Emerald saw Max looking at it. ‘Is that George?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Emerald smiled properly for the first time and he saw a trace of the girl he had once known. ‘He was a treasure. The best co-star I ever had.’
Max’s best co-star was probably Ruby but he thought it was better not to say this. Emerald had not been pleased when Ruby had followed her newly discovered father into show business.
‘Have you seen Ruby lately?’ he asked.
‘Not for a week or so,’ said Emerald, sitting down and smoothing her skirt over her knees. ‘But we talk on the telephone a lot. Why?’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
Emerald paused before replying. ‘It must be a week ago. She usually calls me on Sundays but she didn’t yesterday.’
‘She didn’t call you?’
‘No, but that’s nothing to worry about. Ruby has a busy life.’
This was said with pride and a little sadness. On the surfaces of the room Max had noticed many photographs of Emerald’s sons, who must both be now in their late twenties or early thirties: weddings, christenings, family days out. There were also several pictures of Ruby, studio portraits showing her in full-glamour mode, peering over a shoulder or gazing mistily into the distance. The juxtaposition made Ruby seem like a star but it also effectively put her outside the family circle. Max wondered whether Emerald would have liked to have just one photo of Ruby in white at a church gate or cuddling an infant.
‘Emerald,’ he said, ‘has Ruby talked to you about her new boyfriend?’
Again, a slight pause. ‘She has mentioned someone,’ said Emerald, ‘but it was quite vague and she didn’t give a name. Max, what is all this about?’
‘Probably nothing,’ said Max, ‘but she was meant to meet me for dinner last night and she didn’t turn up.’
He thought he saw Emerald relax.
‘You know what she’s like,’ she said, ‘something more exciting probably came her way. Or Joe wanted her to attend a function in London.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Max. ‘But I rang the studio. She didn’t turn up for work this morning.’
Emerald looked at him and he saw his fear reflected in her eyes.
Edgar ended up seeing Dr Pete Chambers himself. WPC Connolly was still in London and Bob was busy with the Sara Henratty enquiry. Chambers met him in the car park, saying he needed a cigarette. Edgar thought that the young doctor looked exhausted, eyes shadowed, a muscle twitching in his cheek.
‘I’ve been on call for twenty-four hours,’ said Chambers, lighting up the moment they were outside.
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ said Edgar. ‘For you as much as for the patients?’
Chambers laughed hollowly. ‘Of course it’s dangerous but the consultants did it when they were housemen so they don’t see why we shouldn’t suffer too. And, when I’m a consultant—if I don’t die of a heart attack first—I can spend all day on the golf course. Trouble is, I don’t like golf.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Edgar. ‘I had a boss who was always telling me that I should learn because it was good for my career but it’s hard to see what swinging a club has to do with solving crimes.’
‘A good walk ruined,’ said Chambers. ‘Isn’t that what someone said about golf?’
‘Probably,’ said Edgar. ‘I do appreciate you taking the time to talk to me. I’m investigating the disappearance of Louise Dawkins.’
‘About time too,’ said Chambers.
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, slightly discomforted. ‘I understand that you were never satisfied that Louise had gone to the Caribbean.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Chambers started to pace to and fro as if he couldn’t bear to stay still. Edgar could see what he meant about the heart attack. ‘Louise had no family in the West Indies. She was born and brought up in Hackney. Both her parents were dead and she had no close relatives. The Caribbean story was just useful for the hospital, to stop them wondering why one of their best student nurses had suddenly disappeared. I never believed it for a minute.’
‘When did you last see her?’ asked Edgar.
‘It was on the ward. I’d given her a book. An Ernest Hemingway. We talked about that.’
‘Did she seem unhappy? Perturbed?’
‘I’ve thought about that a lot,’ said Chambers. ‘And, in retrospect, she was probably a little quiet, as if she had something on her mind. But Louise was a quiet girl. She wasn’t one to talk about her feelings.’
‘I understand that she had done some modelling in the past,’ said Edgar.
‘Yes. How do you know about that?’
