by Lynne Truss
‘I’ve never seen those before!’ she cried. Brunswick noticed that she didn’t sound quite as posh now as she did onstage. Less the Lady Isobel Barnett, more the Diana Dors.
‘A likely story,’ said Inspector Steine. ‘Well, you’ve gone too far this time, young lady. We were willing to turn a blind eye to those robberies of yours –’
‘No, we weren’t!’ objected Brunswick.
‘– but now you’ve killed a man, it’s the hangman’s noose for you, miss, I’m afraid.’
She struggled. ‘I don’t believe this. Someone’s fitted me up. I’ve been here all evening. Listen, I was at Gatwick all day working on the new terminal building… just ask them! Then I got here and had my usual early-evening kip with the door locked. Then I did my act – and that’s it. Where’s Professor Mesmer? He can tell you.’
‘He’s due offstage shortly,’ said Brunswick, with authority.
‘I’m here!’ said Bobby, entering in full Professor Mesmer costume. A blast of music, hubbub and applause accompanied him. Fresh from his curtain call, he gleamed with sweat; his hands reeked of hair products. He recoiled when he took in the scene. ‘Joanne, love, what’s going on? Unhand that woman at once. There’s obviously a mistake.’
‘We are arresting Miss Carver on a charge of murder, sir,’ said Brunswick.
‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Bobby. ‘I’m sure you’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Help me, Bob!’ she said, her eyes huge with fear. ‘They’re saying they found evidence in here. Pearls!’
‘And we also found this, of course,’ said Brunswick, indicating the red wig. ‘So thank you for the tip-off, sir. It’s very much appreciated.’
* * *
Young Ben Oliver of the Evening Argus took a calculated risk that evening. He reported Crystal’s sensational murder directly to the Daily Clarion. Any reporter in his place would probably have done the same: sitting on such a juicy story until the Argus came out tomorrow afternoon would be absurd. On the other hand, it was the Argus that employed him, and it’s pretty much the first rule in journalism: don’t give stories to rival newspapers. So Oliver knew he was gambling with his career when he stepped into the telephone box on the corner of New Road and called the Clarion news desk with this story of national importance concerning their own controversial theatre critic.
Oliver’s reward was to hear the news editor bark, ‘Hold the front page!’ and ‘Get Jupiter here right now!’ (Harry Jupiter being the Clarion’s legendary crime reporter.) But then, to be honest, the excitement wore off quite quickly as he was obliged to feed the story down the line to a more experienced reporter who kept – with evident exasperation – demanding facts and details he didn’t have.
By the time Oliver hung up, he was deflated. Had he really imagined the Clarion would be so grateful they would offer him a job in Fleet Street? And now he would have to face the music in the morning with his own news editor, while the big boys from London, doubtless led by the great Harry Jupiter, swept into Brighton and took over.
* * *
Twitten was released from the hospital at midnight with some tranquillisers to take home. He was still unsteady on his legs, but said he would prefer to walk back the mile or so to the station house, as he needed time to think. It was only after he set off that he realised he didn’t know the address.
When he reached the indigo, moonlit seafront, he stood for a moment listening to the waves, watching the lights from cross-Channel ferry-boats in the distance, and trying not to remember the Bang! that had, just a few hours ago, exploded the head of a human being in the seat beside him.
What was it that Crystal had remembered? At the hospital, when he was briefly alone, Twitten had retrieved the critic’s precious list from his tunic and studied it. There was no doubt in Twitten’s mind: Crystal had been killed, not because he was a loathsome individual or an outstandingly unkind critic, but because he’d remembered something incriminating about the Aldersgate Stick-up.
Had Twitten known at this point that poor Alec Forrester was under arrest for shooting Crystal, he would have despaired. Only a fearless professional criminal would have shot Crystal in the theatre like that. First thing in the morning, Twitten would call Crystal’s secretary Miss Sibert in London and demand to see the notes for his chapter on the bank robbery. If London gangland boss Terence Chambers could be linked to the shooting of A. S. Crystal, it would blow the lid off all the crime committed in Brighton since 1951!
