Harry Jupiter, author of such bestselling publications as The Art and Craft of Murder and Heroes of the Yard, had never set foot in Brighton before. His work for the Daily Clarion generally kept him in London, and his special relationship with the elite of the Metropolitan Police – in particular, his well-established and mutually beneficial alliance with that famous London policeman Deputy Chief Inspector Philip Peplow – meant that he was perfectly well occupied from day to day without the bother of taking steam trains from the capital.
He would have denied living in Peplow’s pocket exactly, but when the call had gone out last night from the news desk, ‘Get Jupiter here right now!’, the Clarion’s minions had wasted no time scouring the local taverns of Fleet Street, or checking with the long-suffering Mrs Jupiter at home in High Barnet; they had known to take a cab straight to Peplow’s private gentlemen’s club in Pall Mall, where Jupiter was reliably to be found proudly hobnobbing with senior Yard detectives, and ostentatiously addressing them by their first names.
It was certainly a cosy arrangement. DCI Peplow ensured that Jupiter got first dibs on anything juicy the Yard was investigating, while Jupiter ensured that the Metropolitan Police’s CID came out of all investigations brilliantly, even when its officers failed to nail the culprit, or mishandled the evidence, or were otherwise lazy, stupid, incompetent or corrupt. As a result of this simple reciprocation, public trust in both Jupiter and Peplow was sky high; meanwhile both were equally revered by their peers. When Jupiter attended a crime scene with other reporters, he literally led the pack (they trotted in his wake in an elongated arrow formation), wearing an expensive camel coat draped over his broad shoulders, in the style of Edward G. Robinson – with whose unimpressive physique the small, rotund Jupiter had quite a lot in common.
Jupiter was, therefore, the universally acknowledged sun in the sky of crime reporting, and there was no doubt that he enjoyed his power. It would be an exaggeration to say that men had been hanged on his say-so, although he sometimes made this claim privately. But he was a great supporter of the rope, and the readers of the Clarion adored him for it, even when, awkwardly, the hanged men were discovered afterwards to be innocent.
Detail was Jupiter’s great interest when it came to all crime stories. His way of introducing himself had, over the years, perfected itself to, ‘Jupiter of the Clarion, now just tell me what’s going on here and don’t spare the particulars!’ In the case that first brought him to prominence – concerning the sparse, gruesome remains of a murdered woman found in a sludgy acid bath – he had made brilliant use of the ghastly details: the half-set of dentures that had not dissolved; the bit of handbag; the pair of National Health specs with the broken lenses.
This famous half-set of dentures was a particular that Jupiter had audaciously made up, having asked a forensic scientist to suggest the sort of materials that would not have melted in the acid. But Peplow was so pleased with the impact of Jupiter’s lurid story on the general public (‘Those dentures!’ they thrilled) that he not only never contradicted the detail but decided to go along with it. Indeed, he borrowed an upper set from his own old mother to show as Court Exhibit G (luckily his mother was happy to live on custard, soup and macaroni pudding for the duration of the trial).
But the acid-bath murder was in the past, and now the great crime correspondent was in Brighton Police Station, and the place was naturally abuzz. Passing through the ground floor, Sergeant Brunswick spotted Jupiter in an outer office and recognised him at once from his famous byline picture. Jupiter was a short but feisty-looking man, snazzily dressed, with a full head of hair, who looked like he could take care of himself in a fight – all of which fitted with his punchy, Hemingway-esque style of writing.
Night. Light glinting on policemen’s helmets. Good men. Great men. Heroic men. Men without fear. A half-set of dentures. Whose? Not theirs.
(At the Clarion offices, incidentally, it was understood that if anyone dared to insert a verb in a Harry Jupiter story, they were automatically dismissed. Likewise anyone who attempted to soften his emphatic punctuation. In a cupboard on the home-news floor was proudly preserved a heap of old, unusable Jupiter ex-typewriters whose full-stop keys were missing, having snapped off from persistent overuse.)
Brunswick was a huge fan of Jupiter’s, full stops and all. The idea of being written about made him feel faint with excitement.
‘Does he need anything?’ he asked the desk sergeant, jerking his head towards Jupiter’s door.