‘You met my wife, Emma, with the reporter, Sam Collins.’
‘Oh, that was your wife.’ Chambers gave Edgar rather an appraising look, as if wondering what Emma could possibly see in him.
‘Do you know any details about the modelling work?’ said Edgar. ‘Was it with an agency?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Chambers. ‘Like I say, Louise was quite reticent about her private life. She only mentioned it because we once talked about strange jobs we had done to pay for our studies. I was a dustman for a time, Louise said that she’d been a model. She didn’t like it much but it paid well. And, as I say, she had no family, no means of support. She must have needed money badly. Why are you interested?’
‘It’s a line of enquiry,’ said Edgar. ‘Is there anyone who would know more about the modelling?’
‘Maybe Louise’s friend Harriet. They were quite close. It was Harriet who showed me Louise’s note.’
‘Could I talk to Harriet?’
‘She’d be on duty now. You might be able to get a few minutes with her. Come with me. I need to be back on the ward anyhow.’
Pete Chambers led the way through endless corridors, painted cream on top and green under the dado rail, and through a maze of swing doors. Eventually he came to a door marked ‘Isaac Goldsmid’.
‘It’s a men’s surgical ward,’ said Chambers. ‘A bit grim. Wait here. I’ll get Harriet to come out to you.’
Edgar waited, thinking how alien the hospital environment seemed. He’d been here for the birth of his children (not present at the actual birth, of course, that was strongly discouraged) and on many occasions as a policeman. He remembered visiting Emma after various accidents in the course of her intrepid career. He had first declared his love for her in this hospital, as she lay recovering from an encounter with a killer. A romantically inclined sister had let him visit again that night and he and Emma had sat out on a covered balcony and looked down on the lights of Brighton. He’d thought then that, if Emma would agree to marry him, he would be perfectly happy for the rest of his life. He had to fix things with Emma. He had to.
The door opened and a nurse appeared. She had smooth blonde hair under a winged cap and a round, pleasant face.
‘Are you Harriet Francis?’ said Edgar.
‘Yes. I can only be a minute. The ward sister’s a real dragon.’ Harriet’s voice was distinctly upper-class; Edgar guessed that she wouldn’t have had to resort to odd jobs to pay her bills.
‘I’m Superintendent Edgar Stephens. I’m investigating the disappearance of Louise Dawkins. I’m interested in some modelling work that she might have done prior to becoming a nurse.’
‘Oh.’ Harriet looked surprised. ‘Why are you interested in that? It was a while ago. I don’t think Louise enjoyed it very much.’
‘Did she work for an agency?’
‘Oh yes.’ Harriet sounded quite affronted on her friend’s behalf. ‘It was all above board. The agency had an office and everything.’
‘Can you remember the name of the agency?’
‘Yes. It was called Angels. I remember because sometimes nurses get called angels. Some angels!’ But she smiled when she said this. Edgar thought that Harriet was the sort of person who passed easily through life. She didn’t seem insensitive—she would hardly be a nurse if she was—but she was somehow serene. Edgar was glad that Louise had had her
as a friend.
‘Do you know where it was? The agency? Angels?’
‘London somewhere. Sorry, that’s all I know.’
‘It’s very helpful. Thank you.’
‘You will find her, won’t you?’ said Harriet. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t just go off like that. I tried to tell Matron but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ said Edgar. It sounded like a lukewarm promise but it seemed to comfort Harriet.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go now.’ With a last, slightly nervous smile, Harriet dived back into Isaac Goldsmid Ward.
Max left Emerald and caught the first train to London. He took a tube to Kensington High Street and walked up the hill to Ruby’s flat. On the way he passed a woman with a toddler, a little girl pulling a toy dog on wheels. It made a comforting clackety sound and Max found himself smiling. The woman smiled back. For some reason Max thought of Ruby. He had never known her as a little girl, going shopping with her mother, inseparable from a favourite toy. He’d been lucky enough to have that time with Rocco and Elena but it didn’t make up for missing those years with Ruby.
