Two
Saturday
Brunswick’s barber Rodolfo was quite entitled to feel aggrieved that his application to take part in the Bank Holiday contest for Barber of the Year had been rejected. And he wasn’t alone in his resentment: his whole clientele were up in arms. His not being allowed to compete was perceived as a gross insult to a man of his talent, standing and fantastic scissoring skills.
Rodolfo, aged forty-two, was not only a dedicated professional but the scion of a Brighton–Italian barbering dynasty stretching back nearly a hundred years. Romantic legend had it that his Tuscan great-grandfather Francesco had acted as official parrucchiere (hairdresser) to Giuseppe Garibaldi on his historic visit to England in 1864 – and that he had deserted the great man’s entourage after falling in love with an English parlourmaid. But although this story was much repeated by subsequent generations, there was, sadly, no supporting evidence other than that, in all Garibaldi’s pictures, you never saw a hair out of place.
Rodolfo was thus a proud man and a perfectionist from a long line of men with similar traits. His wife having died in childbirth seventeen years ago, when treasured son Carlo was born, he had for a long time sublimated all his passions into his work. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to compete? Hadn’t he broad-mindedly adapted his skills to every outlandish new trend in male coiffure? When the so-called ‘duck’s arse’ first came into fashion in the early 1950s, hadn’t Rodolfo been the first barber in the South East of England not only to conquer his horror and offer the cut, but also the first to say ‘duck’s arse’ aloud in mixed company?
What hurt Rodolfo most now was his loss of face before his son Carlo. A handsome, charismatic boy, Carlo had already boasted to his friends that his father would come home from the Royal Pavilion with the title Barber of the Year. And now he had let the boy down, and it hurt. When that fateful rejection letter arrived at his shop, returning the costly studio photographs of perfect crew cuts, quiffs and pompadours, Rodolfo had for a moment actually considered stabbing himself to death with his own scissors, rather than confess his failure to his son.
If only the barbers of Brighton spoke to each other, Rodolfo might have learned the interesting fact that none of his rivals had been admitted to the competition either. All had met with the same curt rebuff. But sadly, the town’s tonsorial practitioners were not on friendly terms, so none of them suspected there was something going on.
Which was a shame, because in regard to the inaugural Barber of the Year competition, to be held at the Brighton Pavilion on Bank Holiday Monday 1957, going on was exactly what something was …
At dawn on Saturday morning, Constable Twitten dressed quietly, and carefully collected from the neatly painted mantelshelf his notebook, pencil and whistle. Pale yellow light from the north-facing dormer window, with its view of tiled rooftops and seagulls, dimly illuminated the room, and he let out a sigh of profound satisfaction at the items he could see: tidy single bed with new chintz coverlet; antique nightstand; large wardrobe; tall oak bookcase crying out for the books being sent from home by Mother; pretty tiled fireplace; pegs on the wall from which to hang uniform and helmet.
Twitten loved everything about this place. It was the first room in Brighton that he had called his own; he had occupied it for a full week now, and he sincerely believed he couldn’t have done better. How hard it was to tear himself away! But he must. As he made his way gingerly down the stairs, so as not to wake his landlady, Twitten gripped his helmet tightly to his chest, and dutifully turned his thoughts to what awaited him at the police station.
It was bad enough that one murder should disturb his self-prescribed rest cure; but three? Yet it was true: by the close of play the previous night it was clear that three people had been brutally murdered in Brighton within a short time of each other – and in a manner that suggested a link, despite the victims having nothing ostensibly in common.
One was a young beauty-contest runner-up barely old enough to have enemies; the second, a much-loved AA patrolman of spotless record; the third, a visiting radio celebrity known for ‘skits’ involving female impersonation. But all had apparently been assaulted in the same way, and the murderer was still at large.
‘Milk bottles? That’s very suggestive,’ Twitten had said, when the frightened boy on the radio had tried to describe the scene of carnage at the road junction north of Brighton where he had stumbled upon the lifeless body of poor Officer Andy.
‘Milk bottles? People don’t attack lovely young women with flaming milk bottles!’ Brunswick had blustered, when he arrived at the hospital just moments too late to see Barbara Ashley alive.
