The Midnight Hour, page 12
‘“Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth”,’ said the DI. This was so unexpected that they all stared at him. ‘It’s a poem,’ he added, sounding rather defensive. ‘Kipling, I think. It’s about elm trees hating people and waiting for their moment to drop branches on their heads. We had to learn it at school.’
‘I can’t bear Kipling,’ said the super.
‘Apparently Kipling moved from Rottingdean because people in double-decker buses could see into his garden,’ said Emma.
Meg thought of Kipling’s house behind its high flint walls. She thought of Tudor Close with its hidden doors and glittering windows.
‘Maybe Alma knew who killed Bert,’ she said, ‘and that’s why she was killed.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Emma. ‘But Alma was strangled. That requires intimacy and savage violence. It’s very different from slow poison.’
Meg admired the way that Emma pronounced the words ‘intimacy and savage violence’ without a tremor in her cut-glass accent.
‘We need to find the woman in the brown coat,’ said Superintendent Stephens. ‘She’s our only real lead and she links the two deaths. Do you think your witness would be able to work with an artist to come up with a likeness, WDC Connolly?’
‘I expect so,’ said Meg. ‘But those likenesses never really look like anyone, do they?’
Emma laughed but Meg thought that the DI and the super both looked irritated. She really had to learn to watch what she said. She realised that Emma was speaking, in her calm ‘I know what’s best’ voice.
‘We should also follow the Glenda Gillespie lead,’ she was saying. ‘I think Meg and I should go to Liverpool.’
Sixteen
Meg was still not quite sure how it happened but, three days later, she was sitting opposite Emma on a train from Euston to Liverpool. Somehow, Emma had managed to convince the super that they needed to interview Glenda Gillespie’s family. She must have done a good job because apparently the super was actually taking the day off to look after the children.
They had caught the early train from Brighton. Meg had arrived at the station at seven-thirty, feeling nervous about the journey (the furthest north she had ever been in her life was a visit to her Auntie Beryl in Luton) and relieved that she and Emma were wearing similar clothes, slacks, jumpers and short jackets. They were to spend the night at a hotel in Liverpool so Meg was also clutching her mother’s overnight case, royal blue with gold fittings. Emma had a Gladstone bag which mysteriously managed to look both shabbier and posher. They had negotiated the Underground from Victoria to Euston. Emma seemed to know which tube to take. Meg followed anxiously, gripping her bag because of Mum’s warnings about pickpockets. Now they were seated on the 10.07 to Liverpool Lime Street.
‘When do we get there?’ Meg asked Emma. She knew really. She just wanted to remind herself that she was actually on a journey with Emma Holmes, the two of them were working together, two free-spirited, independent women—like Ruby French in Iris Investigates.
‘One o’clock,’ said Emma. ‘We can get some lunch and then interview Mr and Mrs Gillespie.’
It had been easy to find Glenda’s parents. They still lived at the address given to the police by Sheena Billington. Why would you stay in the place where you had witnessed so much tragedy? wondered Meg. But then again, how could you leave it?
‘Do you think we’ll see the Beatles?’ said Meg.
‘I think they all live in London now,’ said Emma, who was casually flicking through Film Frolics magazine. ‘Shall we get some coffee from the buffet car?’
Even the coffee was exciting. It came in thick china mugs with the British Rail logo on the side, accompanied by two rich tea biscuits wrapped in cellophane. Emma read her magazine and occasionally stared out of the window. Meg was surprised that Emma would read anything as frivolous as Film Frolics. She’d brought The Feminine Mystique, partly to impress Emma, but she was finding it as impenetrable as ever. Eventually she, too, took to watching the scenery, the grey houses giving way to sudden stretches of green countryside, cows grazing oblivious to the locomotive thundering past.
They left their bags at the Station Hotel, where they were staying the night. The hotel was a gloomy, soot-stained building overlooking the railway lines but Liverpool itself was a surprise. Meg hadn’t expected so much grand architecture or so many people. It was almost like London except for the fact that, when they rounded a corner, she could see the huge bulk of a ship.
‘Is it by the sea?’ she asked Emma. She wished she’d thought to look at a map before leaving home.
