Now You See Them

by Elly Griffiths

  Emma’s parents always came to lunch on Sundays. Edgar went to collect them in the Wolseley. He found himself looking forward to the ten-minute drive. Emma had seemed strange this weekend, ever since she had come back from the pier, having apparently been stood up by Ruby. In his mind, he kept hearing the door slam behind Emma when she had left that lunchtime, that decisive final click, signalling an end to all further discussion. Why couldn’t they talk about Ruby? Or about whatever was making Emma so angry? On Saturday evening Edgar suggested asking Mavis to babysit so that he and Emma could go to the cinema but she said that she was too tired. She was always tired these days. Well, three children made a lot of work. But was there more to it than that? Was she, in fact, tired of him?

  They had been so happy when they were first married, living in Edgar’s flat on the seafront in Hove, feeding the seagulls from the window and watching the clouds from their bed. Edgar knew that it had been a wrench for Emma to give up work but she had become pregnant quite quickly and the new baby seemed like the biggest adventure possible. Emma’s parents had helped them buy the house in Kemp Town and they had moved in just before Marianne’s birth, painting the rooms themselves and sleeping with the windows open so that the fumes wouldn’t harm the unborn baby. How wonderful it had felt to carry his daughter over the threshold of his own house. Neither of them had known the first thing about being parents but they had learnt together and, in those early days, married life had seemed a serene and manageable thing. When did it become more difficult? When Edgar got promoted or when Sophie was born? They’d been more proficient the second time round, which was lucky because Marianne had not been delighted to lose her only-child status and had quickly relapsed into tears and tantrums. Edgar had spent a lot of time with his eldest daughter, taking her out on long walks, or to see the cartoons at the cinema, anything to give Emma a break. But had this been the wrong thing to do? Should he have spent time with his wife instead?

  He knew that Emma hadn’t wanted a third child. Jonathan hadn’t been planned but Edgar couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t delighted when he found out. And he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t delighted to have a son. But, after Johnny was born, some of the light seemed to leave Emma. She seemed constantly tired and often irritable. Edgar had always talked to her about his work but, these days, Emma seemed almost competitive with him, wanting to remind him that, when they’d worked together, she had often been the better detective. He knew that she missed work but what could they do? A married woman with three children would never get a job with the police and, besides, Emma said that she wanted to bring up her children herself and not ‘leave it to a nanny’. She wasn’t attracted to the sort of charitable work that her mother enjoyed. What Emma wanted, Edgar thought, was her old life back. But that was impossible.

  Edgar’s parents-in-law, Archie and Sybil, were waiting for him. Archie was wearing one of his old suits that now hung loosely on his spare frame, while Sybil wore a mink coat, despite the warmth of the day. Edgar could still not get used to Archie Holmes, one-time terror of the boardroom, being reduced to a stooped old man who had to be helped up and down stairs. Sybil was older too but she still had plenty of her old style and charisma. ‘Hallo there, Superintendent,’ she greeted him gaily. ‘Come to arrest us?’ It was an old joke. People who had never been in trouble with the law always thought that imprisonment was highly comic.

  Back at the house, Sybil helped Emma prepare lunch while Edgar and his father-in-law walked to the pub. This was their tradition, a rare chance for the two men to talk. The pub was only a few streets away but now the walk seemed to take for ever because Archie had to stop every hundred yards to get his breath back. The heart attack, two years ago, had left Archie with chronic angina and it was painful to see him wheezing and mouthing at the air. But Edgar knew better than to say anything or to try to help. He waited until Archie’s colour was back to normal and they continued their slow progress towards the Hand in Hand. Once settled with a half of mild, Archie became chattier and usually regaled Edgar with stories of deals done on the golf course or over double whiskies in Soho nightclubs. Today, however, Archie seemed to have something else on his mind.

  ‘Emma seems a bit quiet,’ he said, looking into his glass rather than at his son-in-law.

  ‘She’s tired, I think,’ said Edgar. ‘Jonathan doesn’t sleep much and the girls are quite demanding.’ Even as he said this, he was aware that it wasn’t the whole truth. Emma’s current state of dissatisfaction seemed to go much deeper than the everyday stresses of being a mother, hard though these undoubtedly were.