‘Well, I very much doubt this was done with milk bottles,’ pronounced Steine, despite seeing the lacerated body of Cedric Carbody for himself in the dark alley, surrounded by glittering shards of glass in heaps, in a lake of milk reflecting the light from a street lamp, with a handful of tinfoil bottle-tops scattered on his chest, like petals.
But in all three cases, the murder did in fact seem to have been committed with milk bottles. Initial examinations at each scene suggested that first the victims had been stunned with blows to the head from full pints, then they’d been savagely stabbed to death with the broken bottle’s remains. More bottles had then been smashed around the bodies, as if in a frenzy. It was certainly an unusual ‘M.O.’ – and had Twitten only been allowed to set up a criminal records system, murder-by-milk-bottle would have merited a card of its own, if not a whole drawer. As Inspector Steine had solemnly observed back at the station, this murder weapon new to the police certainly overturned one’s complacent view of dairy delivery: it was as if a nice man with a horse and cart clip-clopped round the streets each morning and lawfully placed a loaded handgun on every doorstep.
‘Up already, Constable?’ called a kindly voice. It was Mrs Thorpe, Twitten’s wonderful landlady. He was tiptoeing past her room on his way downstairs.
‘Mrs Thorpe, I’m so sorry to wake you,’ he whispered. ‘I have to start very early today. Please don’t get up.’
‘Oh, you poor darling. On a Saturday?’
Mrs Thorpe opened her bedroom door. A wealthy middle-aged widow, and owner of this elegant period home on Clifton Terrace, she was wearing a sleek kimono-style dressing-gown and high-heeled velvet mules with feathery embellishments. She cast a loving glance down at them. ‘Wouldn’t you care for breakfast first?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no time, Mrs Thorpe. But thank you very much.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said, agreeably, without meaning it. He doubted this multiple-victim case would be solved in a day. By way of apology, he turned to smile to her. ‘Thank you again for having me, Mrs Thorpe. I do love it here. Living at the section house was awful. They turn the lights out at half-past ten!’
And then, even though he knew she was wide awake (and watching him go), he continued to creep downstairs. Once outside, he closed the front door as softly as he could.
How had Twitten come to be living in Clifton Terrace? Things had all happened quite quickly on the day, a couple of weeks before, that he’d accidentally walked in on a Thursday pay parade in the basement of the police station, and apprehended what it was. Constables were queuing up in silence, stepping forward when their names were called and signing for little sealed packets, which were ripped open at once to reveal amounts of money and printed payslips inside.
Twitten had experienced a mixture of strong feelings, including shock, bewilderment and visceral pain. Could this ritual of remuneration possibly take place every week? However, once he had calmed down and established that constables’ salaries were indeed issued weekly, and that he had missed six already, and that there was even an additional rent allowance, he had promptly collected around sixty pounds in five-pound notes, and set his mind to finding digs where he could choose his own lights-out time – and a flash of inspiration had brought him up the hill to this attractive white-stuccoed house: to Mrs Thorpe’s, formerly known as the best theatrical lodgings in the town.
And it was perfect. It was central, yet slightly removed from the hubbub; the rent was reasonable; and Mrs Thorpe, still traumatised by the fact that her last theatrical guest had been bloodily slaughtered in her front sitting-room, had leaped at the chance of having a representative of law enforcement as a full-time lodger. For it was in this very house, of course, that the Northern playwright Jack Braithwaite had been murdered in June by a professional strong lady using a regimental sword.
The life-or-death struggle in the front sitting-room had caused a terrible mess, with blood on the chandeliers, and so on. But at least it could be cleaned up. The emotional spattering received by Mrs Thorpe herself was a different matter: no amount of scouring with Handy Andy could set it right. In the weeks after the incident, she avoided the murder-room even after its complete redecoration. She stared out of the upstairs windows for hours on end. Eventually, with enormous sadness, she wrote to the managements of all the Brighton theatres, announcing she was closing her doors to her beloved thespian guests.
Several eminent actors sent much-appreciated letters of sympathy, but these were, of course, insincere: everyone in the business was livid at the inconvenience. Many years later, at the end of her life, she found out that her beloved Alec Guinness, whose letter she had framed and hung on the stairs (‘I understand completely, my dear lady’), had in fact been extremely cross, and had slagged her off quite viciously in his diary.
