Three

The Royal Pavilion in Brighton might seem an odd venue for a humble barbering contest. Nowadays we think of this overblown Regency extravaganza as a superior heritage attraction: an ornate seaside palace with a passing resemblance to the Taj Mahal, its ersatz minarets and domes outlined, incongruously, against a pale English sky. Why is it in Brighton? Its presence here is easily explained by history: in the late eighteenth century, the Prince Regent enjoyed the seaside; he was a keen Orientalist; he was fiscally irresponsible to the point of madness. And the Pavilion certainly suits Brighton in its sheer ostentation and inauthenticity. Over time, the building has been faithfully restored, with sumptuous replica carpets and gaudy gilding. People pay good money to go in. But when they come out again, they can sometimes be seen rubbing their eyes in wonder at the sheer oppressive tastelessness of what they have just seen inside.

But in 1957, this faithful restoration of the Pavilion was not yet complete. In the century since Queen Victoria had sold her uncle’s extravagant beach hut to the local authority, the building had been neither quite one thing nor the other: open to the public, but not a proper museum; a place rented out for conferences, competitions and charity bazaars. It was certainly not sacrosanct, as it is now, and the Pavilion Gardens were not hallowed ground either: plans were often drawn up for boxy modern buildings to be erected in them; and as we already know, dairy cattle from the Channel Islands were sometimes grazed there for obscure publicity purposes.

So holding a barbering contest in the august Music Room on the August Bank Holiday 1957 was hardly sacrilege. But there was something noteworthy about it, nevertheless, and it was this: the mysterious ‘Barber of the Year 1957 Ltd’ (their only given address a Post Office box number) had booked the entire building for three whole days, despite being advised that this was both costly and unnecessary. A letter from the council had helpfully pointed out the perceived error, offering a rebate, but a letter had come by return from the secretary of Barber of the Year 1957 Ltd – a person signing herself ‘Mrs P. Hoagland’ – insisting that the initial booking should stand: the other rooms could be used for storage, refreshments, changing facilities, hair sweepings, supervised recovery from all the excitement, and so on.

No council staff need be present, Mrs Hoagland added, save for handing over the keys on the Saturday morning, and receiving them back on Monday night. Mrs Hoagland then casually mentioned that she had been authorised to enclose a hefty non-returnable cash deposit against breakages, at which point all bureaucratic interference from the council abruptly ceased.

But questions abounded, even if no one was asking them. For example, why would someone want to hire the whole of this building, which included the large Banqueting Room (ideal for conferences)? Why would they so blatantly bribe council officials to seal the deal? Who was Mrs Hoagland, and why does her name sound familiar? Was there perhaps any connection between this securing of the Pavilion and the booking – by the same mystery woman – of a whole floor of the Metropole Hotel for the same three days? And was there possibly a connection between these two things and the presence at the Metropole of a man employed by Terence Chambers? Put simply, was it possible that the rooms at the hotel had been reserved for top villains from all over the country, who were convening in Brighton for a summit meeting to be held in the Pavilion’s Banqueting Room on Bank Holiday Monday under cover of a bogus barbering contest?

The simple answer is yes. Terence Chambers himself had called the summit, and not because he fancied a trip to the seaside. It was rare for him to leave his mum’s small terraced house in Stepney, let alone travel to the South Coast. But there was an urgent and serious matter that needed top-level discussion: the issue of brash American mobsters threatening to take control of organised crime in Britain. Two casinos in Mayfair had already changed their allegiance. Chambers had heard rumours of incursions in other cities. Basically, could resources and information be pooled against a common Yankee foe?

All ten of the hardest regional crime bosses would be in attendance – plus, of course, Mrs Groynes, who had organised the whole thing, under an alias. When Constable Twitten had discovered her on this Saturday morning locking her stash cupboard, he had assumed she was tidying away red-hot jewellery or still-warm ballistic weapons. In fact, she had been hiding the seating plan she had worked on overnight. (It made her oddly happy to sign herself ‘Mrs P. Hoagland’, incidentally, even though circumstances had recently obliged her to shoot dead Captain Philip Hoagland, the only man she had ever bleeding loved.)

