It was Monday morning by the time that Edgar got to the prison. When he arrived at the station on Sunday night, Bob and his men were already searching the grounds and surrounding countryside. The hunt went on all night but there was no sign of Ernest Coggins. Edgar had called in reinforcements and they were there today, a slow-moving blue line edging its way across the yellow spring fields. Edgar had the feeling, though, that Coggins would be miles away by now. Edgar had also informed Sir Crispian who had, predictably, been furious. ‘I said at the time that Coggins should be kept in a secure prison. Don’t hold with all this open nonsense. Hanging’s too good for criminals, in my opinion.’ Edgar had promised Sir Crispian that he would visit the prison personally.
Ford Open Prison had once been an ex-RAF base and the sight of the Nissen huts and overgrown runways always brought back the mixed feelings of fear and boredom that Edgar associated with the war. Despite the open spaces, the prison was secure, surrounded by high fences and with a modern alarm system. Edgar couldn’t remember another break-out.
He showed his warrant card at the main door and was ushered into a waiting room before another door was unlocked and an orderly was escorting him to the prison governor’s office.
The governor, a nervous-looking man called Francis West, who looked more like a vicar than someone in charge of a prison, offered Edgar tea or coffee, made by a ‘trustee’. The window looked out over outhouses where glum inmates were feeding two smug-looking pigs.
Edgar asked for coffee because he didn’t want to look as if he distrusted drinks made by the prisoners.
‘I’m so shocked,’ said West, as soon as the door had shut behind the trustee. ‘I never thought that Coggins was the type.’
‘You know that the girl Coggins abducted has gone missing again?’
‘Yes, I read about it in the papers.’
‘Would Coggins have known about it?’
‘Well, inmates aren’t allowed newspapers but word always gets round somehow. They make these ham radio sets, you see. It’s against the rules but some always slip through the net.’
Edgar wondered how many other things had slipped through the net.
‘Did Coggins seem agitated recently?’ he asked.
West took a sip of his coffee. Edgar admired the way he could drink it without gagging. His own cup, with a kind of scum floating on top of the liquid, sat untouched in front of him.
‘Not agitated as such,’ said West. ‘But I spoke to him yesterday. He worked at the prison farm. He loved animals and was very good with them. We were talking about the hens and he said that he thought they should have more light and air. We shouldn’t keep innocent things caged up, he said.’
‘Do you think he could have been talking about Rhonda? Or himself?’
‘I didn’t think so at the time. He was quite a sensitive chap. Very concerned about animal welfare. It distressed him that we ate the pigs.’ He waved towards the window. The animals could be heard oinking, even through the reinforced glass. On second thoughts, maybe they shouldn’t be looking so smug.
‘Can you tell me what happened yesterday?’ said Edgar. ‘I know you’ve already given a statement to DI Willis.’
‘Coggins was loading the egg van,’ said West. ‘It was one of his regular jobs. The gates were open to let the van through and he made a dash for it. The guards gave chase, of course, but Coggins had vanished. He must have had an accomplice waiting for him.’
‘Any idea who the accomplice could have been?’
‘He was good friends with another inmate called Davies, Howell Davies, an ex-actor who was in for fraud. Davies was released last year and I know they kept in touch.’
‘Did you tell this to DI Willis?’
‘Yes. He took down the last address we had for Davies.’
‘Thank you,’ said Edgar, standing up. ‘If anything else occurs to you, let me know. While I’m here, could I possibly have a word with an inmate called Malcolm Henratty?’
‘Henratty? Someone came to see him the other day. About his daughter.’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘I’d like to speak to him too, if I may.’
‘Of course,’ said West. ‘I feel terrible about this whole business.’ He took another sip of his disgusting coffee while, outside, the pigs oinked miserably.
Meg was pleased to see Veronica, Isabel and a couple of other Bobby Soxers in place outside the Ritz. She was afraid that, as it was Monday and a school day, they might not be there. But Isabel told her that Monday morning was set aside for something called Domestic Science and no one bothered if you didn’t attend. ‘It’s all about ironing your husband’s shirts,’ said Veronica, ‘and when I marry Bobby we’ll have servants to do that.’ ‘When I marry Bobby’ was a common theme amongst the Bobby Soxers. They never seemed to wonder how, barring polygamy or a swift change in religion, they were all going to achieve this ambition.
‘If I get married,’ she said, ‘which I don’t think I will because the men I meet are all two foot tall, I’ll make my husband iron his own shirts.’
