The end of the corridor was blocked by a tarpaulin and they could hear sounds of hammering and occasionally, and rather shockingly, a male voice. ‘We’re having a new dining hall built,’ said Miss Browning. ‘Princess Margaret has agreed to open it.’
‘How lovely,’ said Meg. ‘I love the princess, don’t you? She’s so pretty.’
Miss Browning did not answer this. Instead she opened a door and led them up a stone staircase. ‘This is Rhonda’s room. She shares it with Stephanie but unfortunately she’s in the san. with mumps.’
The room was small and seemed full of furniture: two beds with mats beside them, two bedside tables and a large wardrobe. There was a sash window overlooking the sea and a silver-painted radiator. What struck Meg most, though, were the dozen or so images of a blond-haired man that looked down from every wall.
‘Blimey,’ she said, without thinking. ‘Is that him? Bobby Whatsit?’
‘I apologise for WPC Connolly’s language,’ said the DI.
‘I’ve heard worse from the girls, believe me,’ said Miss Browning with a trace of a smile.
The DI seemed to remember that he was investigating a case. He took out a notebook and asked, ‘When was Rhonda last seen?’
‘A teacher went to check on her at lights out on Sunday,’ said Miss Browning. She was staring at a poster showing the blond man mounted on a black-and-white horse. ‘She said that Rhonda seemed her usual self. That was at nine-thirty. Fifth formers are allowed to stay up until ten on the weekends. When Rhonda didn’t appear at breakfast on Monday, I sent a junior to fetch her. When the girl told me that the room was empty, I went to check myself. That’s when I found the note.’
‘Where was it?’ asked Meg.
‘On Rhonda’s pillow.’ The beds were both neatly made and covered with grey blankets. Meg wondered about the absent Stephanie. Had she minded the room becoming a shrine to an American film star?
‘What did you do then?’ asked the DI.
‘I instigated a search for Rhonda. Then, when she wasn’t to be found, I telephoned to Sir Crispian. He . . . well, you’ve met him. I’m sure you can imagine how he responded.’
‘Were you worried?’ asked the DI. ‘What did you think had happened to Rhonda?’
‘I assumed that she’d gone to London,’ said the housemistress. She gestured at the walls. ‘Everyone knew that Rhonda had a crush on Bobby Hambro. I imagine she’s gone to see if she can catch a glimpse of him. He’s in England at the moment, I believe.’
‘Was that in character for Rhonda?’ asked Meg. ‘To run away on the off-chance of meeting a film star?’
DI Willis was glaring at her again but Miss Browning seemed to take the question seriously.
‘A few years ago, I would have said no,’ she said. ‘She was quite a serious girl when she came to us. Rather bright, good at mathematics, a prefect and keen chess player. But this last year she became . . . I can only say obsessed with this actor. She talked about him all the time, even tried to change her name to Bobby. Some of her friends called her Mrs Hambro. I think that, once she knew he was in London, she just had to try to see him. It was almost a sickness, in my view.’
‘She hasn’t been seen in over twenty-four hours,’ said the DI. ‘Do you have any idea where Rhonda could be?’
‘No,’ said Miss Browning, with another of her straight looks. ‘But, in my experience, sixteen-year-old girls are quite resourceful. I’m sure she’ll turn up in a few days with an autograph book full of signatures.’
But Meg, looking at the narrow bed, which had been angled so that, when Rhonda woke up, the first thing she saw was Bobby’s bright-blue eyes, was not so sure.
But she had misjudged the DI. Before they left, he asked if they could speak to some of Rhonda’s friends, to see if they could ‘cast any light on her disappearance’. Miss Browning looked as if she wanted to refuse but instead she told them to wait in the visitors’ room while she ‘rounded some girls up’.
‘It sounds as if she’d going to lasso them,’ said Meg. She thought of Bobby Hambro in cowboy pose, coil of rope in hand.
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said the DI. He was looking out of the window which, again, faced the sea. The room had comfortable sofas, a stone fireplace and several cabinets full of trophies. This was presumably where parents waited when they visited Roedean to see if it was a suitable place for their pampered darlings. It was certainly more luxurious than the dormitory block. Meg tried to remember if her parents had ever visited her school. Probably not. She was the fourth member of her family to go to Fitzherbert and any interest her parents may have had in their children’s education had long since evaporated. Only her clever younger sister had made the journey to the hallowed halls of the Blessed Sacrament.
