by Lynne Truss
‘No, sir! I wouldn’t dream of driving her out. To be honest, I can’t come to terms with the idea that she’s gone.’
Each man pictured the office waiting for them back at the station: an office devoid of Mrs Groynes and with Miss Lennon sitting at her big desk; the smell of smoking typewriter ribbon supplanting the familiar Mrs Groynes smells of brass cleaner and scouring powder mixed with freshly brewed Ty-Phoo.
‘I’m glad we’ve got more calls to make, aren’t you?’ said Twitten. ‘I don’t want to go back ever again.’
‘Nor me,’ said Brunswick gloomily. ‘It’s the end of a blooming era, son. For starters, who’s going to tell you off for making that horrible snorting noise if Mrs G isn’t there to do it?’
Six
By the time Twitten got into bed at Mrs Thorpe’s house at half-past nine that evening, he was too tired even to open the latest issue of Motivation Research Quarterly that his father had kindly sent him. He placed it on his bedside table, stroked its cover lovingly, and switched off the lamp. Rain pattered against his dormer window, but otherwise all was quiet. As he stretched out his toes, he sighed. Not much had been resolved in regard to any of the ongoing investigations, yet when he closed his eyes and posed the bedtime self-probing question (which he had asked himself nightly since he was twelve), Were you clever enough today, Peregrine?, the answer was, as usual, Gosh, I bally hope so.
Images from the day swam into his mind, not all of them pleasant. For example, here was Adelaide Vine in her yellow costume pointedly ignoring him, refusing to catch his eye. While it was true that he was by nature safe from her womanly wiles (because he could see through them so easily), it had still hurt to be treated in such a way, and he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
On the more positive side was the surprising arrival at the police station – just as Twitten and Brunswick were returning from their Professor Milhouse inquiries – of a man claiming to be the erstwhile governor of Broadmoor, desperate to locate a female psychiatrist called Miss Sibert who had helped in the escape of Geoffrey Chaucer, the dangerous madman with designs on Inspector Steine. The man had seemed a bit deranged himself. ‘Carlotta!’ he groaned repeatedly. ‘Oh, my Carlotta!’
‘Not Miss Sibert!’ Twitten had exclaimed with interest, on hearing the name. He remembered her very well from his first case in Brighton. She had supposedly been helping A. S. Crystal, the theatre critic, recollect details of a bank robbery. Twitten hadn’t met her, but they had spoken on the telephone. How on earth is she mixed up in this? he thought now. Didn’t I discover she was actually working for arch villain Terence Chambers? He didn’t know what to make of her reappearance. He found himself thinking – with a pang – that this was exactly the sort of matter normally illuminated for him by a private conversation with Mrs Groynes.
After the exciting arrival of the governor there had been the daily driving lesson, of course, which was perhaps best forgotten – especially the instructor’s scream of, ‘Watch out! Watch out! Kerb! Lamp-post! Mother-to-be!’ as the out-of-control car briefly mounted the pavement. But then a fine evening meal with Mrs Thorpe of Poulet Véronique (chicken in creamy sauce with tinned grapes) followed by pineapple upside-down cake and a very nice cup of tea as a digestif. As usual, Mrs Thorpe had wanted to know – once they were both replete – every detail about the dead man in the listening booth, but after listening politely for twenty-eight straight minutes to Twitten’s eager explanation of ‘motivation research’ and how it related to Vance Packard’s bally shocking book The Hidden Persuaders, she clapped her hand to her face and said, ‘Oh, no! I forgot! I’ve got a ticket to see Anton Walbrook and Moira Shearer in their play at the Theatre Royal! I must leave at once!’
‘I thought you’d already seen it, Mrs Thorpe,’ said Twitten, surprised. ‘On Monday. You said it wasn’t very good.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. I remember distinctly.’
‘Well, I have a ticket tonight, whatever I said, and dear, dear Anton would never forgive me if I failed him! You must finish your fascinating account of devilish advertising practices another time!’ And with that she had grabbed her coat and umbrella, and fled the house.
