‘Joan was a magician’s assistant, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She got cut in half on stage. Quite an act.’

  The serrated knife chewed through the bread.

  ‘Do you know anything about Joan’s private life? Are her parents still alive? Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘She told me that her parents were both dead. They were in the business too. I’ve had quite a few showbiz types over the years.’

  ‘And a boyfriend?’

  Mrs O’Hara snorted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Not at her age.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see forty-­five again. A bit long in the tooth for all that climbing in and out of boxes.’

  The landlady was now buttering the bread. Without warning, she put a piece in front of Edgar.

  ‘You look like you need feeding up. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Mrs O’Hara put the kettle on the Aga. The kitchen was old-­fashioned but cosy, with drying racks over the range and open-­fronted cupboards. It reminded Edgar of the house in Willesden where he’d grown up. His mother now lived in Weybridge with her second husband and was the proud possessor of a fitted Formica kitchen.

  Edgar bit into the bread. It was so thick and doughy that it glued his mouth together. While he was temporarily silenced, the door flew open and a woman in a dressing gown appeared.

  ‘What’s happening, Mrs O’Hara? There are policemen outside and Joanie’s not in her room.’

  She had a foreign accent and something about the way she moved made Edgar think she was an actress or a dancer.

  ‘Sit down, Sonya,’ said Mrs O’Hara. ‘I’ve got bad news for you.’

  Sonya turned to Edgar as if the news must be his fault.

  ‘Joanie’s dead,’ said the landlady. And Sonya swayed and would have fallen if Edgar hadn’t caught her.

  Meg tried not to be excited when she got the DI’s message.

  ‘It might be another murder.’

  ‘Cheery little thing, aren’t you?’ said Danny, who had arrived at the same time and was taking off his leather jacket.

  Meg decided to ignore the ‘little thing’. ‘Put your coat back on,’ she said, ‘we can go up to Buckingham Place on your bike.’ Danny, a part-­time Mod, was the proud possessor of a red Vespa.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for DS Barker?’

  ‘No,’ said Meg. ‘The DI would want us to get there as quickly as possible.’

  Danny didn’t need much persuading and soon the two of them were flying up North Street, past the office workers and shopkeepers opening up for the day. The time on the clock tower was eight-­thirty. Meg didn’t have a helmet and enjoyed the feeling of her hair whipping back into her face. Both her older brothers had motorbikes and this was like riding pillion with them. Except it wasn’t, quite.

  The DI blinked when he saw the Vespa approaching but he didn’t say anything about disrespecting the uniform or not waiting for a superior officer. In fact, he seemed relieved to see them.

  ‘Deceased is Miss Joan Waters, who appeared with Dave Dunkley in the end of the pier show.’

  ‘I watched it!’ interrupted Danny, then saw the DI’s face. ‘Sorry.’

  Meg had had to stop herself gasping. Another magician’s assistant. Surely this had to be linked to Cherry’s death?

  ‘Solomon Carter’s examining the body now,’ said DI Willis. And Meg could see a sinister crouching figure in the alleyway behind them. ‘Cause of death was stab wounds and he thinks it happened around midnight last night. The super’s been here and he’s got an address for Dunkley. I want—’ He stopped because a taxi drew up and DS Barker emerged.

  ‘Thanks for waiting,’ he said to Danny, who blushed. Meg, he ignored.

  ‘You didn’t need to get a cab,’ said the DI. ‘Plenty of buses go this way.’

  DS Barker said nothing but his look of ill humour deepened. The DI repeated the information about the dead woman.

  ‘The super is sending some reinforcements, but I want you, DC Black, to start door-­to-­door enquiries. DS Barker, you and WDC Connolly go to interview Dunkley.’

  Meg wanted to object but didn’t dare. Barker turned on his heel and headed down the hill, following the curve of the station wall. Meg followed.

  Chapter 15

  Edgar was not surprised to find Emma waiting for him in his office. She greeted him brightly, brandishing a tartan thermos.

