The Midnight Hour, page 13
How could that be? Edgar felt as if he had been in the park for hours. He wondered whether Emma was on the Liverpool train yet. She’d seemed very happy and confident when she set off that morning. She was longing to have two days of detection work. Edgar thought there was a good chance that she’d find something useful—which was one reason why he had persuaded Bob to allow the trip—but he was also slightly worried that Emma would override Meg Connolly and take charge of the investigation. Meg was a promising officer but she seemed a little in awe of Emma. Well, that was understandable. Edgar was in awe of her as well. But Emma was not in charge of this case.
A sudden gust of wind sent leaves swirling around the playground. Edgar was aware that the sun had gone in and that his back ached. Jonathan started to cry. Edgar extracted him from the swing and found that his bottom was wet. Emma had been trying to potty train Jonathan, without much success, and had put a nappy on him today. It felt sodden. Edgar put Jonathan in his pushchair and wheeled him past the mothers and children. He now thought that they were looking at him accusingly. ‘What a terrible, neglectful father. He must be one of those unemployed wastrels we keep reading about.’
Edgar walked quickly through the park and up the hill towards home. Jonathan stopped crying eventually but Edgar could tell by his hunched shoulders that he wasn’t happy. In the house, Edgar changed Jonathan’s nappy and put him in his highchair. Maybe he’d stay there for a bit while Edgar had a cup of coffee. Perhaps he should give him something to eat. Emma said that apple slices were good for children when they’re teething. Edgar cut up an apple and put the slices in front of his son. With a look of disdain, Jonathan threw the pieces across the room. Edgar picked them up and put them in the bin. He proffered a rusk.
‘Biscuit!’ yelled Jonathan, his face going red.
Edgar gave him a chocolate biscuit. This allowed Edgar enough time to make himself a black coffee. But, by the time he’d turned back to Jonathan, the toddler’s face was covered in chocolate. Edgar cleaned his face, which provoked more tears. He took Jonathan out of his highchair and upstairs to the sitting room. There was a playpen in the corner of the room but Edgar had once found a woman’s body in a child’s playpen. He could never bear to see any of his children behind the bars. He’d never told Emma this and so she thought his objections entirely unreasonable. Edgar put Jonathan on the floor and offered him a toy train. ‘Choo-choo,’ he said, rather desperately. Jonathan eyed him coldly.
Edgar set out to make a train track. It was rather fun, clicking the wooden pieces together, but Jonathan soon got bored and trotted off towards the stairs. He was halfway up them before Edgar noticed and brought him down again. They sat on the sofa and looked at each other. Edgar offered a picture book. Jonathan bit it. Edgar tried a puppet show, using two socks on which Emma had sewn eyes and tongues. Jonathan was so bored that he screamed. Edgar found himself looking longingly at the television. He had been against buying a set and, at first, had insisted on only turning it on for the news. Now he wished that children’s programmes were on all day. Wasn’t there something called Watch with Mother at lunchtime? He and Jonathan could smash the stereotype and watch it together. Where was the Radio Times? By the time he had located it, Jonathan was upstairs again, sorting through Emma’s toiletries. Edgar removed a lipstick from his grasp and led him downstairs. It was still only half past eleven.
The phone was ringing in the hallway. After a second’s thought, Edgar put Jonathan in the playpen with the toy train and raced downstairs.
It was Bob. ‘Hallo, boss. How’s the child-minding?’
‘Great,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve just been playing trains.’
‘All right for some. Thought you’d like to know. We’ve had the post-mortem report. Alma Saunders was strangled. Death occurred between nine p.m. and midnight.’
‘So it could have been the mysterious woman in brown.’
‘Yes, but there’s more. You remember the King Rat flyer sent to Verity Malone? We dusted the envelope for fingerprints. And there’s a match.’
‘A match? With whom?’
‘Remember we took the family’s fingerprints so we could rule them out?’
‘You’re saying it’s one of the family?’
‘The son. Seth.’
‘Seth Billington. Bloody hell.’
‘Exactly.’ Edgar heard Bob cough. Even the mildest swearword made Bob uncomfortable.
‘You need to talk to him,’ said Edgar.