And that had been his day, up until he took his evening bath and climbed the steep stairs to his top-floor bedroom. Just as he was drifting into sleep, he heard a tiny noise from below, a soft click of the front door closing. Mrs Thorpe is back early, he thought. She’s left the play at the interval again. She did say it wasn’t very good. And, satisfied with this own brilliance in all matters, he sighed again and drifted into sleep.
‘Don’t be alarmed, dear,’ said a familiar voice quietly, in the dark.
Twitten woke, his heart pounding. ‘What? What? Who’s there?’ Deeply frightened, he wriggled to a sitting position, clutching at the covers. ‘Oh, crikey. Crikey! ’
‘Shh, dear.’
‘Please! Please don’t hurt me.’
‘Shhh, dear. Stop it.’
‘Mrs G? What the—?’
‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘Oh, crikey! Crikey!’
‘I just need a little talk. Look, don’t make me gag you, dear.’ She laughed. ‘I mean to say, don’t bleeding tempt me.’
He reached for the lamp switch, but she barked ‘Don’t!’ so he withdrew his hand and instead pulled the bedclothes up to his chin. From what he could make out in the gloom – and from the startling proximity of her voice – she was standing right next to his bed.
‘I was asleep, Mrs G,’ he said, as if affronted.
‘I know, dear. I waited until you switched your light off. Nice diggings, dear. Was that a pineapple upside-down cake you had with your supper? It looked lovely from out there in the rain. All that steam coming off it. And there I was outside, as wet as a haddock and as cold as workhouse cocoa.’
‘What do you want, Mrs G? And why did you just walk out this morning? It’s bally horrible in the office now, and it’s all your fault.’ The initial terror Twitten had felt had given way to other passionate feelings, such as righteous indignation and self-pity.
‘Calm down, dear.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘Shhh.’
‘Why are you here?’ he said, with vehemence.
‘Shhh! Look, I’ve got something to ask you.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘It’s half-past nine.’
‘Oh.’
‘And it can’t wait. It’s very important.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘Oh, I copied your front-door key, dear. Ages ago. And not to alarm you, but this isn’t the first time I’ve let myself in and stood here, either. Look, I need to know something, and it’s important. I need to know whether you’ve told anyone – anyone at all – about my being behind the deaths at the Metropole, and the shooting of Terence Chambers. And if you lie to me, I’ll know.’
‘Did you just say you’ve let yourself into this house on previous occasions?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s so shocking!’
‘Well, then, best not dwell on it. But what I want to know is whether you’ve told anyone about me—’
‘Of course I haven’t told anyone! No one would bally believe me, you know that. Why would you think I had?’
‘Because it’s out there. Somehow it’s out there. Someone knows everything, and is using it against me. And you’re the only person I talked to about it.’
‘Mrs Groynes, that’s ridiculous. Your entire gang knew, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You had dozens of accomplices, all of them untrustworthy criminals.’
‘So you didn’t tell anyone?’
‘No.’
‘You swear?’
‘Yes!’
‘All right. So tell me something else. What was in that bleeding envelope yesterday?’
‘Ah.’ He pictured the envelope being safely delivered this morning to the Holden residence in No
rth Norfolk, and was struck by a thought. He really should have telephoned Pandora to explain its contents: opening it, she would have been completely baffled.
‘Come on, dear. It’s not a difficult question. Not for a brainbox like you.’
‘You’re right. But the thing is, where that envelope is concerned, I’d rather not say.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
‘Well, good,’ he said, with an air of finality.
‘But imagine you don’t have a choice, dear.’
‘What?’
‘Imagine there’s a gun pointed at you.’
‘Is there a gun pointed at me?’ he squeaked.
‘What was in that envelope?’
‘You brought a gun?’
‘Just answer, dear.’
‘I don’t have it any more. It’s somewhere you won’t find it.’
‘That’s not what I asked, though, is it?’ There was the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked.
‘Please! Please don’t shoot me.’
