‘Bet you can’t spell it,’ said Aisling.

  Collette was at Meg’s old school. Only Aisling had passed the eleven-­plus and progressed to the grammar school. Meg remembered Miss Parsons, who had taught geography. She couldn’t recall the old bag ever paying her a compliment.

  ‘Shall we play cards later?’ said Aisling. Their parents didn’t like them to play cards but Aisling, Collette and Meg had recently discovered an addictive game called double rummy. Even Connor joined in sometimes, although he couldn’t always tell the differences between spades and clubs. Aisling kept the playing cards in her school satchel.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Meg. ‘I’m going out.’

  What could she wear? At least it wasn’t like going to the theatre. She didn’t have to be smart, just cool and trendy, which was far harder. Rifling through the wardrobe reminded Meg of the disastrous evening with DS Barker. This is different, she told herself. Logan was nearer her age; he wasn’t an old man who thought that he could grope you because he’d bought you a drink and a programme. But maybe all men thought that? The idea of Logan kissing her made Meg feel quite dizzy, although not entirely in a bad way.

  Eventually she put on slacks and a newish red jumper. Meg liked the colour and the shape but it was really too warm for May. Maybe they’d sit outside the pub. This was a comforting thought. Outside was less sinful.

  Meg told Aisling that she was meeting a friend. She might give her the whole story later. It depended if there was a story to tell. She ran for the bus and missed it so arrived at the Downs at twenty past seven, rather hot and flustered.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said Logan.

  He was sitting at one of the picnic tables at the front of the pub. Meg was relieved that he’d replaced his shorts with jeans, but his shirt was still open to the waist. Meg sat opposite him, feeling conspicuous in her red jumper. The Downs was at the top of the hill, looking down into the valley with the sea a blue glimmer in the distance. It was also at the main crossroads, so every passing car and bus got a good look at the drinkers outside. Maybe Meg’s parents, returning from their session of Collette-­praise, would see her there. Did it matter? Meg was twenty now, an adult; her parents couldn’t object to her meeting a man. No, they couldn’t object but they would talk about it, or her mother would, on and on with Padre Pio squawking in the background. Meg shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Are you cold?’ said Logan. ‘Do you want to go inside?’

  But the interior was of the pub was even scarier. Besides, Meg would get hot and her face would match her jumper.

  ‘No, this is fine.’

  ‘What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Lemonade, please.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Meg smoothed her hair down and tried to assume a dignified, sophisticated manner. Two teenage boys at the next table nudged each other and sniggered.

  Logan emerged with a lemonade for Meg and a pint of beer for himself.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Meg.

  ‘Glad you could make the time.’ Logan was grinning at her again.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a case,’ said Meg, rather stiffly. ‘I’m very busy.’

  ‘What do your ma and da think about you being a policewoman?’

  This seemed rather a personal question for a first date (it’s not a date!) and ‘ma and da’ sounded so Irish that it reminded Meg of her grandparents.

  ‘They’re proud of me, I think,’ she said, wondering if she had any evidence of this. ‘My mum thinks I should be doing something more feminine and caring, being a nurse perhaps, but I think they’re just relieved that I’ve got a steady job. I didn’t leave school with many O Levels.’

  ‘I didn’t get any,’ said Logan. ‘But then I didn’t really go to school. Ma would sign us up if we stayed at any place long enough but all the other kids laughed at us and called us gyppos. Me and Bartley just used to skive off.’

  ‘Bartley’s your brother?’

  ‘Yes, there are five of us. Bartley’s the oldest, then me, then three girls. What about you?’

  ‘Seven. I’m in the middle.’ Which meant that Meg’s parents hardly ever got her name right on the first attempt.

  ‘A proper Irish family,’ said Logan. ‘My dad was the seventh son of a seventh son.’

  Meg couldn’t remember what was so special about seventh sons. She betted it didn’t apply to seventh daughters though. She noticed that Logan didn’t even volunteer his sisters’ names.

  ‘Do you like your job?’ asked Logan. Another rather personal question.

