At just about the time Twitten and Crystal met at the Theatre Royal, Brunswick and Maisie were outside the Hippodrome, halfway back in a loud, excited queue of holidaymakers, most of them swaying unsteadily, already the worse for wear. Brunswick himself had consumed three halves of Watney’s in twenty minutes at the Queen Adelaide; Maisie might be only nineteen years old, but she had easily kept pace with her disgusting port-and-Tizers.
It’s an aspect of old-school Variety that is often overlooked in respectful academic accounts of the genre’s sad and lonely death-by-television in the 1950s – that what made the weak comedy routines sound so funny in the halls (and the tawdry ‘glamour’ even passable), was the audience’s prior consumption of alcohol in quantities that would nowadays be considered catastrophically injurious to health.
So Brunswick wasn’t at his sharpest, perhaps, when he saw an elegantly dressed woman with striking red hair cross the road to the Hippodrome and enter through the stage door. What caught his attention was how fast she was moving: trotting in her high heels, head forwards – and holding a gloved hand to her face, as if in some distress. She was also wearing an extra-large raincoat, which was odd given the balminess of the evening. Brunswick looked back down the street. Was someone chasing her? For a while he did nothing, knowing that Maisie would strongly object if he abandoned her; but in the end, he just had to make a move. Instructing Maisie to keep his place in the queue, and promising to be quick, he raced to the stage door, cursing himself for not following the suspect instantly.
Curiously, the thought flashed through his mind, ‘Wait till I tell Twitten!’ – which he realised ought to be grounds for concern. He wanted Constable Twitten to be pleased with him? And yet, there was no doubt about it. If this woman turned out to be the Opinion Poll lady, he glowed with pride at the thought of young Twitten patting him on the back and saying, ‘Jolly well done, sir. I think you’ve solved the case!’
Stage Door Albert greeted him. Albert was seventy-five years old, chesty and as deaf as a post. He was also one of Brunswick’s hopeless ‘irregulars’ who happily received ten bob from time to time, and in return never came up with the goods.
‘Albert, did you see a woman come through here? Five minutes ago? Red hair?’
Albert coughed. ‘Pardon?’ he said.
‘A woman! Red hair!’
‘Went down there,’ said Albert, pointing to the dressing rooms. ‘Been here a few times. Someone’s bit on the side, most likely,’ he said.
‘Whose?’
Albert shrugged. He’d seen it all, of course. The animal acts were the worst. Through force of habit, Brunswick slipped him a florin, and made his way down the foul-smelling distempered corridor lined with closed dressing-room doors. Every name was thrilling to him: Buster Brown the human cannon-ball! Tommy Tricks the magician (probably not his real name)! Joanne Carver the strong woman!
Was Carver possibly the Opinion Poll lady? Having seen her perform, Brunswick had noticed how feminine she could make herself look, despite the amazing power in her hands. Onstage, to emphasise her feminine assets (and to draw attention away from her manly wrists), she dressed in fishnet stockings, high heels and a strapless bodice; she spoke beautifully to the audience, like Lady Isobel Barnett on What’s My Line?; and then to general amazement she would pick up a table by just one leg and hold it high above her head.
Brunswick knocked on Miss Carver’s door, but there was no answer. He tried the handle. It was locked. He was sure he was on to something. Hadn’t one of the break-in victims reported that a heavy bookcase had been moved by the robber? Previously this had seemed to indicate the Opinion Poll lady wasn’t working alone. Well, maybe not. Maybe the lady and the intruder were one and the same. In the corridor, Brunswick could smell lavender, make-up and explosives. He was sure he was on the right lines.
But besides knocking and trying the handle, he could do nothing more at present. Breaking in would require a warrant. It was frustrating, but there it was. In the meantime, he couldn’t help noticing, at the end of the corridor – with the biggest star on the door – was Professor Mesmer’s room. Brunswick, gripped by a desire to meet his hero (and emboldened by the Watney’s), knocked on it impulsively.
‘Not now, Albert!’ came a pleasant call from within, but Brunswick’s beer continued to work its magic: he grasped the handle and entered. And there he found the great Mesmer sitting at his mirror with his back to the door, applying a fake beard. The room was a mess of costumes and paraphernalia, and overflowing linen baskets, and on the wall were large coloured charts of the human head. There was a full tumbler of whisky near Bobby’s hand, with the half-drunk bottle beside it.
‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Bobby, with an easy smile. ‘I’m sorry but members of the public aren’t allowed in here, you know.’
‘Police, sir.’ Hat in hand, Brunswick produced his identity card. Bobby raised his eyebrows to acknowledge it, but still didn’t look round from the mirror. The beard now secured, he started work on his eyeliner.
‘I still don’t know why you’re here,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir. I’m looking for a woman,’ said Brunswick. ‘Would you happen to know a woman with red hair? She came down here a few minutes ago, you see, sir. And as far as I’m aware, she hasn’t left.’
‘Well, she’s not in here,’ said Bobby. ‘You’re welcome to search. Try Tommy Tricks. He has females coming and going all day, lucky devil. He makes them laugh, apparently.’
‘That’s very helpful, sir. But can I ask – Miss Carver, sir. Have you ever seen her in a red wig?’
Bobby frowned and took a sip of his whisky. ‘Miss Carver? You mean Jo? Not that I can remember. But she’s not here all the time.’
‘No?’
‘Not many people know this, but she holds down a very lucrative day job as a brickie. Doing shifts on building sites. Hod carrier extraordinaire.’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’ Brunswick turned to go and then couldn’t help himself. When would he ever get the chance again to tell Professor Mesmer how brilliant he was?
‘I’m a great fan of your abilities, sir,’ he gushed. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying. What you do is astonishing, absolutely flaming well astonishing.’
Bobby smiled, and at last swung round to look at Brunswick. He waggled the beard, which made Brunswick laugh.
‘I’ve seen you three times, sir.’
‘No!’
‘You’re a genius, sir. I wouldn’t ever want you feeling my head bumps, that’s for sure. By the way, you’re much, much younger than I imagined.’
Brunswick realised he was quite nervous now that he and Professor Mesmer were face to face.
‘What was your name, officer?’
Brunswick was overcome. ‘Sergeant Brunswick, sir. Jim.’ He swallowed. ‘Jim Brunswick,’ he clarified. ‘Jim. Or Jimmy, if you like. Well, thank you, sir. Sorry to bother you. I’d better go, there’s someone waiting.’
‘And you’re looking for a red-haired woman, for some reason?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘It’s in connection with some break-ins. Police business, that’s all. Someone answering her description came in here.’
‘You saw her yourself?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Well, I wish you luck in finding her, Sergeant.’ Bobby stood up and pointed at Brunswick’s forehead. ‘But before you go, I feel I ought to tell you that you show a very well-developed organ of Causality. Though I expect you know that. It’s what you use as a detective, tracing things back to their causes.’
Brunswick felt embarrassed. ‘Causality, you say?’
‘If I may –? Look, could you sit on that chair for a moment and face away from me?’
Brunswick hesitated. What an amazing thing to happen! ‘Well, I shouldn’t really –’
‘It won’t hurt a bit.’
So Brunswick did as he was told, and the next thing he knew, Professor Mesmer’s fingers were massaging his cranium in precise little circles. It made him feel warm and light-headed, but in a good way. He closed his eyes. He was aware of the coloured patterns on the insides of his eyelids. Whatever Mesmer was saying to him (was he saying anything?), it was soothing, and lovely. He felt a bit like one of those blown-up plastic lilos the kiddies floated on sometimes, lying stretched out, rocking gently on a sea that buoyed him up.
‘Yes, it’s as I thought,’ said Bobby, suddenly removing his hands from Brunswick’s head, and jerking him back to reality.
Brunswick opened his eyes.
‘A large organ of Hope, Sergeant. That’s the real thing that drives you. You should rejoice in it. No one ever came to much who didn’t have a pretty big organ of Hope.’
Brunswick was happy to hear it. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, standing up. He felt dizzy. ‘And good luck with the show tonight.’
‘You’re very kind. And I’ve just remembered. I think I have seen Jo in a red wig once or twice. Is it important?’
When Constable Twitten woke up, he was horizontal on a trolley, travelling in a speeding ambulance with its alarm bell ringing. What was he doing here? His vision was bleary; there was a buzzing in his ears; his mouth was dry. Opening his eyes, he was puzzled to see Mrs Groynes, the station charlady, sitting beside him. She appeared to be dressed in quite smart black clothes and a fashionable turban-style hat. Was he delirious?
‘Mrs… Groynes?’ he said.
‘That’s right, dear. Only me.’ She turned and called out, ‘He’s woken up!’
