by Lynne Truss
Steine helped him out: ‘“Just a smidgen of raspberry sauce.”’
‘Great stuff.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you actually say it?’
Steine had been hoping for years that someone would ask him this question.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did. Or something very much to that effect.’
* * *
All this explains why Steine allowed himself to be persuaded to go out and about with Jupiter in search of particulars (or ‘colour’) for the Clarion piece. Ten minutes later, they were on the seafront, near the bandstand, and Jupiter was back to being quite demanding.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said, his voice raised to be heard over the wind and the seagulls and the open-topped buses roaring past, ‘I want detail, man – detail.’
‘I did ask you not to call me “man”,’ said Steine, but he didn’t say it with his usual force. He was slightly distracted by a scene he had fleetingly witnessed when they had left the station together – it was Alec Forrester, being hugged and kissed on the front steps by the two mousy cast members of A Shilling in the Meter whom no one ever took an interest in. The man was saying, ‘They just let you go, Alec? After what you said? I don’t think I would have done!’
What Steine could not have known about Jupiter up to this point, of course, was that – like everyone else in the world, apparently – he was obsessed with Brighton Rock. But as they walked along, it was becoming horribly, depressingly obvious that, whatever Jupiter’s ostensible interest in the Middle Street Massacre, he was planning to bring up all the old Brighton Rock stuff again in his front-page report on Crystal’s murder.
It would be no good telling him that last night’s two killings had been the first murders in Brighton since 1951, or that the town had been free from gangs for six whole years. This famous crime reporter was going to take the obvious route, and invoke the same old Brighton Rock hoodlums, in spite of the fact they had never existed.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t know which tea shop was the one in Brighton Rock, man,’ said Jupiter now, as they walked along the breezy seafront. ‘That tea shop is one of the most famous landmarks in Brighton!’
‘Well, I’m sorry you see it that way,’ said Steine. ‘And may I repeat, Mr Jupiter, that there is something much too familiar in your tone.’
‘If that woman in that souvenir shop hadn’t been able to help –’
‘Look, she did help, Jupiter. She helped. You saw your blessed tea shop! Much good may it do you. It’s just a tea shop like any other.’
‘But I can’t get over the fact that you didn’t know which one –’
‘It’s a book, Jupiter! It’s not real! I don’t have to know about it!’
‘It’s a very famous book.’
‘It’s still a book!’
They walked on, until they came to the end of Middle Street. Steine paused significantly.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ asked Jupiter.
‘This is Middle Street.’
‘Ah.’ Jupiter glanced up it. He tried to exhibit interest. ‘So this is where it happened, then?’
‘Obviously, yes.’
‘Mm,’ said Jupiter. ‘Forty-five?’
‘I think we’ve established that, yes.’
Jupiter had a thought. ‘Why is it called Middle Street? What’s it in the middle of? I bet a lot of people have asked you that question over the years.’
Steine couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. What’s it in the middle of? ‘No, you’re the first,’ he said. ‘But anyway –’
‘So what’s it in the middle of?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Oh, come on, man. Haven’t you ever wondered?’
This was precisely why Steine disliked journalists. ‘No, I’ve never wondered. Middle Street is just its name.’
‘Haven’t you even tried to work it out?’
‘Look –’
‘It’s called Middle Street, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s it in the middle of?’
‘I don’t know. Look –’
‘Is it in the middle of Brighton, for example?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘So why is it called Middle Street?’
‘I told you, I just don’t know!’
By the time they reached the Palace Pier, Steine was ready to abandon the whole expedition. Jupiter would be setting the death of Crystal against the murky world of Brighton Rock – it would be all Pinkie Brown, or Brownie Orange, or whatever his name was; razor gangs at the racetrack; busty women drinking strong liquor in the middle of the day – whereas if Jupiter would only look about him he would see flocks of happy holidaymakers on a sunny day, paying their pennies at the turnstile and flooding onto the pier, to ride the cars of the roller coaster, or shoot rifle pellets at rows of tin rabbits to win a fluffy toy. Many of these visitors carried candyfloss and freshly made humbugs, or long sticks of rock wrapped in white tissue paper. It made Inspector Steine so angry that his town had been cursed by that dismal, nasty book.