She got up to examine the trophies. Most of them seemed to be for lacrosse but, at the back of the cupboard, she spotted a small silver cup. ‘Presented to Emma Holmes for Public Speaking 1944’.
‘Look, sir.’
The DI seemed tickled pink. ‘Look at that,’ he kept saying, rubbing his hands together. ‘Can you believe that?’
All too easily, thought Meg. She wondered what it would have been like for DI Willis to have worked with Emma; so clever, so perfect, so posh. Some of the other PCs liked to say that the DI wasn’t the brightest, but Meg thought that he was sharp enough. The super wouldn’t have promoted him otherwise. But he clearly couldn’t hold a candle to the sainted Emma. Yet he also seemed proud of her, staring at that stupid cup with an almost doting smile on his face.
‘What was Emma, Mrs Stephens, like to work with?’ she asked. The DI looked at her as if this was an impertinent question (which perhaps it was) but he also seemed prepared to answer it. Unfortunately, at that moment Miss Browning came back into the room followed by three girls, one of whom was in a dressing gown and slippers.
‘This is Moira, Joan and Stephanie,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d want to talk to Stephanie as she is Rhonda’s roommate. She shouldn’t be contagious any more.’
Meg saw the DI back away slightly. Mumps was meant to make men infertile. The DI and his wife had two boys, maybe he wanted to try for a girl.
‘I won’t stay in the room,’ said Miss Browning, which Meg thought was rather decent of her. ‘But I’ll be just outside.’ She addressed the girls who were sitting in a row on one of the sofas. ‘Answer the officers’ questions truthfully now.’
‘Yes, madam,’ chorused the girls although Meg thought they looked worried all the same. And madam. Had they wandered into the previous century by mistake? Still, maybe it was how they talked in places like this.
When the door had shut behind Miss Browning, the three pupils looked at the DI with something very like terror. He turned to Meg and she took the hint. ‘OK, girls,’ she said, trying for the matey approach. She sat down too so they wouldn’t be intimidated by her height. ‘You know that Rhonda Miles has gone missing. Her parents are worried about her and so are we. If any of you know anything about where she might be, please tell us. You won’t get into trouble, I promise.’
The three girls stared at her solemnly.
‘Did any of you know that Rhonda was planning to run away? It’s OK. I won’t tell Miss Browning.’
‘I knew she wanted to see Bobby,’ said Stephanie. ‘He’s in London, you know, scouting locations for a new film.’
Something told Meg that Stephanie was also a film fan.
‘Did she tell you what she planned to do when she got to London?’
‘No.’ Stephanie had a round face, probably made rather rounder by the mumps. She looked as though she was usually cheerful and smiley but now she glanced nervously at her two friends, frowning slightly. ‘I never thought she’d actually go. I mean, she talked about it a lot. She talked about Bobby all the time. At night we used to make up stories about what we’d do if we actually met him.’
‘Are you a Bobby Hambro fan too?’ asked Meg. That accounted for the preponderance of posters in the room.
‘We all are,’ said Moira, a dark girl wearing badges proclaiming that she was both a prefect and a library monitor. ‘We’re Bobby Soxers.’
And all three girls made heart shapes with their fingers. ‘Bobby for ever,’ they intoned.
Six
Max stood looking up at Mrs M’s boarding house. Eleven years ago the tall, stuccoed building had looked rather tired—the ground-floor rooms had been comfortable enough but things had become colder and more utilitarian the higher you went. Max still remembered the arctic chill of his attic bedroom before he had abandoned it to share Joyce’s boudoir two floors below. But now the house gleamed with care and attention, freshly painted with wooden shutters at the windows. It was a family house. You didn’t need to be a detective to work that out. There were bicycles chained to the railings and a rocking horse could be glimpsed in an upstairs room. Good luck to them. Edgar and Emma lived only a few streets away. Perhaps the children could play together. The front door was new too, gleaming black paint, the steps newly paved. Max remembered ascending those steps after the first performance of Aladdin. Mrs M meeting him in the hall wearing a midnight-blue dress and an inviting expression.