Mrs Groynes had been typically thorough in the arrangements for Monday’s conference. It had involved a lot of work – not least setting up the fake organisation from whom all the genuine barbers applying to compete had received their rejection letters. Press photographers, and even newsreel cameras, would be allowed entry for a twenty-minute period to record what appeared to be a jolly, open contest, featuring in-the-know barbers from elsewhere; the press would also witness the crowning of Crouch End Billy Scissors (Chambers’s brother-in-law) at the end. ‘Who, me?’ Billy Scissors would respond in mock surprise on being named.

Models for the haircuts would be insiders, too, while the security would be provided by her own trusted crew, including Birthmark Potter, Stanley-Knife Stanley and Barrow-Boy Cecil. It was a masterpiece of planning. As indeed it needed to be.

The one thing Mrs Groynes had failed to take into account was the potential for outraged honour in the local barbers. She perhaps assumed that rejected applicants would have a grown-up sense of proportion about it – but in this assumption she was wrong. As Sergeant Brunswick had remarked to Barbara Ashley, people really did take competitions too seriously. Twice in a week Rodolfo had shut the shop early and gone upstairs to his lonely flat to sit in silence. Meanwhile his brooding son Carlo, instead of helping him through his disappointment by diverting his attention to happier subjects, was actively looking for someone to blame. Carlo was an intemperate boy much influenced by zeitgeist movies from America concerning 1950s disaffected youth, and he welcomed any legitimate grudge. He sported an immaculate James Dean quiff, wore stiff, high-waisted denim jeans, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the bicep.

‘These so-called Barber of the Year people, Papa, who do they think they are?’ he demanded hotly, studying the letter for the umpteenth time as he and his father sat over their pasta-and-meatballs one evening. ‘How dare they do this to you? I’d like to go there and—’

‘I know, I know,’ said Rodolfo, shaking his head. ‘So would I, Carlo. But look, no proper address. Just a Post Office box number.’

‘And who is this Mrs P. Hoagland, telling you you’re not good enough?’

‘Again, I don’t—’

‘I hate her, Papa! I want to punch her stupid face!’

‘Carlo, no.’

‘I want to make her beg for mercy. It makes me so angry! All women are stupid, but this one – this Mrs Hoagland – she’s the worst!’

Rodolfo had noted his son’s growing misogynistic leanings over the years, but dismissed them as cause for concern – partly because his son was young, but mainly because they chimed pretty well with his own attitudes and everyone else’s.

‘I don’t know about that, Carlo, although the idea of any woman taking decisions like this – yes, OK, it makes me sick to my stomach. But you have to calm down, because there’s nothing we can do. When I talked about the injustice of it with Sergeant Brunswick, you know what he did? He laughed. He said competitions are just a bit of fun.’

Carlo said nothing. He pushed away his plate of food and brooded with the full force of his personality.

‘Well, I say it smells, and I’m going to do something.’

‘We don’t know who they are, Carlo. And more to the point, we don’t know where they are, either.’

‘Yes, but we know where they are going to be, Papa. They’ll be at the Royal Pavilion on Monday, and so will I.’

Rodolfo shook his head. ‘Carlo, no. I forbid it.’

‘You can’t stop me, Papa. I’m seventeen. And those bastardi at Barber of the Year 1957 Ltd will find they have Carlo Innocenti to answer to!’

Saturday morning saw a certain amount of progress in the murder investigations, except in two respects. No one interviewed by Brunswick and Twitten could shed light on either a) the use of milk bottles as weapons, or b) anything connecting the three victims to each other.

Cedric Carbody’s hifalutin’ showbiz friends had insisted on jumping the queue and coming straight to the police station to give their evidence, in order to catch an early train back to the capital. But they had not been helpful, despite the unprecedented fancy tea and biscuits provided in the interview room. Lady Prudence seemed more concerned about Gerry Edlin’s mood this morning, which was, apparently, unusually taciturn. Gloria Powell simply pursed her lips and refused to make eye contact.

But the sad truth was, they seemed to have little of value to say. Despite working with Carbody every Friday night on What’s Your Game? for four years, they seemed to know – as Mrs Groynes might put it – sweet Fanny Adams about him, beyond what was common knowledge: his trademark sense of ‘mischief’, his popular headmistress broadcasts, and his far-from-secret sexual proclivities.