‘It’s a port,’ said Emma. ‘Come on, this café looks OK. Let’s have lunch here. Then I think we can walk to the Gillespies’ place.’
The café was painted dark red inside but you couldn’t see the walls because they were plastered with photographs, mostly of the Fab Four but also Cilla Black, Billy J. Kramer, the Searchers and others Meg did not recognise, although, now that they had a TV, she never missed Top of the Pops. One whole wall was dedicated to footballers, also in red. A motherly woman came to take their order. Her smile was friendly, but her accent sounded almost incomprehensible to Meg, a mixture of her most Irish uncles and something harsher and more guttural.
Emma seemed to have no such trouble and ordered an omelette and coffee. Meg asked for the same, just to be safe.
‘On your holidays?’ said the woman. At least Meg thought that’s what she said.
‘We’re visiting someone,’ said Emma. ‘They live just off Scotland Road.’
‘Scottie Road!’ repeated the woman, clearly amazed. ‘How do youse know anyone from there?’
‘Our auntie and uncle,’ said Emma promptly. ‘Auntie’s been ill so we’re visiting.’
‘Are you sisters then?’ said the woman.
Meg had to stifle a giggle. She and Emma could not look less alike. Meg was tall and dark, Emma small and blonde. Besides, Emma must be at least fifteen years older than Meg. It was true that they were dressed alike and the woman hadn’t yet heard Meg’s Whitehawk accent, but even so . . .
‘Cousins,’ said Emma with a smile.
When the woman was out of earshot, Meg whispered, ‘Why did you say that?’
‘I thought it might be better not to say that we’re with the police,’ said Emma. ‘People are always suspicious of anyone in authority.’
You’re not with the police, thought Meg. But she said nothing. ‘You’re in charge,’ the DI had said to her before she left, ‘Emma . . . Mrs Stephens is a civilian.’ But the DI had worked with Emma, he must have known that she would take charge in any situation.
Meg insisted on paying for the meal because the DI had given her some money for ‘expenses’. She asked Emma how much she should leave for a tip and it must have been generous because the waitress bade them an affectionate farewell and told them to come back again soon.
Emma (of course) had brought a map. She’d even marked their route, which looked fairly straightforward. Scotland Road was a busy thoroughfare with tall buildings on either side—cinemas, churches, even a police station—but, as they walked, the houses got smaller and closer together. Several were boarded up and there were gaps in the terraces, maybe left over from bombing in the war. They passed a parade of shops and a group of women queuing outside a fishmonger’s. There was much talk and laughter and Meg thought that it seemed a friendly place, but Emma said, ‘There’s a lot of deprivation round here.’
‘There’s a lot of it everywhere,’ said Meg.
Emma consulted her map and led them down a side street. In front of them was a vast block of flats curving in a half-circle. There were balconies on the first and second floors and women were hanging out clothes and calling to each other in that strange local accent that always seemed to be on the edge of laughter or anger. In a funny way it reminded Meg of Tudor Close, the flats arranged around a central point, all the eyes looking inwards.
A group of boys were playing football on the grass. Meg wondered why they weren’t at school. Or were they old enough to have left? It was hard to tell. The game paused as Emma and Meg walked by. There was some laughter and some—mercifully—incomprehensible comments.
‘The Gillespies are on the first floor,’ said Emma. They climbed iron stairs and made their way along the walkway. Someone shouted, ‘It’s the bizzies,’ which didn’t make any sense to Meg. She got the feeling that it wasn’t exactly welcoming though.
Emma knocked on a door in a line of identical doors. It was opened so quickly that Meg was sure that the householder somehow knew to expect them.
‘Mrs Gillespie?’ said Emma.
‘What’s it to you?’ said the woman, who was small and white-haired, with shrewd eyes behind wing-framed glasses.
Emma took a step backwards. Meg thought that it was her turn to speak. ‘I’m Meg Connolly,’ she said, ‘and this is Emma Holmes. We’ve come from Brighton. We’re investigating the death of Bert Billington.’
‘Are you from the police?’
‘I’m a policewoman,’ said Meg. ‘Emma isn’t. We’d just like a quick chat, if that’s all right.’
