by Lynne Truss
Tony must never know this, however. If he did, he wouldn’t hesitate to seek out Twitten and slit his throat.
‘No, no one at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’m positive.’
‘Well, all right. But if you’re right about this not being revenge for Chambers, it means someone just wants to take over the show down here.’
‘I know.’
‘Someone’s moving in.’
She chewed her lip. ‘Yes.’
‘What about Fat Victor?’ Fat Victor’s gang had been wiped out in the Middle Street Massacre in 1951. On his subsequent dawn-raid arrest at a Littlehampton love nest, he had famously vowed to return.
‘No, he’s washed up. He won’t come back here when he gets out. Heart condition. But keep thinking; this is useful. I tend to forget the people I’ve rubbed up the wrong way.’ (By ‘rubbed up the wrong way’, she meant ruthlessly annihilated with maximum bloodshed.) ‘I’d forgotten all about Fat Victor.’
‘Did Chambers have a brother, maybe?’
Mrs Groynes made a face as she tried to remember whether she’d ever known. ‘He might have, yes. I think he had an older brother called Bobby, but he wasn’t in the business as far as I’m aware.’
‘What about those Bensons who used to run the night club? They were scared to death of Chambers, so they kept their noses clean. But now he’s out of the way, they might see their way clear to come back. I can picture them making a move against you.’
‘Right. I’ll tell the boys to keep an eye out for the Bensons.’
‘And the more I think about it, this feels sort of personal.’
‘Like someone hates me?’
‘Yeah. They want to hit you where it hurts. I mean, it was clever to target Cecil and Shorty, on account of how much we all rely on them for getting the word out. But at the same time – and don’t take this the wrong way, Pal – you’ve got an obvious soft spot for both of them, haven’t you?’
She snorted. ‘Soft spot?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Me?’
‘Oh, come off it. You’ve got a soft spot for those useless coppers, too.’
‘No, I bleeding haven’t!’
‘Of course you have. I mean, why else are they even still alive? If it was down to anyone else down here, Sergeant bloody-useless-undercover Brunswick would have been fitted for concrete boots five years ago.’
‘The weird thing, sir,’ said Twitten thoughtfully, ‘is that everything was perfectly quiet until yesterday.’
Inspector Steine’s debriefing was still going on.
‘I was reading my book about the evil underhandedness of advertising – which is jolly fascinating, incidentally, but Mrs Groynes wouldn’t allow me to talk about it, not a single word is what she said, or she would “duff me up good and proper”; she would “bleeding crease” me, she said, whatever that means – so, as I say, I was reading it quietly without a care in the world. Then we all stood together in silence and watched the kettle boil, and it was just so jolly nice.’
‘I don’t wish to hear any more about the kettle, Twitten.’
‘It was quite something, sir,’ said Brunswick apologetically.
‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’
‘And then suddenly Miss Lennon arrived, and it was as if someone had fired a bally starting-pistol. But if you don’t mind my saying, sir, I think that although there are many things competing for our attention right now, especially our very bleak future in which there are no lovely cups of tea, and also of course the as-yet incalculable effect of Mrs Groynes’s desertion on Sergeant Brunswick’s already well-established abandonment complex, the main thing we should focus on is the lunatic.’
‘The lunatic, that’s right!’ said the inspector, pleased. ‘Well done, Twitten. I knew there was something else in Brunswick’s list I needed to ask about. Remind me, would you? I noticed it, certainly, but I didn’t quite flag it down.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Twitten, ‘he escaped from Broadmoor a few days ago—’
‘Broadmoor the hospital?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Quite a famous place, I think?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘And very secure. My father took me once on one of his professional visits.’
‘How did this man get out?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Brunswick. ‘We only know that he seems to have killed Nicky Garroway, the person who drove him to Brighton – a man who had very good reason to hate you, as it happens, because he worked directly for Terence Chambers.’