‘Good!’ was the reply from the driver. ‘Nearly there!’
‘Where am I?’ Twitten croaked.
‘You’re going to the hospital, dear. The inspector packed you off, see, on account of you fainting and then babbling like an infant. In your defence, the inspector said it was a regular bloodbath in there. Imagine, in some directions the gore flew twenty feet.’
Twitten struggled to sit up.
‘I shouldn’t be here, Mrs Groynes,’ he said. ‘Could you ask them to stop the ambulance, or turn it round?’
‘I’ll do no such thing.’
‘I should be there, at the theatre. I could be jolly useful. I’m good at working things out! I won a medal for forensic observation!’
He found he couldn’t hold himself upright, and fell back with a groan.
‘Would you like some water, dear?’
‘Yes, please.’
But when Mrs Groynes asked for water, the ambulance man said Twitten ought to wait till he arrived at the hospital. It would only be a couple of minutes. So instead, she took a miniature bottle of 4711 eau de cologne from her handbag, and dabbed a drop behind each of Twitten’s ears. Bizarrely, it did make him feel a bit better.
‘But why are you here, Mrs Groynes? I don’t understand.’
‘Search me, dear. Think of me as your personal bodyguard.’
Twitten shut his eyes.
‘I really ought to be helping! The boy on the stage said something important after the shot was fired. Inspector Steine needs to know that.’
‘It’s all right. He does know that, as it happens. I told him already, dear.’
‘But how –?’
‘Because I thought it was strange myself. He said, “Effing hell, I didn’t mean –” And then he stopped.’
‘That’s right. That’s exactly what he said.’
‘And then of course the girl on the stage, she said, “Jack! You didn’t!” Inspector Steine knows all about that, dear, too. They’re looking for Jack Braithwaite as we speak. And also Alec Forrester, one of the cast. Both of them have made themselves scarce, apparently. No one saw either of them this evening before the curtain went up. He had a lot of enemies, that Crystal. You’d never guess, to look at him.’
Twitten moaned. It still didn’t make sense that the charlady was with him in this ambulance. ‘Were you there, Mrs Groynes? At the theatre?’
‘I was, dear. Row S. I led the charge out the door, dear! And I was outside with everyone else when the inspector arrived.’ She seemed mildly offended. ‘Blimey, dear, I do have a life, you know, besides making tea and dusting the inspector’s desk!’
‘Of course. I’m so sorry.’ Emotions welled up in Twitten: contrition, helplessness, shame. She patted his hand. ‘When you were babbling back there, dear,’ she said, kindly, ‘you asked quite loudly for a “huggie from mummy”. I thought I should tell you because everyone heard it, and quite a lot of people laughed, and it’s the sort of thing you’ll probably never live down in this town, dear, no matter how hard you try, no matter how long you live.’
* * *
Sergeant Brunswick had just stepped out of the Hippodrome stage door and put his hat back on when two breathless constables caught up with him. Being informed that he had a specially large organ of Hope had really cheered him up, but he had no time to enjoy it. He was wanted at the Theatre Royal at once. The critic Crystal had been shot dead, they said; Constable Twitten was unharmed but on his way to hospital with symptoms of shock (including some very entertaining babbling); the inspector was now interviewing the cast and management. Two suspects were at large.
Pausing only to apologise to Maisie – who was still waiting outside while the rest of the queue had gone in, and duly outraged to be abandoned mid-date (and whose tongue was lemon yellow, for the record) – Brunswick raced through the Lanes to the Theatre Royal, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.
‘Ah, here you are,’ said Steine. He was up on the stage, with four-fifths of the cast in front of him – Penny, Todd Blair and the two older generic character actors whose particulars are happily immaterial. Old Alec Forrester was missing.
Brunswick recognised Todd at once as the menacing presence from the Dirk Bogarde film, and was astonished by how small he was. Todd had just confessed to spilling the beans to Alec about what he’d overheard at the ice cream parlour.
‘I told him. I said, you’ll be toast once that review comes out, mate.’
‘You didn’t!’ gasped Penny.
‘Well, he made me sick. Always playing the big I Am. Always talking about his flaming rounded vowels. All he did was carry a satchel and stagger into the room! Him and his rounded vowels.’
‘I thought I caught you listening to our private conversation,’ said Steine sternly to Todd, having finally put two and two together. ‘And let me say, I very much disapprove of such underhandedness.’ Steine spoke to Todd as if he were a hooligan, not a film star.