  ‘You should get a nanny,’ said Archie. A popular refrain.

  ‘Emma doesn’t want one,’ said Edgar. ‘She says that she wants the children to grow up with our hang-ups, not a stranger’s.’

  This was meant to be a joke but it didn’t go down well with Archie who, after all, had hired a full-time nanny for his only child.

  ‘I know my daughter,’ he said stubbornly. ‘And she doesn’t look happy to me.’

  And, secretly, Edgar agreed with him.

  It wasn’t as bad as Max had feared. The house was monstrous, of course, all stone fireplaces, oak panelling and fading wallpaper, but it was now just a shell, an architectural curiosity, it didn’t seem like a place where anyone had ever actually lived. The furniture was shrouded in dust sheets and there were lighter patches on many of the walls where more paintings had been taken down. Obviously money had been short in recent years. Max had enough money to restore the Hall but was that what he wanted? Wouldn’t it be better to sell it to some American millionaire, like Bobby Hambro, who was exclaiming over the tapestries in the gallery?

  The chapel, cleared of pews and of the mysterious red light that used to glow on the altar, was now just a room with odd-shaped windows. There were gaps on the library shelves where the most valuable books had been removed. Max didn’t think that his father would have minded this too much. He couldn’t remember ever seeing him read a book. The bedrooms were mostly empty apart from his father’s suite with the parrot wallpaper and the four-poster bed. Bobby and Wilbur were very taken with this last.

  ‘Say,’ said Bobby, ‘we’ll have to have the earl waking up in here, pulling back the curtains, taking off his nightcap, all that.’

  ‘As long as he wakes up alone,’ said Max. He felt oddly reluctant to sleep in his father’s bed. His own room was at the end of the passage, the single bed covered with a sheet as if a corpse lay underneath. The wardrobe and the chest of drawers were both empty but, stuck in the skirting board behind the curtain, he found a single playing card. The four of hearts. Max put it in his pocket.

  They descended the stairs, the Americans in high spirits now, putting on what they believed to be British accents. ‘After you, Lord Wilbur.’ ‘Be my guest, Sir Bobby.’ Max followed, absent-mindedly making the card appear and disappear.

  ‘I’d like to have a quick look in the grounds,’ said Wilbur. ‘Is that all right, Max?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Max. ‘There’s one more room I want to see.’

  It was the room that he had dreaded entering. His father had called it his study but he never seemed to do any studying in there. It was his place though, somewhere he went after lunch and supper, shutting the door firmly behind him. Perhaps he just went there to get away from Max. Well, now it was Max who was sitting at the desk, looking out at the garden, a view his father must have regarded every day of his life. What did he think when he sat here, surrounded by books that he never read? There was a large wireless in the corner of the room; perhaps Alastair came here to listen to Mrs Dale’s Diary? Max couldn’t imagine it somehow. He opened one of the desk drawers. A pile of papers, neatly tied together with string. Estate Accounts 1945-55. Alastair had died in 1959 but didn’t seem to have kept such careful records in his final years. Perhaps that was why he had ended up selling all those books and paintings. Max opened the drawer below and his own face stared up at him. ‘Max Mephisto and Lydia Lamont
, at home in Beverly Hills.’

  Max remembered posing for this article shortly after his marriage. There had been the usual guff about the handsome Englishman and the beautiful Hollywood star, the tone still managing to convey surprise that Lydia Lamont, with the whole of screen royalty to choose from, should settle on a man almost twenty years her senior and a foreigner to boot. The pictures showed Max and Lydia side by side on a sofa and at their ‘breakfast nook’, a bowl of oranges glowing in the background. One particularly embarrassing example had them with their backs to the camera, staring into each other’s eyes. Lydia was wearing a bright-red evening dress—perfect attire for a cosy evening at home—and Max was in a dark suit. ‘The newlyweds only have eyes for each other’ read the caption.