‘He hated me, this Nicky person?’ The inspector frowned. Hadn’t the commissioner in London mentioned such a name? Yes, he was almost sure of it. A feeling of unease was beginning to creep over him.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘Because you killed Mr Chambers. This is all about you, sir. I’m so sorry if you didn’t realise. Nicky, who had very good reason to hate you because he worked for Terence Chambers, helped the lunatic escape.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’
‘We think it’s a plot, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘A plot to kill you. Based on people hating you.’
‘Oh,’ said the inspector again. ‘But you could be wrong about that, surely?’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Twitten. ‘The escaped man does sound bally dangerous. He has killed three policemen, and according to his psychiatrist he is obsessed with you, sir. It’s a fair assumption that this Nicky man helped him get out so that he could come and kill you.’
Steine put his hands to his face. The news seemed finally to have sunk in.
‘I did explain earlier, sir,’ said Brunswick quietly. He indicated his notebook. ‘I definitely said, “ … three, an escaped violent lunatic who kills policemen and reportedly has murderous designs on you specifically”. Look, sir. The exact words.’
‘Yes, but then you told me about Mrs Groynes!’
‘The point is, sir,’ said Twitten patiently, ‘the matter is under control. Until the maniac is safely caught, you will receive constant police protection.’
‘Is anyone out looking for him?’
‘Oh, sir!’ Twitten had never heard such a stupid question before, even from Inspector Steine. ‘The entire bally force is looking for him!’
‘Oh, good.’
‘You may have noticed that you were escorted from your car into the safety of the station this morning by a protective phalanx of twelve constables?’
‘Oh.’ Steine had noticed the constables swarming around him, but things had all been so peculiar since he became famous and popular that he hadn’t really questioned it.
‘I see. Well.’ Things were beginning to sink in. ‘Very well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I see. Thank you. So people hate me. I see.’
They waited. Steine blinked.
‘He’s definitely mad, this man?’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘He’s as nutty as a flaming fruit cake.’
‘No doubt at all?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Good. And we don’t know what he personally has against me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Chaucer, sir. Geoffrey Chaucer.’
Inexplicably, Twitten giggled. ‘But not the one you’re thinking of, obviously.’
Steine made a face. He had never heard of anyone by that name.
‘You said … he murders policemen?’
‘And decapitates them –’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘– which means he cuts their heads off.’
‘Thank you, Twitten, I do know what decapitate means! But what I want to know is, why does he want to decapitate me?’
Inside the old wax museum in Russell Place, Chaucer lay on a narrow cot-bed and stared at the ceiling. Yesterday’s escape was still a blur. He clearly remembered Miss Sibert unlocking the door to his cell in the early hours of the morning and whispering that she was helping him, but everything after that was strangely vague.
Perh
aps she had drugged him. He wasn’t even sure how she had negotiated all the locked doors, but weirdly he felt that the governor himself was involved. Could that be right? Chaucer seemed to remember a male cry of anguish as he was bundled into a car waiting outside: ‘Carlotta! You used me!’ And then, as soon as the car drove off, he must have fallen unconscious.
How many people were in the vehicle to start with? Was it four? But he was never introduced to the two in the front, and they didn’t speak. And then he was woken and told by Miss Sibert to climb into the back of another vehicle – it looked like a shop van – and when he next saw daylight he was at the grey seaside, on a stormy morning, where he was bundled inside this building through a side entrance.
Why had he been rescued? And where was Miss Sibert now? Over the past few weeks he had come to rely on her. She had been kind and patient, and after a while had stopped asking him awkward questions about the murders he’d committed: it was almost as if she’d satisfied herself of something. Recently she’d just been borrowing the hospital projector and showing him films! When he closed his eyes, images from these films flashed in his head, even ones he’d seen for only a fraction of a second.
‘Here,’ said Tony, brightening. ‘What about those two blokes you shot dead at Brighton Station?’
