by Lynne Truss
‘It’s a bleeding conspiracy. And it’s serious. They’ve taken Barrow-Boy Cecil and they’ve threatened Shorty.’
‘What do you mean, they’ve taken Mr Cecil?’
‘He’s bleeding disappeared. You heard the sergeant say so.’
‘Yes, but perhaps he’s just at home with a cold. The weather’s been terrible.’
‘Well, he isn’t at home with a cold! They sent me a finger and a note with a crushed-up bunny!’
‘That’s horrible.’ Twitten wrinkled his nose. ‘Gosh. And who’s Shorty?’
‘The boy you saw me with earlier.’
Twitten snorted. ‘You call him Shorty?’
‘Oh, stop it. And now there’s this murder at Gosling’s and that’s no coincidence, you mark my words. Whoever this is, they’re drawing all this attention to the store, which is where I’ve been planning a job for bleeding months, dear.’
‘Have you? A job? You never mentioned it to me.’
‘Well, it’s massive. My crowning glory. I’ve got eleven of my top people in there – on the door, in the hats, up to her elbows in crabmeat, down in the so-called “tube room”. All in place for Christmas week.’
‘Heavens.’ Twitten thought back to this morning’s interviews. ‘Do you know, I thought everyone was a bit too sharp for shop work. I said as much to Sergeant Brunswick, but he said I was just being snobbish. But if you’ve got people there, you must know that Adelaide Vine is working there, too.’
‘Is she?’
‘Yes.’
‘Blimey. That’s news to me.’
‘And thinking about it, Mrs G,’ he added excitedly, ‘Adelaide Vine has jolly good reason to be angry with you!’
Mrs Groynes sighed. Not this again.
‘I mean, gosh, Mrs Groynes, not two months ago you killed her entire gang, including her mother! I remember thinking at the time that she might return and seek bally vengeance.’
‘Well, I admit, I didn’t know she was back, but I’ve been through this once today already. Yes, the Vine girl has got a motive, but this plot against me isn’t about her and her mum. I wouldn’t believe it at first, but I’ve come round. This has got to be payback for me getting Terence Chambers shot.’
‘Well, I don’t think you should underestimate her. She positively enslaved Sergeant Brunswick this morning in a matter of minutes. It was revolting, but also so interesting. All she had to do was to start crying, and it was as if someone had removed his spine! The sergeant’s attitudes to women are very contradictory, but at the same time, I suppose – and I have given quite a lot of thought to this, actually – his ambivalence is entirely consistent with being abandoned by his mother when he was small.’
‘Look, I’m not saying Adelaide isn’t in on it. She might well be. But look at her, she’s a baby. And this is big.’ Mrs Groynes’s voice shook. ‘I’ve got the finger here if you’re interested.’
‘Oh. No, thank you.’
He heard the sound of a handbag catch being opened.
‘No, really,’ he insisted.
‘What did Barrow-Boy Cecil ever do to anyone?’ she asked, with sadness. (It was unclear whether she had retrieved the finger.)
‘Well, I know for a fact he sold a firearm to a child quite recently, Mrs G. So perhaps you’re romanticising him just a little.’
It briefly occurred to Twitten that, when he had so innocently applied to join the police, he had never expected to be talking like this one day, in the dark, trapped in his bed, helping a cunning and armed female master criminal to rank her sworn enemies in order of importance. And yet, in such a short time, this was precisely how things had turned out.
‘This isn’t like you, Mrs G,’ he said gently. ‘You’re usually a step ahead.’
He thought he heard her sniff when he said this, but he couldn’t be sure. To find herself not one step ahead must, of course, be jolly difficult for a controlling personality like Mrs Groynes.
‘I think you should come back to your job at the station,’ he said, with more conviction than he felt. ‘Swallow your pride. Look after Sergeant Brunswick. He’s lost without you. You can guard him from the wicked Miss Vine, and keep an eye on things from there.’
‘Are you kidding? Not while that woman’s there.’
‘Miss Lennon? Well, at least you can rest assured she can’t be in on this … this whatever it is. I checked up on her and Miss Roberta Lennon has worked at Scotland Yard for decades. She’s chairwoman for life of the Chartered Association of Police Secretaries. It’s just bally bad luck she turned up in Brighton this week.’