This was a miserable and lonely period for poor Mrs Thorpe. She missed her thesps. Frightened to go out, she cancelled hair appointments and stopped going to the cinema. Mrs Browning, the daily help, often found her in the back rooms, checking the window catches. So it was kind and imaginative of Twitten to propose himself as her lodger, because the benefits were mutual. Since his arrival, she’d cheered up sufficiently to spend a whole afternoon in Hanningtons department store, first having her hair permed to a crisp in the salon upstairs, and then choosing three pairs of expensive fancy slippers that made her feel like Marie Antoinette.
On the corner of Dyke Road, Twitten passed the regular milkman, who tipped his cap.
‘You’re up early, Constable,’ said the man, energetically jumping from his high seat, and lifting down a crate of chinking bottles.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Twitten, politely. ‘I don’t know how you bally do it every day.’
‘Well, the horse does the hard part, bless him.’
As the milkman, whistling, set about delivering to the first house on the terrace, Twitten looked at the cart with its dozens of brightly shining bottles, and its less-than-catchy national marketing slogan, ‘You’ll Feel A Lot Better If You Drink More Milk’. A banner, draped along the side, advertised the new House of Hanover Milk Bar, which was due to open on the seafront on Monday.
This was a heyday for milk promotion, when you thought about it – what with milk bars springing up everywhere, and young people drinking frothy coffee and pastel-coloured milkshakes instead of the boring old lemonade and fruit drinks. Ever since Brighton’s recent Dairy Festival Week, there’d even been a small herd of red-and-white Guernsey cows grazing in the gardens of the Royal Pavilion, as a sort of stunt. According to this banner, the opening of the new milk bar was to be graced by a visit from the good-looking young woman known nationally as the Milk Girl. All this young woman had ever done was pose for newspaper advertisements, and people were expected to flock in their hundreds to see her.
And now, it seemed, people were also being killed with milk bottles. As he walked briskly downhill towards the Clock Tower, Twitten fleetingly considered what milk actually was. Setting aside the obvious and alluring Freudian associations with breastfeeding, would you call it an opaque, fatty secretion? It was bovine in origin, obviously. Mammary came into it, too.
He pulled a face. Every single word so far had made his nose wrinkle. But as his celebrated psychologist father had so often told him: it was remarkable how readily the human mind blocked out unpleasantness. If you were to lift a jug of milk at a tea table and ask, ‘Now, who takes opaque fatty bovine mammary secretion in theirs?’ everyone would definitely say, ‘Not me.’
‘Well, what about these nasty murders, then, dear?’
Mrs Groynes was already at the station when Twitten arrived, despite the hour. Did this astonishing woman never sleep? And what was she doing here on a Saturday anyway?
Hearing him come in, Mrs Groynes turned casually from locking the door to her built-in stash cupboard, slipping the key into the pocket of her overalls, and giving him a look that said ‘our little secret’. He grimaced his pained collusion. It was in this cupboard that Mrs Groynes conveniently stored an armoury of weapons and ammunition, specialist burglary tools, full bank bags, a dozen packs of forty-denier nylons for pulling over one’s head during an armed robbery, and enough gelignite to blow up the whole police station and everyone in it.
Twitten knew all this because he had once been locked inside it too – on an occasion neither of them was likely to forget. Now, on this Saturday morning, as he watched Mrs Groynes pocket the key, Twitten experienced his usual vivid mixture of admiration and revulsion: admiration for her sheer bally nerve; revulsion at her blatant villainy and careless storage of explosives. As she had once memorably observed to him, ‘What am I like, eh? You don’t get many of me for ninepence.’
‘Cup of tea, dear?’ she asked Twitten now. ‘Two sugars?’
She bustled with the teapot and reached for a bottle of Sussex Dairies opaque cow secretion that had been cooling on the windowsill.
‘That would be very kind, Mrs G. Then I’ll go and see what the forensics chaps have come up with.’
He didn’t need to explain himself further. Thanks to her extensive criminal network and her innate capacity for asking the right questions, Mrs G was always up to speed with police investigations. Indeed, she was usually ahead of them.
