Eight

Constable Twitten alighted from a taxi in Aldersgate, carrying his two canvas holdalls, and entered the Albion Bank at a brisk pace. If there was one place he could hide safely until the coast was clear, surely it was here. He felt scared, but confident. Crystal’s hat might be too large for his head; Crystal’s shoes might be too small for his feet; but what fitted him perfectly right now was the task ahead: of mentally unpicking the events of yesterday and identifying Crystal’s murderer. (We won’t mention the clothes, because of the latent smell, which was beginning to revive in response to Twitten’s body warmth.)

Within his bag of evidence – which included not only the scraps from Crystal’s flat but also the play-text of A Shilling in the Meter, the original file on the Aldersgate Stick-up (commandeered from the inspector’s desk) and his own personal typed-up notes – was surely contained the answer to who had shot Crystal and why. Was it a stroke of absolute genius to return to the very place where the stick-up had occurred? Twitten rather thought it was. What unfortunately hadn’t occurred to him was that the Albion Bank in Aldersgate might still employ people who’d been in some way complicit in the Stick-up. This was an error he would later have cause to regret.

On his arrival, Twitten asked for the manager, and there was a brief period of confusion because he wasn’t in uniform; then he was ushered through to the office of Mr Arnott, who was expecting him. Coming here had not been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Twitten had conceived his plan while at Crystal’s flat, and had telephoned ahead, explaining to Mr Arnott that he was from the Brighton Constabulary, pursuing new leads in the Aldersgate Stick-up case, consequent to last night’s shocking cold-blooded murder of Mr Crystal in Brighton.

Arnott had absorbed this information and offered whatever help he could give. And now they sat opposite each other in Arnott’s office – a dark room reeking of pipe tobacco and brass polish, with a loudly ticking clock. Beyond the solid oak door could be heard muffled voices and the odd tinkle of female laughter; also distant footsteps on the tiled floor of the echoing banking hall. Twitten was quite excited. So this was where it had all happened! Where persons unknown had produced firearms seven years ago and got away with £25,000!

Taking his seat, he dispensed with preamble and flipped open his notebook. ‘Can I ask you what you remember about the Stick-up, Mr Arnott? Were you the manager then?’

Arnott sucked his pipe, which was unlit. He seemed nervous. ‘No, I was the deputy undermanager. Mr Crystal was my superior. It will all be in your files. I was sorry to hear what happened to poor Mr Crystal last night. You surely don’t think it was connected with the bank robbery? That was so long ago.’

‘It’s just one line of enquiry,’ admitted Twitten, truthfully. ‘Mr Crystal had quite a large number of enemies. He was a terribly unpopular figure. Was he always so hateful, I wonder?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, we all loathed him here, I must say. The chief cashier, old Mr Lyons, didn’t mind him so much, but of course he’d lost his sense of smell at Passchendaele.’

Arnott’s nose twitched. ‘You’ll find this odd, Constable,’ he said, ‘but ever since you came in today, I’ve been oddly aware of Mr Crystal again. A kind of presence. It’s like he’s in the room.’

Twitten fidgeted on his chair. ‘Very warm today,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you’d like to remove your hat and coat?’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Twitten, jumping up. He felt foolish. But having hung the hat on a convenient hat-stand, he thought better of taking the coat off, and stopped. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said, sitting down again. And then, quickly, ‘But you were telling me about the robbery.’

‘I’m afraid I can only tell you what I told the police on the day, Constable. There were two of them, dressed in everyday clothes; it was a quarter to twelve. No one took much notice of them, as they appeared to be just ordinary customers, huddled together with their heads down in the corner. Suddenly they turned, and they had masks over their faces, and had produced guns.’

‘And one was a woman.’

‘Yes. I can’t remember whether I knew that at the time, or found out afterwards…’

His dot-dot-dot was audible, as his expression and voice became oddly wistful. It was as if he were narrating a flash-back in a film.

‘It had been a fine morning, constable. I do remember that, for some reason. We had all the top windows open. The banking hall was full of dappled light on account of the ancient plane trees outside. I wouldn’t say we were less than vigilant that day; I would never say such a thing. But I must confess there was no reason to expect criminal interest. On the seventeenth of the month, you see, we generally handled a large sum of cash from a particular diamond merchant in Hatton Garden; this made us a target, we knew. But the Stick-up occurred on the sixteenth, as you know.’

‘That’s right. And it’s very interesting. That the robbery took place on the wrong day.’

