The Midnight Hour, page 16
Even the DI hadn’t asked many questions, although he had been interested to learn that Seth hadn’t made it back to Whitby until the day after Alma’s murder. They didn’t have enough to charge Seth, he said, but it was ‘potentially useful information’. He told Meg to get on with tracing the women who supposedly had had affairs with Bert Billington. Emma had copied out the names for her, a list originally supplied by Verity Malone.
Jenny Wilkins, early 1920s
Beryl Simmonds, around 1928
Joan (?) War-years
Rita Edwards—1945. Had child, Christopher (Kit).
Glenda Gillespie (RIP). Had child, Angela (RIP).
Barbara (Babs) 1949. Query dead?
Louise Henshaw, 1950s. Had child, Daisy.
Pamela Curtis??
Meg couldn’t believe how many names there were. Pinned to the noticeboard was a photo of the dead impresario: thin white hair, small eyes, narrow mouth. How on earth had he managed to sleep with so many women? ‘Money talks,’ her mother would say, but did it really speak that loudly?
She had to look at this logically. Emma thought that Rita had called on Verity when Bert was in hospital and that Verity had given her money for her son, Kit, now about eighteen. Barbara was the girl who had supplanted Glenda in Bert’s affections, if affection was the word, which Meg thought it wasn’t. Mrs Gillespie had thought that Barbara might be dead. They needed to be sure but it was hard without a surname. The same went for Joan(?). Meg could look in the census for the other women or maybe even visit Somerset House in London to look at the records for births, marriages and deaths. She perked up at the idea of another trip. She was becoming quite the traveller, she thought.
She’d also heard of something called a microfiche, which had records of every newspaper article ever printed. Maybe she could ask the DI if she could search the microfiche at the Dome. It was time that she got over her fear of libraries.
Looking at the list again, Meg thought that there was one person she could interview immediately. Pamela Curtis lived in Hove, only about ten minutes’ walk away. Emma had said that Pamela was unlikely to have had an affair with Bert because she was, as she put it, ‘not that way inclined’. This explained the two question marks against her name and made Meg even more curious to meet Bert’s former assistant. Why had Verity put Pamela on the list?
Meg reached for her hat.
* * *
Sam was also in the office, the headquarters of Holmes and Collins Detective Agency. It was rare for her to be there without Emma but her colleague was once more encumbered by childcare. Her babysitter was out of hospital but Emma didn’t like to leave her with Jonathan too long, ‘not while he’s in such a destructive phase’. As far as Sam could see, this phase had started at birth and would probably continue until Jonathan was at least thirty. Sam liked children—she especially liked Emma’s children—but after spending a day with them she tended to feel better about her childless, unmarried state.
When she was at UCL, Sam sometimes heard female students talking about ‘getting their MRS degree’, in other words bagging an eligible husband. The idea had seemed ludicrous to her, even at the time. Sam had studied English so that, when she graduated, she would get a better job. The fact that she’d ended up doing dogsbody work at the Croydon Echo still hadn’t taken the gloss off those university years. Sam had told Pamela Curtis that men were overrated but, actually, she was rather fond of the male species. She’d had several boyfriends and, when she’d lost her virginity to a history student called Jimmy, she regarded that as another milestone passed and therefore ticked off her list. Jimmy, though, had other ideas and had pursued her for several weeks, even making an embarrassing midnight visit to her digs, proposing marriage. After Sam had declined that kind offer, he had—thank goodness—left her alone and eventually married a trainee teacher from Goldsmiths.
Sam’s parents had generally been supportive about her life choices. She knew that her mother would have liked her to be married with children by now but she was good enough not to mention this too often. Luckily Sam’s brother Luke had married and produced two children so, as Sam’s father put it, ‘the line continues’. Sam was not quite sure why this was so important; it wasn’t as if Collins were an unusual name or that the family were aristocrats or business moguls. But she was glad that her parents were happy.