The sergeant replied that he shouldn’t think so. Jupiter had arrived half an hour ago with the words, ‘I’ll need a Remington in good repair, some foolscap paper with new carbons, a large ashtray, an up-to-date street map of Brighton, a half bottle of Bell’s, a green visor, some functional sleeve garters, and a place to hang my mac where I can see it.’
Right now he was finishing a piece for tomorrow’s paper about an astonishing new discovery in the old ‘Kennington Butcher’ case (the name had been his own idea; Peplow had long ago made him Case-Namer-in-Chief at Scotland Yard). The public needed to know that just last week, the great and tireless Peplow had found an incriminating human eye-tooth embedded in a scullery floorboard! After all these years! What a great example of sheer, honourable diligence and application. What a great example of how a tiny detail makes all the difference.
When he had finished this piece, he must of course turn his attention to the death of Crystal, in which the Clarion naturally took an interest, since he was one of their own. But so far he had only come up with the name for the case: ‘The Blood on the Plush’. He had telephoned Peplow and asked him what he thought of it, and Peplow had wholeheartedly given him the double-thumbs-up.
* * *
It was one of the lovelier things about Inspector Steine that he not only didn’t care about the great ‘Policeman’s Friend’ Harry Jupiter, he hadn’t even heard of him.
Others would have advised him to invite Jupiter into the investigation as soon as possible, in his own best interests. However, there was no chance of that. Steine loathed journalists, for the simple reason that they were always asking questions he couldn’t answer. He also blamed journalism in general for the way the public so quickly forgot landmark events such as the Middle Street Massacre. Other news stories relentlessly captured their attention; ‘news’ created a kind of collective amnesia.
This was why he liked to talk on the wireless about long-ago riots at London football matches: to restore a sense of perspective; to give people a break from the never-ending ‘news’. The Middle Street Massacre had been a massive policing triumph that people would still be celebrating, if only a constant accrual of ‘news’ hadn’t made it slip their minds.
Because, six years after the event, people were indeed beginning to forget the Middle Street Massacre. Instead, to Inspector Steine’s considerable annoyance, the image of Brighton that still prevailed was the purely fictional (and irresponsibly depressing) version contained in Graham Greene’s book Brighton Rock and the subsequent film of the same name. This was bizarre, inexplicable and very upsetting. Quite often, when walking along the seafront, Steine overheard visitors saying excitedly, ‘Look, there’s the tea shop from Brighton Rock, Janet!’ or ‘Perhaps we’ll spot Kolley Kibber from Brighton Rock and claim the ten guineas!’
On all such occasions, Inspector Steine stopped the misguided visitors in their tracks, introduced himself, and gave them a talking-to. Didn’t they realise that the events of Brighton Rock had actually never taken place? If they were genuinely interested in crime, why not take a tour to Middle Street, where they could see the site where forty-five authentic bad people – real armed villains – had been deliberately left to shoot each other to death, thus rendering Brighton the charming and safe holiday place that it was today?
This kindly intervention usually did the job of rescuing people from any morbid delusions about Brighton. It also took the wind out of their sails, and ruined their day. (Many of them just went home.)
‘We ought to question Mr Forrester now, sir,’ said Brunswick, entering Steine’s office. ‘He’s got a terrible hangover, but I think we should get it over with.’
‘Any news of the strong lady?’
‘I sent someone to check her lodgings, sir, but she was evidently long gone. Unfortunately her alibi of the brickie job at Gatwick does check out; it precludes her from being the Opinion Poll imposter, but what with the pearls found in her possession, she could still have been the interrupted burglar.’
‘But why wear a red wig for that?’
‘I know, sir. Good point. Doesn’t add up, does it? I suppose it means we’re still looking for a woman and a man working together, and the woman must be someone else.’
‘Regrettably, I suppose it does mean that, yes. I’m sorry, Brunswick.’
Brunswick tried to look brave, as if his whole case had not just collapsed around him.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ said Steine, ‘there’s a strange little fat man in one of the offices downstairs just smoking and typing and looking pleased with himself. Wearing a double-breasted suit. I don’t know how he got in, but it’s highly irregular. Could you go and tell him to leave?’
Brunswick was shocked. ‘That’s Harry Jupiter of the Clarion, sir.’