‘Just tell me what I want to know. This isn’t a joke, dear. I’m not arsing about. My bleeding life is on the line.’
‘Oh, Mrs G, this is so horrible. I thought you liked me.’
‘Yes, well, I thought you liked me too.’
‘Look, when I saw the picture in the envelope, I’ll admit I thought: At last, some hard and fast evidence against Mrs Groynes. But I don’t mind admitting, I also felt awful.’
‘So it’s a picture, then. Of what?’
Twitten considered not answering. But then he asked himself how much the world needed him to be alive and deducing things cleverly in it, and the sobering answer was a lot.
‘Oh, all right, you win,’ he conceded. ‘It’s a photograph of you with Terence Chambers outside the Metropole.’
‘Me with Terry?’
‘You remember someone broke into the Polyfoto shop yesterday and coshed a man called Len? The robbers made a big mess to create confusion, but the significant thing they stole, I’m pretty sure, was a set of duplicates of Officer Andy’s photographs of you and Mr Chambers. You remember how the AA patrol man’s favourite pastime was taking pictures of major crime figures, which was bally reckless of him, considering how dangerous they are, but interestingly this wasn’t the reason he was killed?’
In the dark, Mrs Groynes closed her eyes, but managed to say patiently, ‘Go on, dear.’
‘Anyway, the first thing these robbers did, it seems, was send one of the pictures to me.’
‘I see.’
‘They must want me to expose you. They must know that I’ve had my hands tied all this time. Which means, you’re right, they must know quite a lot.’
Mrs Groynes sat down on the bed, thinking. Twitten bit his lip. It was worryingly unclear whether the gun was still pointing at him.
‘Does the sergeant know about this picture?’
‘Of course not! He adores you! His bally head would explode!’
‘So it’s just you, then? Like it’s just you who knows everything else? You see the position that puts you in? You see the position that puts me in?’
‘Please don’t shoot me, Mrs Groynes. Please. I never asked to be your confidant, did I? And I know it’s a cliché, but I’ll say it anyway. Mrs G, I’m too bally young to die!’
Sergeant Brunswick gazed at the empty pint mug in front of him and dolefully considered whether to have another. It was only half-past nine, but it was cheerless and quiet in the saloon bar of the Princess Alice this evening. Perhaps all the regulars were at home watching those flaming swing-screen fifteen-inch televisions of theirs, or gazing with pride at their flaming refrigerators.
He hadn’t realised until today how much he disliked being alive during a so-called ‘consumer boom’; how much he resented it for showing him up. The visit to Gosling’s had opened his eyes. At his age, he should be marching into just such a big shop with a happy wife and children in his wake (possibly all skipping), and buying a fashionable radiogram on hire purchase for his family’s shared delight. ‘Daddy! Thank you!’ would be the general cry, as he patted their heads in turn (wife included), while smiling broadly and puffing on his pipe.
He should be going home every night to bright curtains and matching crockery and up-to-the-minute paraffin heaters in every room. Instead of which, he was nursing pints in a dingy boozer and mooning over a sensational, unattainable girl with shiny chestnut hair (seventeen years his junior), while at the same time feeling squeamish about a well-meaning older woman whose only fault was that (apparently) she was struggling to keep her hands off him.
He was so deep in such unworthy self-pity that at first he didn’t notice the figure standing in front of him.
‘Sergeant Brunswick?’
‘Yes?’ He looked up. The man’s coat was wet: he must have just come in.
‘Gerald Winslow,’ the man said. ‘From this afternoon. From—’ He lowered his voice. ‘From Broadmoor. They told me at the station I might find you here.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Well, I’m not on duty right now, Mr Winslow.’
‘That’s all right. But perhaps I could join you?’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself.’
‘Ah. On account of that foreign woman you were going on about?’
‘Well … ’ Winslow shrugged and took the seat next to Brunswick’s. ‘Well, partly on account of sacrificing my job by abetting the escape of a very dangerous inmate – but yes, mainly on account of Carlotta.’ He let out a pitiful moan. ‘I’ve never met anyone like her, Sergeant! There is no one like her, and for a while, you see, I believed she could be mine.’