‘I’ll telephone today. Trouble is, Seth is back in Whitby.’
‘Time for a trip to Yorkshire?’
‘I’ve got enough officers gallivanting round the country,’ said Bob. Then, remembering who he was talking to, ‘Not that WDC Connolly is gallivanting.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Edgar. There was a loud cry and a thump from upstairs. ‘I’d better go.’
* * *
‘Why did you ask her if she’d been in show business?’ asked Meg, as they left the Gillespies’ flat, their feet ringing on the iron walkway. On the floor above Meg could hear two women arguing about a cat. Either that or a car.
Emma gave a funny, crooked smile. ‘When she talked about Barbara’s mother, she said that she was “in the business too”. I thought it was worth a guess.’
‘It was a good guess,’ said Meg.
The boys were still playing football outside. The game seemed more intense now and the players didn’t have time for more than a few half-hearted wolf whistles in their direction. Heads held high, Meg and Emma made their way through the alleyway that led to Scotland Road.
‘Do you know what we should do now?’ said Emma.
‘No,’ said Meg. ‘What?’ Don’t let Emma take charge, the DI had said, but how could you help it?
‘We should go to Whitby,’ said Emma. ‘Confront Max before he has a chance to get his story straight.’
‘He tried to kill him once before,’ that’s what Sandra had said about Max and Bert Billington. According to Mrs Gillespie the affair between Max and Verity had been going on a long time, ‘since before the war’. There had been an occasion when a part of a stage set—a ‘flat’—had fallen down, narrowly missing Bert. Later it was discovered that the guy ropes had been cut; also that the flat was part of Max’s act. ‘Ever so good at scenery, he was. They say that, in the war, he painted fake airfields that looked just like the real thing.’ Nothing had been proved but Max had, apparently, left town in a hurry. Then the war came and Max joined the army. ‘He must have met up with Verity in the late forties and the whole thing started up again.’
‘Where is Whitby?’ asked Meg, feeling as if things were suddenly moving very fast. And, once again, she regretted not looking at a map.
‘It’s on the other side of England,’ admitted Emma, ‘but it’s where England’s at its narrowest. I don’t think it would take more than three hours in a car.’
‘But we haven’t got a car,’ said Meg.
Emma pointed at a sign hanging outside a depressed-looking building opposite. ‘Jimmy’s Motors: Repairs and Car Hire’.
‘It’s meant,’ said Emma, with that smile again.
Meg looked doubtfully at the garage. It was really just a wooden shack between two derelict houses. The concrete forecourt smelled pleasantly of petrol and the only car visible was a Vauxhall Viva raised up on wooden blocks. Meg’s father and brother were both motor mechanics but she thought that even they would give Jimmy’s a wide berth.
But Emma marched straight up to the open door. ‘Excuse me,’ Meg heard her say to a burly man in overalls. ‘Are you Jimmy?’ Meg sighed and made her way across the oily courtyard.
‘You want to hire a car?’ Jimmy had a high voice which made his Liverpudlian accent sound even more pronounced. ‘Have you got a licence?’
Emma held out her driving licence.
‘Emma Stephens,’ Jimmy read out slowly. ‘Mrs. Have you got your husband’s permission, love?’
‘I don’t need it,’ said Emma, her voice becoming several times more Roedean. ‘I can pay.’
‘Can you, love?’ Jimmy crossed his arms, clearly preparing to enjoy himself. ‘Why don’t you ring your old man, just the same?’ Behind Jimmy’s ear, a topless woman smiled from a pile of tyres. Miss October 1965.
Meg took out her warrant card. ‘We’re police officers,’ she said. ‘Have you got a car that we can hire? Just until tomorrow.’
Jimmy gaped at them. ‘Police officers?’ he said. ‘But you’re—’
‘Women. Yes,’ said Meg. ‘I’m WDC Meg Connolly from the Brighton police. You can’t ring my husband because I don’t have one.’
Jimmy looked as if this didn’t surprise him. But he unfolded his arms and said, ‘I might have a Ford Cortina out back.’