‘Well, if you ask me—’ Mrs Groynes began, but stopped. ‘Hold up, what’s this now?’
There was a sound from downstairs: a key in the front door. Mrs Thorpe had come home. Twitten and Mrs Groynes both sat silent for a while, and listened to the homeowner bustling below in the kitchen, making herself a warm drink, and no doubt entertaining equally warm thoughts about the lovely Sergeant Brunswick who had two weeks ago kissed her fervently out of doors and set her whole nervous system aflame. She would never forget the way he had suddenly taken her in his manly arms. She gasped every time she remembered it (which was several times a day at set intervals). If she could only get him to kiss her like that indoors …
‘Were you really prepared to shoot me just now, Mrs G?’ whispered Twitten reprovingly. ‘Because poor Mrs Thorpe would have had to find my lifeless body in the morning. What with the murder downstairs in the summer, don’t you think she’s been through enough of that sort of thing already?’
At his home in the Queen’s Park area of the town, Inspector Steine switched off the evening concert on the wireless, placed his book on a side table, and listened to the rain. He felt sorry for the poor officers (four of them) who’d been stationed outside, in their helmets and capes, to guard him. His house tended to catch a breeze up from the sea, and there was little in the way of shelter. He sighed. These men were paying the price for his own sheer dauntless integrity as a policeman! If he’d been a lesser mortal, who shrank from action, they would be at home with their families, or tucked up in the section house with a nice cup of bedtime Horlicks.
So he blamed himself for creating this situation, but only in such a way as (predictably) to reflect more glory on himself. To his credit, he certainly had not shot Chambers in the expectation of trophies, cash, fame, a new car and a thousand party invitations. Still less had he considered unpleasant reprisals. But what was the reason he’d had no such thoughts of repercussions when he performed the act? Well, whisper the shameful truth: he hadn’t known who Chambers was when he shot him.
This inconvenient fact was now all-but-forgotten, of course. Occasionally, the inspector’s conscience piped up with the question, ‘Did you know, Geoffrey?’ but then his ego rebelled, and the incipient heresy was ruthlessly suppressed. On that day in the milk bar he had been a hero, and now he must face the negative consequences, just as he had accepted the acclaim. A screen version of events, called High Noon at the Milk Bar, was already in preparation, after all: a companion-piece to The Middle Street Massacre. He had heard today that ABC Television (whatever that was) was now talking about a spin-off ‘Inspector Steine of Brighton’ series to be aired on Saturday nights. It wouldn’t be long before all the world would know his surname was pronounced ‘Steen’ and not ‘Stine’ – a small matter, but it would be a great relief after a lifetime of correcting people.
He wondered if he should check up on the man guarding the front of the house. Constable Jenkins, was it? But on the other hand, was it wise to open the door? Why hadn’t anyone apprehended this Geoffrey Chaucer man yet? The station had circulated his photograph and a full description, and the Argus had printed both, advertised by a not-at-all-alarmist placard ‘KILLER LOONY AT LARGE IN BRIGHTON’ – so the public were also taking part in the manhunt.
Meanwhile, a helpful Broadmoor warder had sent a box of files relating to all the Chaucer interviews conducted in recent weeks by that dodgy femal
e psychiatrist (this warder had always been suspicious of her). Inspector Steine had brought these Broadmoor files home with him, but had been too terrified to look at them. The box was still on his dining table, full of crime-scene photographs, spools of cine-film, and handwritten files with ridiculous labels such as ‘Doris Fuller, Waitress, J. Lyons’.
He looked at it now in despair. Doris Fuller? How could knowing about some lowly waitress named Doris Fuller help a man in his position? A man under threat from a lunatic who not only killed policemen, but cut off their heads?
There was a knock on the front door. He jumped.
‘Sir?’ said a muffled voice.
The inspector, his head pounding, approached. ‘What is it, Jenkins?’ he called.
‘Just checking you’re all right, sir. The four of us will be relieved at eleven o’clock, sir. Then the final shift arrives at three.’
Why are you reminding me of this? he thought. I know this. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’
‘Um, it’s normal in these circumstances to offer the men on duty a cup of tea, sir. I hope you don’t mind me saying, sir.’