Back at Luigi’s, Mrs Groynes was getting a bit depressed by all these potential enemies Tony could think of. Who knew that a lifetime of ruthlessly wiping people out could have so many negative ramifications? She was beginning to wish they could change the subject.
‘You can’t have forgotten,’ Tony carried on. He was clearly enjoying the memory challenge she had set him. ‘Those con artists? In July?’
‘Oh, yes. Fancy a bit of gateau, dear?’
‘You didn’t bother covering your tracks much that time, did you?’
Reluctantly, and with a deep sigh, she cast her mind back just a couple of months to Wall-Eye Joe and his gang, who had operated partly from that terrible old wax museum.
‘The girl got away, Palmeira. We got four of the five, but not the girl. What was her name? Adelaide something?’
‘Adelaide Vine.’
‘Well, couldn’t it be her doing all this?’
‘No.’ Mrs Groynes shook her head. ‘I could go for something with cherries on, personally.’
‘If you’re looking for someone with a motive, she’s got four. You snuffed out everyone she knew! Come to think of it, you got me to garotte her mum.’
Mrs Groynes looked pained. ‘Look, Tony … ’
‘What?’
‘I appreciate all the effort you’re putting in, but—’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘This is all a bit of a smack in the face for me, dear.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘All these enemies you keep raking up.’
‘You asked me to!’
‘Yes, but I didn’t think you’d come up with bleeding cart-loads of them, did I?’
He shrugged. ‘What about that psychologist woman who worked for Chambers?’
‘Oh, that’s enough, now!’
‘But—’
‘And anyway, as I’ve already said, no one knows it was me who got Terry killed.’
‘Yeah, but come off it, Palmeira. How long does it take for people to work out Inspector Woodentop didn’t do it without help? There are coppers in London that are proper hacked off. When he was alive, Chambers saw them all right, didn’t he? He kept them sweet. And now he’s dead. Those coppers can see for themselves how stupid Inspector Idiot is. They’re going to work it out that someone with a bit of brain was actually behind it.’
‘They don’t know, Terry. No one does.’
‘Well, I hope you’re right.’ He grinned. ‘Change the subject?’
‘Yes, please, dear, for gawd’s sake.’
‘All right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. But don’t call him Inspector Idiot, Tony. Not like that’s his name. Everyone’s saying Sergeant Stupid and Inspector Idiot and Constable Crikey these days. I’m beginning to wish I’d never started it.’
Back at the station, the full force of the maniac-with-a-grudge news had finally captured the inspector’s full attention.
‘So look,’ he said flatly. ‘Was this maniac something to do with Terence Chambers as well? Why does he want to kill me?’
‘We really don’t know, sir,’ said Brunswick. ‘I telephoned the governor at Broadmoor to get more information, but unfortunately he couldn’t talk. His secretary said that he seemed to be packing a bag.’
Twitten huffed. ‘We should have driven there directly, sir. I did suggest it to Sergeant Brunswick. I kept suggesting it, in fact.’
‘Well, we didn’t drive there, son, so stop flaming going on about it,’ said Brunswick irritably. ‘But Twitten is right, sir: we probably should have gone to interview the governor as soon as possible. When I called again this morning, I was told he had left the premises, leaving a bunch of keys on his desk and no forwarding address. Meanwhile the foreign lady who telephoned the news to the Argus unfortunately preferred to be anonymous, and Nicky Garroway is dead. At present there is no one to help us understand what this Geoffrey Chaucer’s got against you.’
‘So, the absence of cups of tea is the least of my problems?’ said Steine, with a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘When a man wants to kill me for no known reason and then cut my head off and leave it … rolling in the dust.’ He turned his face to the window and stared into the middle distance.
Brunswick and Twitten exchanged glances. The phrase ‘rolling in the dust’ reminded them both of a small but vivid detail of the inspector’s fate they had not as yet disclosed.