Eighteen
They stopped at the first phone box so that Meg could ring the DI. She steeled herself for a reprimand, perhaps even an order not to go to Whitby. But, instead, the DI said, ‘That might be an idea. You can interview Seth Billington. We’ve had some new information about him.’ He told her about the fingerprints on the letter, warned her not to stay more than one night and to drive carefully (‘the roads are very rough up north’). Then it was Emma’s turn to telephone. She got back in the car looking thoughtful.
‘Edgar says he’s having a fantastic day with the kids. He’s even thinking of baking a cake.’
‘Well, he doesn’t have to do it every day, does he?’ said Meg. ‘Mind you, I can’t remember my dad ever looking after us.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’ Was this odd? thought Meg, as she manoeuvred the unfamiliar car through the unfamiliar streets (they had agreed that Meg would drive to Whitby and Emma would drive back). Meg loved her dad, he was a benign presence in the house, but she could not remember him ever cooking a meal for his children. Her mother did everything; all the cooking, cleaning, caring, and all the shouting and disciplining too. Meg was eleven when Connor was born and she remembered being roped in to change nappies from the start. She had never seen her father do it though.
‘My dad didn’t help around the house either,’ said Emma. ‘But, then again, my mother didn’t do much housework herself.’
‘I suppose you had servants,’ said Meg. She’d read about houses like this. Aisling used to have a magazine that was full of stories about scullery maids marrying lords. Their houses were chock-a-block with uniformed servants, all bowing and curtsying like mad.
‘Well, we had a housekeeper, Ada,’ said Emma, sounding defensive. ‘But she was more like a friend really. And we had a cook.’
More like a friend, thought Meg. She wondered if Ada would say the same. But she didn’t answer because they were caught in a maze of streets that suddenly, and terrifyingly, turned into a road that soared into the sky, the docks and the factories far below. There were signs everywhere and it was only at the last minute that Emma saw one for Leeds.
‘That’s the right direction,’ she said. ‘Left here.’
Meg saw a gap in the traffic and wove through. A tunnel, another bewildering junction and then they were on a wide, clear road with hills on either side.
‘Well done,’ said Emma. ‘You’re a great driver.’
‘I love driving,’ said Meg. ‘But I don’t often get the chance.’
‘Of course, women aren’t allowed to drive police cars,’ said Emma, ‘what with us being such sensitive flowers and all that.’
‘I wish I could drive instead of DI Willis,’ said Meg. ‘He’s so slow.’
Emma laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in a car with Bob but I can imagine. Who taught you to drive?’
‘My dad. He’s a mechanic so he knows all about cars. He taught me when I was seventeen.’
‘My dad taught me too,’ said Emma.
‘In the Rolls?’ said Meg, with a sideways glance.
There was a brief silence and then Emma said, ‘Yes, actually.’ Meg started laughing and, a few seconds later, Emma joined in.
* * *
In the end the drive took more like four hours. Some of it was surprisingly beautiful, with open countryside all around them and dark hills—almost mountains—in the background. ‘The Pennine Way,’ Emma said. But they also passed sprawling cities and factories spewing smoke. They stopped at a roadside café outside York and ate sandwiches and drank black coffee at a rickety picnic table. Then they crossed the moors, dark with heather and the shadows of clouds. It was the longest drive Meg had ever undertaken and, by the time they saw signs for Whitby, her back ached and her foot had cramp from pressing on the accelerator.
‘Not far now,’ said Emma. She passed Meg a wine gum, another roadside purchase. They had got into a comfortable rhythm now, talking for stretches then staying silent for miles, having a wine gum every ten minutes. They had talked about the case, about their families and the unfair way women were treated in the police force (that had lasted from Huddersfield to Leeds). Now they were onto Max Mephisto. Meg had met him briefly last year, but she’d been in the middle of catching a killer so she hadn’t been able to concentrate. She just had a vague memory of a tall figure racing up some stairs.
‘Max is very charming,’ said Emma. ‘I mean really charming, not slimy in the way some men are. He really listens to you and seems interested in you. But somehow it’s hard to get to know him. You can never really tell what he’s thinking. Ed’s been friends with Max since the war and they’ve been through a lot together. I think he’s as close to him as anyone is but he doesn’t really know him.’
‘Does Edgar . . . Superintendent Stephens . . . know Lydia Lamont too?’