  ‘Hi, Ed! Just dropped the kids off at school and thought you might like a flask of soup. It’s a cold day.’

  ‘Emma,’ said Edgar. ‘When have you ever made me soup? And it’s boiling out there.’

  This was a slight exaggeration, but Edgar had taken his jacket off during the walk from the station. He opened the flask and the smell of Heinz tomato hit him like a blow.

  ‘Spend long making this, did you?’

  Emma grinned. ‘OK. I want to know about the murder. Was she really another magician’s assistant?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘Joan Waters, aged forty-­five. Currently performing with Dazzling Dave Dunkley at the end of Palace Pier. Meg and DS Barker are interviewing him now.’

  He was surprised at the expression of revulsion that briefly flitted over Emma’s face.

  ‘Why did you send Meg with that man?’

  ‘It was Bob’s decision but why not? DS Barker is an experienced officer. What have you got against him? Did he say something to annoy you the other day?’

  Emma paused before replying. ‘No. Well, he did make some crack about me being the boss’s wife. It just, I don’t think he’s a very suitable companion for a young woman.’

  ‘Meg’s tough,’ said Edgar. ‘She can cope.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’ said Emma, quite sharply. ‘Has Bob asked her?’

  ‘I’ll talk to Bob. I assume you’ll want an update on the interview too.’

  ‘It would be appreciated,’ said Emma coolly. ‘In return Sam could do some research on this Dazzling Dave.’

  ‘David Dunkley,’ said Edgar. ‘Where is Sam these days? I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘She’s working on a story in London. But she could look in the newspaper archives. And in the births, marriages and deaths.’

  Edgar knew that Sam was a good and thorough researcher.

  ‘There were some other names Max mentioned,’ said Edgar. He flicked through his notes. ‘Tommy Horton and Rex King. Max said they were all part of the same set. Along with Gordon Palgrave. Pal. Could Sam do some research on them?’

  ‘I’m sure she could. There must be acres of stuff on Pal. We’ll make some notes. In return for full police cooper­ation. Sharing information, like we agreed.’

  Edgar couldn’t remember making any such agreement; Emma probably bullied Bob into it.

  David Dunkley was staying at a hotel called the Pelican. It wasn’t one of the smartest on the seafront but the reception area looked clean and well-­furnished. It was certainly a step up from Buckingham Place. It was strange, thought Meg, how just one letter separated the terraced street from the Queen’s residence. It wasn’t an observation she could make to DS Barker, who hadn’t exchanged one word with her during the long walk down the hill and along the promenade.

  Barker showed his warrant card and asked to speak to Mr Dunkley. In a few minutes they were knocking on the door of his first-­floor room. Meg was grateful that they hadn’t had to share a lift.

  The man who opened the door was wearing a red dressing gown and there was something definitely wrong with his hair. It was jet black and the fringe was slightly off-­centre, which gave his whole face a lopsided, asymmetrical appearance.

  ‘Yes?’ said Dunkley, holding the door half-­shut behind him.

  ‘Police,’ said Barker. ‘Can we come in?’

  Dunkley backed away and Meg and Barker entered the room. It was small, with flowered curtains and a double bed that took up more than half the floor space. An open wardrobe showed a dress suit and a camel-­hair coat. There was a brandy bottle on the bedside table.

  ‘When did you last see Miss Joan Waters?’ asked Barker.

  ‘Joanie?’ Dunkley’s voice sounded distinctly quavery. Meg wondered how old he was – suspiciously black hair aside. ‘I saw her after the show. She went to get the bus.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About ten-­thirty.’

  ‘And what did you do after the show?’

  ‘A few of us went for a drink. At the Colonnade bar. By the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perry Small, Larry Buxton, a few of the chorus girls. That gymnast, Sonya. Look, what’s all this about?’

  ‘Joan was murdered last night,’ said Barker. ‘Knifed to death.’

  Dunkley collapsed onto the bed. Meg thought of how differently she would have broken the news. She supposed Barker was trying shock tactics but it seemed a rather brutal way of extracting information and, in her admittedly limited experience, not the most effective. She also thought that Barker should not have given away the murder weapon.