‘He must have been very hurt when you told him,’ said Penny. ‘He thought Crystal was his friend.’
‘He wasn’t hurt, he was livid,’ said Todd. ‘I’ll tell you what he said. And there were no rounded vowels in it. He said, “That’s it. That bastard. I’ll fucking kill him.” Sorry, Penny.’
‘No, don’t mind me.’
‘Oh, all right, good. Because then I said, “Well, you’d better do it tonight before he writes that review, mate.” And he said, and I quote, “That’s a good fucking point, Todd. I fucking will.”’
‘Oh, God,’ said Penny. ‘Why didn’t you tell someone?’
‘I didn’t think he’d actually do it!’
Steine had a thought. ‘Has any of you ever seen Mr Forrester with a gun?’
They all shook their heads. ‘No,’ said everyone.
‘Well, it can’t be him, then, can it?’ said Steine, exasperated. He tore up the piece of paper he’d been writing on. Honestly, had these people never heard of FOWPT?
Brunswick used this moment to join the inspector on the stage and produce his own notebook. He tipped his hat to them all and stood to one side, respectfully.
‘So what can you tell me about this missing writer?’ said Steine. ‘What’s his name, Jack something?’
The others all deferred to Penny in a rather obvious manner.
‘I’m Jack Braithwaite’s girlfriend,’ she explained. ‘All I know is that he wasn’t here for curtain-up. I’ve been very worried. He does have a temper, and he was furious about the review Crystal was planning to write! I keep telling myself Jack couldn’t have done this –’
‘Oh, I think he could,’ said Todd Blair.
‘– but he was quite violent earlier today when he first learned about it! And he did say, “I’ll kill him”!’
Steine nodded and made a note. ‘So he was murderously angry about a review that hadn’t been written yet. In ordinary circumstances, that wouldn’t make much sense, but I happen to know personally that Crystal was planning a stinker.’
‘He certainly was,’ agreed Blair.
Brunswick took over, and addressed Penny. ‘What time did you last see Mr Braithwaite, miss?’
‘Around seven, I think,’ she said. ‘He said he needed to pop back to his digs. He said he was worried about something there, but he didn’t say what.’
‘Was he fetching a gun, perhaps?’ said Steine. ‘That would fit in nicely, if it was a gun. Did he mention a gun?’
‘No, of course not.’
Steine made a note. ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘I thought we had him, then.’
‘My point is, he never came back.’
‘Do you have the address of these digs, miss?’ said Brunswick. ‘I can go there immediately, sir.’
‘I think we should both go, Brunswick.’ Steine looked at his watch and sighed. ‘I’ve missed half the concert on the Light Service already. Picking it up at the interval is rarely satisfactory. So, in for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.’
Ten minutes later, accompanied by uniformed officers, Steine and Brunswick arrived at Jack Braithwaite’s digs, in the Clifton Hill area of the town. Braithwaite had been staying with a Mrs Thorpe, a rich widow who kept a spare room for visiting theatricals in a nice Regency house painted white, with views across trees, gardens and rooftops to the glittering sea beyond. It was nearly sunset and the sky in the west was flaring with pinks and oranges. Starlings in their thousands were massing and swooping aerobatically above the West Pier.
As Steine and Brunswick approached the house, the inspector tried to remember the exact form of words used when making an arrest, but for some reason they wouldn’t come easily to mind. So he gave up.
‘You take over from here, Brunswick,’ he said, magnanimously.
‘Really, sir? Thank you, sir.’
‘You remember the exact form of words used when making an arrest, I hope?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then carry on.’
Brunswick knocked at the door, and they waited for a response. He knocked again, without success. Steine felt that by now someone should have answered. Brunswick evidently felt it too.
‘I feel a bit deflated, Sergeant,’ said Steine. ‘You have my permission to find a side window and break in.’
But before Brunswick could act on this instruction, a middle-aged, blue-rinsed woman in an expensive fur stole arrived at the gate and asked them what they were doing. It was Mrs Thorpe. She had been in the audience for A Shilling in the Meter, using a ticket provided by her lodger, Jack Braithwaite. Like everyone else, she’d arrived home a lot earlier than expected (although she had stopped for a stiffening drink or two en route). Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to help the police taking statements outside the theatre; she’d been so fixated on the play, she said – which she had found raw and original and full of promise – that she really hadn’t noticed anything untoward until the shot. She and the inspector discussed all this on the doorstep, and then she asked him again why he was there.