‘And then – well, Mrs G, there are so many people to interview it’s hard to know where to begin! The beauty queen’s parents are coming in at ten o’clock; then there’s the last person to call out Officer Andy, who was apparently an American skater in the Ice Circus with a glamorous imported sports car that can play LPs—’
‘Really? What, while driving along?’
‘But the needle must jump about, surely?’
‘Well, that’s what I thought myself, Mrs G: why doesn’t it? I mean, the needle on Mrs Thorpe’s gramophone jumps if someone slams their front door three houses away. How could it possibly work in a car? But apparently it’s the latest thing, and everyone’s very impressed. Meanwhile, in connection with the death of Mr Carbody, I might have to interview the inspector as he was one of the last people to see Carbody alive – ooh, thank you, that looks lovely.’
Handing him his tea, Mrs Groynes decided to dispense advice. ‘Well, make sure you get some bleeding help this time round, dear,’ she said, sternly. ‘Don’t let the sergeant go undercover again and leave you all on your tod. You know what he’s like with those undercover notions of his. He’s undercover daft!’
This was not a bad point. Sergeant Brunswick was certainly governed by a powerful urge to rub shoulders with villains, especially if it meant disguising himself with a red wig, bushy beard or comical eyepatch. But why? By way of explanation he tended to say, ‘I suppose it’s the frustrated actor in me, that’s all.’ But Twitten was sure there was more to it, and would dearly love to probe. Was Brunswick’s impulse perhaps rooted in his extremely low opinion of himself? Or was it sexual in origin? He resolved to raise these theories with the sergeant at the earliest opportunity.
In the meantime, he felt bound to agree with Mrs Groynes that Sergeant Brunswick’s fondness for nose-putty was nothing but a burden on the department. It would be different if it actually achieved anything, but no criminal had yet been fooled by his disguises; meanwhile Twitten was left to do all the work. On top of which, the sergeant’s adventures always ended in pretty much the same sequence of events: ‘Take that, you lousy rozzer!’ followed by ‘Don’t shoot!’ and ‘Bang!’ and ‘Oh, no!’ as a body (Brunswick’s) dropped once more to the ground.
‘This is excellent tea,’ Twitten said, brightly. And then, for the sake of conversation, he asked, ‘Have you ever thought much about milk, Mrs G?’
She gave him a steady look, a lit cigarette clamped between her lips. ‘No, I bleeding haven’t.’
‘I’ve been thinking about what Father would say – milk being a source of motherly nourishment; a staple of life, as it were. Freud’s work on infantile sexuality was ground-breaking, as you know.’
Mrs Groynes shot him a warning look. Twitten ought to have grasped by now that when she heard the word Freud, she literally reached for her gun.
‘No, really, it’s jolly interesting. You see, by linking the oral stage, or hemitaxia as it’s technically known, so overtly to murder, the perpetrator of these crimes is doing something quite new. Perhaps what we are dealing with here – metaphorically, of course – is the work of a big unhappy baby exhibiting primordial fury against the parent.’
Mrs Groynes looked at him pityingly. ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing for nothing. There’s a very good reason people don’t usually get killed with milk bottles.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s bleeding hard work, dear.’
‘Oh. So you agree that the choice of weapon is significant?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘It tells us something?’
‘Yes. But assuming this murderer is not a big unhappy baby – because I’m sure people would have reported seeing one, aren’t you? – what message are they sending, dear? That’s what you should be asking yourself. Here, do you think it’s got something to do with that new milk bar down by the West Pier? After all, there’s been all that hoo-hah and hullabaloo about it, hasn’t there?’
‘That’s true.’ In the past two weeks, this new milk bar had been at the centre of a heated controversy. At issue was the fact that it was subsidised by the Milk Marketing Board. Nearby traders in cheese rolls and ice creams were supposedly angry to find themselves competing with it. When it had been announced that the milk bar would host the Brighton Evening Argus Knickerbocker Glory award ceremony (with Inspector Steine presenting the prize), passions had run so high that someone had thrown a brick through its window.
‘But surely killing people with milk bottles would be a disproportionate way of objecting to unfair business practice, Mrs G?’
‘Which is why I’m not saying that. I just think this might be a devious mind at work, who wants you to look for connections to that milk bar and all the hoo-hah, hullabaloo, and so on. And while you’re busy doing that, well …’ She waggled her eyebrows, suggestively.
