The row went on all evening. Emma managed to go through the motions of making the children’s supper, putting Jonathan to bed and reading to the girls. Then she descended to the sitting room. By now she was almost looking forward to the argument. Edgar was sitting in his usual chair, reading the paper. Was he going to be conciliatory, to tell her he loved her, that he understood? No, when he looked up, his eyes still had that cold, hard glitter to them.
‘What would happen to the children,’ he said, ‘if you’d been abducted? Dear God, you had Jonathan with you.’
‘Oh, nothing must ever harm your precious son.’
‘Emma!’ Edgar stood up and his voice made the windows rattle. ‘How can you say that?’
‘It’s true,’ said Emma, now perilously near tears. ‘You don’t care about me, except as the mother of your children and as . . . as a housewife.’
‘A housewife! I don’t think of you as a housewife.’
‘Yes, you do. You expect me to keep everything clean and tidy, iron your shirts, put food on the table. Make bloody steak and kidney pie. I used to be a detective sergeant. I solved cases. And I had to stop. Because I married you.’ She was crying properly now.
‘You wanted to get married,’ said Edgar.
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘I wanted to be your wife. Not the house’s.’
‘We could get a cleaner. A nanny.’
‘That wouldn’t solve anything,’ said Emma, ‘because I still wouldn’t be a detective.’
She thought that Edgar would come across the room to comfort her, as he always did when she was crying, but instead he said, in that cold superintendent’s voice, ‘No, you’re not a detective and you shouldn’t try to be one. You could have been killed today. By your own arrogance and stupidity.’
Edgar slept badly, the quarrel running round and round in his head. He wanted to make up with Emma but he was still furious. They had had very few arguments in the course of their married life and it was as if they had been storing everything up for this one. Edgar could not believe that he could feel so angry with Emma, his wife, the woman he had loved steadily for over eleven years, probably since the moment he first saw her. Even the sound of her quiet breathing infuriated him. How could she sleep after the things she’d said to him? After the things he’d said to her? It was a relief when the alarm went off at six.
‘Don’t bother to get up,’ he said to Emma, who had sat up, bleary-eyed. ‘I’m going into work. Don’t take the children onto the beach today. We think that’s where the mods and rockers will congregate.’
‘You don’t have to tell me how to look after our children,’ said Emma.
‘It seems as if I do,’ said Edgar. ‘It might be dangerous. If you care about their safety, that is.’ He left the room before she could answer.
Edgar argued silently with Emma all the way to the station. Despite everything, though, he was pleased to see the station full when he arrived. He’d asked for volunteers to work at the weekend and it seemed that everyone had come in. He sent a panda car down to Madeira Terrace on the seafront and the report came back that there were a few groups of mods and rockers but no trouble as yet. It was a sunny day and the beaches were full of holidaymakers. Edgar had increased the numbers of officers on the beat but, apart from the usual incidents (lost children, missing purses, an attempt to break into the penny arcade on the West Pier) Brighton was fairly peaceful. Edgar began to feel guilty that he’d made so many people miss their bank holiday weekend. Should he ring Emma, say that she could take the children out? But he heard her voice saying, You don’t have to tell me how to look after our children. He didn’t want to have another row with her, on the phone at work. They could make it up that evening.
He was glad when his phone rang. It was an old friend, Inspector Fred Jarvis from Scotland Yard.
‘Are you getting ready for the great invasion?’ said Jarvis. He had a laconic delivery that made everything sound like the build-up to a joke. ‘The battle of the mods and rockers.’
‘I’m ready,’ said Edgar. ‘But the invaders aren’t here yet.’
‘They’ll come,’ said Jarvis. ‘I’d heard that Monday was going to be the big day.’
‘Have you got secret intelligence?’
‘Yeah. I’m a rocker in my spare time. But that’s not why I called. We checked out Angels Modelling Agency.’
‘You did? What did you think?’
‘Seems legit. They do a lot of glamour work, which seems to mean girls taking their clothes off, but there’s no law against that. Lou Abrahams is quite a respected photographer. He’s published books.’ Jarvis managed to make this last sound very sinister.