‘Yes, but did he ever show any particular interest in milk?’ Twitten asked.

A trio of stony, disdainful expressions met this question. Brunswick thought he’d never met more hoity-toity people in his life. They had even disdained the offer of tea. ‘Could you answer the constable’s question, please?’ he said.

Grudgingly, Edlin relented. ‘No, he never showed any interest whatsoever in milk, Sergeant,’ he said, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, cognac …’

This made the ladies titter appreciatively. Brunswick, who was usually a sucker for theatrical types, was unimpressed. After all, this was a murder investigation, not a flaming panel game. He picked up a malted-milk biscuit from the plate and munched it crossly.

‘I’m afraid we do need to ask these questions,’ said Twitten, looking up from his notebook. ‘Three people have been murdered, you see, so the stakes are abnormally high. And although you might think you can’t help, it’s been scientifically proved that in police interviews people who think they know nothing often provide invaluable clues. In my detective training we were taught that people are generally wrong about not knowing anything. The acronym is PAGWANKA.’

Brunswick nearly choked on his biscuit. ‘Is that right, son?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’ Twitten shrugged. ‘Or WANKA for short.’ In his own mind, Wrong About Not Knowing Anything was one of the top ten interview principles he’d learned at Hendon. ‘Although I do recall they instructed us not to share this information too widely.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

Looking at the stunned expressions on the faces of his interviewees, Twitten frowned, took a deep breath, and moved on. ‘So,’ he said, ‘may I ask whether Mr Carbody could possibly have had any connection to the new House of Hanover Milk Bar on the seafront? Or the Milk Marketing Board? Or the Dairy Maid Miss contests? Might he have met the young woman commonly known as the Milk Girl?’

‘Look, despite the time-honoured principle of PAG—’ With perfect comic timing, Edlin corrected himself. ‘I mean, despite the thing that you just said, we really don’t know anything like that about poor Cedric.’ He waved an arm at the ladies, to include them. ‘We met mostly “on the air”, if you know what I mean.’ Edlin seemed to be acting as spokesman, which was just as well. Lady Pru kept reaching into her leather glove to check her train ticket, and the beauteous Gloria Powell glanced down into her crocodile handbag at intervals, at an illicitly procured copy of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, which she was extremely keen to get back to.

‘Although,’ added Edlin, thoughtfully, ‘the Dairy Maid contests might be worth taking a look at.’

‘Ah-ha!’ said Twitten.

‘I do know Cedric used to judge beauty contests, because we did a few together. But he stopped a year or so ago. I wouldn’t know if they were the Dairy ones. I suppose they might have been.’

Brunswick took over. ‘Did the name Barbara Ashley ever come up?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘No,’ said Edlin, shrugging. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know anyone called Barbara.’

Lady Pru sighed with impatience.

‘Or Officer Andrew Inman of the Automobile Association?’ said Twitten.

Lady Pru huffed and rolled her eyes. ‘Of course he didn’t know a man from the Automobile Association! For heaven’s sake, Cedric was a bosom friend of Noël Coward! He holidayed each summer in America with the Lunts!’

‘Pru, that isn’t helpful, my darling,’ said Edlin.

‘Well, really! As if Cedric Carbody rubbed shoulders with any of these – these common people!’

Brunswick was inclined to let them go, the principle of PAGWANKA notwithstanding. It was clear they knew nothing about the milk bottles. The list of people to interview was long. But Twitten had one last question.

‘Do you mind, sir?’ he asked.

Brunswick nodded. ‘Go ahead, son.’

‘Well, Lady Prudence, Mr Edlin, Miss Powell, I appreciate that you’re all in a terrific hurry to leave,’ Twitten said, pleasantly, ‘and you’ve helped me realise that show-business people are bally awful as witnesses, being by nature shallow and self-centred, which I shall certainly remember to take into account in future.’

Brunswick, impressed by Twitten’s astonishing candour, cast him a supportive glance.

‘But there is one more thing I’d like to ask. The inspector told me this morning that on his What’s Your Game? debut last night, Mr Carbody deliberately tripped him up, quite unkindly, with the intention of humiliating him.’