  Meg poured a glass of water from the sink in the corner of the room. ‘Drink this,’ she said to Dunkley. ‘Take some deep breaths.’

  Dunkley did look an awful colour, somewhere between green and grey. His hand shook as he took the glass.

  ‘Joanie,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who could have done this?’ said Barker, looming over the almost prostrate magician. ‘Did she have any enemies?’

  ‘Joanie didn’t have an enemy in the world,’ said Dunkley. ‘I worked with her for almost twenty years. Everyone liked her.’

  Meg sat next to Dunkley on the bed, ignoring Barker’s dirty look. ‘Did Joanie have any family?’

  Dunkley shook his head. ‘No. Her parents died in the war. She had no one. Rootless. Like me.’

  And he started to weep. Whether for himself or Joan, Meg did not know.

  ‘Why were you fussing him like that?’ said Barker, as they walked back past the hotels on the seafront.

  ‘I wasn’t fussing,’ said Meg. ‘I was showing sympathy.’

  ‘He’s a possible killer.’

  ‘And sympathy’s often the best way of getting information,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve heard the super say so.’

  ‘Oh, we all know you’re the super’s pet. I thought you were going to cuddle Dunkley at one point.’

  ‘And you’d know all about cuddling people,’ said Meg.

  She almost thought that Barker was going to hit her but, after a murderous glare, he quickened his pace until he was walking ahead of her. That suited Meg just fine. They were passing 84 Marine Parade. Meg wondered if, by some mysterious showbiz telegraph, the inhabitants already knew about Joan’s death. As she looked up at the house, a voice, seemingly coming from the air, said, ‘Meg!’

  It was Logan, the man they had met at Emma’s friend Astarte’s house. He was standing on a balcony a few doors down from the guest house. Meg walked closer. Logan was wearing a white shirt, worn loose over very short shorts. She could see his gold medallions glinting in the sun.

  ‘What are you doing this fine morning?’ said Logan. ‘That uniform is very sexy. Are you out on a case?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Meg, ‘I am.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ Meg realised that she was almost flirting, standing in the street just after visiting a possible suspect. She’d never flirted with anyone before. It was surprisingly easy.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Logan. ‘It’s to do with the other girl that was killed. Perhaps we could have a drink tonight?’

  ‘Can you tell me now?’ said Meg. Barker had stopped and was looking back at her, tapping his watch meaningfully.

  Logan laughed. ‘Sure. Come on up. I’ll throw down the key.’

  ‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ Meg shouted at Barker. ‘Don’t wait.’

  And, miraculously, she caught the key with one hand.

  Chapter 16

  Meg climbed the stairs to the sitting room, which somehow looked larger and grander than it had when she last visited. A crystal ball glittered on the table by the balcony doors but there was no sign of Astarte. Had Logan been consulting it? He glittered enough all by himself, what with his earrings and medallions and gleaming blue-­green eyes.

  Logan offered tea, coffee or ‘something stronger’. Meg asked for tea. She wasn’t quite used to the new craze for coffee. It was too scary, with its many permutations: whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, the terrifying entity called a cappuccino. Tea was what they drank at home. Tea was safe.

  While Logan was in the kitchen, Meg prowled round the room. On closer inspection, the red curtains and the pink sofas – even the grand piano – looked a little the worse for wear. A mirrored shawl thrown over one of the chairs had been dislodged to show a hole in the upholstery. The bookshelves contained several books in languages Meg didn’t understand but, comfortingly, a whole row of Agatha Christies. The crystal ball sent tiny rainbows shimmering over the walls.

  ‘Find anything you like?’ Logan was suddenly standing behind Meg. ‘There are books there written in blood and bound in human skin. There are books that would send you mad before you’d read a page.’

  Meg turned to look at Logan. He was holding a tray and grinning at her, almost laughing. Was he doing what her brothers would call ‘taking the mickey’? How could a book be written in blood? She only knew that her mother would be crossing herself by now and reaching for the holy water.