‘To arrest Mr Braithwaite for the cold-blooded murder of A. S. Crystal, of course,’ said Steine.
‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘But Mr Braithwaite would never –!’
Brunswick chipped in, reassuringly, ‘Or possibly to eliminate him from our enquiries, sir. We don’t actually know he’s guilty yet. If he has an alibi, he could be in the clear.’
Steine shrugged. That wasn’t how he saw matters at all.
‘But why would he be here?’ asked the landlady. ‘Surely he was at the theatre?’
Brunswick explained that Jack had told his girlfriend earlier in the evening that he needed to pop home to his digs. ‘She said he seemed worried about something here. He wouldn’t tell her what.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Thorpe, crossly, producing a key from her handbag. ‘And I begged him not to! Not on his special night!’
She opened the door. ‘Mr Braithwaite?’ she called, as she stepped inside. ‘Mr Braithwaite, the police want to talk to you! It’s very important! Are you here?’
In the hallway, she turned back. ‘I don’t think he’s in. But if it’s helpful, I think I can clear up why he might have come back here this evening. This afternoon I had a visitor from the national Public Opinion Poll – an absolutely charming young woman.’
‘You did?’ exclaimed Steine. He sounded slightly aggrieved. ‘Was it fascinating?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose it was. But –’
‘Wide range of topics?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘Did you feel you were doing something of civic importance?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I knew it!’
‘But the point is –’
‘What colour hair did she have?’ interrupted Brunswick.
‘Oh.’ Mrs Thorpe didn’t have to think about it. ‘Red,’ she said, ‘bright red.’
‘Bingo!’ said Brunswick. ‘Sorry, do go on.’
‘Thank you. The point is, I happened to tell Mr Braithwaite about this visit, and the effect on him was extraordinary. He was outraged on my behalf! He said he was sure she wasn’t genuine; that she was really some criminal or other doing research for a crime! He said he was worried someone would break in this evening to burgle the house and take my pearls! I said he was being ridiculous and not to give it another thought, but he said, no, he had come across this exact scam before.
‘Mr Braithwaite has quite a temper, it’s true – well, it’s the wonderful magnetic passion one saw in his play tonight. But he does mean well. I’m sure you’ll find he’s perfectly innocent. May I offer you a sherry before you go?’
And then she opened the door to her front living room, and let out a scream of horror. Furniture was in disarray; ornaments shattered, curtains torn; blood dripped from the fireplace and was sprayed in arcs across the walls. There was no doubt that a life-and-death struggle had taken place inside this room – the biggest giveaway being the lifeless remains, on the best Persian rug, of the magnetic young playwright Jack Braithwaite, whose own personal Gas Man had arrived unexpectedly to read his meter and collect his dues.
* * *
That evening, while Constable Twitten begged to be released from hospital, and the sympathetic Mrs Groynes insisted on soothing his brow with refreshing dabs of eau de cologne, two arrests for murder were promptly made in Brighton.
Steine was in no mood to hang about; the concert on the wireless was by now a completely lost cause; why string things out longer than was necessary? Thus, at 9.38 p.m., the veteran actor Alec Forrester was arrested in the saloon bar of a discreet, all-gentlemen pub in Hove. He was virtually unconscious by the time he was tracked down, having been drinking there for several hours – some witnesses said he had been there since mid-afternoon, long before the shooting at the Theatre Royal had occurred. But since these witnesses were legless themselves, Steine saw no reason to take account of their testimony.
On standing up to hear the charge, the swaying, blinking Alec adopted a profoundly confused expression, and then visibly brightened.
‘He’s dead?’ he said, as the information sank in. His face was a picture of pure relief. ‘Thank fuck!’ he cried (an ejaculation that was recorded by Brunswick in his notebook with a certain amount of awkwardness).
On motive alone, Alec Forrester might have faced two charges of murder had it not been so obvious he was physically incapable of overpowering Jack Braithwaite in hand-to-hand combat, and finally slitting his throat with a regimental sword (once the property of General Thorpe, and displayed above the fireplace in Mrs Thorpe’s front room). Even Inspector Steine was forced to conclude that the murder of Jack Braithwaite had clearly been committed by an interrupted intruder.