‘Well, whoever he is, tell him he can’t write here. This is a police station.’
‘But it’s Harry Jupiter, sir.’
‘Yes, yes. So you said.’
‘He’s on our side, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mr Jupiter is “the Policeman’s Friend”, sir. At Scotland Yard, I expect he types wherever he likes.’
Steine furrowed his brow. ‘That doesn’t mean he can do it here.’
Mrs Groynes appeared at his office door. ‘Cups of tea, dears?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said Steine. A thought occurred to him. ‘I hope this Jupiter man doesn’t know that the strong lady escaped during the night?’
‘I might have just told him that, yes, dear, sorry,’ said Mrs Groynes, pulling an apologetic face. ‘He found it ever so amusing.’
* * *
Alec Forrester was demanding to be released, and he was in full voice, as if projecting to the Upper Circle.
‘I won’t pretend I’m not glad the fucker’s dead,’ he said, grandly. ‘But I had nothing to do with it.’
They were sitting in a room bare but for a table and chairs: Brunswick, Steine, Forrester. They all had cups of tea, and Forrester was smoking. Steine was finding it hard to care about what the suspect was saying. He was a little preoccupied. He kept thinking, was Twitten right about him missing the bigger picture in his Home Service talk? If this Forrester man could be dispatched quickly enough, there would be time to revise it, and include mention of the 1886 Riot (Damage) Act. (He had already grudgingly corrected the Russian team name from Dominoes to Dynamos, and he had to admit it looked better.)
Brunswick opened his notebook. ‘Mr Forrester, as you know, you are charged with the murder of Mr Algernon Crystal.’
‘Yes, and I demand to know why.’
‘Well, I’m afraid we have a witness to your saying earlier in the day yesterday, and, er, pardon the language, sir –’ Brunswick checked with Steine whether to continue. Steine nodded at him to get on, but only because he had forgotten the exact words Brunswick was about to quote; otherwise he would have asked him to tone it down.
‘Thank you, sir. The witness says that you said, “That’s it! That bastard! I’ll fucking kill him!”’
Steine made a disapproving noise.
‘You were talking about Mr Crystal, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘With Todd Blair, another member of the cast. And you were angry because you had invited Crystal to Brighton to review the play, and Mr Blair informed you he was intending to say in print that you were a ham; moreover, a ham with a toupée.’
Forrester couldn’t hide the pain of the recollection. His face contorted and he twisted his body (ham-like) while putting the back of his hand to his brow.
Brunswick referred back to his notebook and continued. ‘Mr Blair says that he remarked, “You’d better do it tonight before he writes the review,” and you said –’
Steine closed his eyes. This time he did remember what was coming.
‘– “That’s a good fucking point, Todd. I fucking will.”’
‘Is there much more of this, Brunswick?’ asked Steine.
‘That’s everything, sir. Except that when we arrived at the King Henry last night and revealed to Mr Forrester that Crystal was dead, he said, “Thank fuck”, sir.’ He closed his notebook. ‘During the arrest itself, Mr Forrester said nothing at all, being virtually unconscious. However, the night desk sergeant informed me this morning that he heard a cry of “Good fucking luck to you, strong lady!” in the early hours, which he now thinks was Mr Forrester encouraging Miss Carver in her escape. At the time, however, it seemed to be the mere ravings of a drunken man.’
Forrester raised his eyebrows and took a swig of tea. He had no recollection of a strong lady.
‘So we have threats, Forrester,’ said Steine. ‘We have a strong motive. We also have opportunity. All your fellow cast members concur – even the mousy middle-aged pair who don’t say much – that you did not arrive for the performance and that the house manager had been hastily recruited to play your part. Thankfully, he was never required to go on, but such sheer unprofessionalism speaks volumes against you, to say the least. A man who can be guilty of such irresponsible conduct – what else might he do, if he had a grudge and an opportunity… and a gun?’
This being Steine’s most hopeful line of questioning, he delivered it with an impressive je ne sais quoi. For a moment there was a thrilling silence. Then Forrester ruined it.
‘What, me? But I don’t have a gun.’
‘No, I’m saying, if you had a gun.’
‘But I don’t have a gun. I’ve never had a gun.’