‘Nice name, Carlotta.’
‘She … she used me!’
Brunswick pursed his lips, in man-of-the-world fashion. A small burp was the unintended result. (He was a little bit drunk.) ‘You sound surprised, mate. Oops, pardon me.’
‘Surprised? I am destroyed.’
‘But that’s what they do, mate. That’s what they do.’
‘Who?’
‘Women.’
‘Really? Sorry, I’ve lost track. Women do what?’
‘They use you. All we want to do is look after them and pat their heads a bit. Buy them fancy radiograms on the never-never. But all they think is, How much can I squeeze out of this daft bloke without giving anything in return? ’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, it’s true. You got to buy them a ticket to this, a ticket to that; glasses of vintage port and Tizer; dancing at the Aquarium … then it’s all, “Ooh, get off me, Jim! I’m not that sort of girl!”’
Mr Winslow nodded sympathetically. ‘That sounds awful.’
‘It is.’
‘All Carlotta wanted from me was that I unlock all the internal gates in a top-security mental institution. I suppose I got off lightly.’
‘And I’ll tell you what,’ Brunswick carried on, apparently failing to note the frank confession the governor had just so casually made, ‘sometimes what they’re after is your body … ’ He paused and considered. He didn’t know quite what point he was making here. Was he truly complaining that Mrs Thorpe – a handsome, solvent woman with an unapologetic sex drive – was keen to manoeuvre him into bed, with no strings attached? Was this a legitimate position to take? Was he really expecting sympathy because Mrs Thorpe fancied him?
‘Women,’ he said, with feeling.
‘I was thinking of ordering a Bell’s, Sergeant. Would you join me?’
Brunswick glanced at the clock on the wall, and the maudlin mood only intensified. It didn’t matter what flaming time it was, did it? There was no wife waiting for him at home; no kiddies lay asleep in their modern space-saving bunk beds; no New World gas cooker kept his meat pie and chips warm on a brightly patterned plate for his return. No adoring faces would be upturned for a goodnight kiss.
‘Why not, Mr Winslow? That’s very kind. A Bell’s would really hit the spot right now.’
&n
bsp; Mrs Groynes had put the gun down. She wasn’t sure how they had got onto the subject of motivation research quite so quickly, but it had certainly defused the situation, and the weapon had soon grown heavy in her hand. She had always suspected that boring people to tears was Twitten’s unique special talent, but she hadn’t known until tonight that his fondness for his own voice could deflect actual bullets.
‘So, to sum up, Mrs G – hold on a tick, are you still listening?’
‘What? Yes. No. Not really.’
‘Perhaps I could put the light on now?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that in the dark it’s jolly hard to tell whether I’m completely keeping your attention. I mean, for all I know, you might be comically miming hanging yourself, as you do in the office sometimes! You know, with your tongue hanging out and your head lolling sideways. Anyway, to sum up, Professor Milhouse was doing this very important research but he must have stumbled on something going on at Gosling’s and that’s why he’s dead!’
‘I see.’
‘But I’m feeling you’re not particularly intrigued by the mystery of Professor Milhouse’s death, Mrs G.’
‘Well. I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.’
‘Of course. I’m being selfish. You’ve lost your job, and someone knows you were behind the killing of Terence Chambers, which must be bally alarming.’
She laughed. ‘A bit more than that, dear.’
There was a silence.
‘Please may I put the light on now, Mrs G?’
‘Not on your life.’
‘Why?’
‘Just no.’
‘Look, do you want to talk about the things on your mind? I mean, I’m wide awake now. And, much as you seem to unfairly resent my comprehensive knowledge of your criminal activities – knowledge which you have consistently foisted upon me – perhaps I’m in a good position to help you in your current undefined difficulties.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you.’ She let out a long breath. ‘Someone’s undermining me, dear.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Oh. Then how can you be sure—’