‘Hardly. The four of us had lunch together but it’s not as if we’re all mates.’ Emma paused for a minute before saying, ‘Lydia came to see me, you know.’
‘Came to see you?’ said Meg, squinting as the low sun reflected on the windscreen. ‘When? Where?’
‘She came into the office,’ said Emma. ‘Said she wanted to help with the case.’
‘Help with the case? How?’
‘By being our eyes and ears in Whitby. She also implied that the mafia were out to get Bert.’
‘The mafia? Did you tell the super?’
‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I mean, it was obviously nonsense.’ But Meg thought that she sounded rather defensive.
‘How come Max married Lydia Lamont anyway?’ she asked. ‘Did he go to America?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘He got a part in a Hollywood film. Lydia was in it too and they fell in love.’ She paused. ‘Max wanted to get away from England. There was a woman he was in love with. Florence, her name was. She was on the stage, in one of those tableau acts.’
‘Like the Dl’s wife?’
‘Betty? Yes. Actually, Florence was in the same troupe and she was truly beautiful. Like a film star. Like Vivien Leigh. Anyway, she was murdered. It was a horrible case. A few weeks after it happened, Max went to America and the next thing we knew he was starring in films and he’d married Lydia.’
‘Do you really think that Max had an affair with Verity?’ said Meg.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Emma. She had some theory about Max fancying older women because his mother died when he was young. Meg wasn’t quite sure it was as simple as that. After all, this Florence person wasn’t old. Nor was Lydia Lamont. ‘I can’t see him trying to kill Bert, though,’ Emma carried on. ‘For one thing, he was in a Bert Billington panto in Brighton in 1951. Aladdin.’
‘I went to see it,’ said Meg, unaccountably excited. ‘Boxing Day treat with the Knights of St Columba. Max was Abanazar, wasn’t he? I thought he was amazing. A bit scary but amazing. Of course, I was only six.’
Emma was silent for a while and Meg wondered if she was offended by this reminder of their age difference. Then Emma said, looking out of the window, ‘That was the Christmas that two children were killed. I can’t think of the pantomime without thinking of that.’
‘I remember,’ said Meg. ‘Hansel and Gretel, they called them. I can remember my mum and dad talking about it when they thought we were asleep. They were really scared, they even stopped letting us go out to play in the street.’
‘We caught the man who did it,’ said Emma. ‘But it was . . . tough. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘Was DI Willis involved in that case?’
‘Bob? Yes. It was the first big case we worked together. He was really affected by it. We both were. We got to know the children’s families really well.’
‘It must have been awful,’ said Meg.
‘It was,’ said Emma. Then, after a slight pause, she added, ‘It was a nightmare but, in a horrible way, it was exciting. That was when I realised that being a detective was all I wanted to do.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Meg. ‘I felt like that about the kidnapping case last year. It’s dreadful for the people involved but there’s nothing like it when you’re on the chase.’
‘On the chase,’ said Emma with a laugh. ‘That’s us now.’
It was seven o’clock and nearly dark when they reached the outskirts of Whitby. They crossed a bridge and suddenly there was the town, a string of lights ending at the blackness that was the sea. Looking up, Meg saw what looked like a huge castle on a hill, lit by the baleful glow of a rising moon.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘Whitby Abbey,’ said Emma. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Meg wasn’t sure that was the right word. The building looked ominous and unreal, staring down at the town as if it had come from a different century, or a different universe. Maybe it was actually a spaceship, waiting to take Dracula back to his home planet. Emma started to direct them to the hotel where Max was staying, the ever-present map open on her lap.
The Royal Whitby Hotel was, of course, extremely grand, a square white building high above the sea, looking across to the abbey ruins on the next hill. Every light seemed to be blazing and Meg imagined the guests sitting down to dine, wearing evening dress and pearls, while a string quartet played in the background. She got out of the car, feeling stiff and grubby. Most of her hair seemed to have escaped from its ponytail and she knew that the lipstick and powder she had applied so carefully at seven a.m. in Brighton had evaporated long ago. She saw Emma smoothing back her hair and realised that her sophisticated companion was having exactly the same thoughts.