‘Well, what?’
‘Perhaps he’ll kill again.’
While Twitten absorbed this, she stubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one, sitting down at Brunswick’s desk. ‘But what do I know, dear?’ she added. ‘Not having a dirty-minded trick-cyclist for a father.’
Twitten put down his teacup. As usual, Mrs Groynes’s air of authority in such criminal matters raised another question – a sensitive one for both of them.
‘Look, Mrs Groynes,’ he said, quietly. ‘I have to ask.’
She took a drag on the new cigarette, and smiled innocently.
‘You know,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘You’re not …?’
‘Not what?’
‘Did you …?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Oh, flipping hedgehogs, Mrs G! You know what I’m trying to ask.’
‘No, I don’t. And there’s no need for that kind of language.’
He accepted the rebuke, but still required an answer.
‘I’m asking whether you or your associates are in any way involved in these bally murders!’
She let out a scoffing laugh – but then held up a hand.
‘Shhh, dear.’
There was a noise outside in the corridor. Someone was approaching. From the slightly uneven footfall (implying a limp), it was Sergeant Brunswick. The silhouette that appeared behind the frosted glass confirmed it.
‘To be continued,’ said Mrs Groynes, cheerfully. She got up and took hold of a mop and bucket. But seeing the serious expression on the young man’s face, she took pity on him. ‘Of course I’m not involved in these stupid milk-bottle murders, dear. Hardly my style, are they? Ooh, is that you, Sergeant?’
And then, just as the door opened, Twitten was sure he saw a cloud pass across her face, as she muttered, ‘I’ve got quite enough to think about right now without that as well.’
Out at Hassocks, the dashingly attractive American ice dancer Buster Bond woke to hear the telephone ringing downstairs in Dale House, and checked his gold-plated travelling alarm clock. It was seven-twenty. The clock was the modern sort that folded up, with luminous numbers and hands, and he’d acquired it in Rome, earlier in the year, from a besotted contessa. Women often gave him such items by way of thankyou gifts. His stylish pyjamas, as it happened, had been given to him by the Duchess of Argyll.
‘Mr Bond!’ a voice called up the stairs. It was the lady of the house, Mrs Lester. ‘Are you awake, Mr Bond? I’m afraid it’s the police!’
The police? As he sat up in bed, his mind raced. What had he done? Checking his reflection in the mirror (and admiring what he saw), he quickly reconstructed the events of the previous evening. Reassuringly, nothing unpleasant came to mind. First, there was the problem with the Thunderbird; the AA man came and fixed it. Then a breakneck drive at seventy miles an hour into Brighton to the Sports Stadium, attempting to listen to Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers on the record player, but giving up, on account of all the pot-holes on the road making the needle zigzag across the tracks; a sensational show to vast applause; free drinks at a late-night jazz club; praise, praise, praise, praise; illicit drugs; exciting multi-position sex with a pitifully grateful middle-aged woman in the dark back room of the club; maybe additional sex with the woman’s younger, horse-faced sister (this, mercifully, a bit hazy); then the drive home drunk and happy; in bed by 3 a.m.! No, he thought, there was no reason for the police to take an interest in any of that.
Being an athlete at the peak of his powers was an asset at times like this.
‘Be right with you, Mrs Lester!’ he called, and was beside her in the hall in a trice, after virtually flying down the stairs.
She handed him the telephone receiver and retreated to the kitchen to light the range for his morning cup of coffee. Through the green baize door, he heard her conversing in a low voice with her daughter.
‘This is Buster Bond,’ he said, running a hand through his attractively sleep-tousled hair. ‘How can I help you?’
Before Inspector Steine appeared at the station on Saturday morning to find several reporters waiting outside, two important aspects of the case had been swiftly established. First, all three murders had definitely been committed with milk bottles. Second, there was a suggested timeline. Barbara Ashley had been killed at around six o’clock, Officer Andy at about half-past seven, and Cedric Carbody at nine.
Steine pushed through the reporters. ‘Not now, not now,’ he said, waspishly. The insensitivity of newspapermen was always a shock to him. Didn’t they realise people had been killed?
Once inside, he immediately bumped into Twitten, who handed him the forensic findings, with a proposed schedule of interviews and site visits.