‘You know we’re looking for an American who might have been approaching girls offering them modelling work?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jarvis, and Edgar thought he could hear him lighting a cigarette. Edgar hadn’t smoked for years, since the war, but suddenly his soul ached for nicotine. ‘I don’t think Lou is your man. He’s quite distinctive-looking, for one thing, and he’s no youngster.’
‘Tallish, oldish, that’s the description we have from the girls.’
‘Pure poetry,’ said Jarvis. ‘But everyone over thirty’s old to these kids. You and I are old, Edgar.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ said Edgar. ‘Did you send someone round to talk to the girl in Dollis Hill, Isabel Rowlands?’
‘Yeah. Do you remember Alan Deacon?’
The name brought back a memory. A memory and a smell: a neat little house in Wembley, a woman dead in a playpen, Deacon in policeman’s uniform, Edgar holding a spectacularly smelly baby.
‘I remember Deacon. A good man.’
‘One of the best. Dollis Hill’s his patch. He’s going to call on the family this morning.’
‘Thank you,’ said Edgar. ‘I think it’s possible that our man might be stalking Isabel.’
‘I’ve got Lou Abrahams under surveillance just in case it’s him. But I don’t think it is. Doesn’t feel right.’
‘I need a break on this case,’ said Edgar. ‘Four girls abducted, one girl dead.’
‘And now he’s got Ruby Magic too. Now that is a tragedy. Ruby’s a real favourite with me and Mrs Jarvis.’ Jarvis always referred to his wife like this, again with a slightly ironical note in his voice. Edgar had never met her. And Jarvis had no idea of his own history with Ruby.
‘Ruby’s vanished into thin air,’ said Edgar. And he thought of the times that he’d seen Ruby on stage, her turn at the cabinet door, waving and smiling, but then, when the door was opened again . . . the girl had disappeared.
‘Look at me, Mummy!’
‘I am looking,’ said Emma. She wondered how much harder she could be staring at Marianne. But her daughter did look adorable, perched on top of a skewbald cob called Toby. Emma wished that she’d brought a camera.
‘My turn,’ said Sophie. Jonathan strained at the straps on his pushchair, wanting to touch the horse’s glossy brown-and-white leg.
‘Marianne’s got to go round the field first,’ said Emma. ‘Then it’s your turn.’ Toby belonged to Emma’s old school-friend Vera, who also owned a highly strung chestnut called Tempest. Vera had invited Emma and the children over to Rottingdean where the horses were stabled and Emma was glad that she had accepted. At least it stopped her obsessing over the row with Edgar. She couldn’t believe that he had woken up still angry with her, still in that maddeningly superior state of mind. It might be dangerous. If you care about their safety, that is. How dare he talk to her like that? She would never put her children at risk. The trouble was that Edgar had got used to being the boss at work, everyone doing what he said. Bob would never argue with him and she imagined Meg Connolly and the rest hanging on his every word. He hadn’t even been right about the mods and rockers on the beach. They’d had a good view of the promenade from the bus and all they could see were holidaymakers and deckchairs. The sun was shining, the sea was sparkling. A perfect day.
Vera led Toby round the field. Emma had ridden the horse once and she remembered that Toby’s main interest was eating. How awful for him to have to walk on grass, like a hungry human walking on bread and butter. ‘Come on Toby.’ Vera pulled him away from a tasty hedge.
‘Look at me, Mummy!’
‘I am looking.’
Now Vera urged Toby into a reluctant trot. ‘Remember what I told you, Marianne. Up down, up down.’
Marianne’s slim body rose in the saddle, perfectly in time.
‘She’s a natural,’ shouted Vera to Emma, as she stood by the fence with Jonathan in her arms. Sophie watched enviously from her perch on the top of the gate.
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ said Sophie.
‘I’m not,’ said Emma.
But she was.
Max was walking along the promenade at Brighton but he was not in the mood to enjoy the view. The whole scene: the sun, the sea, the holidaymakers (the English at their worst, sunburnt and noisy), seemed almost an insult when Ruby was still missing. He thought of the day that he’d seen her from the Rolls Royce, walking along this very stretch of road in her pink suit. Where had she been going? Was she on her way to see Emma? If so, she had never turned up.