‘You’re very tall,’ said the woman, but in a more conciliatory tone. Meg knew there was nothing people liked more than informing tall people that they weren’t, in fact, short.
‘Can we come in?’ she said, trying to smile down from her immense height.
‘All right.’ The woman stood aside and ushered them through a narrow hall and into a sitting room where a man sat reading a newspaper.
‘Norman. They’re from the police.’
‘Can’t get up,’ said Norman, ‘bad leg.’ He was a large man with sleepy down-turned eyes. One leg was propped up on the coffee table. An ashtray with a smoking cigarette butt was balanced on the arm of his chair. Despite his size, Norman seemed less hostile than his wife. He motioned to them to sit down.
Meg and Emma sat side by side on the sofa and Meg realised, with a slight surprise, that Emma was, once again, waiting for her to start.
She cleared her throat. ‘As you might know, Bert Billington died three weeks ago.’
‘Good riddance,’ said Mrs Gillespie.
‘We understand that you knew Bert,’ said Meg. ‘Or rather that your daughter, Glenda, knew him.’
Both Gillespies looked towards a photograph on top of the television. It showed a blonde woman holding a large blonde baby.
‘He broke our Glenda’s heart,’ said Mrs Gillespie. ‘As good as killed her. I’m glad he’s dead.’
‘Steady on, Sandra,’ said Norman. ‘I’m guessing these two young ladies think we had something to do with it.’
‘We’d just like a bit more detail about Bert,’ said Emma. ‘If we find out more about what he was like as a person, it will help us find his killer.’
‘He was murdered then?’ said Sandra. ‘Good.’ After a short silence, she said, ‘Glenda met Bert in 1946. She’d been in ENSA during the war, entertaining the troops. Then she got a part in one of his pantos. She was so happy. “I’ve finally made it,” she said. “A Bert Billington show.” Cinderella, it was. She was one of the dancing fairies. It was so beautiful. Norm and I went five times.’ Her voice wobbled slightly and she stared into the distance, perhaps recalling the dancing fairies. Meg felt that she could see them too, all in silver tulle with stars in their hair.
‘Is that when they fell in love?’ she asked.
Sandra gave a humourless laugh. ‘If that’s what you call it. Glenda introduced us to Bert after one of the performances, but he just seemed like an old man to us. Then she got a job in another show. And another. Suddenly she was buying a little house in Bootle. Norman confronted her about it and she admitted that she was Bert’s mistress. He told her, “We’ve never had anything like that in our family.” ’
‘But we didn’t turn our back on her,’ said Norman. ‘She was still our daughter. The only one we’ve got, though we’ve got three sons. And when she had little Angela, we doted on her. Such a lovely baby, she was. She had the right name because she really was a little angel. Always smiling.’ Now it was his turn to falter, covering his eyes with a shaking hand.
‘Glenda wasn’t well after Angela,’ said Sandra. ‘The baby blues. You know.’
‘I do,’ said Emma. ‘I got them badly after my third.’
‘Your third!’ said Sandra. ‘You don’t look old enough.’ But she seemed to soften towards Emma and now addressed her remarks to her as well as Meg.
‘We did what we could, but we were both working then. I wish we’d been there when . . .’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Sand,’ said Norman. ‘We did what we could.’
‘It started when Bert had a show at the Adelphi,’ said Sandra. ‘A panto. Dick Whittington.’
‘Bert played King Rat,’ said Norman. ‘Good casting.’
‘Glenda was upset because Bert was in Liverpool and he didn’t go to see her,’ said Sandra. ‘Eventually she went to the theatre with Angela and she found him there with this other girl, Barbara. One of the dancers. Glenda went mad. She always had a temper. Apparently she threw a typewriter at him. Bert’s assistant told me. Then she went home and . . . you know the rest. She got into bed with Angela. There was a gas fire in the bedroom and she turned the gas on.’
There was another silence. Meg could hear the shouts of the children playing outside. She said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s a long time ago, love,’ said Norman. ‘But it’s funny how the pain never gets any better. We’ve got six grandchildren now but we’ll never forget Angela. Or Glenda.’