Jupiter paid for them to go through the turnstiles. ‘Say thank you to Lord Otterdale,’ he grinned – which made no sense to Steine, who had no knowledge of newspaper proprietors, and who was hardly familiar with the concept of the expense account, either. Afterwards, when questioned about it, the turnstile man clearly remembered the little man in the smart suit paying for himself and the tall, distinguished-looking police inspector. It was a transaction that had stood out from the norm.
‘Can’t you do the rest without me?’ Steine said. ‘I think you’ve grasped the fact by now that I haven’t read that blasted book, which is all you seem to be interested in.’
But Jupiter led him up the Palace Pier, homing in on a sound that he evidently found significant.
‘Here it is!’ he said, stopping at the ghost train. He checked his watch. ‘Perfect timing. It will only take ten minutes. Come on, man. Lord Otterdale can treat us to this as well, I think.’
‘You don’t expect me to go on that thing?’ The ghost train? Why on earth?
‘Two, please,’ said Jupiter at the little window where they sold the tickets. ‘And can I have a receipt? Could you make it for four tickets, actually? Good man, good man.’
Steine couldn’t believe this was happening. ‘A lot of people come to Brighton for the sunshine and sea air, you know, Jupiter. They come for the Knickerbocker Glories and the saucy seaside postcards and the general sense of well-being.’
But Jupiter merely said, ‘Get on, get on,’ and so they took their seats in the ghost train, their little open carriage shunting forward unsteadily, causing Steine to yelp in alarm.
‘I don’t like this,’ he said, gripping the side of the car. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
But it was too late to get off. They lurched forward on the tracks and then swerved abruptly through a rough, thick curtain, into suffocating darkness.
What happened next was simply horrible. In the gloom, Steine heard a clanking noise and felt his stomach lurch back to knock his spine. Jupiter seemed to be laughing a lot, as green luminous faces appeared in front of them, and hands and cobwebs touched their hair and faces, and the carriage picked up speed as it dodged and snaked in the rattling dark.
‘I don’t like this!’ Steine said, loudly.
‘I reckon the spot is round the next bend or two!’ shouted Jupiter back.
‘What spot?’
Something rubbery hit Steine in the face. ‘Get off!’ he cried, batting it away.
‘Relax, man!’ yelled Jupiter.
‘What?’
‘I said relax!’
Steine was frowning in confusion when, terrifyingly, he felt two hands tighten on his windpipe.
‘Get off!’ he shouted, trying to stand up. ‘Help! Help!’
‘Don’t wriggle, Steine!’
‘Help! Help!’
Ahead of the carriage, they could see to a point where br
ight daylight came up through the tracks, and the wavy reflections of the water below hit the walls and ceiling around them. The little carriages were hurtling towards it. Steine struggled against Jupiter’s grip. What on earth was happening?
‘What are you doing? Get off me!’
‘Look, man –’ Jupiter stood up, and was trying to push Steine back down when the train reached the place where the sea lay beneath.
‘Help! Help! Get OFF!’ yelled Steine, pushing Jupiter so hard that he lost his balance and let go with a cry.
Steine was so relieved to be free from Jupiter’s grip that he didn’t notice his assailant fall out of the carriage and plummet seawards, banging his head on an iron cross-beam on the way down. He also failed to hear the splash.
All he knew, when the little carriage rattled back into daylight and stopped with a jolt, was that no one was trying to throttle him any more, and there was an empty seat beside him, which the small Policeman’s Friend had formerly occupied.
Seven
Fortunately, Sergeant Brunswick was unaware that Inspector Steine was in the process of endangering the life of the world’s most police-friendly newspaperman by knocking him into the sea. The knowledge might have dampened his sense of excitement, which was perversely high this morning, given that he had already lost not only the girl he fancied but also both his principal suspects in the murders.
