by Lynne Truss
He is not married. While his wealth and bachelor status make him a perpetual target for gold-diggers, his single-minded devotion to retail successfully protects him from them. Determined women can snag him easily enough, but they can’t retain his interest. ‘What are you thinking about, darling?’ they might ask breathily, wiggling their eyebrows and snuggling closer. And he replies brightly, ‘Well, since you ask, why the new Murphy Swing-screen TV doesn’t outsell the Pye Continental! It’s really got me stumped!’
Sometimes these would-be girlfriends fall at a different hurdle, when they thoughtlessly break Mister Harold’s cardinal rule, even though it is absurdly simple to remember: Never mention Hannington’s in his presence. His feelings about the rival store are intemperate, and he has been known to venture out under cover of darkness and daub red paint over posters proclaiming ‘Hannington’s – Brighton’s First Choice!’ Other stores he can tolerate: Vokin’s, the Co-operative, Peter Lord in East Street. But not the mighty Hannington’s. When people speak the name to him, he feels they have spat in his face.
So he is a driven man, this Mister Harold, and an insomniac, and part of his morning routine is to visit – and give fresh consideration to – every inch of the shop-floor before even the cleaners arrive at half-past six. This time spent communing alone with his shop has inspired many a brainwave in the past: not least, to remove all the overhead wires from the old cash-canister system and install the more modern pneumatic tubes. Some of the staff were understandably scared of them to begin with. Such powerful suction! But thus far the only accident was quite a comical one, when the girl in the Dutch costume (with the cubes of cheese on sticks) bent her head too close to a carelessly uncapped portal and her wig – complete with plaits – flew off like a blonde flying squirrel and was sucked away down the hole.
This morning he is just about to leave the music department on the second floor when something catches his eye in one of the soundproofed booths. Mister Harold is proud of this little corner of the shop, and often lingers here because the smell of vinyl is so intoxicating. His decision to sell records (and compete with specialist music shops) entailed a substantial investment in fittings: not only the sturdy browsing racks for the heavy long-players, but the system of hidden wires and speakers and soundproofing for those essential little listening booths. Mister Harold had insisted on having two types of booth: four ‘duck-ins’ for teenagers who were happy to stand and dance – heads together – to their rock-’n’-roll records; two larger, more sedate booths for classical music lovers, with bench seats and closable half-glazed doors. He took the idea for the cubicles straight from the film Strangers on a Train, which one of the would-be girlfriends had made him take her to see. (The design of the cubicles in the music store was, of course, the only thing he took away from the evening. Disappointingly, the rest of the film didn’t concern retail at all.)
But what’s this? There is something red smeared on the internal glass of Booth F. He opens the door and is surprised to find a man lying there – a large man in wire-rimmed glasses. At first he is simply confused. Are people sleeping in Gosling’s now? Why didn’t the nightwatchman find this man and throw him out? But then – and, well, this is what separates a retail genius like Mister Harold from ordinary people – a Big Idea flickers to life, and he puts a thoughtful hand to his chin. Would customers pay to sleep in Gosling’s? Would they see it as a privilege to spend the night here? Should the shop hold a competition? It could be used to relaunch the bedroom furniture section, which is in need of a new lease of life!
But the brainwave is short-lived. As he looks more carefully, he can’t help noticing that the man has a small gun in his hand, and the back of his head is missing. The red on the glass is blood. Mister Harold gasps and backs away. A suicide? A man has shot himself in Gosling’s?
As he pushes Booth F’s door shut again, his first thought is, I must telephone the police, of course. I will ask for Inspector Steine. His second is, But don’t forget the sleeping-the-night idea, because Belgrave Furniture might be persuaded to sponsor the whole thing. And his third thought – with a grin of triumph – is the supremely comforting, Ha! So Hannington’s wasn’t someone’s first choice, then, was it?