‘Talking of your head rolling about like that, sir,’ said Brunswick, ‘I think Constable Twitten has something he wants to tell you.’
‘Oh, I really don’t, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Steine, not looking round. ‘Because I don’t want to hear it.’
He continued to gaze out of the window. From experience, they both recognised this as a cue to leave him alone with his thoughts.
‘Perhaps we should take ourselves off to Gosling’s, now, sir?’ said Twitten.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Miss Lennon allowed us to have this debriefing, but she’s very keen to bring you up to date on other matters. She has sorted the post already, sir! Weeks of it. She’s a bally miracle, sir.’
‘Of course. Yes, yes. Miss Lennon.’
‘Ooh,’ added Twitten. (He’d had a helpful thought.) ‘If you do find that the name Geoffrey Chaucer rings a bell eventually, sir, it will probably be because of The Canterbury Tales, so you can put it out of your mind.’
Steine seemed not to have heard.
Brunswick turned when he reached the door. ‘We’re … ’ He stopped, hesitant. ‘We’re both very sorry about all this, sir.’
‘Thank you, Brunswick.’
‘And I don’t think we said it properly at the beginning … ’
‘Said what?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Twitten, with an encouraging smile. ‘Bally well welcome back.’
Five
‘Sergeant Brunswick, is that really you?’
As they reached the top of the stairs, a surprise was awaiting our two fine police officers on the second floor of Gosling’s Department Store, and it wasn’t just the bewildering range of disparate retail lines haphazardly shoehorned into the available space. Wringing her hands in lovely anguish was a slender and beautiful young woman they had expected never to see again.
‘Flaming heck,’ said Brunswick, skidding to a halt.
She wore a dress and jacket in canary yellow; her rich chestnut hair was swept up in a dramatic chignon, from which an artful wisp hung elegantly (or was it carelessly?) over an almond-shaped eye.
‘Crikey,’ said Twitten. ‘Miss Vine?’
‘Miss Vine?’ echoed Brunswick. ‘It can’t be.’
‘But it is!’ The vision of loveliness put her hands to her face. ‘It’s me!’ Her shoulders heaved, and her face contorted, and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘And, oh, thank heavens, Sergeant Brunswick! It’s you!’
The two men looked at each other in understandable consternation. The last time they had seen Adelaide Vine, she had been an outlaw escaping into the blank whiteness of a summer fog, having waved a gun at the inspector. She had said, in a steely voice, ‘I don’t want to shoot you, Inspector. But, believe me, I won’t hesitate for a second if anyone tries to stop me leaving.’ Her gun, when it was knocked from her hand, had actually shot Sergeant Brunswick in the leg. So why was she saying ‘Thank heavens’ and greeting them as friends?
Many such questions raised themselves (to both of their minds) along with ‘What is Adelaide Vine doing in this shop?’ and ‘Don’t we have historic grounds to arrest her?’ And also (just Twitten), ‘What is the theme of this floor? I see Tri-ang scooters but I also see rat poison. How does it bally add up?’ But on the other hand, look at how helpless Miss Vine appeared to be! Her crystal tears would surely melt the heart of any man – or perhaps any man save for the sensibly wary Constable Peregrine Wilberforce Twitten.
‘Oh, Sergeant!’ she said again, rather pointedly.
‘Miss Vine!’ said Brunswick, with feeling. Watching all this from the sidelines, Twitten was fascinated. Written plainly on the sergeant’s stricken face was the age-old male struggle between sense and sensuality, in which prudence born of experience (‘I shouldn’t trust this woman’) competes with a more primitive response (‘But she’s beautiful and seems pleased to see me!’). The effort of refereeing this unequal fight was already producing colour in Sergeant Brunswick’s cheeks and small beads of sweat on his forehead.
‘Oh, forgive me, dear Sergeant,’ Adelaide wailed. ‘I said to Mr Gosling, if they send Sergeant James Brunswick we will be in safe, strong hands!’