  Meg tried for a light tone. ‘I don’t get much time for reading. My sister Aisling reads a book a day.’

  ‘Sure and you’re living life instead,’ said Logan. He put the tray down on a glass table and began pouring the tea. There was no milk or sugar but maybe Logan was like Meg’s father and unable to complete domestic tasks.

  They sat on either side of the table. Logan’s shorts were so short that you could hardly see them when he was sitting down. Meg was very conscious of his long legs covered, like his chest, in black hair. To distract herself she took a sip of tea and almost gagged. It tasted like warm grass cuttings. She looked up to find Logan grinning at her. ‘It’s made with stinging nettles. Very good for your eyesight, apparently.’

  Meg put her cup down. She might be willing to believe that books could send you mad but not that you could make tea out of nettles.

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ she said, trying to regain a professional tone. ‘About Cherry, the girl who died.’ The first girl, she said to herself.

  ‘I arrived here on Sunday the tenth of April,’ said Logan. ‘I didn’t mean to stay so long but one of our horses is lame and needs field rest. Bartley, my brother, has got some work in Ireland so it suits me to stay with Astarte. Besides, she’s good company and . . .’ He gestured towards the balcony doors and the sea. Meg knew what he meant.

  ‘So I arrived at about four o’clock in the afternoon,’ said Logan. ‘Got a lift with a mate who’s got a van. He dropped me off outside the Aquarium and I walked from there. When I got to Astarte’s house, there was a girl standing on the pavement outside. A very pretty girl, blonde, though I prefer brunettes . . .’ He grinned at Meg, who didn’t react, although she could feel her colour rising.

  ‘She was talking to a man, a young man, all done up like one of the Beatles. You know, tight trousers, zip-­up jacket. I didn’t think much of it except that I didn’t like his style. But, last night, Astarte was talking about the murder. She’d been to see her friend, the girl’s landlady, and I think it was preying on her mind. I realised that the girl must have been Cherry and that the day I saw her was the day she died.’

  Many things rushed through Meg’s mind. The first was that Logan, legs spread wide in his shorts, was hardly one to sneer at tight trousers. But, more importantly, was the man talking to Cherry the boyfriend that Ida had mentioned to Emma (though not to the police)? Was he the white-­haired man? After all, he had been described as wearing a Beatles jacket.

  ‘What colour was the man’s hair?’ she asked.

  ‘Blond, like the girl. In fact, I thought it might have been her brother. But there was something about the girl. Tension, fear . . . I don’t know. Astarte thinks I picked up on Cherry’s mental state but it’s more that I notice body language. It’s useful for telling fortunes.’

  ‘Do you tell fortunes?’ Meg couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Yes,’ said Logan, ‘you’re going to meet a tall dark stranger who makes you disgusting tea.’

  Now Meg knew she was blushing. She had no idea how to cope with this sort of remark. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the information.’

  ‘We must have that drink sometime,’ said Logan.

  Meg arrived back at the station to find that the briefing meeting had already started. ‘Superintendent Stephens said you were to go straight in,’ said Rita, disapprovingly.

  Meg was surprised to find the room so full of people. Not just the super, the DI, Danny and DS Barker but about ten other uniformed officers too. They must have been brought in from neighbouring stations. The DI was on his feet. On the chalkboard was written: Cherry Underwood and Joan Waters. Underneath, in smaller letters, ‘Suspects: David Dunkley, Ted English, Persons Unknown.’

  Meg tried to slide soundlessly into her chair but she tripped up on someone’s discarded helmet and had to catch an unknown arm to steady herself. A few people laughed.

  ‘Thank you for joining us, WDC Connolly,’ said the DI. ‘DS Barker has just been filling us in on your interview with David Dunkley. Have you anything to add?’

  This was hard, without knowing what Barker had said, but Meg volunteered, ‘He seemed genuinely upset about Joan.’

 

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