‘Bert didn’t even send flowers to her funeral,’ said Sandra. ‘His wife did though.’
‘Verity Malone?’
‘Yes. She was a nice enough woman by all accounts. Of course, she was carrying on too. She was having an affair with that magician. Max Mephisto.’
Meg didn’t look at Emma. ‘Was he in the show too?’
‘No, I think he was performing in Manchester. Somewhere like that. He was a big star in those days. People said all sorts of things about him, that he’d been a spy in the war, that he was a traitor, that he’d sold his soul to the devil. Glenda said that she walked in on Verity and Mephisto once. He was a lot younger than her but that didn’t seem to put either of them off.’
It seemed to Meg that Glenda had a knack of finding people in compromising positions.
‘What about Barbara?’ she asked. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Poor Babs,’ said Sandra. ‘I never blamed her. I knew her mother. She was in the business too. Barbara was very upset about Glenda. Bert dropped her, of course, and I heard that she’d turned to drink. I think she’s dead now.’
‘Mrs Gillespie?’ said Emma. ‘Were you in show business?’
Meg couldn’t think why she’d asked the question. There was nothing in Sandra Gillespie, a neat figure in a purple housecoat, that spoke of the bright lights. But Sandra gave a funny little smile and said, ‘Yes. For a few years. I was on the stage when I met Norm.’
‘A lovely dancer, she was,’ said Norman. ‘Glenda took after her.’
‘Have you had any contact with the Billingtons since . . . since Glenda died?’ asked Meg.
‘They tried to give us some money,’ said Norman, ‘but we said no. The son got in contact. But we didn’t want anything else to do with them.’
‘Did you ever meet Alma Saunders?’ said Emma. ‘She was Verity Malone’s dresser.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sandra. ‘As I say, we never even met Verity. The only time she got in contact was to send those flowers. We heard that she was very cut up about . . . about Glenda.’
‘Who did you hear that from?’ asked Emma.
Sandra gave her a rather sharp look. ‘Bert’s assistant. Miss Curtis. She stayed in touch for a bit. She wanted to help but, as Norm says, we didn’t want anything to do with any of them.’
‘Would you mind telling us where you were on Sunday the nineteenth of September?’ asked Meg. She was almost embarrassed to ask the question.
But Norman gave a short laugh. ‘I was in hospital,’ he said. ‘With my leg. It’s gout, you see. Like Henry the Eighth.’
Meg and Emma laughed dutifully but there was something rather Tudor about Norman Gillespie. Maybe it was just his girth.
‘And I visited him in the morning and the evening,’ said Sandra. ‘You can check.’
They would check but Meg believed her. In any case, it was hard to think of the elderly couple—Norm on crutches, perhaps—struggling down to Rottingdean to put rat poison in Bert’s food.
‘What about your sons?’ asked Emma. ‘You said you had three sons.’
‘And you think one of them nipped down to Brighton and finished Bert off?’ said Norman. ‘I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had. They worshipped Glenda. She was the youngest, you see. But Tom, our oldest, is in Scotland. Roddy emigrated to Australia and Angus lives in Liverpool. He took me to the hospital and back.’
Meg asked for contact details for the Gillespie sons just to be on the safe side. Then she asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, as they said on TV shows.
‘Can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against Bert Billington?’
She expected the usual ‘too many to count’ answer but, to her surprise, Sandra had someone specific in mind.
‘Try that Mephisto,’ she said. ‘By all accounts, he tried to kill him once before.’
Seventeen
Edgar started the day with the best of intentions. He took the girls to school and then walked to Queen’s Park where he and Jonathan fed the ducks before going to the playground. Edgar loved Jonathan’s wholehearted appreciation of everything he saw. ‘Ducks! Tree! Poo!’ The morning was sunny and it was fun to push his son on the swings, the toddler’s sturdy legs kicking the sky. There were two other children there with their mothers. Edgar imagined the women thinking, ‘What a kind, involved father. He must be one of those modern men we keep reading about.’ He started to think about lunch. Maybe they’d go to a café. He might bake a cake for the girls’ tea. Then he looked at his watch. It was only ten o’clock.