‘Not at all, Constable. Not at all. But explain to me how I could pass cups of tea to you without opening the door.’
‘Ha! Good point, sir. Silly of me, sir.’
‘And perhaps you could also explain, when you are drinking your cup of tea, where is your truncheon?’
‘Ah.’
‘Where?’
‘It’s hanging from my belt, sir.’
‘Precisely. Not easy to fend off a madman while holding one of my best cups and saucers, I imagine.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good night, then, Constable.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll enjoy the eventual cup of tea all the more for the wait.’
‘Yes, sir. I expect you’re right. And I meant to say—’
‘Say what, Jenkins?’
‘Don’t worry about a thing, sir. No one’s going to boil your head in a bucket without having Brighton’s finest to answer to first, sir.’
‘Thank you, Jenkins. That’s very reassuring.’
The inspector was halfway up the stairs before the full import of these words of encouragement properly hit home.
‘What makes you think she’s here in Brighton, anyway? This Carlotta of yours?’
It was a reasonable question from the sergeant, but Mr Winslow, after three whiskies in quick succession, had serious trouble focusing on it.
‘Carlotta,’ he breathed.
‘Mm,’ agreed the sergeant. After three whiskies of his own he was in a similar state and had forgotten the question just as soon as he had asked it. ‘Mine’s called—’ For a moment, he couldn’t remember! But in his defence, he did usually address her as Mrs Thorpe.
‘Adelaide,’ he said softly. ‘No! Eliza.’ He laughed. ‘Blimey. It’s Eliza.’
‘Adelaide Eliza? That’s lovely.’
‘No, just Eliza.’
‘Oh. And you say she wants you?’ Mr Winslow’s face crumpled. He raised his empty glass and put it down again with a clunk. Then he leaned close to Brunswick. ‘What does she want you to do?’ he breathed.
‘How do you mean?’
‘What act?’
‘Flaming heck, mate. I can’t talk about that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s a lady, for a start!’
‘Oh, go on. Have pity.’
‘No!’ Brunswick inhaled deeply and tried to stand up, but immediately sat back down again. He fought the mental fog that had settled over him. ‘Look, we’ve got to find that Chaucer bloke. Can you give me anything on him? Anything?’
‘I’m tired, Sergeant. So tired.’
‘In the morning, then? Come in first thing. One of your blokes sent some material over, I think. Hang on.’ He blinked a few times, and exhaled. ‘Yes. I remember. Big box. So you’ll come in, then? All right?’
‘All right.’
Brunswick helped the man to his feet. ‘Come along, Mr Winslow. Upsy-daisy.’
They shuffled, arm in arm, to the swing doors of the pub.
‘Umbrella?’ said Brunswick, before pushing the door open to the rainy night.
‘Umbrella,’ confirmed Winslow, producing one with a flourish from under his arm.
‘Good. So when I say three—Oh!’
‘What’s wrong?’
Brunswick stared at Winslow’s umbrella, frowning. ‘Where the flaming hell did you get that?’ he demanded.
Back at Mrs Thorpe’s, all was quiet downstairs. The lady of the house was sleeping contentedly after reading a couple of steamy chapters of the sensational bestseller from America, Peyton Place.
Twitten had begged her not to purchase this famously lurid book when they visited Hatchards in Piccadilly together on a special day-trip to town. In fact, he had caused quite a scene in the bookshop, urging her instead to buy Agatha Christie’s jolly good new mystery Dead Man’s Folly. ‘Miss Christie is at the peak of her considerable narrative powers, Mrs Thorpe!’ he was heard to say. ‘And reading her book won’t arouse base animal passions that can only make you unhappy!’ But in the end, Mrs Thorpe had prevailed, and had purchased Peyton Place for herself while treating Twitten to a copy of The Hidden Persuaders – a lapse of judgment now condemned by everyone who knew him. But on the plus side, together they had decided on The Untouchables (the story of legendary special agent Eliot Ness) as a surprise gift for Sergeant Brunswick, and he had absolutely loved it.