By the time Inspector Steine had arrived back at his desk, there was rather a lot for his officers to tell him. He wasn’t pleased. Since he had just been driven from London in the pouring rain, and had been obliged to rise extremely early, he would have appreciated a couple of hours sitting quietly in his office, perhaps having constructive thoughts for his memoirs. But this was not to be. He would also have enjoyed holding court with his men, relating his many triumphs in the capital (he had brought home a clanking holdall full of trophies, gifts and medals). But apparently he could wave goodbye to those fond hopes as well.
Here was the perpetual downside of being a policeman, in his opinion: the fact that random and unpleasant criminal activity always dictated the order of business. The inspector deeply resented the reactive imperative of the policeman’s lot, especially when it interfered with a grand triumphal return. A perfect day might be in prospect, but if some tiresome idiot of a criminal took it into his head to rob or kill, you had no choice in the matter. You had to shelve your own plans while all your colleagues focused their attention on him.
‘So you’re telling me, Brunswick,’ he sighed, ‘that a man has just been found shot dead in Gosling’s Department Store?’
‘Yes, sir. An hour ago. In the record department. In a listening booth.’
‘It might be suicide,’ chipped in Twitten excitedly, ‘but we suspect not. From what I can gather, sir, the man had everything to live for. He was on the cutting edge of important sociological research.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that, sir,’ said Brunswick, ‘but the constable and I will set off for Gosling’s the minute we’ve finished here. Your new secretary Miss Lennon allowed us to talk to you first because of the gravity of the situation.’
The inspector nodded. Miss Lennon had greeted him with more enthusiasm – and volume – than he was accustomed to (‘Thanks HEAVENS! Our HERO returns!’), and he had scurried past her, confused.
‘I’m told she’s very efficient,’ he said. ‘The commissioner in London said she was the soul of loyalty and would be able to protect me.’
‘Well, she can certainly be jolly fierce, sir,’ said Twitten.
‘Can she?’
‘I should say so, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘Sergeant Baines on the front desk has already started ducking out of sight when he sees her coming. And she only started yesterday.’
‘But on the other hand,’ said Twitten, ‘she does seem refreshingly efficient. For example, she answers the phone and takes messages instead of kneeling down like Mrs G and threatening to cut off the cord at the skirting board with a penknife. I’m not suggesting that one approach is inherently better than the other, but it’s certainly a very different sort of energy.’
Steine huffed. ‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed to be welcomed back with this unpleasant news about this dead fellow. And it’s your loss, too, I’m afraid. I’m sure you are both burning with curiosity about my time away.’ He indicated the holdall on his desk.
Brunswick and Twitten looked at each other.
‘Not really, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘Personally speaking, I’d much rather investigate a potential murder.’
‘I see. And what about you, Brunswick?’
‘Well … ’ This was tricky for the sergeant. He had long dreamed of being awarded the Silver Truncheon himself, and was pretty keen to hold one.
‘Well?’ repeated Steine.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I mean, flaming hell, this man is dead—’
‘Yes, well, in that case, let’s not labour the point.’ With a long-suffering air, the inspector dragged the heavy bag off his desk and placed it on the floor. ‘Off you both go, then. What are you waiting for?’
Brunswick gaped in surprise. ‘There’s a bit mo
re to tell you first, sir.’
‘More?’
‘Well, yes.’ Brunswick produced his notebook, and took a deep breath. ‘You’ve been gone for weeks, sir. I didn’t want to leave anything out, so I prepared a list. Paint the big picture, as it were. So, one, yesterday at approximately one p.m. at the Polyfoto shop in Western Road, an aggravated robbery was perpetrated by a person or persons—’
‘You love all this, don’t you, Brunswick?’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘I’m just saying. You love it.’
Brunswick shot a look of panic at Twitten: What’s going on?
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘Crime. Murders. Aggravated robberies.’
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘The thing about criminals, Brunswick – and I believe I’ve mentioned this to you before – is that they are scum. They are the scum of the earth, and yet look!’
‘Look at what, sir?’
‘Look how they succeed in setting the agenda!’
Brunswick and Twitten exchanged glances. Twitten shook his head. All they knew was that this was an awkward situation. They waited.