Arnott laughed. ‘Mr Crystal actually informed them they were robbing the bank on the wrong day, did you know that?’

‘Yes, it’s in the file.’

You should have come tomorrow, he told them. That’s the kind of person he was, I’m afraid. Very critical. Quite obnoxious. Even when tied to a chair with a bag over his head. But he paid for it later, of course. He had a breakdown a few months after, you know, poor man, and then he had to give up banking altogether.’

Arnott made it sound as if having to give up banking altogether was the most devastating thing that could happen to anyone.

‘Can you give me any description of the robbers?’

Mr Arnott shrugged. ‘I really didn’t see them. I was on the floor from the minute they told us to get down. Crystal was the one who bandied words with them.’

‘Would anyone else here remember anything new?’

‘I don’t think so. But if anyone had remembered any detail after all this time, they would have told Mr Crystal himself – the other day, you know – and they didn’t.’

Twitten was puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, the other day? Did Mr Crystal visit the bank?’

‘Oh, yes. He was here quite recently. I assumed you knew.’

‘When did he come?’

‘About two weeks ago. It was very upsetting for all of us – raking it up again. He interviewed both myself and Miss Hutchinson – she’s my secretary – wanting us to recall details about the day of the robbery. And I’m afraid he was very disappointed, almost angry, that we couldn’t help him.’

‘Angry?’

‘He seemed a bit desperate.’

‘Gosh, I wonder why.’ Twitten made a note. ‘Was he alone?’

‘No, he came with a bossy German woman. She said she was his “assistant” – “helping him” to write a book – but between you and me, I could clearly see that she was the person driving things, not him.’

‘Really?’ said Twitten, looking up. ‘What an interesting remark, Mr Arnott. What makes you say that? Are you sure you’re not just being anti-German? Or even anti-lady?’ (Twitten knew that Miss Sibert was actually Austrian, but decided to let it pass.)

Mr Arnott bristled. He didn’t appreciate being called anti-anything. ‘What makes me say that she was driving things is that she kept shouting at him.’

‘Shouting?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, it was horrible. They were engaged in some sort of psycho-nonsense exercise, and Miss Hutchinson and I were very uncomfortable, being forced to witness it. “Bring it beck! [He pronounced ‘back’ with the German accent.] Bring it beck, Algernon! It iss vital that you bring it beck!” At one point the poor man was rolling on the floor of the banking hall with tears streaming down his cheeks. Thank goodness we did all this after closing time.’

‘And what did he bring back?’

‘Ah, that’s the thing. He didn’t. Nothing came. And you’d think she would be sympathetic, but she wasn’t. She seemed furious.’

Twitten felt inspired. It was time to get thinking. ‘Mr Arnott, that’s all very helpful. Is there somewhere private I can sit for an hour or two?’ The clock on the wall said 1 p.m.

Arnott stood up. ‘You can use this office if you like. I have an appointment at the Holborn branch. I’ll tell everyone not to disturb you. We close at three.’

‘That’s marvellous, thank you. I’ll take off these shoes, if you don’t mind. They’re killing me.’

‘As you please,’ said Arnott. At the door he paused and looked round. ‘I just can’t get over the sense that he’s here, Constable,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

* * *

Penny needed to be at rehearsals, but she also needed to talk to Bobby. As soon as the sergeant was out of sight, she slipped out of the hotel by the back entrance and made her way to the Hippodrome. It was her only chance of seeing him before the evening.

‘Bobby!’ she said, bursting into his dressing room – and was embarrassed to find he wasn’t alone. He had evidently been in the middle of a serious conversation with a woman – a woman who was quite a bit older than he was, and very smartly dressed with just the slightest scent of eau de cologne to her. They both reacted guiltily to Penny’s arrival.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Penny, backing out of the room. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No,’ said the other woman, smiling. ‘I have to run.’ She gave Bobby a significant look, and said, ‘Tomorrow night then?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ he agreed. ‘All fixed.’

And then the woman quickly tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her, and Penny stood alone in the room with Bobby. She was very confused. Should she run into his arms, or should she slap his face? She stayed where she was.

‘Bobby, the police came,’ she said. ‘They weren’t asking about Jack, they were asking about you!’

She had hoped he would be innocently surprised. But he wasn’t. Bobby put his hands to his face and sank down on a chair. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned. Then, carefully: ‘What did you tell them?’

‘Bobby, did you kill Jack?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, but you did! You did!’

‘No! Penny, no. I swear.’

‘What about this comb?’ She tore it out of her hair. ‘I could tell when he saw it. It’s stolen, isn’t it?’