‘You do make me laugh, Meg,’ said Isabel. Which was friendly at least, if slightly worrying.
They settled in a café opposite which had a view of the famous arches. The owner, a friendly, sardonic Italian, also seemed relaxed about the girls sitting for hours over their milkshakes.
‘You know the other day,’ said Meg, ‘when you said that Rhonda had met a man outside the Ritz who said that she should be a model?’
‘Yes,’ said Veronica, using her straw to hoover up the final bubbles.
‘Did Rhonda say anything else about this man? She thought he was an agent, didn’t she?’
‘Why?’ said Jean, who had been watching them silently up until now. She hadn’t ordered a drink and Meg wondered if she was short of money. She didn’t live at home like Veronica and Isabel and so presumably didn’t have the same access to parental handouts. Meg had never had pocket money herself, in a family of nine the concept was as alien as space travel, but she could spot middle-class girls a mile off. And Jean wasn’t one.
‘Rhonda’s missing, isn’t she?’ Jean went on. ‘I read it in the paper. Why are you asking all these questions? Are you a policewoman?’
Meg took a deep breath. She hadn’t been planning to break disguise quite so soon. She remembered what Jean had said about hating the ‘pigs’. But the girls would have to know sooner or later and, besides, it felt wrong to lie in answer to a direct question.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am. We’re investigating Rhonda’s disappearance and I was asked to go undercover. Look, here’s my identification card.’
Veronica and Isabel gasped as if she had performed one of Max Mephisto’s magic tricks.
‘That’s so cool.’ Veronica.
‘Amazing.’ Isabel.
‘Do you have a gun?’ Sadie.
Jean stood up. ‘Get out,’ she said, pointing towards the door with a trembling finger. ‘You’re not one of us. You’re not a Bobby Soxer. You’re a grown-up.’
This last sounded so ridiculous that Meg could not stop herself laughing, despite the genuine anger in Jean’s voice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she said. ‘I’m a girl just like you. Just like Rhonda. Her family are worried about her. Imagine if it was your sister who’d gone missing.’
‘I haven’t got a sister,’ said Jean, but she lowered the accusatory arm.
‘Nor has Rhonda. She’s an only child. Just think how worried her parents must be.’
‘Why should we help the pigs?’ said Jean.
‘Don’t think of helping the police,’ said Meg. ‘Think of it as helping Rhonda. She’s a real Bobby Soxer, after all. She loved Bobby. I’ve seen her room at school. It’s full of pictures of him. The man who asked about modelling might be a suspect. That’s why I came up here to talk to you again. It’s torture squeezing into this skirt, I can tell you.’ This made Isabel laugh and the ghost of a smile even flitted across Jean’s face.
‘Do you remember anything about the man?’ said Meg. ‘Anything at all?’
‘No,’ said Isabel. ‘Like I said, he was just a man. Tallish, oldish, in a suit.’
‘Did Rhonda say anything about him?’
Veronica and Isabel looked at each other.
‘Just one thing,’ said Isabel. ‘She said he was American. That’s what made her think that he must be the real thing.’
Malcolm Henratty was a wiry, dark-haired man with a rather piratical air, although that could just have been the gold earring in his right ear. He was short with receding hair but there was something about him that made Edgar understand how he could have seduced Sara’s mother, Bernadette. Henratty reminded him of Emma’s friend Tol Barton, whose Romany charm Edgar had always slightly distrusted.
‘I know an officer came to see you on Friday,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m very sorry about your daughter.’
‘Thank you,’ said Henratty; he had a London accent with an odd, transatlantic twang. ‘I’d never even seen Sara but, even so, it was a shock.’
‘Do you mind me asking why you’d never seen her?’ asked Edgar. ‘I mean, you knew she existed, didn’t you? You knew that Bernadette was pregnant.’
Henratty paused before replying. He had bright, dark eyes, like those of a blackbird or a magpie.
‘It was easier that way,’ he said. ‘I knew that I wouldn’t be much of a father to her. I thought that Bernie and Sara would be better off without me. I’ve always been a bad boy, Superintendent.’
This was said almost mockingly but Edgar didn’t return the smile. He didn’t find Henratty very endearing and, besides, at nearly forty he really should stop referring to himself as a ‘boy’.
‘Did you keep in touch with Bernadette at all?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Henratty. ‘I didn’t even know she was dead until that policeman told me. Poor Bernie. She was such a pretty girl too. They tell me Sara looked like her.’