Sam sat at the partner desk and thought about the case. Two people were dead now and she agreed with Emma that the murders of Bert Billington and Alma Saunders must be connected. What would she be doing if she were approaching the deaths from a journalistic point of view? She’d be looking for a story. Where was the story here? Was it glamorous Verity Malone marrying rich Bert Billington? Was it Glenda Gillespie meeting an older man who would ruin her life? Was it David Billington coming back from the war and joining the family business? Was it Aaron Billington buying a new motorbike or Seth Billington playing the prince of darkness? Sam kicked off her shoes, tucked her legs under her and started to scribble.
She was surprised, half an hour later, to find the floor littered with paper and, on the desk in front of her, an apple core floating in a cold cup of coffee. She really must clear up before Emma came in. Sam was just starting to tidy her notes, many of them mysteriously coffee-stained, when there was a loud knock on the door. She hoped it wasn’t Emma and Jonathan, one bent on order and the other on chaos. But Emma would have a key, wouldn’t she? Sam descended the stairs. There was a bulky shape visible through the bubbled glass. A man. Sam felt an unexpected twinge of fear.
The man was a stranger, tall and heavily built, wearing a dark suit that made him look even more threatening.
‘Emma Holmes?’
‘No.’ Don’t give anything away, Sam told herself.
‘Sam Collins then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Frederick Saunders. Fred. I wondered if I could have a word.’
Sam thought back to her notes, to her web of connections. Frederick was Alma’s eldest son. That explained the black suit, at least.
Sam led Fred into the office, picking up papers as she went. She offered coffee which, surprisingly, he accepted. This, at least, gave her several minutes in the tiny kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Enough time to compose herself.
When she carried the mugs into the main room, Fred was holding the china horse.
‘This looks like one of Mum’s,’ he said.
‘It is,’ said Sam. ‘Alma gave it to Emma. My partner.’ And, as if to prove it, she took her seat at the partner desk.
‘I’m so sorry about your mum,’ she said.
Fred just grunted and frowned into his coffee. Sam didn’t blame him, the milk was slightly off and it looked quite nasty. ‘I’ve just been to see Verity,’ he said. ‘She said that she’d engaged your agency to investigate Bert’s death.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sam, trying to look like the joint head of a thriving detective agency. She wished she hadn’t taken her shoes off.
‘Do you think that Bert was killed then?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘Traces of rat poison were found in his blood. My partner spoke to the pathologist.’ And a creepy bloke he was too, by all accounts. Useful though.
‘And do you think the same person killed my mum?’ His voice shook on the last word and Sam found herself feeling sorry for her visitor.
‘It’s a possibility,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I just can’t . . .’ Fred stopped and started again. ‘I just can’t believe anyone would hurt Mum. Everyone loved her. Including Bert Billington.’
He looked at Sam. There was no doubting the implication of his words. Sam said, trying to keep her voice cool and impersonal, ‘Did your mother have an affair with Bert?’
‘You could call it that,’ said Fred. ‘Apparently it went on for years. Of course, we didn’t know at the time. But then, a few Christmases ago, David’s wife told my brother Barry.’
‘Sheena?’
‘Yes. She does the bookkeeping at the firm. She told Barry that there were regular payments to my mum, aside from her salary, going back years. He confronted Mum and she denied it, of course. But Barry thought it was true. Sheena said that it started when they went to live in Lytham.’
Sam looked at Fred Saunders. At first glance he didn’t resemble careworn David, heart-throb Seth or sulky Aaron but, like the Billington brothers, he was tall and dark-haired. Could Fred and Barry be Bert’s sons? She wished she could remember the timeline of Alma’s life. When exactly did she move to Lytham? She’d have to ask Emma.
‘Did your father know?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fred. ‘I hope not. He and Mum always seemed happy but you can never tell as a kid, can you? I did wonder why they didn’t move to Surrey when Bert and Verity did, but I thought Dad just wanted to be near Gran and Granddad. Me and Barry had left home by then.’