‘Ah, good work, Twitten,’ he said. ‘Where do we start?’
Twitten was surprised to find Inspector Steine so engaged – surprised but also anxious. What if the inspector actually took charge? Things went so much better for Twitten’s investigations if Steine stuck to his broadcasts, ice creams and public appearances.
Yet here he was, studying a report as they made their way upstairs. He stopped on the first landing, and pointed at the second page.
‘So these homicides were definitely committed with milk bottles?’
‘Damn.’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I know it seems like a not-very-serious murder weapon, sir –’
‘You can say that again.’
‘– but the victims are dead just the same. And the milk bottles are obviously significant, even if we don’t know what that significance is just yet.’
Steine pulled a face. ‘Significant’ was an annoyingly vague and clever-sounding word he heard far too often from Twitten. He shuffled the papers and frowned at the interview list.
‘What’s this?’ he said, pointing. ‘You’re intending to interview me, Twitten?’
‘Well, yes, sir. Of course, sir. In turn, Sergeant Brunswick will interview me about what happened at the AA control room – it’s quite normal procedure, sir. You were one of the last to see Mr Carbody alive and one of the first to see the body.’
‘Just me? What about the others who were there? I suppose you let them swan off back to London?’
‘Not at all, sir. They’re on the list, too, look, for this morning. Mr Edlin went home to his usual digs in Hove, but I got rooms for the two ladies and the BBC production people. They spent the night at the Metropole.’
Steine stared at him. ‘You got them rooms at the Metropole?’
‘Yes, sir. I know it’s expensive, sir–’
‘I repeat. The Metropole?’
‘– but the whole town is booked up, sir, on account of the Bank Holiday. And I just happened to know there’d been some cancellations at the Metropole because when I was doing my rounds last week, I got chatting to the night doorman who said there’d been an unusual block booking for this weekend, made about a month ago, for the whole sixth floor, which had thrown everything into turmoil; he said many regular guests were so upset to be moved to different rooms that they cancelled.’
Steine sighed and shook his head. It was at times like this that he wished he were deaf. And Twitten hadn’t finished yet, either.
‘Actually, sir,’ he continued, ‘I wonder if I ought to have inquired further into this booking. It’s very suspicious to book a whole floor, and to instruct all hotel staff to keep clear of it! I’m wondering if it’s someone extremely famous, such as Princess Grace of Monaco or perhaps even Sooty, sir, the glove-puppet bear-magician from television who is currently taking the world of family entertainment by storm. But anyway, the point is, it meant that when we needed to keep witnesses in Brighton for the night, the Metropole did have a couple of spare rooms, and we managed to secure them.’
Steine looked at him. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Yes, sir. I think so, sir.’
‘Thank God.’
Steine huffed as he mentally sifted through what he’d just heard for anything of importance. ‘What did you mean by your “rounds”?’ he asked at last. ‘You said you’d met this hotel doorman acquaintance of yours in the course of your rounds.’
Twitten bit his lip. ‘Nothing really, sir. I’ve just been …’ He faltered. He was aware that they were having this conversation on the stairs, where other officers could see them and might overhear.
‘Been what?’
Twitten lowered his voice. ‘Out and about, sir. Out and about, cultivating relationships with the everyday folk of Brighton, such as hotel doormen. I’m already on jolly good terms with quite a few shopkeepers, sir, and nightwatchmen and street traders. That’s how I happened to be in the AA control office when the news came about poor Officer Andy. I was talking to Mr Hollibon and having a cup of tea.’
‘But none of that is your job, Twitten.’
‘Isn’t it, sir?’
‘No. If it were, I would know, because I would have been the one instructing you to do it.’
Twitten felt it was time to defend himself. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, I would far rather have been in the office compiling essential criminal records files, but if you recall—’
‘For the last time, Twitten, that’s a job for a girl!’
Steine’s raised voice drew an interested look from the desk sergeant downstairs.
‘But, sir, it really isn’t—’
‘You’ve got to drop this criminal records nonsense, Twitten.’
‘But how else can we hope to—’
‘Men don’t type! It’s as simple as that!’
Steine turned on his heel and proceeded up the stairs.