‘I believe so,’ said Edgar. ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would have abducted and killed Sara?’
Henratty’s face darkened, making him look more piratical still. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The scum. To kill an innocent girl like that. If I ever see him . . .’
Petty criminals were always the most judgemental about their more hardened brethren. That was why child killers got such a hard time in prison. Edgar understood this but there was something rather disingenuous about it at the same time, a self-righteous unloading of guilt.
‘You’re in for theft, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yeah. Robbed an off-licence. The things a man will do to get a drink.’ The smile flickered again. Edgar stared stonily back.
‘Did you know a man in here called Coggins, Ernest Coggins?’
‘He’s the chap who escaped, isn’t he? Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Did you know Coggins?’
‘Not really. I might have exchanged the odd word with him, that’s all. Odd fellow. Always feeding the birds or staring at the pigs. I thought that he might be a bit simple, to tell you the truth.’
But Coggins had been clever enough to escape while cocksure Henratty was still in prison. There was nothing more to be gained from the interview. Edgar signalled to the guard that he was about to leave. But, as he moved towards the door, Henratty said, ‘Superintendent. Have you got a photograph of Sara?’
‘There’s one at the station, yes.’
‘Could I have it? After you’ve finished with it, I mean.’
And Edgar found himself agreeing.
Driving back to Brighton, Edgar thought about Malcolm Henratty and about Ernest Coggins, the man who had loved animals and worried about their welfare. He’d had a dog called Lenin, a dog that Rhonda had apparently cared about. Where was Lenin now? Probably dead, like his namesake. Coggins couldn’t have abducted Rhonda this time. He’d been in prison until yesterday. But, all the same, his escape was a coincidence too far. Coggins was apparently coming up for a sentence review and, as a prisoner with a previously unblemished record, he stood a good chance of an early release. What had happened to make him throw this chance away?
At the station, Bob was on the telephone to the search team.
‘Nothing doing,’ he said, when he put the receiver down. ‘Man seems to have vanished into thin air. We checked on his friend Davies though. He hasn’t been seen at his digs for over a week. I think we should assume that they’re working together.’
‘I agree,’ said Edgar. ‘We should warn the Surrey police. It’s not inconceivable that Coggins might approach Rhonda’s family. Like I said, her mother’s in a very frail state of health.’
‘Did you see Henratty?’ asked Bob.
‘Yes. Not a very pleasant character. Did you interview him?’
‘No. I sent O’Neill. Thought he might be more intimidating.’
‘Henratty didn’t strike me as easily intimidated. Said he’d never even seen Sara. Had never even bothered to ask after her, much less send her mother any money.’
‘He sounds like a bad lot,’ said Bob. ‘Did he have any links with Coggins?’
‘He claimed not to know him very well. Said he’d always thought of Coggins as slightly simple.’
‘He managed to escape from prison though.’
‘My thoughts exactly. I think we should get some protection for Rhonda’s family.’
‘I’ll speak to Surrey now,’ said Bob. He put his hand on the telephone but, before he could dial, Edgar’s secretary Rita appeared. ‘Please, sir, Max Mephisto’s on the line for you.’
Edgar took the call in his office. ‘Max. What’s up?’
‘Probably nothing.’ But Edgar could hear a note of concern in Max’s voice. ‘It’s just, I was due to meet Ruby at the Grand for dinner yesterday and she didn’t turn up. I didn’t think much of it. She’s got a busy life, maybe she forgot. But I rang her flat last night and there was no answer. So I tried the TV studio today and apparently she didn’t turn up this morning.’
‘She hasn’t turned up for work?’ Edgar could imagine Ruby missing dinner with her father, or even a date with a boyfriend, but never a rehearsal.
‘I know. It’s very unlike her.’
‘Ruby was meant to be meeting Emma on Saturday,’ said Edgar. ‘Ruby said she had something to tell her but she never arrived.’
‘On Saturday?’ Now Max’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘I thought I saw Ruby on Saturday. Walking along the prom, towards the Palace Pier.’
‘Emma was meeting her on the pier.’
‘Can you check this out, Ed? Send someone round to her flat?’
‘I will,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m sure she’s fine but I’ll get the Met onto it.’ As he said this, Edgar remembered the last time Ruby had gone missing. That time she had been the bait, a trap to catch Max. Who was the intended target this time?