Steine gave up. ‘All right,’ he sighed, ‘how many items are on that precious list of yours?’
Brunswick glanced at it. ‘Five, sir.’
‘Five?’
Twitten cleared his throat. ‘I think the sergeant really should be allowed to paint the whole picture, sir. I don’t want to spoil it for you, but in terms of you personally, sir, it’s a very big picture; in fact, it’s bally titanic.’
‘Oh, very well. Go on, Brunswick.’
And so, the inspector folded his arms, pursed his lips, and grudgingly listened to Brunswick’s report.
‘Thank you, sir. Constable Twitten can help me if I’ve forgotten anything, but as I see it, these are the five matters worthy of bringing to your attention.’ He held up his list. ‘One, as I’ve already mentioned, an aggravated burglary at a photographer’s studio, apparently with the aim of securing pictures taken by the AA man who you may remember was murdered in August; two, a notable missing person, going by the street name Barrow-Boy Cecil, long-standing police informant and popular trader, who’s not been seen now for several days; three, an escaped violent lunatic who kills policemen and reportedly has murderous designs on you specifically, sir—’
‘You specifically, sir!’ echoed Twitten, unable to contain himself.
‘Four, a murdered henchman of Terence Chambers’s who evidently helped the lunatic escape from Broadmoor, name of Nicky Garroway; and last but not least, I’m afraid to say, five, Mrs Groynes has left us this morning, sir, and I just can’t flaming believe it!’
‘What? Mrs Groynes?’ The inspector put his hands to his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you start with that? I just bought her a new kettle!’
‘It’s true, sir! She’s gone!’ chipped in Twitten. ‘And as far as we can discover, the miraculous kettle has gone, too!’
‘Good heavens.’ Steine frowned. ‘Mrs Groynes? Are you sure?’ He had a vague feeling that perhaps one other item on Brunswick’s list ought to have snagged his attention more, but for the moment he couldn’t quite call it to mind.
‘I am, sir,’ said Brunswick, his voice a little unsteady. ‘Apparently Miss Lennon spoke to her early this morning, about moving her tea things out of the office, and she turned on her heel and left. Without a word of goodbye! She’d been here with us for years!’
‘She didn’t explain at all?’
‘All Miss Lennon overheard her say, sir,’ said Twitten, ‘was “Sod this for a game of soldiers.” Which was one of her lovable cockney expressions, of course, but not very helpful in divining the precise cause of her departure.’
Brunswick sat down (without being invited to). He was trying not to give way to his feelings, but he was visibly moved. ‘I just don’t know what to think, sir. Mrs G was like a flaming mother to me.’
‘That’s quite true, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘She did seem to have a particular maternal fondness for the sergeant.’
‘She made blancmange specially, just to cheer me up! She brought in Battenberg just because I like it.’
‘I bally hate marzipan, sir,’ chipped in Twitten.
‘As do I, Constable,’ agreed the inspector, with feeling. ‘It’s utterly vile. Well, this is very serious, both of you. I am saddened by this news. Partly on account of the kettle, of course. Did it work?’
‘It bally well did, sir.’
‘It turned itself off?’
‘Beautifully, sir. Every time.’
‘Well, I have to say, I leave you for a few short weeks and come back to – to what? Five items of very bad news – was it really only five?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I repeat, five items of bad news. And on top of that, no prospect of a decent cup of tea!’
At Luigi’s venerable ice-cream parlour on the seafront, a grim-faced Palmeira Groynes sat with Diamond Tony, her back to the rain-spattered window. Wind rattled the steamed-up glass, and whistled through the door whenever it was opened to admit the dribs and drabs of desperate (and desperately unlucky) off-season holiday-makers, who shook the rain off their hats and umbrellas before ordering hot frothy coffees or large mugs of Ovaltine.
Mrs Groynes looked round every time the door opened. She was definitely jumpy, and not just because she had purloined the office kettle as a parting gesture of defiance. It now sat beside her on the bench seat with her coat over it.