Ruby’s block had an entry phone but Max remembered the number from his first visit. He keyed in the digits and climbed the steps to Ruby’s apartment. Even though he knew that she wouldn’t answer, he still knocked on the door. The sound reverberated through the lobby and he imagined the egg-shaped chair, the unused kitchen, the bed with the zebra-skin cover, silent and listening. Where was Ruby, his enigmatic but much-loved daughter? Was she missing or did she simply not want to be found?
He went downstairs to the warden’s flat, prepared to use all his old stage charm to discover the secrets of Ruby’s life. He needn’t have worried. The warden (she preferred the title concierge) was an ex-actress called Celia Ward who was thrilled to find Max Mephisto on her doorstep and was fully prepared to tell him everything she knew. Cleopatra the Siamese, enthroned on Celia’s best armchair, was less delighted to see him. Max wondered suddenly why Ruby had given her cat a name that was, to Max—and Ruby too, surely?—forever associated with Florence.
‘Ruby’s such a lovely girl,’ said Celia, placing a tray containing tea and scones in front of Max. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to her.’
‘So do I,’ said Max. Ruby was thirty-four but she still looked young enough to be called a girl. Max felt a sudden fear. Had Ruby been abducted by whoever was kidnapping girls in Brighton, because she still looked like a teenager?
‘I don’t want to pry into Ruby’s personal life,’ said Max, accepting a rather dry-looking scone. ‘She’s an adult, after all. But it’s very unlike her to miss work and I’m a bit worried. I just wondered whether you’d seen anything unusual in recent weeks. Someone visiting, perhaps?’
‘Well . . .’ Celia settled herself in the chair opposite. Despite being well over sixty, she was still attractive, with dyed red hair and a gravelly voice. She had actress’s eyes too, large and expressive, accentuated with false eyelashes, and these were in full play now.
‘She’s had a few boyfriends over the years. Well, haven’t we all, darling? The stories I could tell you about when I was in rep . . . But recently there’s been someone new. He usually calls quite late at night and I haven’t been able to get a good look at him.’ This was said regretfully, as if she’d had a damn good try.
‘Can you remember when he last came round?’
‘Last week,’ said Celia promptly. ‘The day you came for supper. Ruby said she was cooking you something nice. I did wonder because she wasn’t much of a cook. I could smell burning if she so much as made toast. Anyway, that night, after you left, he arrived.’
‘Can you remember anything about him?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. It was dark and he had his hat pulled down over his face. It looked like he had a balaclava on too.’
‘A balaclava?’
‘Yes, I could see something black. Otherwise, he was tall, I can tell you that. And he was carrying a case.’
‘A case?’
‘Yes, the kind musicians have.’
With a chill, Max remembered Edgar standing outside a boarding house in Eastbourne and telling him about a woman’s body cut into three and placed into boxes that had once housed musical instruments. It had reminded Edgar of a trick of Max’s called the Zig Zag Girl. That was the case that had reunited him with Edgar, and it was a horrific memory for all sorts of reasons.
Celia couldn’t remember anything else about the man apart from the obvious fact that anyone who wore a balaclava on a dark night was clearly someone who needed to keep their identity hidden. Max left the mansion block feeling more anxious than ever.
His next stop was Joe Passolini. Although Joe had once been his agent, Max had never visited his office. Joe preferred to do business over drinks in bars or meals in dark little Italian restaurants where he knew the owners. When Max saw the premises, he understood why. The tall house in Notting Hill had seen better days, and there were a number of doorbells by the once-grand front door, most of them sounding like made-up businesses: R. Porter Bespoke Garments; B. Price and Co; Angels Modelling; Tommy’s Travel You Trust; Henry Oberman, Notary. J. Passolini, Theatrical Agent, was on the top floor. Max rang the bell.