‘You were the best Abanazar I’ve ever seen.’
‘Have you seen many?’
‘To tell you the truth, darling, you were the first.’
Not long afterwards they had ascended to the bedroom. Was it the one over the lintel, now with blue-patterned curtains? He stepped backwards, trying to look, and a passing errand boy looked at him suspiciously. Time to move on. It would be embarrassing for Edgar if he was arrested for loitering with intent.
Max continued up the hill towards the station. He’d forgotten how mountainous Brighton was. Or maybe his years in LA had left him unable to walk. He was certainly out of breath by the time he reached the road that ran from Roedean to the Pavilion. The hospital was on his right and, looking up at its solid Victorian columns, Max remembered the time that he’d taken Emma there after she’d been attacked. Edgar, though frantic with worry, had had to leave her to pursue the culprit. Max, still in a daze after Florence’s death, had accompanied Emma in the ambulance. He still remembered that journey, the blue light illuminating the snowy streets, the whispered medical conversations around him. He’d prayed for Emma to survive, saying Hail Marys under his breath although his Catholic faith had died alongside his mother when he was six.
Well, his prayers had been answered. Emma had survived and had married Edgar. They had three children and Edgar was now the police superintendent. Were they happy? For years Emma and Edgar had been Max’s idea of a perfect couple but, seeing them together at Diablo’s funeral, he thought he sensed a slight fraying round the edges. Emma seemed dissatisfied, her intelligence turned to sharpness, and Edgar was, as usual, harassed and overworked. Well, nothing ever stayed the same. Behind the hospital, hideous new apartment blocks were rising into the air. Soon the Brighton skyline would look like a cut-price New York. Max turned his steps towards the station, hoping that he might see a taxi on the way.
London was changing too. The streets were full of cars and the girls wore skirts so short that Max found himself trying not to stare at them. He walked through Green Park wondering about this new breed of young people who seemed to possess everything and yet be so angry. Teenagers, they were called in America. Well, American teens had something concrete to worry about: the ongoing war in Vietnam. What was the problem with British youngsters? Why did they hang round in coffee bars looking like they were waiting for the end of the world? There was a group of young girls outside the Ritz, some in school uniform and some in vestigial minis. They were standing in twos and threes and seemed somehow expectant. As he passed, one of them said, ‘That’s Max Mephisto’, but in an uninterested tone, as if they were pointing out an ancient monument.
Max made his way to the bar and ordered a Scotch. It was early to be on the hard stuff but he felt that he needed something to warm him up. His lightweight American suit had been the wrong choice for the cool spring day.
Joe, when he appeared, was wearing one of his mod suits, skinny and single-breasted. The man with him, whom Max took to be Bobby Hambro, was casually dressed in jeans and a polo-necked jumper. So casually that the maitre d’ stopped them on the way in. Jacket and tie was the correct garb for the Ritz. Whatever Joe said must have soothed the man’s disapproval because Joe and Bobby were waved through to the bar.
‘Maxie! Good to see you. This is Bobby Hambro.’
Max’s first impression was that Bobby, who had a surprisingly strong handshake, was certainly not a grinning moppet. The second was that if Bobby was eighteen he, Max, was the Queen of the May. Twenty-five at least was his guess.
‘Lord Massingham.’ Bobby had a deep mid-West drawl. ‘I’m honoured.’
‘I don’t use the title,’ said Max.
‘I’m getting into character for Cedric,’ said Bobby, taking the seat next to Max.
‘For Little Lord Fauntleroy?’ said Max.
‘He’s not so little in this version,’ said Joe and it was true that Bobby, though not particularly tall, was extremely muscular. He seemed to find it hard to fit his tightly bejeaned thighs onto the bar stool.
‘Drink, Bobby?’ asked Joe.
‘Just orange juice, please,’ said Bobby. Max scanned him quickly for crucifixes or other religious regalia. If Bobby turned out to be Born Again he certainly wasn’t going to do the film.
Bobby turned a blue-eyed stare in Max’s direction. ‘How can I persuade you to do Golden Heart, Lord—Max?’
‘By changing the name, for one thing,’ said Max.
‘It’s a quote,’ said Joe. ‘Something about golden hearts being worth more than coronets.’