‘Really?’ said Edlin, suddenly interested.

‘I was very touched that the inspector shared this sensitive anecdote, but on the other hand I suppose he had no other insights into Mr Carbody, having only just met him.’

‘Yes, but what did Cedric do?’ Edlin grinned. ‘How did I miss it? Oh, good old Cedric!’

‘Look, this isn’t funny, sir,’ warned Twitten.

‘Oh, I bet it is,’ piped up Gloria. This was the first time she had spoken.

‘What happened, then, Twitten?’ asked Brunswick.

‘Well, it seems that Mr Carbody, spotting that the inspector was nervous as well as unclear about the rules of the game, generously supplied him with a question to ask in the first round.’

‘Nice of him,’ said Brunswick.

‘Yes, but, you see, it meant that the inspector focused entirely on remembering that question, and therefore didn’t prepare anything else to ask.’

‘So?’ said Brunswick, puzzled.

Smiles of happy anticipation broke out on all the faces of the What’s Your Game? panellists. They liked where this was going.

‘But then, you see, just before it was the inspector’s turn to speak—’

‘Oh, Cedric, you cad!’ laughed Gloria, interrupting. ‘You didn’t?’

‘Yes, he bally well did!’

‘What?’ said Brunswick, mystified.

‘He stole it from him, sir! He asked the exact same question he’d given to the inspector!’

‘Brilliant!’ shouted Edlin, as they all burst into laughter.

‘Genius!’ said Lady Pru.

‘Cedric, you utter bastard!’ chuckled Gloria.

Twitten shook his head. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re all enjoying it so much, but from the inspector’s point of view it was very, very mean!’

‘I’m shocked by that,’ said Brunswick. ‘Really shocked.’

‘So was I,’ said Twitten, pausing to let the others simmer down. ‘Look, I didn’t tell you this to entertain you. The inspector thought this story wasn’t of any use to us, and when I said I thought, on the contrary, it was probably quite significant, I’m afraid he just ticked me off again for using the word “significant”, because he regards it as annoying as well as vague and a bit clever-sounding.’

‘If it helps,’ said Brunswick, ‘I think so too.’

‘Thank you, sir. Perhaps we could come back to that. But I think this anecdote tells us something important about Cedric Carbody. I can tell from your reaction that you might not be the right people to ask, but what I want to know is: was Mr Carbody a cruel man? Might he have made enemies by being mean?’

They seemed confused by the question. Edlin in particular didn’t know what to say. Was Cedric ‘mean’? Of course he was. He was vicious! He said vile, unforgivable things, which brought the house down! How else did he get to be the Duke and Duchess of Windsor’s favourite house guest? But what could this possibly have to do with his being killed?

At last, Lady Pru spoke up. ‘Look, Cedric was brilliant. And he wasn’t “mean”, Constable. What a silly, schoolboy word! No, Cedric was crushing. And he would use anything as material for a joke. The way he stole even one’s most private confidences was shameless. Nothing was sacred to Cedric!’

The others laughed.

‘But I suppose it’s possible,’ Lady Pru went on, more seriously, ‘that he didn’t always judge very well whether people could take it.’

‘Ah-ha!’ said Twitten, again.

‘So, yes,’ her ladyship continued, ‘there probably were people – people who, and I emphasise this, did not matter one iota in this world – who did bear him a smidgen of ill will.’

Everyone was impressed. Lady Pru had performed quite a mental leap to consider the ‘crushing’ Cedric from the point of view of the unimportant crushed.

‘Did he ever receive threatening letters?’ Twitten asked.

Lady Pru looked thoughtful, as if she wasn’t sure, so Edlin answered instead. ‘Do you know, I think he did.’

‘Bingo,’ said Brunswick.

‘And I’ve just remembered something – the reason he stopped judging contests. It was his agent.’

‘Do you know the name of the agent?’

‘Tony,’ piped up Gloria. ‘Same as me. Tony Sayle. Dean Street.’

Twitten made a note.

‘Yes, it was Tony who stopped him,’ Edlin went on. ‘And when Tony Sayle puts his foot down, believe me, that’s it. Cedric really missed travelling all over the country every weekend, judging dogs, and flower shows, and – well, anything. Children’s paintings; short stories; best hat at Doncaster. He could be so cutting about anything at all. He particularly enjoyed judging vegetables …’

The others laughed.