But sometimes the mind works like this when things are at their bleakest: darting so quickly between intractable subjects that it lights on none of them long enough to register the true dismal hopelessness of the situation. The activity itself keeps one’s spirits up.
Who killed Crystal? Well, good question, don’t know, I’ll come back to that. So who killed Braithwaite? Again, not sure, but at least we know it’s to do with the break-ins, or do we? OK, where is the Strong Lady? Well, there’s nothing to go on there, really. If the Strong Lady isn’t the Opinion Poll lady, who is? Actually, no idea, but moving on… Will Maisie change her mind and take me back? Don’t go there, she’s insane with all that ‘half an hour’ nonsense, and it’s less important than solving who killed Crystal – but who did kill Crystal?
And so on, round again.
But being a methodical man, Brunswick had a mental list of what to do, and the first task of the day was to re-interview Mrs Thorpe – Braithwaite’s Brighton landlady – and also to search Braithwaite’s room and talk to the neighbours. Looking back on the proceedings of the night before, Brunswick was conscious of having rather rushed to a conclusion about Jo Carver’s guilt, and of having therefore neglected proper procedures. While he disliked admitting it, he had rarely seen anything so upsetting as the body of the slain Braithwaite: the attack on him had been ferocious. Twitten had warned that a cornered narcissist could be dangerous – but he couldn’t have meant anything on this scale. Flaming heck, how many cornered people, narcissists or not, would reach for a sword above a mantelpiece and frenziedly hack a person to death?
So Brunswick had been overexcited last night; he saw that now. He had been so intent on leading the inspector to Miss Carver’s dressing room that he had very nearly overlooked important evidence at the scene of the crime. Luckily, the forensics men had done their job properly and taken the sherry glasses for fingerprint examination. Otherwise, they would have been left behind for Mrs Thorpe – or for her daily cleaning woman, more likely – to give them a soapy wash in the morning and put them back on the tray.
He had high hopes of Mrs Thorpe as a witness. She was the most recent person to meet the Opinion Poll lady, and she had evidently become quite friendly with Braithwaite during his stay. She had been adamant about the sherry glasses. And she was evidently kind to actors, which always counted for a lot with Brunswick.
There was a wide range of theatrical digs available in Brighton, and Braithwaite had hit the flaming jackpot with this one, which was more like living with a rich relative in her gracious home. Brunswick had been particularly impressed by the framed signed photographs in the hallway of legendary theatrical guests – the identities of most of whom had been lost on Braithwaite. What he had apparently most appreciated about Mrs Thorpe’s house were the excellent breakfasts (served at the considerately late hour of half-past nine) and the pleasant ten-minute stroll downhill to the theatre.
Understandably, Mrs Thorpe looked less impressive this morning. Her demeanour the previous night had been that of a rather stately householder, offering sherry to the police, but that was before she knew that a bloody murder had occurred in her own front living-room, and that the nice lady from the Opinion Poll – with whom she’d had such an enjoyable conversation – was a wicked fraud in league with a desperado house-breaker.
Today she looked smaller, faded, with untidy hair. Her fluffy slippers aged her. This morning the role of theatrical landlady appealed so much less to her that she was thinking of selling up and moving to France. One of her posh neighbours had earlier informed her – with unpleasant relish – that during the attack he had heard through the wall raised voices, a violent scuffle, and then blood-curdling screams.
‘My house, it happened in my house, in this road,’ she said now, to Brunswick, with misery in her eyes. ‘Poor Mr Braithwaite. Poor Mr Braithwaite! Such a terrible thing.’
The front living room still being closed off as a crime scene, Mrs Thorpe offered Brunswick coffee in her drawing room on the first floor, with its view across the gardens and rooftops to the glittering sea and wide horizon. It was very beautiful. The inevitable ‘daily’ brought the refreshments on a silver tray, and Mrs Thorpe attempted to pull herself together. Brunswick expressed his sympathy, and told her to take her time, but was secretly impatient to get on with his questions.