‘Thanks for coming, dear,’ she said, patting Tony’s hand. Mrs Groynes had a lot of time for Diamond Tony, her favourite psychopath-cum-loyal-assassin. He lived in style in one of the penthouses of the Metropole Hotel, and with his crisp suits and pomaded hair he was a right Flash Harry, but he was a good man in a crisis: straightforward to the point of bluntness, and brilliantly professional, taking proper pride in his stealthy work. In criminal circles Diamond Tony was something of a legend. No one garrotted with more finesse; no one slipped a stiletto between the ribs with more elegance and discretion. His victims neither saw him coming nor heard him. On his fingers he wore the rings of the last few people he had dispatched. At the moment they numbered five on each hand.
But if Mrs Groynes had good cause to rate him highly, he felt the same way about her. She had worked wonders in this town, keeping dozens of men on a generous payroll. As for him personally, he owed her everything. It was she who first awarded him the life-changing epithet ‘Diamond’ when he was just a fresh-faced dreamer starting out as a killer-for-hire. ‘You’re a diamond, that’s what you are, Anthony,’ she’d said. And thus Diamond Tony was born.
‘So who do you think is doing this to me?’ she said.
‘Who’s doing this to you?’ he repeated, stirring his coffee with a nine-inch blade (out of habit, merely; a teaspoon would have been far more efficient). He pulled a face. ‘What if it’s nobody, Palmeira? What if it’s just a run of bad luck?’
‘It’s not, Tony. It bleeding isn’t.’
‘Well, stop a bit. This new secretary you talked about. She was sent by someone at bloody Scotland Yard! I’d call that bad luck.’
‘All right. I grant you, this Lennon woman, she’s just my reward for making Inspector Steine the big hero, isn’t she? That’s bleeding irony, that is. I work my backbone to a string of conkers making him the Big I Am, and in return for my kindness, I get to spend four hours last night clearing my stash out of the cupboard at the station!’
‘What? The jelly and everything?’
‘I had to. That woman was threatening to have the doors off.’
Tony grimaced. ‘Where did you put it all?’
‘Hove. Vince’s lock-up.’
‘Well, I’m not denying that’s bad luck, Palmeira. I’m not. But like I said, it’s not a conspiracy.’
‘Yes, but everything else? Come off it. How did this person let me know about Cecil getting nabbed? By using my girl Denise in the tube room at Gosling’s! Denise is in deep
cover! No, they’re telling me they know about the big shop job. Then there’s poor Cecil, and now the threat against Shorty.’ She shook her head. ‘Shorty, Tony. I mean, how low can you get, threatening a kid?’
They drank their coffees, and Tony took a spoonful of banana split. They did a phenomenal banana split in Luigi’s.
‘Well, my first guess would have been that Nicky Garroway bloke: you know, Chambers’s little sidekick. He’s got every reason to come after you. But they’re saying he’s dead.’
‘I did think of Nicky. But as far as he was concerned, his boss was shot by Inspector Steine, do you see? As far as he knew, I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Most of the people who’ve got good reason to hate me don’t know it, Tony! It wasn’t me behind the Middle Street Massacre. It wasn’t me who got Terry killed. I mean, I’m not bleeding daft. I cover my tracks.’
‘I still think this is to do with Chambers.’
‘Tony!’
‘You’re telling me that no one outside the gang knows it was you behind all those mobsters heaped up in the Metropole last month? No one at all ?’
‘No one,’ she said, emphatically. But a cloud passed across her face. Because, oh, my good gawd, someone did know. What about clever-clogs Twitten?
‘You’ve thought of something,’ said Tony.
‘No, no.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, it’s nothing. Eat your sweet, dear, your scoops are melting.’
Quickly she asked herself: How much have I told that boy? And the answer was: A ridiculous, foolish, shaming amount. Over the past three months she had told the constable virtually everything about her operations; she had shown off in the certain knowledge that he was powerless to stop her. But now she couldn’t help (internally) screaming at herself: Certain knowledge? Why did you ever think of it as certain knowledge?