‘Look, I do these contests myself, and they’re joyous. Children in talent shows, singing “Sally in Our Alley” horribly off-key, and doing Highland dancing but tripping over the swords and cutting their toes. It’s money for jam. The prize goes to someone, youngsters burst into tears, everyone’s happy. But I think with Cedric there were complaints …’ Edlin hesitated, trying to remember.

‘Complaints?’ said Twitten, writing it down. ‘What was the nature of these complaints?’

‘I’m not sure. Do you remember, Pru?’ asked Edlin.

‘No,’ said Lady Pru. ‘Not the details. I just remember poor Cedric was very hurt. I can hear him now, saying, “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It was just a bit of fun!”’

She looked sad and angry (and vaguely bereaved) for the first time.

Gloria Powell pulled a face and got up. ‘May we leave now?’

Twitten deferred to Brunswick, who made the decision and stood up likewise. ‘Yes, you may, and thank you for your time. But make sure you leave an address and telephone number in case we need to speak to you again.’

They readied themselves to go.

‘And between ourselves,’ Brunswick added in a low tone, ‘if you happened to hear any surprising police training acronyms by accident today, we’d appreciate it if you’d keep them to yourselves.’

Brunswick led the way out, while Twitten looked down at his notes. But when he looked up, he realised that the interview wasn’t completely over.

Having held the door for the ladies to exit, Gerry Edlin had lingered behind. ‘So, Constable Twitten,’ he said, with affected nonchalance, ‘you don’t think Cedric’s murder could have been a professional hit, do you?’

‘No, Mr Edlin,’ said Twitten, surprised. ‘Not with a milk bottle. What makes you ask?’

Edlin laughed. ‘Nothing at all, Constable,’ he said. ‘No, nothing at all.’ But he hesitated. Part of him dearly wanted to report the London thug he’d seen at the Metropole Hotel.

‘Are you all right, sir? Lady Prudence said she thought you were a bit preoccupied this morning, as if you’d seen a ghost. That’s what she said, I think. I made a note somewhere.’ Twitten checked through his papers. ‘Yes, here we are: seen a ghost. She said you’d been odd since she met you for breakfast.’

‘No, I’m tickety-boo, thank you. I suppose it’s just beginning to sink in, that’s all – you know, that poor, poor Cedric has gone.’ Edlin shrugged. ‘And I suppose, to be honest, well …’

Twitten waited.

‘Well, I suppose we might have been a bit blind to his – well, his meanness, as you put it.’

Twitten nodded. He wanted to approve of Gerry Edlin, but something prevented it. With his open smile and perfect manners, the man was just too good at being charming.

‘Ooh, and look, old boy,’ Edlin said. ‘Between you and me, don’t forget to talk to young Susan Turner. She’s the assistant on What’s Your Game? She was always wary around Cedric, I noticed.’

‘She didn’t like him, you mean?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But you don’t think she killed him?’

‘Oh, God, no. Although she did deliver the message that there was someone outside at the stage door, and she also found the body afterwards, of course. But no, not in a million years. The main thing is, she dealt with all the correspondence, and it was her idea to invite a policeman on to the show last night, too. I just wonder if she had an inkling of what was going to happen.’

He left, shutting the door behind him. Twitten, alone, looked with satisfaction at his notes. His excellent police training had been vindicated yet again.

‘WANKA!’ he said, triumphantly, to himself.

At the Metropole, villains were arriving thick and fast. Any schoolboy equipped for the holidays with a copy of I-Spy Criminal Underworld Vehicles would have had a field day, getting extra points for spotting suspicious tinted glass; bullet-proof windscreens; telltale holes in the doors; extra-large boots for transporting trussed-up members of rival gangs.

You might think that such an unusual influx of hoodlums would be picked up by the press, but no. For one thing, some of the villains had the good sense to enter the hotel by the back entrance; for another, the local photographer assigned to the Metropole this morning by the Evening Argus was cleverly intercepted en route by a nice-looking child in shorts.

‘Mister! Over here!’ shouted the boy, waving a copy of the Beano to get his attention.