Mrs Thorpe had long been determined to read Peyton Place – especially after Sergeant Brunswick refused point-blank to accompany her to the controversial, adult-rated film. And each morning at breakfast for the past week, she had regaled Twitten with the repulsive and seemingly never-ending saga of small-town New England incest, child abuse, illegitimacy and teenage abortion, sometimes in so much anatomical detail as to put him right off his bacon and eggs.
Now that she was safely asleep in the room below, it would have been sensible for Twitten to urge Mrs Groynes’s immediate departure. But, for better or worse, he didn’t do this. The thing was, in the intervening period, he had begun to organise his thoughts. He had started to apply himself to Mrs Groynes’s problem, because that’s the sort of irrepressibly clever young policeman he was.
‘Thinking about this logically, Mrs G,’ he said, ‘we have to assume that the source of your enemy’s inside information is in fact the captured Barrow-Boy Cecil. He has presumably told them all about your gang and its—What?’ He had heard her take a breath, as if she objected to something he’d said. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘No, no. It’s just that you said “gang”, dear. Took me by surprise. Carry on, I’m all agog.’
‘You’d rather I didn’t refer to your gang as a gang?’
‘Well, yes. It’s more of an organisation, you see.’
‘But it’s still a gang.’
She tutted. ‘No, it’s a bit harder to define. I’d say it’s not as rigid as an autocracy, but on the other hand—’ She paused to consider the best way of describing her gang without using the word ‘gang’. ‘Not as loose as a what-do-you-call-it?’
‘An association?’
‘I was thinking, congeries. I’d say organisation is good as a compromise.’
‘Right. Well. Organisation it is, then. So, we must assume that Cecil – either willingly or unwillingly – has told them all about your so-called organisation and its plans. Cecil was a very close associate, I’m assuming?’
‘That’s right. I’ve always been very close to Cecil. Always told him everything. Call me daft, but I keep going back to the Clock Tower, dear. I come at it from different directions, hoping that this time … ’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. ‘I just can’t believe he isn’t there.’
‘So when you jumped to the conclusion that it was me spilling the beans about the Chambers business, you weren’t thinking very clearly, were you, Mrs G?’
‘I su
ppose not, dear.’
‘Right. So we assume Cecil is the source, and we agree that it is definitely not me. Now, who sent the finger? You say your associate Denise found it with the bits of crushed plastic bunny in a canister posted within the store. Was it possible to trace which department it was sent from?’
‘Denise said the canisters usually have numbers on for posting them back up the right tube, but this one was cunningly unmarked.’
‘Mm. What we don’t know – and I believe it’s crucial – is whether this conspiracy is aimed just at you personally, or at your whole gang. Sorry, not gang, I mean outfit. Can we agree on “outfit’”, Mrs G? It’s just that, to me, the word “organisation” suggests something totally above-board and respectable, like the United Nations or the English Folk Dance and Song Society.’
‘All right.’
‘Thank you. So my question is: will these enemies destroy your outfit and replace it with their own, or will they just assume control of it? Which is more normal when it comes to criminal turf wars?’
‘To take it over, dear.’
‘Right.’
‘To squeeze me out, top me, hack me up, drop the bits in the sea.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Or expose me, and get me hanged by the neck until dead. But I think the hacked-up bits in the sea would be first preference, as it wouldn’t involve the legal system, which is notorious for arriving at the wrong result.’
‘Right.’ Twitten’s voice was unsteady. ‘I can’t believe we’re talking like this, Mrs G.’
‘Well, as usual, I can’t believe I’ve told you as much as I have, dear. I’m a bleeding fool to myself.’
‘I just keep thinking: What if I never see Mrs Groynes again?’ His voice quavered.
‘Oh, cheer up. You know me; I’ll think of something.’
‘You’re bally clever, Mrs G,’ he said, with a sniff. ‘And you’re incredibly devious. Don’t forget that. I mean, you’re the cleverest and most devious person I personally have ever met.’
‘Thank you, dear. I know you mean that as a compliment.’
‘And you’re not on your own. After all, perhaps I could—?’ He stopped himself. Did he really want to say this? Did he really want to say he would help a clever, devious criminal outwit her enemies? He could almost feel his inner gyroscope spinning and tilting, trying to reassert control.