‘Whatever’s that, dear?’ Mrs Groynes had said, when she returned to his cubicle and saw the list in his hand. Guiltily, he’d stuffed it into his pocket.
‘I’m afraid it’s evidence, Mrs Groynes,’ he whispered.
‘Evidence of what, dear?’
‘I took it from the scene. It’s a list. Please don’t tell anyone. I just felt it might not be safe there. It might be overlooked. I think it points to the killer.’
Twitten wasn’t sure how he could explain his thinking to someone with Mrs Groynes’ limited experience of crime. True, she worked in a police station, but only to make the tea and swab the lino. So he said, ‘I think it’s to do with a London bank robbery from years ago. But it’s nothing to worry about. I mean, from your point of view, it’s better if you remain in blissful ignorance.’
Mrs Groynes laughed. ‘Right you are, dear.’
After that, she had left him – to get her beauty sleep, she said. But he felt he had found an ally in Mrs Groynes tonight. She hadn’t exactly offered him a ‘huggie’ (and how his blood ran cold when he remembered about the babbling), but she had offered friendship, and had shown she was much cleverer and more observant than she made out. He and she seemed to see things the same way. For example, at one point, he had said, ‘The inspector will jump to the wrong conclusions!’ And she’d replied, ‘Oh, let him, dear. That’s what he’s good at.’ And they had both laughed, which had felt good.
Then she had said, thoughtfully, ‘The inspector threatened Crystal himself, you know. Luigi told me. He shouted after him, “I wouldn’t mind shooting you myself!” In front of witnesses. I don’t suppose he’d be very happy if anyone brought that up and used it against him, would he?’
And now, on the seafront, alone in the moonlight, Twitten sat on a bench on the upper promenade and looked at the paper again. The original, neatly written list contained just four items:
own bags?
‘Palmeira’?
run-over policeman?
a sneeze?
What Crystal had added was just the start of a word:
Dai
Twitten wished he could call Miss Sibert right now to ask what it all meant. Nothing here obviously linked the robbery to either Terence Chambers or Brighton – unless the ‘Palmeira’ referred to Palmeira Square, perhaps – a fashionable address in Hove, with landscaped gardens, close to the sea. But perhaps it was a misspelling of Palmyra, the ancient city in Syria Twitten had visited as a schoolboy with his father. They had gone to see the Roman ruins, and afterwards Twitten had made an impressive papier-mâché reconstruction of the Baths of Diocletian that had won him a prize at school. Thinking back to the glory days of schoolboy projects isn’t hard when you’re only twenty-two. Twitten’s last papier-mâché model had been made only two or three years in the past.
Twitten felt his mind wandering. He needed to concentrate. If he had removed evidence from a crime scene, there had better be a good reason. What Crystal had written – still neatly – in the dark at the bottom of this list was the key thing, but it was incomplete (unless it was a Welsh name). He remembered how Crystal had urgently whispered, ‘Tell Inspector Steine he’s even more of a fool –’ and then, Bang! He’d been dead.
And now, as Twitten peered closer at the paper, whoosh! It was snatched from his hand by a juvenile delinquent cyclist, who, screaming with laughter, whizzed off along the promenade and disappeared from view.
The Day After Twitten’s First Day
Five
In al
l the thrill of that momentous evening of law enforcement – consisting in the swift but slightly under-considered arrests, for violent murder, of an old, feeble actor and a female novelty artiste – Sergeant Brunswick forgot about one quite significant thing: the potential wrath of the buxom, toothy nineteen-year-old girl he had publicly abandoned in the rowdy queue for the Hippodrome.
True, Brunswick had paused to apologise to Maisie as he sped off to the crime scene at the Theatre Royal. Even in the thick of events, he had gamely reported the vibrant colour of her tongue, which was clearly her principal interest in life. But essentially he had ditched her and then forgotten her. Earlier in the day, he had glowed with pleasure at the thought of Maisie spending the evening on his arm, calling him ‘Jim’ all the time in that thrilling way she did; once he had heard the clarion call of duty, however, the delectable Maisie might never have existed.