‘Did Verity know?’ asked Sam.
‘If she didn’t, you can be sure Sheena told her,’ said Fred, with a grim laugh. ‘She’s a prize bitch, that one.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ asked Sam.
‘Because someone killed Bert and someone killed Mum,’ said Fred. ‘Stands to reason it’s someone who knew them both.’
Someone who knew them both, thought Sam, and someone who hated them both.
* * *
Meg enjoyed the walk along the seafront. It was a bright autumn day and the sea was breaking in companionable little waves against the pebbles. As she passed the peace statue, she saw a group of hippies—freaks, they called themselves—burning something on the beach. When she got nearer, she saw it was the American flag. Were they protesting about Vietnam or something else? Meg was still on chapter one of The Feminine Mystique but she was beginning to discover that America was a more complicated place than she had realised.
She turned right into First Avenue, just as the freaks burst into song. It was, of course, the Beatles. All you need is love. Meg was still humming it as she knocked on the door of Pamela Curtis’s basement flat.
‘A uniformed policewoman,’ said Pamela. ‘I am honoured.’
Meg wasn’t quite sure how to take this. It sounded sarcastic but the older woman seemed friendly enough.
‘We’re investigating Bert Billington’s murder,’ she said. ‘I understand that you used to work for him. I just wondered if you could answer a few questions.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the dynamic duo,’ said Pamela, ‘the private detectives. I don’t know if I have anything else to add.’
‘It’s just routine,’ said Meg. Dynamic duo. Emma would love that.
Pamela ushered her into a room full of the weirdest paintings Meg had ever seen in her life. She literally didn’t know where to look. On one side there was a woman with three breasts, on the other a naked man sitting on a giant tortoise. She compromised with looking at her hostess, who was smiling as if she knew exactly what Meg was thinking.
Meg asked a few questions about when Pamela started working for Bert and when she last saw him.
‘It was a couple of years ago, walking along the seafront. He was with Aaron. I was with a girlfriend. We just passed the time of day.’ Someone else had used this phrase recently. Who was it?
Pamela’s casual mention of a girlfriend threw Meg slightly. Did she mean more than a friend who was a girl? Well, that wasn’t relevant here.
‘Miss Curtis,’ she said. ‘Someone recently told us that you’d had an affair with Bert. Is this true?’
In answer, Pamela threw back her head and laughed. She laughed for so long that Meg was reduced to staring at the triple-breasted woman again.
‘No, dear,’ said Pamela at last. ‘It’s not true. For one thing, I prefer women. For another, I wouldn’t have slept with Bert Billington if he was the last man alive.’
Meg could readily believe this.
‘Why would someone say that you did then?’ she asked. ‘It depends who that someone was,’ said Pamela, still chuckling. ‘And whether they were trying to divert attention elsewhere.’
‘Misdirection,’ said Meg. The word had come up when she and Emma were discussing Max.
‘Exactly,’ said Pamela. ‘Who’s performing this trick?’
* * *
Emma arrived in the early afternoon, accompanied by a frighteningly cheerful Jonathan.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to pick the girls up from school at three-thirty.’ She looked around the room. ‘Have you been tidying?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, pleased she’d noticed. She’d started clearing up when Frederick left and had got rather carried away. She’d even used the carpet sweeper
‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Emma, letting go of Jonathan’s hand with the air of one releasing a grenade.
‘Fine,’ said Sam. ‘Coffee? I’ve washed all the cups although they’re still that weird brown colour inside.’
‘Washing the cups? Have you had a visitor?’
Oh, Emma was good. You couldn’t get anything past her. Sam told Emma about Frederick Saunders. Her partner listened intently while Jonathan edged his hand towards the china horse.
‘Alma Saunders and Bert Billington. Do you think Verity knew? Alma made out that she was so loyal to her.’
‘Fred was pretty sure that Sheena would have told her too.’
‘Why would Sheena do that?’
‘Just to stir things up, maybe. Fred called her a prize bitch.’