Bobby took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said.

She looked like she might cry. ‘I hate this. I can’t believe it’s happening! I panicked and lied, Bobby. I lied to the police. When he asked me about the comb I said I’d “picked it up” in Brighton and he shot me such a look of disbelief, it made me feel like a thief myself. Bobby, what have you done?’

He gave her a steady look. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before, Penny. I want to tell you everything, I ought to tell you everything, but I can’t.’

‘Just tell me. Please. Are you a thief, Bobby?’

Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Yes, I am. I’m a thief. I’m sorry.’

Did you kill Jack?’

‘No!’ He grabbed her hand. ‘No. No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I’ve never hurt anyone.’

Penny broke down in sobs. ‘I don’t believe you. You told me about the furniture and the curtains in the room where he was killed! How do you know about that if you weren’t there?’

Bobby took a deep breath. ‘Because I was there, Penny.’

‘No!’

‘I’d gone there to rob the place and Jack confronted me, and then –’

‘And then what?’

‘Oh, Penny. You’ve got to believe me. All I did with Jack was have a glass of sherry!’

* * *

At three o’clock that afternoon, the persons of interest in this story were all individually occupied in such interesting ways that an overview of what they were all doing simply cries out for description, preferably in the dramatic present tense.

For example, by 3 p.m. Penny Cavendish is rehearsing Act One of A Shilling in the Meter at the Theatre Royal, and bringing a previously unseen gravity to the part of Ruby. Her acting seems to have acquired a new dimension. The weight of her arm in its sling is perceptibly heavier; her innocent love for the loathsome Nick is profoundly touching.

The rest of the cast naturally put this development down to her shock and grief over the death of Jack, but they don’t know the half of it. She is also wrestling with the knowledge that Bobby – to whom she’s been drawn like a magnet from the moment she met him – is a professional transvestite burglar who hints that he perhaps might have prevented the violent death of her boyfriend, but adamantly refuses to explain why or how he didn’t.

Meanwhile Alec’s strange Finnish accent as Man from the Gas Board has brought real interest (and mystery) to the part, and the two mousy actors playing Nick’s parents are thoroughly energised in their roles (it turns out they just couldn’t stand working with Jack Braithwaite).

At the Hippodrome in Middle Street, in preparation for a matinée, Bobby Melba is applying his make-up with a shaking hand – praying that he has not done the wrong thing by confessing his crimes to Penny. He has just taken every item of stolen loot – including the precious comb – to Harry the Head, the pawnbroker in the Lanes whose prominent organ of Philoprogenitiveness (love of children) can’t help but draw Bobby’s professional interest every time he meets him. Bulging out of the back of his head, it’s the size and shape of a small coconut (but obviously less hairy).

Disappointingly, Harry has given Bobby less than half the money he had expected, but in the circumstances he’s just glad to be shot of everything. Bobby’s mind runs to Penny constantly, to the look of fear and revulsion on her face when she asked, ‘Did you kill Jack?’ – and the scene of the killing runs through his mind over and over again. That sword slicing into the flesh of a human being. The blood everywhere. His own screams of horror. But he also thinks deeply about tomorrow night, because tomorrow night needs an enormous amount of thinking about.

In the Royal Sussex County hospital, Harry Jupiter of the Clarion is loudly demanding to be discharged, but the doctors are refusing to let him go until he can at least remember his own name. He keeps reciting short, verbless declamatory sentences, such as: ‘Night! Moonlight on dentures! A half-set of helmets! Great men, great men!’ Rather shockingly, Inspector Steine has not come forward with information about how Harry Jupiter happened to fall in the sea.

Instead, he is in London, in a musty studio at Broadcasting House, delivering his hastily rewritten weekly talk. He is in his element. Having telephoned the hospital anonymously and enquired after the man recovered from the waves, he has been immensely encouraged to learn of the poor chap’s amnesia, which surely (for the time being, anyway) puts him in the clear.

The talk goes down well with his dandruffy producer, who afterwards particularly remarks on all the bits put in on Twitten’s recommendation. ‘More rigorous this week, Geoffrey,’ says the producer, pointing a pencil at him. ‘I like this new-found rigour.’

On the breezy seafront in Brighton, Maisie sells a red-and-green beach ball to a small child. She is sucking a multi-coloured gobstopper, and finds herself wishing she had a handsome, tall, slavish admirer to monitor the ever-changing unearthly hues of her tongue.