The Argus man was on his usual route through the Lanes, walking at a smart pace on account of being late, hanging on to his hat. This tow-headed street urchin looked familiar (it was in fact Shorty, comic-book enthusiast and dependable runner of errands, in the permanent employ of Mrs Groynes). Even so, he did not stop walking.

‘Mister, wait, I got something for ya,’ said Shorty, running alongside to keep up, and grabbing the hem of the photographer’s jacket. ‘Wait, mister, you’ll want to hear this.’ The man looked down into Shorty’s upturned oh-so-innocent face, but kept walking. He doubted he wanted to hear anything this little scamp could tell him. ‘Look, mister,’ said Shorty, a bit out of breath. ‘It’s only Diana flipping Dors!’

This information brought the walk to a halt. ‘Diana Dors? Where?’

‘She’s here!’

‘Where?’

‘Here.’

The photographer narrowed his eyes. ‘Diana Dors?’

‘Yes, Diana Dors. Blimey, mister, how many more times?’

‘You seen her yourself? Listen, you’d better not be spinning one.’

‘No, but the word is she’s up Saltdean! At Butlin’s!’

The Butlin’s holiday camp was a tidy way out of Brighton, along the coast. But the lie was clever: recently the successful camp had been in the practice of importing celebrities at short notice, with the local press being alerted only at the last minute, which left the picture desks fuming.

‘Butlin’s?’ The Argus man narrowed his eyes. He was weighing it up. On the one hand, Saltdean was a long way off; on the other, it was donkeys’ years since he’d had anything on the front page. ‘Diana Dors, you sure?’

‘Worth a couple of bob, ain’t it?’ urged Shorty, with his hand out. ‘Look, mister, they only asked her to bring her fur bikini!’

‘The one she wore on the Grand Canal?’

Shorty wasn’t sure. ‘Is that in Venice?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s the one, then.’

‘Oh, fuck me,’ muttered the photographer, removing his hat and rubbing his brow. What to do? It sounded like cobblers, but could he take that risk? If he deliberately passed up a shot of Diana Dors in a fur bikini on a Bank Holiday weekend, he’d never live it down.

‘What do you say, mister?’ said the boy, still with his hand out.

The photographer dug into a pocket and tossed the boy a sixpence, then set off at speed in an easterly direction.

Having been woken early, Buster Bond decided to freshen up and head into town. There was a new jump he wanted to practise on the ice, and early on a Saturday morning was a perfect time to do it – before the place was packed with noisy clowns, and hungover orchestra members, not to mention all the trapeze artists and acrobats and performing poodles. God, he hated those dogs. They couldn’t even skate! They pooped on the ice! And yet, night after night, show after show, they got the loudest cheer.

Stage Door Ernie let him in, wheezily remarking on how early it was. Bond explained that a brace of policemen would be visiting him at about midday, and Ernie, coughing, made a note. It was unclear whether Ernie ever went home, or actually lived in his little cubbyhole. Interestingly, his twin brother Albert was employed at the nearby Hippodrome, doing the same job, with the same respiratory problems. And since the brothers were almost identical to look at, and were equally ancient and deaf, visiting stars who appeared at both venues were starting to believe that Stage Door Albert and Stage Door Ernie were in fact the same man, collecting two salaries and communicating between the theatres by means of a private tunnel.

The Sports Stadium’s ice rink was not the most beautiful arena Bond had ever played, but it was impressive. The vast, deep building – flat-fronted and monolithic – dominated the southern end of West Street, and the auditorium seated 2,000 people.

Originally designed in the 1930s as a sea-water swimming pool, it had been converted to an ice rink once the owners reluctantly accepted a disappointing fact: that most people who wanted to swim in sea-water at the seaside simply went down to the beach and swam in the sea.

But the decision to convert it to ice had been inspired. Twenty years later, the ‘S.S. Brighton’ was not just the busiest venue in Brighton, but the biggest attraction on the whole South Coast. In the winter months, ice hockey drew thousands of local fans; and all year there were spectacular ice shows, with lavish costumes and full orchestras. The current circus featured a novelty poodle act, glamorous trapeze artists and an internationally famous family of Italian clowns, not to mention a daily exhibition of superlative skills by one of the finest skaters in the world.