  Alastair had always nagged Max to get married. ‘Can’t let the name die out and all that.’ But Max had been Mephisto since his first proper theatrical booking at the age of eighteen. And he didn’t imagine that his father would have viewed any of his subsequent girlfriends as Lady Massingham material. Even Ruby’s mother, Emerald, had been a snake-charmer, something which Alastair had tried hard to forget. But, when Max had telephoned to say that he was marrying Lydia, Lord Massingham had seemed genuinely pleased. He’d been too frail to come to America for the wedding but had sent a telegram. Congratulations. Stop. Massingham. ‘Is that your dad?’ said Lydia. ‘Why didn’t he send his love?’ ‘He’s not really that sort of father,’ Max had said. Lydia understood this. She hadn’t seen her own male parent since he abandoned her mother when Lydia was three. But Alastair had been interested enough to purchase and keep this newspaper article. Where on earth had he got hold of a copy of Film Frolics? Max supposed that even his father hadn’t been entirely immune to the lure of celebrity. There was a television set in the small drawing room and Lord Massingham had never missed an episode of Ruby Magic.

  ‘Max?’ Wilbur was standing at the door. He was, rather incongruously, holding a bunch of dog roses. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, when he saw Max looking, ‘they seemed to be growing wild.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Max. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has seen to the gardens for years.’

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Robbins,’ said Wilbur. ‘He says we need to leave now if we’re heading back to Brighton. Apparently the drive will take three hours and Bobby wants to stop somewhere for lunch.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Max stood up. ‘I need to get back. I’m seeing my daughter this evening.’ He shut the desk drawer. He had a strange compulsion to take something from the room and, as he stood up, expertly palmed a paperweight, a small blue stone in the shape of a cat.

  ‘Is your daughter Ruby French, Ruby Magic?’ asked Wilbur as Max followed him out of the room.

  ‘Yes.’ Max was surprised although his relationship with Ruby wasn’t exactly secret. They had even once performed on stage together as ‘Magician and Daughter’. It was just that he hadn’t thought that Wilbur was particularly interested in him or his private life.

  ‘Will Ruby inherit all this one day?’ asked Wilbur. They were walking back through the empty rooms, their footsteps echoing on the parquet. Bobby had joined them; he was wearing a straw hat that he had discovered somewhere and looked like a farmhand, or, rather, a Hollywood actor pretending to be a farmhand. This, together with Wilbur’s bouquet, made Max think of an amateur production of Oklahoma!

  ‘The estate’s entailed on the male heir,’ said Max, ‘so, as it stands, my son Rocco will inherit it after me. I’d like to break the entail if I can though. I can just imagine Ruby as the lady of the manor.’

  ‘So can I,’ said Bobby although, to Max’s knowledge, he had never met Ruby.

  After lunch Emma and her mother took the children to Queen’s Park. Edgar washed up while Archie dozed on the sofa. Then it was time for tea, crumpets and cake (‘bought cake’ Emma called it, as if there was something shameful about buying things from a shop rather than making them yourself). After tea, Edgar drove his parents-in-law home. ‘Thank you for a lovely day, darling,’ said Sybil, when she kissed him goodbye in the hall. The art deco house, which had once intimidated Edgar, now seemed too big for the two elderly people. He knew that, after he left, they would settle down in what had once been called the breakfast room. This was how they spent most of their evenings, huddled in front of the television with the gas fire on and cups of cocoa on trays. ‘Bye, Edgar.’ Archie extended a hand. ‘Take care of my daughter.’

  Was this a friendly injunction or a warning? thought Edgar as he drove back along the coast road. Emma was the apple of Archie’s eye, he didn’t think she was happy and he blamed Edgar for that. And surely it must, on some level, be his fault. Well, he would make her happy, he’d suggest a weekend away, just the two of them, he’d buy her flowers, make love to her. Full of good intentions, he parked the car in the police station garage and set off towards home. But, as he approached the house, he could hear the telephone ringing.

  ‘Dad!’ Marianne sang out, as soon as she heard his key in the lock. ‘It’s for you.’

  It was Bob. ‘You’d better come, sir. Ernest Coggins, the man who abducted Rhonda when she was ten, he’s escaped from prison.’