On the shingle, a few yards away, the Punch & Judy show is in full horrific flow, with children running screaming to their parents. There is so much violent energy to Vince’s puppet performance today that the booth itself jumps about and threatens to topple over.

I bash your head in, Judy ratface brass!’ The breeze blasts Maisie’s downy cheek; plastic bunting rattles above her head like distant machine-gunfire; she bares her buck teeth to the bold afternoon sun; she ponders what she has lost.

At the police station in Brighton, Sergeant Brunswick waits for a call from the Leeds City Police and wonders where everyone else has got to. He’s been looking forward to sharing his discoveries about new prime suspect Bobby Melba, but has found the place unusually empty. The inspector is, of course, in London, which is customary on recording day. But where is Twitten? Where is Mrs Groynes? Where is Harry Jupiter? And most important, what has happened to all the coconut ice?

In the Queen Adelaide public house in Ship Street, newly unemployed young reporter Ben Oliver is scanning the Situations Vacant in the newspaper, while in another corner a woman with abnormally thick wrists nurses a port and lemon. A waiter with a dodgy French accent asks her if she’d like another. He also asks if she would (‘sea-view play’) please stop breaking the glasses by gripping them so tightly. Ben Oliver, trying not to appear interested, secretly makes a note.

In the forensics lab at the police station, fingerprint analysis on Mrs Thorpe’s sherry glasses finds a set of prints from the deceased, and a set from a person unknown. The unknown prints do not match those on the murder weapon, which suggests a third individual at the scene.

And finally, in the manager’s office at the Albion Bank in Aldersgate, Constable Twitten yawns and stretches, emerging from one of the most satisfactory but exhausting mental workouts he has ever attempted. Some of it has required real physical activity – impatiently riffling through papers and shouting, ‘Yes, yes! It all fits!’ And some of it has required him to lie back in his chair, staring at the ceiling in strenuous contemplation.

It has been an exemplary performance of muscular mental endeavour. He has cast aside lazy assumptions; interrogated evidence; skewered unhelpful prejudices; and dared to think the unthinkable. He can now proudly say he has worked out who killed A. S. Crystal at the Theatre Royal last night, and why. It is time to go back to Brighton, change into his uniform, create a small ceremonial bonfire out of Crystal’s rancid clothes and make his astonishing report.

It is only as he tries to put the shoes back on that he realises the bank is now very quiet and that he hasn’t seen anyone for more than two hours. Well, he must summon Mr Arnott and thank him for his wonderful co-operation! But when he tries the door, it doesn’t open.

‘Hello?’ he calls. ‘Mr Arnott? Hello!’

He rattles the handle again, and looks round the room. There are no other exits.

He puts his ear to the door, and hears a muffled conversation which fills him with alarm. Can he also smell eau de cologne?

Oh, no. The door is unlocked and he braces himself. A waft of 4711 assails him.

‘Now, there you are, dear,’ says Mrs Groynes, entering with a rattling tray covered with cups and saucers, a little plate of biscuits, and a gun. ‘I thought I’d find you in here. How about a nice cup of tea?’

* * *

It was Mr Arnott who had called her. Just as he had called her when A. S. Crystal had turned up at the bank two weeks before with his so-called assistant.

‘I know it was you, Mrs Groynes,’ said Twitten now, brazenly. ‘I know it was you who killed Crystal. I worked it out.’

She didn’t seem to mind. ‘Good for you, dear,’ she said, taking the gun from the tray and placing it on the desk. ‘I rather guessed you would.’ She smiled. ‘You look a lot less impressive out of uniform, dear.’

They sat across the desk from each other. She rested her chin on her hands, expectantly. Had female bank managers been a remote possibility in 1957, the scene might have been Twitten asking nervously for a loan to start a bookshop. Instead of which he was a newish policeman in a dead man’s clothes, who had deduced from scrappy evidence that the woman opposite, who had masqueraded brilliantly as a charlady in a police station for several years, was a hardened criminal who didn’t stop short of murder.

‘But to be honest,’ Twitten admitted, ‘I hadn’t yet worked out what I was going to do after telling you that I had worked out it was you.’

‘I appreciate your honesty, dear,’ she said, and sipped her cup of tea.

Twitten drew a steadying breath. ‘Look, it would help if I knew,’ he said. ‘Are you planning to kill me?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m deciding.’

‘Oh, good,’ he squeaked, and then coughed to get his voice back to normal. ‘Oh, good. So, when you’ve decided, will you let me know?’

‘Oh, you’ll know, dear. Don’t worry.’