‘Max!’ Joe sounded positively shocked over the entry phone but, by the time Max had climbed the stairs, he had recovered his equanimity. ‘Come in, come in. I don’t get many visitors.’ Joe was clearing old newspapers off the visitor’s chair. This, apart from the desk and Joe’s own swivel chair, was the only piece of furniture in the tiny room. A picture of the Bay of Naples, cut out of a magazine and stuck to the musty yellow striped wallpaper, was the only decoration.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ said Joe, wiping the seat with his cuff. Unlike his surroundings, Joe was as smart as ever, even in his shirtsleeves. His white collar gleamed and his hair shone with brilliantine.
‘Weren’t you?’ said Max. ‘Didn’t you think that I might be concerned about Ruby?’
‘Hasn’t she contacted you either?’ Joe took his seat on the other side of the desk. He looked more in control now but his shiny black eyes were unusually troubled.
‘No. And she didn’t turn up for work this morning.’
‘I know. The producer rang me. It’s not like Ruby. She’s a real pro.’
‘Didn’t that ring any alarm bells with you?’
‘I was surprised, yes. But I thought she must be off with her new man.’
‘Ah, yes. This new man. Tell me about him. I remember you mentioning him, that evening in the bar at the Grand, the day of Diablo’s funeral. You said that Ruby had gone back to London because she had a hot date.’
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ said Joe. ‘Ruby keeps her private life to herself.’
Except when it’s in the gossip columns, thought Max. But it occurred to him that he hadn’t read anything about Ruby’s new love interest.
‘You must know his name,’ he said.
Joe shook his head. ‘Ruby told me that she was seeing someone new. Obviously I asked if there was a publicity angle for me. She said, “If you knew who it was, you’d be shocked.”’
‘“You’d be shocked.” What did that mean?’
‘I don’t know. I thought, maybe a royal or a pop star, maybe even one of the Beatles.’
‘Shocked, though. Not surprised. Or impressed.’
‘Yes,’ said Joe, as if this had only just occurred to him. ‘You don’t think something could have happened to Ruby?’
‘She was meant to meet Emma Stephens on Saturday and didn’t turn up. She was meant to meet me on Sunday. She didn’t arrive for work this morning. Either she’s run off with this mystery man or something’s happened to her. You know about the other girls who’ve disappeared?’
‘I thought there was only one of them. The Roedean girl.’
‘Edgar thinks there are others. It’s hard to see how they connect to Ruby though. They’re all teenagers, two of the
m without any family ties.’
‘Ruby hasn’t got many family ties.’
‘She’s got me,’ said Max sharply. ‘And her mother and stepfather. I went to see Emerald this morning. She’s worried too. Apparently Ruby usually telephones her on a Sunday night.’ He didn’t add that this information had given him a sharp pang of jealousy.
‘If she’s gone missing,’ said Joe, ‘we have to keep it out of the papers.’
‘Why?’ said Max. ‘Worried it will affect her career? Or yours?’ It had been a long time since he had hit a man but that might be about to change.
But Joe sounded genuinely aggrieved. ‘No!’ he said. ‘What do you think I am? But, if someone’s taken Ruby, it’ll be because they want to be in the papers. Mark my words.’
Nineteen
‘Ruby French has gone missing,’ said Edgar. ‘We can’t discount the theory that she was taken by the same person who abducted Rhonda, Sara and Louise.’
‘Ruby French?’ said Sergeant O’Neill. ‘Ruby Magic?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘We’re trying to keep this out of the papers for now so discretion is needed.’
O’Neill looked as if this was a foreign word. Or concept. He nudged his partner, the brainless Chubby Barker, and whispered something.
‘Rhonda was approached outside the Ritz Hotel in London by a man who said that she should be a model,’ said Edgar. ‘Louise Dawkins used to do some modelling. It’s possible that Sara was approached too. The only clue we have about this man is that he had an American accent. Thanks to WPC Connolly for this lead.’
Meg, who was standing by the door, blushed bright red.
‘I spoke to Dr Peter Chambers, a junior doctor at the hospital,’ said Edgar. ‘He confirmed that Louise had done some modelling work in the past. One of the nurses gave the name of the agency, Angels.’
Edgar gestured to Bob, indicating that he should take over the briefing. He stood up, still awkward even after nearly five years in this role.
Now You See Them Page 14