‘That’s kind hearts,’ said Max. ‘“Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.”’
‘Amen to that,’ said Bobby, draining his juice. Uh-oh, thought Max. Maybe he was Born Again. ‘The point is,’ the American continued, ‘golden is kind of like my thing. Because of the hair.’ He pointed to his head which was, indeed, covered with curls of burnished gold, the kind usually seen on Hollywood starlets.
‘I’ve got points in this one,’ said Bobby, sounding more businesslike and less spiritual by the minute. ‘We stand to make a hell of a lot of money, Max.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Max.
The switchboard at the Ritz informed Edgar that Mr Hambro was not available. No, he couldn’t leave a message. Edgar put the phone down feeling frustrated. The London police hadn’t come up with any sightings of Rhonda, even though they had questioned Bobby’s fans outside the Ritz and visited obscure cousins in Streatham and Thornton Heath. The DI and WPC Connolly hadn’t gathered much from the Roedean trip apart from confirmation that Rhonda was obsessed with Hambro. ‘Almost a sickness,’ Bob reported the housemistress as saying. And apparently this sickness was shared by half the school. ‘It was downright creepy,’ Bob had said. ‘They all made this weird shape with their fingers and said, “Bobby for ever.” It was like some sort of cult.’
Edgar took a turn around his office. It was a fairly spacious room but always dark because it was in the basement. Brighton police station, a collection of dank underground rooms in Bartholomew Square, had actually been condemned in the 1930s and the council was always talking about relocating them but Edgar doubted that this would happen while he was superintendent. He’d got used to the mice in the walls and the smell of damp. He’d even got used to the resident ghost. A previous chief superintendent had been murdered in this very room, injudiciously turning his back on a suspect armed with a poker. Henry Solomon was meant to haunt the building, joining the monks who had once lived in St Bartholomew’s Priory and the nun who was said to be bricked up in one of the walls. Edgar had never seen Henry Solomon, although he did occasionally talk to him. ‘Where is she?’ he asked now. ‘Where is Rhonda?’ But the man in the oil painting above the fireplace remained irritatingly silent.
Edgar was steeling himself to ring Sir Crispian and update him when a scared-looking secretary appeared to tell him that the politician was in reception.
‘Show him in,’ said Edgar wearily.
Sir Crispian didn’t bother with any pleasantries. He sat down opposite Edgar and said, ‘Why haven’t you found her?’
‘I’ve got police from three forces searching,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve just had an update from the Met.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve spoken to the girls outside the Ritz. Apparently there’s a group of hardcore Bobby Hambro fans who go there every day. None of them recognised the photograph of Rhonda.’
‘Of course not,’ said Sir Crispian. ‘She won’t be hanging around outside a hotel. Someone has taken her.’
‘My officers went to the school today,’ said Edgar. ‘Her housemistress said that Rhonda packed a suitcase and was wearing her hat, cloak and outdoor shoes. That doesn’t sound as if she was abducted.’
Sir Crispian rolled his eyes. ‘Call yourself a policeman? She was lured away, of course.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Edgar. It occurred to him that there might be something behind the abduction theory besides an unwillingness to accept that Rhonda had left of her own accord.
‘Because it’s happened before,’ said Sir Crispian.
Seven
Emma was dispiritedly making a shepherd’s pie. She used to rather enjoy cooking, in fact she’d even taken a cordon bleu course when she was deciding what to do after leaving school. But Madame Duvalier was mostly concerned with cooking things in cream and garlic or arranging tiny, shiny choux pastries on a lace doily. She didn’t have to serve a meal for four people, one of whom was always late and two of whom invariably pronounced it disgusting. The lamb mince looked fatty and unappealing. Could she get away with adding a shaving of nutmeg? Probably not, after what happened when Sophie found raisins in her moussaka. Emma thought of meals at her parents’ house. For most of her childhood they’d had a housekeeper and a cook whose speciality was ‘good plain meals’: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, apple pie and custard. Now Cook and Ada were both dead and her mother managed with a girl who came in twice a week to do what she called ‘the rough’. But Emma’s parents seemed to exist on poached eggs and rice pudding, especially after her father’s last heart attack. Marianne said that rice pudding tasted ‘like feet’.
Now You See Them Page 4