  Meg thought about being called to Buckingham Place that morning, the body under the blanket, Dave Dunkley’s face when they told him the news about Joan. She thought about riding on the back of Danny’s moped and of Barker lunging towards her in the dark.

  ‘I do enjoy it,’ she said. ‘Most of the time. Some of the cases are quite horrible but I like trying to work them out. It can be exciting. Last year I was on a case with Emma and we drove all the way to Whitby. You know, Dracula and all that.’

  ‘I’ve read the book,’ said Logan. ‘Great stuff.’ Meg must have looked surprised because he laughed and said, ‘There’s not a lot to do when you’re on the road. I read a lot. I like horror stories.’

  Meg could believe this, remembering his comments about books written in blood. She was embarrassed that she’d told him that she didn’t have time for reading.

  ‘Do you know Emma well?’ asked Logan. ‘I know Astarte likes her but she’s seemed a bit stuck-­up to me.’

  ‘She’s not like that at all,’ said Meg. ‘She used to be a detective sergeant. The first woman detective sergeant in Brighton. They still talk about her at the station. She’s really brilliant. And very nice.’

  ‘You’re loyal,’ said Logan. ‘I like that.’

  Now Meg knew that she was blushing. To change the subject she asked Logan how long he was staying in Brighton.

  ‘Probably until the Appleby horse fair,’ said Logan.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s the biggest event of the year for gypsies. Hundreds of us get together in this little town in Cumbria. We buy and sell horses, have races, sell things. There are fortune tellers too. Astarte always has a crowd round her tent. But the main business is horse-­trading. Every day of the fair, the horses are washed in the river and then trotted up and down the flashing lane . . .’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Don’t worry, PC Meg. It’s not illegal. It’s just where we show a horse’s paces. Flashing just means fast trotting. I’ve got a horse called Grey Cloud who’s a great flasher.’

  ‘It’s WDC,’ said Meg. ‘When is this fair?’

  ‘June,’ said Logan. ‘Plenty of time.’ Though he didn’t say for what.

  Emma and Edgar were also having a drink, although in their case it was cocoa at the kitchen table. Jonathan was in bed and the girls were watching television. Emma had a sheaf of notes in front of her and was talking Edgar through Sam’s findings. Edgar, as ever, was enjoying seeing Emma at work. He had never met anyone who could summarise facts so succinctly.

  ‘David Dunkley – that’s his real name – was born in Sheffield in 1901.’

  ‘So he’s sixty-­five.’

  ‘You don’t get any marks for that,’ said Emma. ‘He started as a magician quite young. Sam found a cutting from 1920, when he would only have been nineteen. He was called up in the second war but soon switched to ENSA, entertaining the troops.’

  ‘Every Night Something Awful.’

  ‘You got that from Max. After the war he went back on the stage. He seems to have been working with Joan Waters quite a long time. She’s mentioned in this review from 1955. “His capable assistant, the statuesque Miss Waters.”’

  ‘Statuesque,’ repeated Edgar. He thought of the body in the alleyway, the white face, the dyed blonde hair. A statuesque woman is no match for a murderous man.

  ‘Was Dunkley married?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no record of a marriage,’ said Emma. ‘That doesn’t mean he hasn’t had mistresses.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Emma turned a page. ‘Rex King. Also aged sixty-­five. He’s been married three times. To Belinda McGuire in 1939, Margaret Taylor in 1946 and Mavis Perth in 1960.’

  ‘One wife at the beginning and one at the end of the war.’

  ‘Yes. Makes you wonder what he did in between. But Rex definitely saw action in the war. He was in the navy and wounded in the siege of Malta. And, from 1947, there’s a clipping of him at the Empire Theatre in Blackburn with his assistant, “Miss Joan Waters”.’

  Edgar whistled silently. ‘So Joan worked for Rex King too. They certainly seem a tight-­knit set.’