Steine threw up his hands and turned to Brunswick. ‘Do you think he’s got a gun?’
Brunswick was startled by the question. It was hardly standard interrogation procedure for the police to talk amongst themselves during an interview.
‘Perhaps we should step outside, sir. Mr Forrester doesn’t need to hear this.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Forrester.
‘Look,’ said Steine, again addressing Brunswick. ‘What’s the point of carrying on with this? I believe him. I don’t think he ever had a gun. I distinctly remember the cast said they’d never seen him with one.’
‘Did they? Oh, bless their hearts,’ chipped in Forrester.
‘Didn’t you make a note of them saying that, Brunswick? It was very important.’
‘Well, no, sir.’ Brunswick flipped through his notebook. He felt awkward to be talking about this with the accused man listening. ‘It was just as I arrived at the theatre. But I did hear it. I think you made a note but –’
‘Look, I think we should let him go.’
‘What?’ said Brunswick. ‘But, sir –’
Forrester started to put on his jacket.
‘Cool it, Mr Hambone,’ said Brunswick, sternly. ‘Not so fast.’
Forrester settled back into his seat. Brunswick wasn’t happy. For one thing, he couldn’t believe he had just said ‘Mr Hambone’ (or indeed ‘cool it’) in the heat of the moment.
‘Sir, shouldn’t we keep him another day or two? We haven’t searched his lodgings yet.’
Steine hesitated. But only for a second. He’d made up his mind.
‘No. You can go,’ he told Forrester. ‘But if I ever find out you did have a gun, and that you did kill Mr Crystal, I’ll be absolutely furious, is that clear?’
* * *
Steine was back at his desk, substantially rewriting his radio talk with just a few hours to go, when the door burst open and a man appeared in the doorway. It was the same strange, spherical man in a pepper-and-salt double-breasted suit he had seen typing and smoking in an office downstairs without so much as a by-your-leave.
‘Jupiter,’ said the man, extending his hand and walking in. ‘Awkward time, I imagine?’
Steine was confused, but answered honestly. ‘Not really,’ he said, indicating his well-ordered desk. ‘Why?’
‘Two murders on your hands?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say they were on my hands, exactly. I had nothing to do with either of them.’
Jupiter pulled a face and then laughed loudly, as if getting a tremendous joke. Steine shrugged. Accustomed to deference, he was finding it difficult to adapt to such a pally approach from a complete stranger.
‘So what suspects have you got, Geoffrey?’ asked Jupiter, taking a seat and opening a notebook.
Steine was exasperated. ‘Sorry. And you are –?’
Jupiter laughed again, assuming this was a wind-up. Every policeman in the country knew who he was, unless they were idiots.
‘Look, man,’ he began – the word ‘man’ making Steine gasp in outrage – ‘it’s not my policy to step on anyone’s toes! I know my place. But Crystal was a colleague, and the Clarion wants two thousand of my very best by sixteen hundred hours. I’ve already visited the murder scene and interviewed the cast. That Penny Cavendish is a corker; they’ve sent a local snapper to get some come-on-big-boy shots for the picture desk. But if you can tell me anything about what it was like at the scene last night, I want details, man. Details.’
‘Look,’ said Steine, ‘if you would stop calling me “man” –’
‘The public laps them up. How about shoes lost in the scramble? They love a lone lost shoe. Two they aren’t so bothered by, for some reason. An abandoned prosthetic limb would be even better. In fact, I’ll make a note of that, in case there was one.’
‘You can’t just walk in here.’
Jupiter opened his arms. ‘Yet here I am.’
‘You’re a journalist!’
‘Yes, I am, and a bloody good one. Oh, come on, man. You want to catch who did this, don’t you? It’s a fantastic story and I’m the boy to tell it. Imagine you’re Mrs Bloggs of Blogg Street. You want to know, can you and the little Bloggses walk safe in Brighton; can you and Mr Bloggs go to see faddish kitchen-sink dramas at the Theatre Royal without fear of having your heads blown off?’
Steine closed his eyes.