The absence of all Mrs Thorpe’s pearls was a pretty big clue here, not to mention the way a back window had been forced from the outside. The most likely explanation was that the regular accomplice of the Opinion Poll lady must have arrived at the house expecting it to be empty, and found Jack Braithwaite waiting for him. They had fought, and Braithwaite had copped it.
Just one detail didn’t fit this theory: two sherry glasses in the room had been used. Mrs Thorpe was adamant that when she left the house, all the glasses had been clean, and that there had been a good two inches more of sherry in the decanter. Had the two men shared a couple of genteel glasses of fortified wine and then tried to kill each other? Steine allowed Brunswick to make a note of this inconvenient piece of evidence, but remained firmly married to the surprised-intruder hypothesis. It pained him to do it, but he now felt obliged to concede that perhaps the Opinion Poll lady was not the real McCoy, after all.
‘But who was the intruder, Brunswick? Have you got any closer to identifying even the bogus Opinion Poll lady? I mean, what have you and Clever Clogs Twitten been doing all day?’
‘I have reason to believe that the Opinion Poll lady and the intruder are one and the same, sir.’
‘It would have to be a very strong lady, Sergeant!’
Brunswick beamed. ‘It is, sir.’
Which is why, at 10.20 p.m., at the Hippodrome Theatre, policemen led by Inspector Steine of the Brighton Constabulary raided the dressing room of professional strong lady Joanne Carver. They found her in a silk dressing-gown with her wrists in little baths of iced water and her feet up, a women’s magazine in her lap; she screamed as they burst in. While two men restrained her, Brunswick conducted a superficial search, which proved fruitful. In among her costumes, he found not only a carefully hidden red wig in an old canvas money-bag but also a briefcase full of pearls. She looked shocked.
‘I’ve never seen those before!’ she cried. Brunswick noticed that she didn’t sound quite as posh now as she did onstage. Less the Lady Isobel Barnett, more the Diana Dors.
‘A likely story,’ said Inspector Steine. ‘Well, you’ve gone too far this time, young lady. We were willing to turn a blind eye to those robberies of yours –’
‘No, we weren’t!’ objected Brunswick.
‘– but now you’ve killed a man, it’s the hangman’s noose for you, miss, I’m afraid.’
She struggled. ‘I don’t believe this. Someone’s fitted me up. I’ve been here all evening. Listen, I was at Gatwick all day working on the new terminal building… just ask them! Then I got here and had my usual early-evening kip with the door locked. Then I did my act – and that’s it. Where’s Professor Mesmer? He can tell you.’
‘He’s due offstage shortly,’ said Brunswick, with authority.
‘I’m here!’ said Bobby, entering in full Professor Mesmer costume. A blast of music, hubbub and applause accompanied him. Fresh from his curtain call, he gleamed with sweat; his hands reeked of hair products. He recoiled when he took in the scene. ‘Joanne, love, what’s going on? Unhand that woman at once. There’s obviously a mistake.’
‘We are arresting Miss Carver on a charge of murder, sir,’ said Brunswick.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Bobby. ‘I’m sure you’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Help me, Bob!’ she said, her eyes huge with fear. ‘They’re saying they found evidence in here. Pearls!’
‘And we also found this, of course,’ said Brunswick, indicating the red wig. ‘So thank you for the tip-off, sir. It’s very much appreciated.’
* * *
Young Ben Oliver of the Evening Argus took a calculated risk that evening. He reported Crystal’s sensational murder directly to the Daily Clarion. Any reporter in his place would probably have done the same: sitting on such a juicy story until the Argus came out tomorrow afternoon would be absurd. On the other hand, it was the Argus that employed him, and it’s pretty much the first rule in journalism: don’t give stories to rival newspapers. So Oliver knew he was gambling with his career when he stepped into the telephone box on the corner of New Road and called the Clarion news desk with this story of national importance concerning their own controversial theatre critic.
Oliver’s reward was to hear the news editor bark, ‘Hold the front page!’ and ‘Get Jupiter here right now!’ (Harry Jupiter being the Clarion’s legendary crime reporter.) But then, to be honest, the excitement wore off quite quickly as he was obliged to feed the story down the line to a more experienced reporter who kept – with evident exasperation – demanding facts and details he didn’t have.
By the time Oliver hung up, he was deflated. Had he really imagined the Clarion would be so grateful they would offer him a job in Fleet Street? And now he would have to face the music in the morning with his own news editor, while the big boys from London, doubtless led by the great Harry Jupiter, swept into Brighton and took over.