  ‘Finally . . .’ Emma shuffled her papers. She was enjoying this. ‘Tommy Horton. He’s older than the others. Born 1886. He’s been on the stage since his teens. Fought in the First World War and was injured. Also involved with ENSA. Tommy’s been married twice, to Grace Fanshaw in 1920 and to Greta Ableman in 1945. And, here’s the interesting bit. Grace Fanshaw married Larry Buxton in 1925 and Gordon Palgrave in 1930.’

  ‘Gordon Palgrave? Pal? Hang on, Max told me something about his wife . . . I think she committed suicide.’

  ‘I’m sure we could check that,’ said Emma. ‘Larry Buxton’s an impresario. The show on the pier is one of his. Might be worth talking to him.’

  ‘I certainly will. Tommy Horton too. If he’s still alive, that is. If he isn’t, I’ll have to get Astarte’s help.’

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said Emma. ‘Living in an old people’s home in Worthing. I was just thinking, maybe Sam and I should talk to him.’

  Edgar had been expecting something like this. ‘Why?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘Easier for two women to go into an old people’s home. Less threatening. And we only want background information, after all.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Edgar. He was sure Emma would visit Tommy whatever he said. Of course, Sam and Emma were still working for Cherry Underwood’s parents. They were free to pursue that investigation any way they wanted.

  ‘Do you think Joan’s murder is linked to Cherry’s?’ he asked.

  ‘I think it must be,’ said Emma. ‘Two magician’s assist­ants killed in the space of a few weeks.’

  ‘Meg saw a photograph of Joan when she was young,’ said Edgar. ‘She thought that she looked a bit like Cherry.’

  ‘That’s worth following up,’ said Emma. ‘But there are other links too. They were both involved with the same group. Ted English is another one of that set.’

  ‘He was at the show last night,’ said Edgar. ‘Seen chatting to Dave Dunkley in the bar afterwards.’

  ‘When did they leave?’ asked Emma.

  ‘At midnight, according to witnesses. Carter thought Joan was killed at around midnight.’

  ‘Around,’ said Emma. ‘Either of them could have got a bus or a taxi to Buckingham Place and been there in minutes.’

  ‘I know,’ said Edgar. ‘But why?’

  ‘I was thinking of something Ruby once said.’ Emma was putting the cuttings back in their envelope. ‘We were talking about why magicians saw women in half or stick swords in them. She said, “It’s because, deep down, men hate women.”’

  ‘Not all men,’ protested Edgar.

  ‘Sometimes you have to look very deep down,’ said Emma.

  ‘Another lemonade?’ said Logan.

  ‘I’d better not,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve got to be in work early tomorrow.’

  It was half past eight. With any luck, Meg would be home before her parents.

  ‘I’ll see you home,’ said Logan.

  ‘No,’ said Meg, too quickly. Then, trying for a lighter tone, ‘It’s not far. The bus stops at the end of my road. At the top of Queensway.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk you to the bus stop,’ said Logan.

  Meg was torn, as they crossed the road, the air smelling of grass and petrol, between wanting the walk to last for a long time and for it to be over quickly. As luck – or not – would have it, the green Southdown bus loomed into sight almost immediately.

  ‘Goodbye, WDC Meg,’ said Logan. ‘I’ll see you again soon.’

  But he didn’t say when. Meg took her seat on the lower deck feeling relieved that she’d got away with it (as she phrased it to herself) and also unaccountably depressed.

  Chapter 18

  Edgar did not have long to wait before seeing Larry Buxton. He arrived at Bartholomew Square at eight o’clock the next morning to find a maroon Rolls Royce parked outside and a man in a loud check jacket haranguing the receptionist.

  ‘I demand to see Superintendent Stephens.’

  ‘The superintendent isn’t in yet.’

  ‘Can I help?’ said Edgar.

  The man turned. He had a large ovoid face, made even larger by the complete absence of hair. His features – small nose, anxious eyes, surprisingly curly mouth – were clustered together, as if for safety, in the very centre of the egg.

  ‘Are you Superintendent Edgar Stephens?’