Max walked past the Palace Pier, a blaring cacophony of pop music, the shouts of stallholders and screams of thrill-seekers on the Ghost Train. He could see the gypsy caravan by the railings. Should he go and ask Astarte where Ruby was? He’d met the famous medium once and had been impressed by her ethereal good looks, less so by her professed ability to see into the future. Lydia read her horoscope every morning (she was Virgo, Max was Scorpio; a clash of opposites apparently) but, as far as Max could see, it always said the same thing: you are special and wonderful, special and wonderful things will happen to you at some unspecified point in your life. All very nice, but hardly the basis for informed decision making.
He was at the arches now, the place where he’d last seen Ruby. A gaggle of mods went by on their scooters, all chrome and khaki. Like Joe, Max could see the attraction of the suits but he’d never had any desire to go round in a pack. At school he’d been described as ‘lacking team spirit’, something he took as a compliment. Were these spotty youngsters really about to destroy the town, as Edgar feared? It didn’t seem very likely. The rockers were slightly more threatening, they were older for one thing and had more horsepower. But he only saw one rocker on his walk, an overweight man in a leather jacket eating chips by the Volks Railway. As stand-offs went, this one was proving very dull.
Max had reached Black Rock without his mood improving. What should he do now? He didn’t want to go back to the hotel. There were too many hours to worry and think about Ruby. Should he call on Edgar, find out if he’d made any progress with the Angels Modelling Agency? No, Edgar would be preoccupied with his non-existent riot. There was a good Italian restaurant at the Montpelier Hotel. He’d go there. It would pass a few hours, at least.
After Sophie had had her ride and even Jonathan had sat on patient Toby’s back, it was Emma’s turn. Vera gave her a leg-up. Toby felt much higher and more unstable than she had remembered. She was glad that she had worn trousers but, even so, her thin slacks rode up so that her calves were pinched by the stirrup leathers. Vera mounted Tempest and led the way to the field. Tempest was doing his usual curvetting, head-tossing thing but Toby plodded along stolidly, only stopping to take a chunk out of the hedge. Once on the grass, Tempest immediately started to canter and Toby followed, though at a more sober pace. Emma held on to his variegated mane as well as to the reins and hoped for the best. But it was really lovely to be on horseback with the Downs all around and the village at the foot of the hill. As they passed the gate—Sophie on the top bar and Marianne holding Jonathan—the children cheered. Emma felt her spirits lift. At least the children still loved her.
Afterwards, Emma and the girls helped Vera rub Toby down and stood for a while in his stable, breathing in the wonderful, bosky horsy smell. Jonathan had fallen asleep in his pushchair, worn out by all the excitement. They thanked Vera (‘No problem. Come any time’) and walked back down Steyning Road. Emma took the girls to see the pond and Rudyard Kipling’s house but they weren’t particularly impressed.
‘I’ve seen ponds before,’ said Sophie. Emma thought of her abortive wait by the ducks at Queen’s Park and she felt herself growing angry again. But this time it was with herself.
Marianne wasn’t interested in Kipling or Emma’s smuggling tales.
‘Why didn’t they just buy the brandy and stuff from the shops?’
‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Emma. ‘Complicated and dangerous.’
Watch the wall, my darling, while the gentlemen go by.
‘Can we get some chips on the beach?’ said Marianne. ‘Please, Mummy.’
‘All right,’ said Emma, although her legs ached and she wanted to go home.
On the High Street, Marianne stopped by the window of a shop called The Smugglers’ Cave.
‘Can we go in, Mummy? They’ve got lovely little glass animals.’
Jonathan had just woken up and Emma dreaded the idea of letting him loose in a shop containing glass animals.
‘Not this time,’ she said. ‘We need to hurry or there won’t be any chips left.’
She thought of the last time she’d been on the beach at Rottingdean, the police tape guarding the place where Sara’s body had lain. Suddenly, she wanted to go home and bolt the doors. But she marched on towards the sea, pushing Johnno and holding Sophie by the hand. Marianne dawdled behind, brooding on the unfairness of life.