Twitten bit his lip. He felt he was blushing; he couldn’t control it. ‘May I tell you how I worked it out, Mrs Groynes?’

‘If you like.’

‘There might be a few holes.’

Holding the gun, Mrs Groynes leaned back in her seat, gesturing for him to go ahead regardless of the few holes.

‘Thank you.’ Twitten took a deep breath, as if to start a recital. ‘Now, I’m sure you won’t believe this, but I think I suspected you from the very start.’

She shook her head. ‘No, you bleeding didn’t!’

‘I mean, not consciously, of course. But there were some little things that did catch my attention. For example, you were so keen to tell the others about my qualifications from Hendon – which personally I would never have mentioned. You had somehow wheedled them out of me. He won a prize for forensic observation, you said. He came top of his year. These were matters that would of course mean nothing to Inspector Steine; you mentioned them, you see, only because they meant something to you. It’s a classic psychological “tell”, Mrs Groynes. A real charlady wouldn’t have taken any interest in my academic achievements, do you see?’

Mrs Groynes narrowed her eyes. ‘Go on, dear.’

‘Well, then of course it was bizarre that you were present at the Theatre Royal for the first performance of a controversial modern play, wasn’t it? And that you then volunteered to look after me in the ambulance – but that was because you wanted to know what I had found out from Mr Crystal.’

‘I was very nice to you, as I recall. Very kind and motherly.’

‘Yes, you were. That’s true. Perhaps I didn’t suspect you then, actually. I started to think of you as a friend. But the main thing was that you tried to talk me out of exploring the Aldersgate Stick-up angle once I’d lost the list – and of course it was no coincidence that once you knew I had Mr Crystal’s list, it was snatched from my hand by a boy on a bike at midnight. And once you knew I wanted to read Mr Crystal’s memoir, it was stolen from his flat, and now poor Miss Sibert has disappeared too!’

Mrs Groynes tried to interrupt, but he pressed on.

‘Also, when we spoke of Mr Crystal, you made the telling remark, “He had a lot of enemies, that Crystal. You’d never guess, to look at him” – a remark to which I will return. But if I may say so, it’s all part of a much more interesting broader picture, you see; a broader picture which is even more –’ He stopped. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a better word. ‘Which is even more interesting.’

‘Is it, dear? Do tell.’

‘Oh, yes. You see, ever since the Middle Street Massacre, there have been so-called “nebulous” forces running crime in Brighton. Sergeant Brunswick speculated that since the original Italian and Casino Gangs had so stupidly wiped each other out, the famous Terence Chambers must somehow be doing it from London – “through an unknown deputy”, the sergeant said. Of course, Inspector Steine denies that anyone is running crime in Brighton, but that’s because he holds a sadly irresponsible attitude, so his perspective can be set aside for the purposes of this argument as largely immaterial.’

Twitten took a breath. That last sentence had been rather beautifully put together, given the immense pressure he was under, so he wanted to leave it hanging there. He also wanted to pause before his big finish.

‘It’s my belief,’ he announced, proudly, ‘that the person who’s been in charge of all things criminal in Brighton since 1951 is in fact you, Mrs Groynes.’

Mrs Groynes put her head on one side. ‘Me?’

‘Yes! Bally well, yes! And you have been operating from the very heart of the police station, where bally well no one takes any notice of you!’

‘I thought Terence Chambers was supposed to be behind everything, dear. Am I working for him, then?’

‘No. Not at all!’

‘No?’

‘That’s all part of how clever you’ve been. Letting people think Terence Chambers is behind everything. I put it to you that you are not working for Terence Chambers; but that you used to be in cahoots with him. My suspicion is that you were at one time very close. But then – and here I haven’t got a lot of hard evidence to go on, but I think this makes sense – in 1950, when Chambers was planning to rob the Albion Bank in Aldersgate – this very bank – on the seventeenth of the month, when large sums of cash would have been in the safe, it is my belief that for reasons unknown you led your own small gang here the day before, thus scuppering his plans and earning his everlasting enmity!’

‘You’ve got nothing to back this up, have you, dear?’

‘Not really, no. But please don’t interrupt, Mrs Groynes, because I’ve only just worked this out, and if I lose the flow I’ll have to go back to the bally beginning. Now, I was talking about earning Terence Chambers’ everlasting enmity. So, the thing is, earning Terence Chambers’ everlasting enmity is such a terrible thing, Mrs Groynes, that no sane person would do it without a very good reason, and for the moment I have to admit that I don’t know what your very good reason might have been. However, all this does explain why you have gone to such lengths to cover up your role in the Stick-up, and to prevent Mr Crystal remembering any incriminating details. It’s not that you fear police arrest; it’s that you fear what Terence Chambers will do!’