* * *
Twitten was released from the hospital at midnight with some tranquillisers to take home. He was still unsteady on his legs, but said he would prefer to walk back the mile or so to the station house, as he needed time to think. It was only after he set off that he realised he didn’t know the address.
When he reached the indigo, moonlit seafront, he stood for a moment listening to the waves, watching the lights from cross-Channel ferry-boats in the distance, and trying not to remember the Bang! that had, just a few hours ago, exploded the head of a human being in the seat beside him.
What was it that Crystal had remembered? At the hospital, when he was briefly alone, Twitten had retrieved the critic’s precious list from his tunic and studied it. There was no doubt in Twitten’s mind: Crystal had been killed, not because he was a loathsome individual or an outstandingly unkind critic, but because he’d remembered something incriminating about the Aldersgate Stick-up.
Had Twitten known at this point that poor Alec Forrester was under arrest for shooting Crystal, he would have despaired. Only a fearless professional criminal would have shot Crystal in the theatre like that. First thing in the morning, Twitten would call Crystal’s secretary Miss Sibert in London and demand to see the notes for his chapter on the bank robbery. If London gangland boss Terence Chambers could be linked to the shooting of A. S. Crystal, it would blow the lid off all the crime committed in Brighton since 1951!
‘Whatever’s that, dear?’ Mrs Groynes had said, when she returned to his cubicle and saw the list in his hand. Guiltily, he’d stuffed it into his pocket.
‘I’m afraid it’s evidence, Mrs Groynes,’ he whispered.
‘Evidence of what, dear?’
‘I took it from the scene. It’s a list. Please don’t tell anyone. I just felt it might not be safe there. It might be overlooked. I think it points to the killer.’
Twitten wasn’t sure how he could explain his thinking to someone with Mrs Groynes’ limited experience of crime. True, she worked in a police station, but only to make the tea and swab the lino. So he said, ‘I think it’s to do with a London bank robbery from years ago. But it’s nothing to worry about. I mean, from your point of view, it’s better if you remain in blissful ignorance.’
Mrs Groynes laughed. ‘Right you are, dear.’
After that, she had left him – to get her beauty sleep, she said. But he felt he had found an ally in Mrs Groynes tonight. She hadn’t exactly offered him a ‘huggie’ (and how his blood ran cold when he remembered about the babbling), but she had offered friendship, and had shown she was much cleverer and more observant than she made out. He and she seemed to see things the same way. For example, at one point, he had said, ‘The inspector will jump to the wrong conclusions!’ And she’d replied, ‘Oh, let him, dear. That’s what he’s good at.’ And they had both laughed, which had felt good.
Then she had said, thoughtfully, ‘The inspector threatened Crystal himself, you know. Luigi told me. He shouted after him, “I wouldn’t mind shooting you myself!” In front of witnesses. I don’t suppose he’d be very happy if anyone brought that up and used it against him, would he?’
And now, on the seafront, alone in the moonlight, Twitten sat on a bench on the upper promenade and looked at the paper again. The original, neatly written list contained just four items:
own bags?
‘Palmeira’?
run-over policeman?
a sneeze?
What Crystal had added was just the start of a word:
Dai
Twitten wished he could call Miss Sibert right now to ask what it all meant. Nothing here obviously linked the robbery to either Terence Chambers or Brighton – unless the ‘Palmeira’ referred to Palmeira Square, perhaps – a fashionable address in Hove, with landscaped gardens, close to the sea. But perhaps it was a misspelling of Palmyra, the ancient city in Syria Twitten had visited as a schoolboy with his father. They had gone to see the Roman ruins, and afterwards Twitten had made an impressive papier-mâché reconstruction of the Baths of Diocletian that had won him a prize at school. Thinking back to the glory days of schoolboy projects isn’t hard when you’re only twenty-two. Twitten’s last papier-mâché model had been made only two or three years in the past.
Twitten felt his mind wandering. He needed to concentrate. If he had removed evidence from a crime scene, there had better be a good reason. What Crystal had written – still neatly – in the dark at the bottom of this list was the key thing, but it was incomplete (unless it was a Welsh name). He remembered how Crystal had urgently whispered, ‘Tell Inspector Steine he’s even more of a fool –’ and then, Bang! He’d been dead.
And now, as Twitten peered closer at the paper, whoosh! It was snatched from his hand by a juvenile delinquent cyclist, who, screaming with laughter, whizzed off along the promenade and disappeared from view.