‘Come on!’ Jupiter went on, undeterred. ‘What lines are the police pursuing? How does the murder of Braithwaite fit in? Crystal was a witness to the Aldersgate Stick-up – you do know that? Well, they never caught the culprits, did they? It’s common knowledge that Terence Chambers was behind it, but no one’s ever been able to make the link. This murder could be that link! It could be a professional hit to silence the only useful witness! DCI Peplow sends his regards, by the way.’
‘Does he?’ Steine reluctantly opened his eyes. This was all moving too quickly for him. What did Scotland Yard’s DCI Peplow have to do with this awful man? Who was Mrs Bloggs? Why wouldn’t people stop talking about the blessed Aldersgate Stick-up? Where was Blogg Street, and did Mrs Bloggs live there by coincidence or by design?
‘Look, whoever you are,’ said Steine, firmly, ‘I am first of all shocked that you’ve seen the crime scene. You should never have been admitted, and besides, it’s disgusting. When I was there I nearly stepped on an eyeball. Second, please remember to address me as either “Inspector Steine” or “sir”. Anything else is highly irregular.’
Jupiter laughed. Nothing could shake his idea that Steine was being deliberately funny. But he was pleased to make his second note (after ‘prosthetic limb’): ‘eyeball’.
‘But you haven’t answered my question, man. I know you charged some old actor for it, but the rumour downstairs is that you’re letting him go.’
‘Again,’ said Steine, firmly, ‘you should not know that. It’s inappropriate for you to know that. How do you know that?’
Jupiter smiled. He found that, in police stations, people just told him things. He also knew the strong lady had hilariously escaped through the bars, but for the time being, he was tactful enough not to mention it.
‘So, you must be pursuing the Aldersgate Stick-up angle?’
This was too much for Steine. Until yesterday, he’d completely forgotten the Aldersgate Stick-up, and now everyone seemed to be determined to rake it all up. ‘Look, Mr Jupiter –’
‘Old Peplow saw it straight away, of course. “Jupiter,” he said to me last night at his club; and I said, “Yes, Philip?” because I call him Philip when we’re on our own; that’s the kind of man he is. And he said, “The Aldersgate Stick-up will be in the background to this somewhere. That case was appallingly badly handled.”’
Jupiter smiled at Steine in a pointed way, assuming that a small-time Brighton inspector would admire the great Scotland Yard man just as much as he did. ‘Really,’ he added, ‘it’s no wonder Peplow always wins Policeman of the Year.’
Steine was very torn about how to respond to such provocative stuff, especially from a man who looked like a bookie. Part of him wanted to say that actually, one of his officers was strenuously pursuing the Aldersgate Stick-up angle at this very moment; meanwhile a further small part of him knew that whatever he admitted to Jupiter would end up in print, which was the last thing he wanted. And finally, the last part of him (by far the biggest) just wanted the whole damned thing to go away.
Steine therefore took a deep breath, stood up, and said, ‘Well, good luck, Mr Jupiter. Our enquiries are at a delicate early stage, and we can’t discuss them. I personally disagree about the handling of the historic Aldersgate Stick-up case, which DCI Peplow is in no position to criticise. I am quite persuaded that Mr Crystal was shot because he was simply odious and made enemies in unusually high quantities in the world of greasepaint. But more importantly, I’m afraid I need to finish this talk for the Home Service, so I’ll say good day.’
Jupiter realised he needed to adapt his approach. He searched his memory for anything connected to Inspector Steine (it was a shame that he never listened to the wireless) – and, distantly, something stirred. ‘What about the Middle Street Massacre?’ he said, inspired. ‘Wasn’t that you?’
‘Of course it was me,’ said Steine, still bristling. He sat down. ‘But what about it? It has nothing to do with the cases at hand.’
Jupiter started making notes in his notebook, as if feverishly interested in the Middle Street Massacre. Trying to impress Steine had got him nowhere. It was time to turn things round.
‘The link is you, man. Don’t you see?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. The great Inspector Steine! The link is that you will not stand for violent crime on your patch.’
‘Well, that’s true.’ Steine sat back in his chair. ‘That’s very true, actually. I won’t, and I never have.’
‘And that’s the story.’
‘Is it?’
‘1953, wasn’t it, the Middle Street Massacre?’
‘1951.’