In his defence, it had been an exceptional night. No wonder he barely slept, and was up the following morning by half-past six. As he dressed and shaved quietly (so as not to disturb his doting auntie Violet), Brunswick realised he was especially happy at one incidental aspect of the affair: that he and the inspector had conducted the entire evening’s transactions without the help of PC Clever-clogs Twitten. Wouldn’t that kid be impressed when he found out what they’d achieved? Such prompt arrests in two gruesome killings would surely cast Twitten’s own successes – in the age-old ‘Kennington Butcher’ case, for example – completely in the shade, tooth-in-that-flaming-floorboard or no tooth-in-that-flaming-floorboard.
So, at seven-fifteen, Brunswick was surprised, as he gently pulled shut the downstairs front door to his auntie’s flat on the London Road, to find an avenging Ventriloquist Vince on the dusty pavement, awaiting him with a baseball bat.
Alarmed, Brunswick played it cool. ‘What’s all this, Vince?’ he said, adjusting his hat. ‘A bit early, aren’t you?’
Vince toyed menacingly with his blunt instrument. He was pretty pumped up (not that this was unusual). Brunswick swallowed nervously.
‘You hurt my Maisie, you ratface ruddy policeman ponce,’ snarled Vince, weighing the bat in his hand. ‘You make her feel like ruddy lemon, mate!’
Brunswick thought quickly. Was there any justice at all in this accusation? He’d only left her for ten minutes, after all. He raised a finger. ‘But the point is, Vince –’
‘You make her ruddy cry, mate!’
‘Mm,’ said Brunswick, turning, as if making an important decision. ‘Right, well, in that case, there’s not a minute to lose.’
And then he started to stride briskly along (proceeding in a southerly direction), so that Vince was forced to trot at an uncomfortable speed beside him. For a while, Brunswick said nothing, then he stopped and looked quizzically at Vince, as if surprised to see him still there. Vince (thankfully) looked slightly uncertain now; slightly bewildered. The bat was looser in his grip. Brunswick might not have won a medal for forensic observation at Hendon, but he knew a thing or two about defusing violent intent, especially when it was directed against himself.
‘Well, I’d just like to thank you for telling me all this, Vince,’ he said, with an air of authority. ‘Where can I find her? I’ll apologise.’
Vince scowled. He wasn’t sure how – or when – he had lost the advantage here. Daringly, Brunswick placed a hand on Vince’s shoulder and applied a little weight.
‘Where can I find her?’ he repeated.
Vince shrugged. He looked fed up. ‘She’s in Luigi’s.’
Brunswick held out his hand, which Vince reluctantly shook. ‘That’s excellent. Now, you’re free to go. Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.’
At which Brunswick strode off down the London Road, then made a quick right turn up one of the lesser streets (as if to proceed in a westerly direction) and – remembering first to remove his hat – was vastly sick in an alley.
* * *
It was a day for starting early. Even before Sergeant Brunswick had left his auntie’s place, Constable Twitten was having a cup of tea with Mrs Groynes at the police station, and sharing with her his shock and disbelief at how events had unfolded the previous night. He had not slept at all. Not knowing the address of the station house, and not having money for a hotel, he had spent the pre-dawn hours walking the empty streets, making notes, familiarising himself with the town. In his short career to date, he had found that it was useful to know how quickly one could get from A to B, or from C to F, via E – even if, after a few days, you generally found yourself transferred elsewhere and had to start all over again.
At around 2.30 a.m., outside a house in the pleasant, leafy Clifton Hill area, he had found a young constable on duty, guarding a crime scene (but actually asleep). It was from him – firmly shaken awake – that Twitten learned all the astonishing news of the night: that Brunswick and the inspector had come here to arrest Braithwaite and had found him murdered; that from here they had arrested old Alec Forrester in a Hove pub (for the shooting of Crystal); and from there they had arrested a strong lady at the Hippodrome (for the Opinion Poll lady burglaries and unpremeditated murder of Braithwaite).
Twitten’s initial reaction to all this was despair. A disgruntled actor was supposed to have shot Crystal? What about the Aldersgate Stick-up?