Mrs Groynes picked up the gun and weighed it in her palm. She was impressed, but she had to correct him on a couple of things.

‘May I speak now?’

Twitten reflected on whether there was anything more for him to say. ‘All right.’

‘Have a biscuit, dear.’

‘Ooh, thank you.’ He took a garibaldi.

‘Now, for one thing, Sibert wasn’t snatched,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about her. Poor Miss Sibert? She was working for Terry all along. If anyone took that manuscript, it was her.’

‘Good heavens.’ Twitten held his head at an angle while re-processing a few things. ‘She was a plant?’

‘She was. If she’s who I think she is, she’s not even from Vienna. But you’re right about a lot of the other things, so well done.’

It occurred to Twitten that his father would have loved to meet Mrs Groynes. In all his extensive investigations of the deviant mind, he had never studied a female master-criminal, not once. To look at her now – a small, respectable middle-aged woman with a nice leather handbag, smelling of eau de cologne with an undertone of ammonia – you would simply never guess what she was capable of.

‘So it was you who deliberately called the existing Brighton gangs together on the day of the Middle Street Massacre? Why?’

‘Well, mainly because it was so easy, dear! They were spoiling for a shoot-out. All I had to do was make sure none of them got out alive, and that Inspector Steine came out a hero. Then I could have the place to myself.’

‘But how did you know the police wouldn’t arrive and stop it? Wasn’t it a spur-of-the-moment decision by the inspector to take all the men for an ice cream?’

‘No, dear. It wasn’t. But I’ll always be perfectly happy for him to claim that it was.’

Now, it is one thing to work out logically – lying on the floor of a bank manager’s office with your eyes closed – that a harmless-looking charlady of your acquaintance is actually a callous master-criminal; it is quite another to have her admit to everything face-to-face in a dark-panelled room with a loudly ticking clock and a loaded gun in the equation. Especially when it occurs to you that you are unarmed, your feet are agony, you stink to high heaven of someone else’s body odour, and that no one – aside from the person who might murder you – has the faintest clue where you are.

‘But you’re wrong about me and Chambers. I mean, you’re right that we used to be close. You’re right he was planning a robbery on the seventeenth. But I’m not worried he’ll connect me to the Stick-up, dear. Chambers already knows perfectly well it was me.’

‘He does?’ Twitten exclaimed in disappointment. ‘Oh, flip.’

‘Yes, sorry, dear. He’s always known. I left him in 1950 after eight years together as a team; he knew I was leaving; he knew I did the Stick-up; he knows I set up the Middle Street Massacre and made those idiots shoot one another. And if he ever wants to find me, he knows exactly where I am.’

Twitten was naturally upset that his excellent theory contained such flaws, but it was impossible to deny that his main emotion here was excitement. What Mrs Groynes was confessing was amazing.

‘Well, I have to say, Mrs Groynes, you are an absolutely enormous villain.’

‘Thank you, dear.’

‘I can’t believe how enormous you are.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘And no one has ever suspected?’

‘That’s right. I’m invisible, dear.’

‘How many people work for you?’

‘That’s a good question. I’d say two hundred, give or take.’

‘Well, you’re a bally genius!’

This wasn’t quite the way the conversation ought to be going, Twitten realised. He ought to be attempting to arrest Mrs Groynes, or at least denouncing her.

‘The clinching thing for me,’ he went on (because he couldn’t stop himself), ‘was the way Crystal reacted to the words in the play, when they talk about Ruby being a bus conductress, saying Any more for any more?

‘He clocked it then, didn’t he, dear?’

‘Yes! That’s when he got really agitated and started writing something down. He’d been desperately trying to remember an incident that had jogged his memory earlier in the day, you see, and he knew it had happened between getting off the train and meeting Inspector Steine at the ice cream parlour. At first I thought it might have been a thought triggered by the posters outside the station. I wasted a lot of time on that.’

‘You wondered if it might have been the bunnies on Barrow-boy Cecil’s tray.’

‘Yes. I did.’ He stopped. ‘Barrow-boy Cecil? Is that his name?’

‘It is, dear. He’s a good boy, Cecil.’