‘That’s it. 1951, of course.’ Jupiter made a note. ‘What a triumph over crime that was. You were admired by every policeman in the country. And by the public too, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
‘A very unconventional kind of triumph.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do, I do. That’s what makes it special. How many villains dead?’
‘Forty-five.’
‘Forty-five?’ Jupiter clapped his hands in faux-admiration. For all his huge self-regard, he was a talented toady, who knew from experience that even the most intelligent people were blind to preposterous flattery, if you told them what they wanted to hear. Sometimes he had only to exclaim, ‘But you don’t look old enough!’ for people to melt like snow on a bonfire. In the present situation, it helped that more and more of the Middle Street Massacre stuff was coming back to him as they talked.
‘People should be reminded of this,’ he declared. ‘People deserve to be reminded. What was that line in the film, “I have no blood on my hands this day –”’
Steine helped him out: ‘“Just a smidgen of raspberry sauce.”’
‘Great stuff.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you actually say it?’
Steine had been hoping for years that someone would ask him this question.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did. Or something very much to that effect.’
* * *
All this explains why Steine allowed himself to be persuaded to go out and about with Jupiter in search of particulars (or ‘colour’) for the Clarion piece. Ten minutes later, they were on the seafront, near the bandstand, and Jupiter was back to being quite demanding.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said, his voice raised to be heard over the wind and the seagulls and the open-topped buses roaring past, ‘I want detail, man – detail.’
‘I did ask you not to call me “man”,’ said Steine, but he didn’t say it with his usual force. He was slightly distracted by a scene he had fleetingly witnessed when they had left the station together – it was Alec Forrester, being hugged and kissed on the front steps by the two mousy cast members of A Shilling in the Meter whom no one ever took an interest in. The man was saying, ‘They just let you go, Alec? After what you said? I don’t think I would have done!’
What Steine could not have known about Jupiter up to this point, of course, was that – like everyone else in the world, apparently – he was obsessed with Brighton Rock. But as they walked along, it was becoming horribly, depressingly obvious that, whatever Jupiter’s ostensible interest in the Middle Street Massacre, he was planning to bring up all the old Brighton Rock stuff again in his front-page report on Crystal’s murder.
It would be no good telling him that last night’s two killings had been the first murders in Brighton since 1951, or that the town had been free from gangs for six whole years. This famous crime reporter was going to take the obvious route, and invoke the same old Brighton Rock hoodlums, in spite of the fact they had never existed.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t know which tea shop was the one in Brighton Rock, man,’ said Jupiter now, as they walked along the breezy seafront. ‘That tea shop is one of the most famous landmarks in Brighton!’
‘Well, I’m sorry you see it that way,’ said Steine. ‘And may I repeat, Mr Jupiter, that there is something much too familiar in your tone.’
‘If that woman in that souvenir shop hadn’t been able to help –’
‘Look, she did help, Jupiter. She helped. You saw your blessed tea shop! Much good may it do you. It’s just a tea shop like any other.’
‘But I can’t get over the fact that you didn’t know which one –’
‘It’s a book, Jupiter! It’s not real! I don’t have to know about it!’
‘It’s a very famous book.’
‘It’s still a book!’
They walked on, until they came to the end of Middle Street. Steine paused significantly.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ asked Jupiter.
‘This is Middle Street.’
‘Ah.’ Jupiter glanced up it. He tried to exhibit interest. ‘So this is where it happened, then?’
‘Obviously, yes.’
‘Mm,’ said Jupiter. ‘Forty-five?’
‘I think we’ve established that, yes.’
Jupiter had a thought. ‘Why is it called Middle Street? What’s it in the middle of? I bet a lot of people have asked you that question over the years.’
Steine couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. What’s it in the middle of? ‘No, you’re the first,’ he said. ‘But anyway –’
‘So what’s it in the middle of?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Oh, come on, man. Haven’t you ever wondered?’
This was precisely why Steine disliked journalists. ‘No, I’ve never wondered. Middle Street is just its name.’
‘Haven’t you even tried to work it out?’
‘Look –’
‘It’s called Middle Street, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s it in the middle of?’
‘I don’t know. Look –’
‘Is it in the middle of Brighton, for example?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘So why is it called Middle Street?’