‘No, sir,’ said Twitten, following. But he couldn’t help adding, rebelliously (but under his breath), ‘Men don’t bally type? Try telling that to Ernest bally Hemingway.’
In the sunny breakfast room of the Metropole Hotel, the usually unflappable Gerry Edlin sat down at a corner table in a state of shock.
‘Oh, my God,’ he said to himself. He was shaking. ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘Are you unwell, sir?’ asked a waiter, who was passing through, holding linen napkins wrapped around freshly polished cutlery. Breakfast had not begun, but being imbued with the spirit of service, he was happy to bring a cup of tea to any hotel guest in distress. Once, he had helpfully slapped a hysterical one (it was one of his happiest memories).
Edlin forced a smile. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for my friends; they stayed here last night. What time does breakfast begin?’
‘Half-past seven, sir. Ten minutes.’
‘Thank you, I can wait. You’re very kind.’
‘Excuse my asking, sir, but aren’t you that man off the telly? With the magic tricks?’
Never known to disappoint a member of the viewing public, Edlin lightly pinched together finger and thumb and drew a string of coloured scarves out of the sleeve of his jacket. The waiter laughed appreciatively and resumed his work.
Edlin’s brain whirred; he was in a state of panic. In the lobby he had spotted a familiar face from London – from the days when he had stupidly dabbled in nightclub ownership. This man had once threatened to break his fingers! He worked for the notorious Terence Chambers! Was Chambers in Brighton? Was he staying here, at the Metropole? Could Chambers’s man be here looking for Edlin himself?
‘Gerry!’ Lady Pru’s greeting made him jump. Smoothing her skirt, she sat down beside him.
‘Ugh, you look as bad as I feel, darling,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Poor Cedric! I couldn’t sleep a wink.’
‘I know. Nor I.’
‘Whatever could the poor man have done to bring this on himself? He was such a pussycat!’
‘A sweetie-pie.’
‘A dear.’
‘I adored him.’
‘So did I.’
Out Hassocks way, on the main London-to-Brighton Road, Mr E. E. Hollibon of the AA stood smoking in silence at the minor turn-off where the body of Officer Andy had been found the night before. The police had impounded the Land Rover; all that remained was a leafy country-road junction, an old enamelled signpost with venerable rust spots, and a patch of trampled grass.
What puzzled Mr Hollibon was why Officer Andy had taken this route back into town. Seeing the place for himself, it still made no sense. Having completed the Thunderbird job at Dale House, Andy would surely have headed south again – but this was north-west.
Hollibon inhaled thoughtfully, and suppressed the gigantic bronchial spasm stirring in his chest. It was impossible to take in that Andy had gone. Everyone liked Andy! Hollibon wished he hadn’t been so hard on him about the radio-protocol business. Because of course Andy had been right: life was too short to keep saying ‘Brighton Control’ and ‘Over’, and there had been enough of that malarkey during the war. Hollibon wished he’d asked Andy more about himself – about his wartime experiences in the Far East; his talents as a semi-professional musician; his passion for photography; his frequent day-trips to London. But now he never could.
Hollibon finished the cigarette, dropped it and stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Time to get back. He was glad he’d made the effort to drive here and see the site. But as he was turning away, something caught his eye. The signpost was wrong. It had been turned. The tiny Sussex village of Cantersfield was two miles down the smaller of the roads, but according to the sign, that was the way to Brighton. Anyone following the sign in that direction would end up at a farmyard or a village pond.
‘Kids!’ Hollibon huffed.
But was it the work of kids? He put a hand to his brow, pondering the possible scene the night before. Had Officer Andy run into a gang of youths creating a nuisance to the great British motoring public, and told them off? Despite his laid-back approach to radio protocol, Andy took his uniform seriously: he was on the side of the great British motorist in all things. But telling off a bunch of kids for causing a bit of travel mayhem: was that enough to get him killed?
By now, Steine and Twitten had reached the top of the stairs – Steine briskly leading the way down the narrow corridor towards the general office shared by Twitten, Brunswick and Mrs Groynes (his own inner sanctum was beyond). They walked and talked in single file.
‘I heard what you said about Ernest Hemingway just then, Twitten,’ said Steine, over his shoulder. ‘But luckily for you, the point you were making was both obscure and uninteresting.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On the other matter, however, I’d like you to curtail your rounds, as you call them. In fact, I want you to stop them at once.’
‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir.’ Trotting along behind, Twitten hardly minded complying with this command, when there was so much else to do anyway.
‘You should not be cluttering your mind with details of who booked how many rooms at the Metropole. It’s not your job to seek out information of such a trivial nature.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Yes, sir. Ooh, but could I just say, sir—’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘No, but could I just say, sir, I’ve remembered something. While I was out and about yesterday, I did learn one piece of information of a trivial nature that I think will interest you personally.’
‘I very much doubt it, Twitten.’
‘No, really, sir. It concerns the Knickerbocker Glory competition that you’re judging. Is it right that you’ll announce the winner on Monday?’
By now they had reached the door to the office. Steine frowned. He was getting irritated. It seemed that even when you didn’t have to look Twitten in the eye, it was still annoying talking to him one-to-one. ‘Yes. At this new milk bar,’ he said, stiffly. ‘I have that honour.’
Steine opened the door.
‘Sir. Is it too late for you to withdraw?’
‘Withdraw?’ repeated Steine. With eyes narrowed and an expression of scorn, he turned to face his constable. It was such an accomplished move that any other man might have quailed, but not Twitten. On him, it made no impact whatsoever.
‘Yes, sir. I’m sure they’d understand. You could pretend you’re too busy with these murders. I mean, not pretend, that’s the wrong word. I mean—’
‘I shall not withdraw, Twitten. Judging these ice creams is a very important job.’
Twitten managed not to laugh – but only just. ‘Gosh. With respect, sir, you surely see that it isn’t? I mean, not really. In the scheme of things.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Twitten. Visitors to Brighton are presented with Knickerbocker Glories here, Knickerbocker Glories there, each claiming to be the best. How are they to know which is the best unless someone high-minded, trustworthy, impartial and famous for his appearances on the BBC takes the time to apply rigorous tests and announce his findings?’
‘Yes, but still—’
‘Perhaps you think it’s easy.’ Steine was becoming quite heated. ‘Well, before you jump to that conclusion, consider the variables I have to take into account: the quality of the ice cream; the choice of flavours in complementary combination; the ratio of fruit to sauce; the sheer length of spoon, which sometimes, I regret to say, is simply not up to the job. I have already tasted every Knickerbocker Glory this town has to offer at least once, Twitten –’
‘Gosh, sir.’
‘– but over this weekend I intend to taste the front runners again. Then, on Monday, I shall announce the winner, who is likely to be Luigi, of course, because he’s very good at everything, but I made a vow to judge this competition with my customary fairness, and that’s what I shall do.’
Luigi’s ice-cream parlour on the seafront was where Steine spent the majority of his time. He had taken his men there on the day of the famous Middle Street Massacre in 1951, when mutually destructive gang warfare had bloodily wiped out forty-five Brighton villains. Steine’s unconventional decision to pause and consume a banana split, while a massive gun battle took place a hundred yards away, had been held up, then and since, as a triumph of imaginative modern policing.
‘And you dare to ask me to withdraw?’
Twitten stood to attention. ‘I’m sorry to speak out of turn, sir. But the word on the street is that it’s a poisoned chalice, sir.’
‘What is? A Knickerbocker Glory?’
‘No, sir. Judging Knickerbocker Glories.’
‘That’s absurd. And what do you mean by the word on the street?’
‘Well, to be honest, mainly Ventriloquist Vince, sir.’
‘The Punch & Judy man with the Greek accent?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The one whose show is so graphically violent it causes hysteria in the mothers and gives the children nosebleeds?’
‘That’s him, sir.’
‘Remind me, why does no one shut him down?’
‘It’s a mystery, sir. But anyway, Mr Vince told me yesterday that a previous judge of the Knickerbocker Glory contest had – well, he’d lived to regret it.’
Steine scoffed. ‘Lived to regret it? Why? Too many glacé cherries for a delicate digestion?’
‘Well, no, sir. It was more that when he went home afterwards …’
Twitten faltered.
‘Oh, come on, Twitten. What happened to this poor unfortunate ice-cream judge? Did he feel a bit full?’
‘Well, according to Mr Vince, when he got home, sir, he found that his bally house had been burned to the ground!’