‘Oh. But anyway, then I thought again about where else he’d been, and I remembered that, of course, he came to the police station first, and was “redirected by a charlady”. And then you let slip to me that you’d seen him, when you said the words, You’d never guess, to look at him. He recognised your voice, Mrs Groynes, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, dear. And I saw it in his face. A flicker. I’d heard that Chambers had been working on him to remember the day of the Stick-up. Arnott here had telephoned me about the woman with the accent turning up with Crystal at the bank and yelling at him to “bring it back”. But I wasn’t too worried. I reckoned if all that failed, Chambers would have to give up on it.

‘And then there he was, A. S. Crystal, in my very own police station, asking me where Inspector Steine was! I’d never expected to see that man again in my life. I said as little as I could, of course, but I saw that something clicked. So that’s why I bought the ticket for the seat behind you in the Theatre Royal – the bloke made me give him fifteen quid, cheeky sod – and I listened to everything you said, the pair of you. And then, when that line came up – well, it was the very words I’d said on the day of the Stick-up, dear, and that’s when he almost jumped to his feet, wasn’t it?’

‘It was.’

‘So I had no choice. Luckily for me, people were leaving at such a rate, I could just get in among them and fire. Then I dropped the gun and joined the stampede for the exit. I had quite a bit of blood on me, but I’d made sure to wear black – and then I gave you a cuddle as soon as I could, dear, to explain away any marks on my face and whatnot.’

She produced a note from her pocket. It was Crystal’s bloodstained list. Twitten gasped at her boldness in showing it to him. ‘What do you think he was trying to write? The last word, there?’

Twitten swallowed. The last shred of doubt was now gone. If she was holding this list, she had engineered everything. If she was showing him the list, she didn’t care what he knew.

He looked at the three letters. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘he was going to write “daily”, as in charwoman.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Daily. You’re very good at this, you know.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

They both drank their tea, and Twitten took another biscuit. He looked at the clock: it was nearly 4 p.m. ‘I am so glad we’ve had this conversation,’ he said, carefully.

‘Me too, dear. Clears the air.’

‘I’ve just realised that the word “massacre” in the name Middle Street Massacre wasn’t quite the misnomer I always thought it was. I’d been unhappy with it before.’

‘No, it was perfectly well named, in fact. It was literally a massacre, really, you see.’

Twitten felt he had a million questions to ask, but at the same time had run out of things to say. Perhaps it was because of the gun, and the fact that he had uncovered the identity of an absolutely enormous female villain with two hundred people working for her, one of whom poor deluded Sergeant Brunswick actually paid for information.

‘Have you decided yet, by the way? About killing me?’

She made a ‘tsk’ noise. ‘Not yet.’

‘The thing is, you see, I am a policeman. And you are a cunning criminal. And while I am incredibly proud to have worked everything out, obviously that’s not enough for me. It’s now my duty to take you back to Brighton and turn you in.’

He opened the bag with this uniform in. ‘I’ve got some handcuffs in here, I think.’

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

‘Look, you did kill a man in cold blood, Mrs Groynes! I can’t let you get away with that, can I?’

‘And I say, ha. I thought you understood, dear.’

‘Understood what?’

‘Well, for one thing, that I can tell you all this because no one will believe you.’

‘But it’s the truth, Mrs G. I’ll make them believe me.’

Mrs Groynes shook her head. ‘Look, dear, all this talk of the charlady involved in stick-ups and massacres? They’ll just think you’ve gone stark staring mad. Where’s your evidence for any of it?’

‘Well –’

‘The inspector already dislikes you for being too clever; even the sergeant’s in two minds. You’ve got nothing on me, dear. And you cannot underestimate how much those two love me and trust me and think nothing of the simple cockney woman who makes the tea and remembers to make them pink blancmange on a Friday.’

‘Yes, but you can’t –’

‘They think that anything said by a woman can be classed as wittering.’

‘Yes, but you just can’t –’

‘Now, listen, dear. I want to prevent you saying “But you can’t get away with this”, because it will make you sound very silly.’

‘But you can’t get away with this!’

‘I’ve been getting away with it for seven years!’ Her voice was raised. ‘You said it yourself. They’re idiots! I’ve removed evidence from their very hands! I talked them into having an ice cream instead of stopping a shoot-out. It’s incredibly easy. All I have to do is give them a plate of biscuits and they will discuss anything right in front of me. How do you think Fat Victor got caught in Littlehampton? I told them where he was. They will never suspect me because I’m a woman, dear. And because, on top of that, I’m working class. The inspector once said to someone on the phone, “Yes, I am completely alone”, and I was standing right next to his desk with my feather duster. You can’t beat me, dear. You just can’t.’