  ‘I am. And you are?’

  ‘Buxton. Larry Buxton.’ A fleshy hand was extended. ‘Of Larry Buxton Enterprises. I’m producing the show on the pier.’

  ‘You’d better follow me,’ said Edgar. He led the way downstairs, past the cloakroom and the briefing room and the corridor that led to the cells. Edgar’s office was lighter than some of the rooms, because it was only a semi-­basement, but it still seemed oppressive, with the picture of Edgar’s murdered predecessor, Henry Solomon, looking sorrowfully down from his portrait over the fireplace. Rita wasn’t in yet and Edgar didn’t feel like making Buxton a drink, so he gestured towards the visitor’s chair.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Like I say, I’m in charge of the show on the pier. One of my girls was killed the other night.’

  ‘Joan Waters.’

  ‘Yes. Poor old Joanie. The thing is, the show’s transferring to the West End next month.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s why I came to see you. I don’t want to sound heartless but . . .’

  Edgar prepared to hear something heartless.

  ‘. . . but how long will your investigation take? I don’t want people to be put off from coming to the show.’

  There it was.

  ‘I can’t say how long our investigation will take,’ said Edgar. ‘Can I ask you some questions, Mr Buxton?’

  Buxton’s eyes bulged. Edgar took this for assent.

  ‘How long had you known Joan Waters?’

  ‘Years. Everyone knew Joan. She’d worked with Dave since the war.’

  ‘And with Rex King too, I believe?’

  ‘I think so.’ Buxton seemed wary now, passing a finger round the inside of his collar.

  ‘Are Dave Dunkley and Rex King your clients?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you doing after the show on Tuesday night?’ There had been no show last night ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’. Edgar had no doubt that it would open again tonight.

  ‘I went for a drink with Dave and some of the other artistes. At the Colonnade. Next to the Theatre Royal.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘I only stayed for one. Left about eleven.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Went back to my hotel. The Grand.’

  All the impresarios stayed at The Grand. It was a good thing; the posher the hotel, the more potential witnesses. Bob could send someone down to check what time Buxton had returned.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ said Buxton, with a trace of his former belligerence.

  ‘All part of the investigation,’ said Edgar. ‘Was Ted English at the Colonnade too?’

  ‘Yes. Poor fellow. He’s still very cut up about Cherry.’

  ‘Did you know Cherry Underwood personally?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘Yes,’ said Buxton. ‘I was the one who discovered her, as a matter of fact. She was working in a shop. Up Carlisle way.’

  Edgar heard his wife’s cut-­glass accents, filling in Cherry’s biography. She left school at sixteen to work in a draper’s shop. There she met a man who offered her acting work. Edgar had assumed that the man who tempted Cherry to London had been Ted English. But it turned out to be the impresario himself.

  ‘You offered Cherry a job? On stage?’ He remembered Emma saying something about ‘dodgy revues’.

  ‘She was a pretty little thing. She did some shows for me but she was no great dancer. Not enough oomph for burlesque. So I introduced her to Pal. They did one season together and then Cherry teamed up with Ted English. Or maybe Rex King was first. At any rate, Ted and Cherry seemed to get on well.’

  ‘Is Ted English one of your clients too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about Tommy Horton?’

  ‘Tommy? I haven’t heard that name for years.’

  ‘I understand your ex-­wife, Grace, used to be married to Tommy.’

  ‘You have been doing your research.’ Another tug of the collar. ‘In that case you’ll know that Grace left me after only a year and married Pal.’

  ‘And then died?’

  ‘It was a tragic accident,’ said Larry. ‘I can’t see how this is relevant. I just want to know if I can take my show to London. A lot of people will lose a lot of money if it doesn’t happen.’

  ‘It’s not up to me what you do with your show,’ said Edgar. ‘Though I assume you’ll have to find another magician.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Buxton, not seeming to notice any irony. ‘Dave will never go on without Joanie and Ted has hit the bottle in a big way. What wouldn’t I give for a really big name like Max Mephisto.’

 

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