‘I told you, I just don’t know!’
By the time they reached the Palace Pier, Steine was ready to abandon the whole expedition. Jupiter would be setting the death of Crystal against the murky world of Brighton Rock – it would be all Pinkie Brown, or Brownie Orange, or whatever his name was; razor gangs at the racetrack; busty women drinking strong liquor in the middle of the day – whereas if Jupiter would only look about him he would see flocks of happy holidaymakers on a sunny day, paying their pennies at the turnstile and flooding onto the pier, to ride the cars of the roller coaster, or shoot rifle pellets at rows of tin rabbits to win a fluffy toy. Many of these visitors carried candyfloss and freshly made humbugs, or long sticks of rock wrapped in white tissue paper. It made Inspector Steine so angry that his town had been cursed by that dismal, nasty book.
Jupiter paid for them to go through the turnstiles. ‘Say thank you to Lord Otterdale,’ he grinned – which made no sense to Steine, who had no knowledge of newspaper proprietors, and who was hardly familiar with the concept of the expense account, either. Afterwards, when questioned about it, the turnstile man clearly remembered the little man in the smart suit paying for himself and the tall, distinguished-looking police inspector. It was a transaction that had stood out from the norm.
‘Can’t you do the rest without me?’ Steine said. ‘I think you’ve grasped the fact by now that I haven’t read that blasted book, which is all you seem to be interested in.’
But Jupiter led him up the Palace Pier, homing in on a sound that he evidently found significant.
‘Here it is!’ he said, stopping at the ghost train. He checked his watch. ‘Perfect timing. It will only take ten minutes. Come on, man. Lord Otterdale can treat us to this as well, I think.’
‘You don’t expect me to go on that thing?’ The ghost train? Why on earth?
‘Two, please,’ said Jupiter at the little window where they sold the tickets. ‘And can I have a receipt? Could you make it for four tickets, actually? Good man, good man.’
Steine couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘A lot of people come to Brighton for the sunshine and sea air, you know, Jupiter. They come for the Knickerbocker Glories and the saucy seaside postcards and the general sense of well-being.’
But Jupiter merely said, ‘Get on, get on,’ and so they took their seats in the ghost train, their little open carriage shunting forward unsteadily, causing Steine to yelp in alarm.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said, gripping the side of the car. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
But it was too late to get off. They lurched forward on the tracks and then swerved abruptly through a rough, thick curtain, into suffocating darkness.
What happened next was simply horrible. In the gloom, Steine heard a clanking noise and felt his stomach lurch back to knock his spine. Jupiter seemed to be laughing a lot, as green luminous faces appeared in front of them, and hands and cobwebs touched their hair and faces, and the carriage picked up speed as it dodged and snaked in the rattling dark.
‘I don’t like this!’ Steine said, loudly.
‘I reckon the spot is round the next bend or two!’ shouted Jupiter back.
‘What spot?’
Something rubbery hit Steine in the face. ‘Get off!’ he cried, batting it away.
‘Relax, man!’ yelled Jupiter.
‘What?’
‘I said relax!’
Steine was frowning in confusion when, terrifyingly, he felt two hands tighten on his windpipe.
‘Get off!’ he shouted, trying to stand up. ‘Help! Help!’
‘Don’t wriggle, Steine!’
‘Help! Help!’
Ahead of the carriage, they could see to a point where bright daylight came up through the tracks, and the wavy reflections of the water below hit the walls and ceiling around them. The little carriages were hurtling towards it. Steine struggled against Jupiter’s grip. What on earth was happening?
‘What are you doing? Get off me!’
‘Look, man –’ Jupiter stood up, and was trying to push Steine back down when the train reached the place where the sea lay beneath.
‘Help! Help! Get OFF!’ yelled Steine, pushing Jupiter so hard that he lost his balance and let go with a cry.
Steine was so relieved to be free from Jupiter’s grip that he didn’t notice his assailant fall out of the carriage and plummet seawards, banging his head on an iron cross-beam on the way down. He also failed to hear the splash.
All he knew, when the little carriage rattled back into daylight and stopped with a jolt, was that no one was trying to throttle him any more, and there was an empty seat beside him, which the small Policeman’s Friend had formerly occupied.