‘Hmm,’ said Emma. ‘Funny how animal metaphors are always insulting when applied to women.’
‘Hilarious,’ said Sam. ‘The question is, does this give Verity a motive for killing Alma? Verity could easily have been the woman in the brown coat.’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Emma. ‘Verity didn’t put Alma on the list of Bert’s girlfriends though. I wonder why?’
‘Because she didn’t want us to know,’ said Sam. ‘Because it gives her a motive.’
‘That’s true,’ said Emma. ‘And, if Verity had only recently found out about the affair, that answers the question about why Bert and Alma were killed now. That’s what’s been worrying me about the Glenda Gillespie motive. As Edgar said, fourteen years is a long time to wait for revenge.’
Sam thought about jealousy. It had always seemed a pointless emotion to her but there was no doubt that in some people it boiled to a murderous temperature. Emma seemed absorbed in trying to extricate the horse from Jonathan’s grasp but Sam wondered if she was thinking along the same lines. They both jumped when the telephone rang. It was still rare to get a call at the office.
Emma picked up the receiver. ‘Holmes and Collins. Oh, hi. Yes, she’s here. I’ll pass you over.’
She handed the phone to Sam. It was Don, the editor of the Evening Argus. He never sounded animated but today there was a note of grim excitement in his voice.
‘You know the murder of that young man in Manchester? A woman has been arrested now. Name of Myra Hindley. Police think she and Brady may have killed many more people. Children too. You need to go up there, Sam.’
Twenty-Three
Wednesday, 27 October
The Moors Murders, as they came to be called, dominated the news for the next few weeks. Brady and Hindley stared out from newspapers and television screens, terrifying Meg’s younger brother when he saw them on the early evening news. Once again Meg’s parents were talking in hushed voices when they thought their children weren’t listening. Although Meg, for one, probably knew more about the case than they did. It was all anyone talked about at Bartholomew Street police station.
Meg knew that Emma’s friend, Sam Collins, was in Manchester, covering the story as a freelance reporter for the local paper. According to Emma, the truth was actually worse than the lurid headlines. Emma had told Meg this when she came into the station with some new information on the Billington case. Emma had asked to talk to Meg and the DI. At least Meg had assumed that Emma had asked for her, otherwise she was sure that she would have been excluded from the meeting. Emma’s information was that Alma Saunders’ son, Frederick, had claimed that Alma Saunders had been another of Bert’s lovers. The DI had rubbed his hands together. ‘This gives Verity Malone a motive for Alma,’ he had said. ‘I’m not so sure,’ Emma had replied.
Meg wasn’t sure either. She still thought that the answer lay in the past. Which was why she was sitting in the incident room on a cold October morning, going through the names of Bert Billington’s paramours, as the DI called them.
Meg had made some progress over the last two weeks. The annotated list was in front of her.
Jenny Wilkins: Died in 1953. Cancer, according to her daughter.
Beryl Simmonds: Married and living in Scotland.
Joan (?) War-years.
Rita Edwards: Lives in Newhaven. Son Kit working as a plumber (Verity gave money for apprenticeship).
Qlenda Gillespie: died in 1949
Barbara (Babs). Query dead?
Louise Henshaw: Married and living in Bristol. Has two other children.
Pamela Curtis: says she wouldn’t have slept with Bert if he was the last man alive.
Only Joan and Barbara remained elusive. It was almost impossible without surnames, thought Meg. She’d been to the library and used the microfiche but she could hardly look through every copy of The Times published since the war. Today she was writing up her notes in her careful round handwriting. Emma said that doing this often produced hidden patterns. ‘It’s like automatic writing,’ she had said. ‘The message goes from your brain to your hand to the paper.’ But all Meg was getting was cramp.
‘What are you doing?’ PC Danny Black appeared in the doorway. The room got almost no natural light and it was a shock for Meg to see that Danny was in his outdoor clothes. Was it lunchtime already?