‘Mrs Thorpe, I wonder if you would tell me about the conversation you had with Mr Braithwaite yesterday concerning the Opinion Poll lady who had visited in the afternoon?’
She took some deep breaths, wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and gave him a brave smile.
‘Well. I was at home in the afternoon yesterday, at around four o’clock, when the doorbell rang and I answered it. A woman was on the doorstep. She gave me her card and –’
‘Do you still have the card?’
‘I think so. But it will be downstairs.’
‘Thank you. Do carry on.’
‘So, she gave me her card and came in. We sat in the front living-room. I’ve been thinking about her a lot since last night, as you can imagine, Sergeant. And it occurred to me: once she was in the house, all the while she was asking me questions and writing down the answers on her forms, she kept her head down. It meant that I didn’t see her face very much. Do you see?’
‘I do. That’s very helpful, Mrs Thorpe. It occurs to me that you’re what we call an observant witness. But you must have seen her when she arrived and when she left?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Can you describe your first impressions of her for me?’
‘Quite tall. Slim hips. Strange fingers, when she took her gloves off. A lot of make-up.’
‘What was wrong with the fingers?’
‘They were a funny shape. It’s hard to describe.’
‘Accent?’
‘Well educated. A soothing voice. Like you hear on the wireless.’
‘Did she ask questions about your possessions?’
‘No, no.’
‘Really?’
‘No, nothing like that. There was nothing suspicious. She seemed to have a list, and she stuck to it. She asked how often I went on a bus, how many different ways I cooked potatoes, what I thought of Independent Television, did I know who Hughie Green was, and was I scared of the atomic bomb. Or perhaps it was, did I know what the atomic bomb was, and was I scared of ITV. Anyway, I really enjoyed it. She stayed about forty-five minutes and at the end of it offered me a ticket to the Hippodrome for last night, but I said I already had a ticket to see Mr Braithwaite’s play, so she smiled and left and that was it.’
‘Was
she on her own in the room at any point?’
‘I did go to ask Mrs Browning to make us some tea.’
‘She’s your daily?’
‘Daily woman, yes.’
‘And did the Opinion Poll lady possibly ask to visit the WC before she left?’
‘Yes, she did. Is that how the murderer got in later? Through the window in the WC?’
‘It’s possible, yes.’
Mrs Thorpe reached for a handkerchief in her cardigan pocket and dabbed at her face. ‘So if I hadn’t let her –?’
‘None of this is your fault, Mrs Thorpe.’
‘I feel so stupid,’ she said.
‘You shouldn’t. She’s fooled countless people, this woman. But anyway, after she’d gone –’
‘I’ve just remembered something,’ she interrupted. ‘I beg your pardon. But it was on the doorstep, as she was leaving. She said something odd.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, as I said, she had a beautiful accent, but as we shook hands she said, with a smile, “Well, all this standing around jawing won’t buy the baby a new bonnet, will it?” And I thought that was very strange, for a well-educated person.’
Brunswick didn’t see why, but pretended to make a note. The important thing was how Braithwaite had reacted. ‘So later you told Mr Braithwaite about it?’
‘I did. I thought he’d be pleased for me, but he got all serious and said I should call the police! I told him he was being silly, but he said he’d been talking to his friend Bobby about this just a few hours before – about how when they were both in Leeds once, a landlady of his had been robbed on the very day an Opinion Poll lady had visited!’
‘Who’s Bobby?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they went to drama school together. Bobby Melbourne, I think he said. No, Melba. Bobby Melba. Mr Braithwaite was looking forward to seeing him.’
‘And you’re sure it was Leeds?’
‘Yes, I’m sure, because I said, “That’s where the big City Varieties theatre is?” And he said yes. Anyway, I told him not to be silly, and not to vex himself about something that wasn’t going to happen – which is why I was so cross when you told me he had left the theatre before the curtain just to check that my house was safe. If only he hadn’t! If only I hadn’t told him about that woman!’