  Seventeen

  It was Monday morning by the time that Edgar got to the prison. When he arrived at the station on Sunday night, Bob and his men were already searching the grounds and surrounding countryside. The hunt went on all night but there was no sign of Ernest Coggins. Edgar had called in reinforcements and they were there today, a slow-moving blue line edging its way across the yellow spring fields. Edgar had the feeling, though, that Coggins would be miles away by now. Edgar had also informed Sir Crispian who had, predictably, been furious. ‘I said at the time that Coggins should be kept in a secure prison. Don’t hold with all this open nonsense. Hanging’s too good for criminals, in my opinion.’ Edgar had promised Sir Crispian that he would visit the prison personally.

  Ford Open Prison had once been an ex-RAF base and the sight of the Nissen huts and overgrown runways always brought back the mixed feelings of fear and boredom that Edgar associated with the war. Despite the open spaces, the prison was secure, surrounded by high fences and with a modern alarm system. Edgar couldn’t remember another break-out.

  He showed his warrant card at the main door and was ushered into a waiting room before another door was unlocked and an orderly was escorting him to the prison governor’s office.

  The governor, a nervous-looking man called Francis West, who looked more like a vicar than someone in charge of a prison, offered Edgar tea or coffee, made by a ‘trustee’. The window looked out over outhouses where glum inmates were feeding two smug-looking pigs.

  Edgar asked for coffee because he didn’t want to look as if he distrusted drinks made by the prisoners.

  ‘I’m so shocked,’ said West, as soon as the door had shut behind the trustee. ‘I never thought that Coggins was the type.’

  ‘You know that the girl Coggins abducted has gone missing again?’

  ‘Yes, I read about it in the papers.’

  ‘Would Coggins have known about it?’

  ‘Well, inmates aren’t allowed newspapers but word always gets round somehow. They make these ham radio sets, you see. It’s against the rules but some always slip through the net.’

  Edgar wondered how many other things had slipped through the net.

  ‘Did Coggins seem agitated recently?’ he asked.

  West took a sip of his coffee. Edgar admired the way he could drink it without gagging. His own cup, with a kind of scum floating on top of the liquid, sat untouched in front of him.

  ‘Not agitated as such,’ said West. ‘But I spoke to him yesterday. He worked at the prison farm. He loved animals and was very good with them. We were talking about the hens and he said that he thought they should have more light and air. We shouldn’t keep innocent things caged up, he said.’

  ‘Do you think he could have been talking about Rhonda? Or himself?’

&n
bsp; ‘I didn’t think so at the time. He was quite a sensitive chap. Very concerned about animal welfare. It distressed him that we ate the pigs.’ He waved towards the window. The animals could be heard oinking, even through the reinforced glass. On second thoughts, maybe they shouldn’t be looking so smug.

  ‘Can you tell me what happened yesterday?’ said Edgar. ‘I know you’ve already given a statement to DI Willis.’

  ‘Coggins was loading the egg van,’ said West. ‘It was one of his regular jobs. The gates were open to let the van through and he made a dash for it. The guards gave chase, of course, but Coggins had vanished. He must have had an accomplice waiting for him.’

  ‘Any idea who the accomplice could have been?’

  ‘He was good friends with another inmate called Davies, Howell Davies, an ex-actor who was in for fraud. Davies was released last year and I know they kept in touch.’

  ‘Did you tell this to DI Willis?’

  ‘Yes. He took down the last address we had for Davies.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Edgar, standing up. ‘If anything else occurs to you, let me know. While I’m here, could I possibly have a word with an inmate called Malcolm Henratty?’

  ‘Henratty? Someone came to see him the other day. About his daughter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘I’d like to speak to him too, if I may.’

  ‘Of course,’ said West. ‘I feel terrible about this whole business.’ He took another sip of his disgusting coffee while, outside, the pigs oinked miserably.

  Meg was pleased to see Veronica, Isabel and a couple of other Bobby Soxers in place outside the Ritz. She was afraid that, as it was Monday and a school day, they might not be there. But Isabel told her that Monday morning was set aside for something called Domestic Science and no one bothered if you didn’t attend. ‘It’s all about ironing your husband’s shirts,’ said Veronica, ‘and when I marry Bobby we’ll have servants to do that.’ ‘When I marry Bobby’ was a common theme amongst the Bobby Soxers. They never seemed to wonder how, barring polygamy or a swift change in religion, they were all going to achieve this ambition.