
Brian led him through a large, chilly kitchen with yellow linoleum and blue Formica doors. Then he opened a door at the back of the room.
‘Converted the garage,’ he said laconically. ‘Through here.’
Edgar took a look around the kitchen. He should be able to overpower Baxter if it came to a struggle. Maybe he should just grab one of those saucepans as he went past.
He stepped through the door. Brain switched on the lights and Edgar blinked from the stalls of an exquisite mini theatre. Red curtains framed a small stage, which showed a backdrop of woodland. An actual chandelier swung overhead.
Edgar turned to look at Brian, who was smiling proudly.
‘Did it all myself,’ he said. ‘Took me over a year.’
‘Why?’ asked Edgar.
‘I’ve always loved the theatre,’ was the unexpected answer. ‘My wife was an actress and, when she died, I hit on the idea of doing this as a tribute to her. One of the teachers from the school heard about it and she asked if she could bring some of the children round to have a look. Part of a project she was doing. One of them was Annie. Bright little thing, is Annie. Turned out she loved writing plays and she asked if she could put them on here, in my garage. That’s when it started.’
‘When what started?’
‘Annie’s acting troupe. She’d write the plays and they’d put them on here. It’s a really good little outfit. The younger children act and Annie directs. Mark’s her assistant. Nice boy but a bit shy.’
Edgar looked around the room. Apart from the garage door at the end there was nothing that betrayed the space’s original purpose. There was carpet on the floor and flocked wallpaper on the walls. The seats were laid out in two rows.
‘Who comes to see the plays?’ he asked.
‘Friends, family, teachers,’ said Brian. ‘I give the proceeds to the church organ fund.’
Dear God, thought Edgar, they even sell tickets. Why hadn’t anyone mentioned the theatre group before? He turned to face Brian, who was fiddling with the curtains. They were tied back with gold tassels.
‘Mr Baxter, Annie and Mark have been missing for nearly two days. Do you know anything about their disappearance?’
‘No,’ said Brian. ‘I only heard about it when I went to the shop this morning.’
‘When did you last see the children?’
‘I saw Annie at the weekend. She came up to tell me about the new play she was writing. Sometimes she comes to do her homework. She likes it here because it’s so neat and tidy.’
Just like her grandparents’ place, thought Edgar. Annie, the eldest child, the perennial big sister, had obviously craved a calm, adult environment. But, all the same, was it really that innocent? There was undoubtedly something odd about the garage theatre, so shiny and glittery, hidden away inside this dull, utilitarian house. Was it really an elaborate trap to lure away lonely, stage-struck girls like Annie? But the parents and teachers had obviously known all about it and no one had even mentioned Brian. Even Annie’s grandparents had only referred to him as someone who knew all the children, not as a possible murderer. It was Edgar’s nasty policeman’s mind that had made that connection.
‘Mr Baxter,’ he said carefully. ‘You obviously know all the children. Is there anything you could tell me about their disappearance? Did Annie say anything to you? Do you have any idea where they could be?’
Brian looked at him and, suddenly, his face seemed to collapse. He took off his glasses and wiped them. Tears ran down his cheeks.
‘They wouldn’t have run away,’ he said. ‘I was going to take them to the pantomime next week. They were looking forward to it.’
‘The pantomime? The one on the pier? Aladdin?’
‘Yes, it’s got that magician chappie in it. Max Mephisto. Have you heard of him?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘They say he can make a person disappear into thin air.’ And he’s not the only one, thought Edgar.