As Buster Bond slid out on to the perfect, gleaming, unsullied ice this Saturday morning, he felt he was king of the world. He glided to the centre spot of the vast arena, and stopped there: erect, poised, breathing the cool air into his lungs, listening to the pristine silence. In this moment, he felt pristine himself – which was quite a feat, considering the murky sexual shenanigans of the night before.

‘Hello, Brighton!’ he hallooed to the empty seats.

‘Hello, Buster,’ replied a familiar voice from the darkness.

He spun around in alarm.

‘No!’ he said. Instinctively, he held up his hands. ‘Let me explain!’

Then there was the sound of a gun being cocked and a bullet being fired, and Buster Bond collapsed on the ice.

The interviews at the station having thankfully picked up pace a bit, by late morning Brunswick and Twitten were able to report a few findings to Inspector Steine. Their next scheduled interview had been arranged at the Sports Stadium, but they had a few minutes before they needed to leave.

‘Miss Turner was the most helpful, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘Fortunately, she kept a lot of the letters listeners sent to Mr Carbody, so there’s a good chance we’ll find a lead there. She’s gone back to Broadcasting House and has offered to telephone once she’s located them.’

‘Did she explain why she deliberately placed me in such a hateful position last night?’

‘I think she genuinely thought you would enjoy it, sir.’

‘Pah.’

‘And she insisted that you were very entertaining. The producer is already considering you as a permanent replacement for Mr Carbody. It seems he liked your particular quality of “deadpan”, sir, especially when you deduced people’s occupation just by looking at them, and threatened to arrest them if they didn’t cooperate with your inquiries.’

Steine considered this. The notion of joining this tawdry comedy show was preposterous, and yet, deep inside, a little part of him brightened at the prospect.

‘As you know, I don’t like to speak out of turn, sir,’ said Twitten, in a confidential tone, ‘but the sergeant and I agreed that the other panellists were vile.’

Steine beamed. ‘They were, weren’t they?’ He looked down at his list, which was now decorated with a few ticks. ‘So, Brunswick, what about the others? What about the girl’s parents? You’ve seen them?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Brunswick, ‘Mr and Mrs Ashley are convinced her death is related to the rigging of beauty contests, about which Miss Ashley had very strong feelings.’

‘Very strong,’ confirmed Twitten. ‘I would go so far as to call it an idée fixe, sir.’

‘Would you indeed?’ said Steine. He waved at Brunswick to go on.

‘Well, they were pretty fixed on it themselves, sir. When we asked them about anything else, they were unhelpful, but of course they are upset. Fortunately they gave us the names of some friends, including an old boyfriend of Miss Ashley’s who is a skater in the Ice Circus, which is a nice coincidence, as we are going there shortly to talk to Buster Bond, the star of the show and the last person to see Officer Andy alive.’

‘Mr Bond owns a Thunderbird, sir,’ Twitten piped up, ‘which is apparently a highly distinctive vehicle from America, which doubles as a gramophone.’

‘I saw that Thunderbird last night!’ exclaimed Brunswick.

‘Did you, sir? Golly. And you recognised it?’

‘Of course I did. You don’t see one of those every day, son. It drew up outside the Sports Stadium at about twenty-past seven. When I was waiting for Barbara Ashley. That must have been him.’

Steine held up a hand to stop the flow of conversation. Glad as he was to know that investigations were ongoing, and that Brunswick could recognise American sports cars, there was something essential missing from his desk.

‘Does either of you know how to make a cup of tea?’ he asked, at last.

The others exchanged glances.

‘No, sir,’ said Twitten.

‘Afraid not, sir,’ admitted Brunswick.

‘And Mrs Groynes isn’t …?’

‘She was here earlier,’ said Twitten, ‘but it’s the weekend. And she intimated she had a very busy day ahead. Friends visiting, she said.’

Steine considered this surprising information. ‘Mrs Groynes has friends?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Twitten, carefully. ‘Hard to imagine, isn’t it, sir? Mrs Groynes having a life outside of being a charlady?’

Steine shuffled some papers on his desk. This was a dangerous moment, as all persons present were aware. But he was in no mood today to discuss Twitten’s irritating delusions concerning Mrs Groynes.