For a while the two young officers stood together in the moonlight. Then Twitten thought of something.
‘Where are the suspects detained?’ he asked.
‘In the cells at the station, sir. I mean, in the cells at the station.’
Calling Twitten ‘sir’ had been an embarrassing slip, but an understandable one.
‘What do the cells look like?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Walls or bars?’
‘Bars.’
‘Bars?’ repeated Twitten, significantly.
‘Yes. Like cages.’ The other constable didn’t see where this was going. He thought Twitten must be slow, or something. ‘You know. Cages made of iron bars. It’s quite normal.’
‘Doesn’t that woman famously bend iron bars as part of her act?’
‘Ah,’ said the PC, finally understanding. ‘Blimey, that’s a point.’
Twitten had sprinted back to the police station and demanded to be let in by the night desk sergeant, who laughed merrily at his suggestion of a prisoner escape until he went downstairs to check and found that, yes, unfortunately, while the old man was still safely asleep and groaning on his hard wooden bunk, the young woman’s cell next door was empty, with a significant bendy gap in the bars big enough for a body to squeeze through.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said the desk sergeant, with feeling.
‘Yes indeed,’ sympathised Twitten. Exhausted from the night’s events, it was all he could do not to climb through the gap, fall onto the strong lady’s vacated bunk bed and shut his eyes at last. But he dared not give in to tiredness, so instead he headed for Inspector Steine’s department and spent the rest of the night furiously typing.
‘So she’d scarpered, had she?’ asked Mrs Groynes, delightedly, pouring Twitten his second reviving cup of tea. Next to him was a pile of typed notes half an inch thick. ‘Well, you’ve got to laugh.’
‘I know. We searched the whole building. After a while, the desk sergeant said he remembered seeing an unidentified person in a big overcoat and trilby hat waving goodnight at about 1 a.m. When I pressed him to recall if there was anything odd about this unidentified person, he thought about it for a minute or so and then said yes, he’d heard the incongruous click of high heels on the tile flooring, but unfortunately hadn’t put two and two together.’
Twitten swallowed, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Mrs Groynes,’ he said, ‘I feel awful saying this, and I know it can’t be literally true, but it’s as if this station is run by idiots.’
Mrs Groynes sat down beside him, smiled, and patted his hand. ‘I know, dear. Sometimes it seems that way to me, too.’
Twitten took a deep br
eath. ‘Thank you so much for coming with me to the hospital last night.’
‘That’s all right; it was the least I could do. You was in such a two-and-eight, babbling about lists and such removed from the scene of the crime!’ She smiled at him, conspiratorially. ‘Ooh, now, that reminds me. I’ve had a little think about that precious list of yours, and my advice is this. Give it to Inspector Steine at the very first opportunity, dear, without delay, and say you did it when you wasn’t in your right mind. He’ll be cross, all right; but he’ll forgive you, for sure.’
Twitten bit his lip. ‘Give it to the inspector?’
‘That’s right, dear. It’s the right thing to do.’
‘But I can’t, Mrs Groynes. I lost it!’
She looked puzzled.
‘How do you mean, you lost it?’
‘A boy on a bike snatched it out of my hand. He must have thought it was a five-pound note! It wasn’t my fault!’
Mrs Groynes gasped. ‘You’re saying you lost a piece of vital evidence that you’d removed from the scene of the crime?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Groynes put her hand to her mouth in horror.
‘Please don’t tell anyone, Mrs G,’ said Twitten. ‘The thing is, I do remember everything that was on the list, so in a way it doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t matter?’
‘No, I mean it. In the night, you see, I traced Mr Crystal’s movements precisely from the railway terminus to the ice cream parlour by way of the police station, so I’m already forming ideas about what might have jogged his memory, and I’m sure I’m on the right track! Did you know, for example, that there are all sorts of posters on the wall opposite the station – for the Hippodrome, for the Punch & Judy, for sand-castle competitions, all sorts! On his way from the station, he would also have passed a man selling wind-up toys on a tray outside a cinema, calling out: “See the bunny run! See the bunny jump!”’