Twitten attempted an expression of defiance. It failed.

‘Now, as it happens, dear, I like you.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do. And I’ve got an idea that might save you. In fact it might give us all a solution. Listen to this. It’s clever. This is what I think happened to Mr Crystal. I think he was killed by that playwright, Jack Braithwaite.’

‘What? But he wasn’t. You killed him, Mrs Groynes!’

This annoyed her. She picked up the gun and stood up. ‘I said, Listen, Mister Smelly, I’m doing you a bleeding favour! And the timing works out, just. Braithwaite could have done it, you see.’

‘But he didn’t!’ Twitten squeaked, unable to stop himself.

‘For crying out loud, dear! Look, Braithwaite had a motive, didn’t he? You remember that actress saying: Jack, you didn’t?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t a very strong motive – just something about a play he’d been in getting a bad review.’

‘Fair enough, but something else has come to light. Something that might help you change your mind. Did you know that an old friend of Braithwaite’s killed himself yesterday in a fridge at Luigi’s?’

Twitten recoiled. ‘No. What? In a fridge? Oh, please put the gun down, Mrs Groynes. Please. I’m finding it very hard to concentrate, and it’s also making the smell much, much worse!’

But Mrs Groynes was enjoying waving the gun around.

‘This man in the fridge was the man who wrote the play that Jack Braithwaite appeared in, and that your Mr Crystal destroyed with one of his nasty reviews. Seeing Crystal again tipped this bloke over the edge of despair and he took his own life. Now, what I think happened is this: Braithwaite hears about his friend’s sad, cold death, and is furious. He also has a history of violence, did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he does.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I just do. So he turns up at the theatre and shoots Crystal –’

‘Oh, this is preposterous.’

‘Then, having killed Crystal, he rushes home to his digs,’ said Mrs Groynes, raising her voice in triumph, ‘and in a frenzy of remorse, cuts his own throat with that regimental sword!’

Twitten stared at her. ‘What?’

‘It can be done, dear, I checked.’

It can be done?’

‘I mean, in the time. I’m not saying it’s psychologically feasible, dear, I’m just saying it can be done in the time. He could have done it. Technically.’

‘But no one would ever believe that!’

‘That’s what happened, though. Trust me. And think how neat it is. If Braithwaite did it all – well, sadly, he’s dead, he’s killed himself; so there’s no need for further enquiries. And I have to say, given the choice between your explanation of what happened to Mr Crystal – involving London gangs, long-ago bank robberies and Freudian memory retrieval, not to mention the police having to admit to being outwitted for years by a mere woman – and my explanation – putting everything down to Braithwaite who won’t even need to go to trial – I think we know which solution the inspector would prefer, don’t we?’

‘But your explanation is beyond preposterous, Mrs Groynes.’

‘I admit it. But it’s no more preposterous than that the station charlady is a master criminal, dear. And much less paperwork, do you see?’

Twitten understood what she was doing by proposing this bizarre alternative solution. She was saving herself but also offering to save him as well. If he was prepared to go along with it, it was a lifeline.

She looked at him expectantly. ‘What do you say, dear?’

By way of helping him decide, she performed a quick comic mime of a person leaning over backwards, sawing at their own throat with a sword, while rolling their eyes with their tongue hanging out. It wasn’t funny in the slightest.

‘Oh, come on, dear,’ she said. ‘Do yourself a favour.’

He closed his eyes. It was no use. ‘No, I’m sorry. I can’t go along with that. Not in a million years.’

She sat down, disappointed. ‘Well, I’m sorry too. I don’t mind admitting it was really nice to meet someone clever for a change.’

Twitten acknowledged the compliment. Perhaps it could be engraved on his headstone. There was just one last question he felt compelled to ask.

‘Since I might be dead soon, Mrs G, are you going to tell me your real reason for covering up the Stick-up?’

She froze. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘I’m guessing you’re protecting someone else from the wrath of Terence Chambers. But who?’

‘That’s enough!’

Mrs Groynes’ manner had changed significantly. The little window of opportunity she had offered him was closing very swiftly.

‘Lads!’ she shouted. Three large men entered the room. One of them was Barrow-boy Cecil. ‘See the bunny run?’ he said, with a wink.

Twitten quailed.

She gave him a last, steady look. ‘The Braithwaite Version, dear?’

Regretfully, Twitten shook his head, and sniffed. ‘Never,’ he said.

‘All right, boys,’ she said, turning away. ‘You know what you have to do.’