‘Impossible, I’d say,’ he pronounced, with an air of finality. He looked up. ‘So, what else? Carry on with your report. Anything on that poor AA man, Twitten?’

‘Not really, sir, to be honest.’ Twitten raised his notebook and flipped a couple of pages. ‘We’ve had much less luck with him so far. Mr Hollibon at the AA control room gave us an address for Officer Andy’s sister in Hove, which is where Officer Andy lived, and also told us a curious thing about a signpost on the London road near to where Officer Andy’s body was found, which had been turned around.’

‘How odd.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, this detail might be unrelated, but it also might be—’ Abruptly Twitten stopped talking. He’d been about to say ‘significant’.

‘It might be what, Twitten?’

‘Well, you know, sir. It might be …’ He tilted his head to one side, as he searched his mental thesaurus. ‘Ooh, I know. It might be bally germane, sir.’

This was enough for Steine. He raised his hand again and looked out of the window, as if in thought. It was something he often did. It was, if you like, his trademark move. When they made a film about the Middle Street Massacre, the actor playing Inspector Steine (the great John Gregson) had done it too – very brilliantly. In close-up, you felt you could see the cogs whirring in his mind, as mighty deductions were made and mighty plans were hatched. When Inspector Steine sat unmoving like this, the only thing you could do was wait.

Finally, he spoke. ‘Look, going back a bit, I don’t understand what you said about beauty contests being rigged.’

‘Really, sir?’ said Brunswick. ‘Why?’

‘Because it simply doesn’t happen. I’ve been a judge myself and the most beautiful girl always wins, just as the best Knickerbocker Glory will win on Monday. That contest last week had a stunning winner – you saw her yourself, Brunswick. Well-defined eyebrows, hourglass figure, creamy skin. Knocked your girl into a cocked hat.’

Brunswick looked pained at this gratuitous slur, but said nothing.

‘I think the point is, sir,’ said Twitten, ‘that such a beautiful woman should not have been allowed to enter.’

Steine huffed with impatience. ‘That makes no sense, Twitten. Of course she should be allowed. It was a beauty contest! And she was a local girl, I remember that.’

‘But even if the winner was a local girl,’ said Brunswick, ‘Miss Ashley’s point was that she was a professional model, while the other girls – like herself – had normal nine-to-five jobs, or were at school or secretarial college, and didn’t get free make-up and training and expensive costumes.’

‘All right. But are you suggesting that Miss Ashley was actually put to death for saying such things?’

‘I agree it’s far-fetched, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘But at least with the Dairy Maid contests there’s some kind of link to milk bottles. Possibly the thing all the victims have in common is these never-ending bally beauty contests sponsored by milk marketing. I looked in the paper, sir, and there are five milky beauty contests being held this weekend, one of them for girls under nine! Evidently Mr Carbody used to judge them until a year ago, when he was obliged to stop. People said he was too harsh in his comments.’

‘I bet he was, that horrible man,’ said Steine, shuddering at the mention of Cedric Carbody’s name. He turned to Brunswick. ‘Did Twitten tell you what Carbody did to me last night?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He tried to sabotage me on the wireless! What had I ever done to him?’

‘Perhaps he hated policemen in general, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘It’s not unknown.’

‘That’s very true, Brunswick. And yet all we do, day after day, is work our fingers to the bone, wearing out shoe leather, enforcing the law for their protection! Which reminds me, Brunswick.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I absolutely forbid you to go undercover in this case.’

‘Right, sir. To be fair, though, sir, I don’t think there are any organised villains involved, so—’

‘Yes, yes, I understand that. But I can hear you now, Brunswick! “Permission to join the Ice Circus, sir”; “Permission to pose as a kindly Automobile Association patrolman”; “Permission to infiltrate the beauty contest business posing as a shorthand-typist from Crawley who loves animals and dreams of becoming an actress”. I just won’t have it! You and Twitten will work jointly on this. You will ask questions, you will walk about, and you will solve these murders like policemen. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. Understood, sir.’

‘And Brunswick.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t start talking about organised villains again. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: there are no organised villains in this town. The Middle Street Massacre wiped them out!’