‘Did you get any sense out of him?’

  ‘Not really. He seemed quite senile. But he did say something about his ex-­wife, Grace.’

  ‘Ah, Gracie,’ said Verity. ‘She was a pretty girl but so stupid. Fancy falling for Larry’s promises and then Pal’s. You know why she killed herself? Because she found out about Pal and another teenager. Fancy killing yourself over a man. She should have killed him instead.’

  And, despite the cosy setting and the smell of freshly cut grass, for a second Verity looked quite terrifying.

  Sam was surprised to get a Saturday morning phone call from Don, the editor of the Evening Argus. Sam had once been a staff reporter on the paper and still did freelance work for them. Even so, it was rare for Don to ring her at home.

  Sam lived in an attic flat in Kemp Town, not far from Emma and Edgar. She had recently moved from a shared house and she liked the freedom. She liked the view over the terraced houses towards the sea but she wasn’t a home maker, so her tiny apartment was still full of boxes and piles of books. A friend who worked in M&S had given her an old clothes rack that served as a wardrobe. Sometimes, lying in bed, Sam imagined herself in Max’s flat, moving through each room in turn: the tiled bathroom, the galley kitchen, the sitting room with its view over the treetops of Kensington Square, the bedroom with its king-­sized bed . . . Don had disturbed one of those reveries.

  ‘Hi, Don. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Talking of surprises, guess who just rang me?’

  ‘Bobby Moore.’

  Don laughed. Sam didn’t have him down as a football fan. ‘Gordon Palgrave. Pal. You know, from Hug or Hit?’

  ‘I know. What did he want?’

  ‘He wanted to warn you off, my girl. He said that you’d turned up at his house asking impertinent questions. What was that about?’

  ‘It’s a case I’m working on with Emma.’

  Don grunted. ‘Well, be careful, Sam. Pal is an important man. Took care to remind me that he was good friends with our proprietor. Apparently, they play golf together.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said that you were freelance and your own boss. Also, that he couldn’t bully me. Though he probably could.’

  ‘Thanks, Don.’

  ‘No problem. And be careful. I don’t want to find myself covering your murder. I haven’t got a flattering photo of you, for one thing.’

  Sam laughed. Black humour always made her feel better.

  Emma drove home feeling thoughtful and hardly listening to the chatter about Toby’s canter and whether strawberry roan was the best colour for a horse. It was as if Verity had lifted a curtain and revealed, not a lighted stage, but a murky backstage world full of exploitative men and vulnerable women. Verity had called Pal a devil. It struck Emma that a lot of magicians chose satanic stage names. The Great Deceiver. The Great Diablo. Even Mephisto was an abbreviation of Mephistopheles. And there was something diabolic about being able to dazzle the senses, to make people disappear, to mutilate them, all for the amusement of a paying audience. And by ‘people’ she meant ‘women’. Emma thought of Verity’s description of a magician’s assistant. ‘A half-­naked woman being abused on stage by a man.’ And this was what Edgar wanted Meg to do! She pressed her foot on the accelerator and ignored Marianne’s question about whether she could have a pony of her own.

  At home, she found Edgar preparing lunch and Jonathan full of his adventures with the ducks. She softened slightly. Edgar wasn’t the worst man in the world. That title currently seemed to belong to an entertainer called Pal. Despite Sam’s encounter and Verity’s description, Emma was very keen to talk to Gordon Palgrave.

  But she’d have to make do with the next best thing. After lunch, she announced her intention of taking a walk. ‘I might call in on Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Shall we all come?’ said Edgar, but he didn’t protest when Emma said that it would be easier on her own. The girls had a friend round and were playing a game of schools with Jonathan as the sole pupil. Emma knew that Edgar was hoping for half an hour with the newspaper.

  Instead of taking the coast road to Roedean, Emma headed north towards Freshfield Road, where Ted English was now renting a room. It was a part of Brighton that held many memories for Emma. In the cold winter of 1951, two children had gone missing from the streets around Queen’s Park. They hadn’t been able to save them – Emma walked faster at the thought – but they had been able to rescue a third. It had been Emma’s first murder case and also the time when she realised that she was irrevocably in love with her boss.

  Freshfield Road ran from Kemp Town to the Race Hill and the houses got shabbier the higher you climbed. Ted was living within sight of the stands.

  ‘It’s a dump,’ he said, when he let Emma into the house. ‘The police won’t let me leave Brighton. I’m losing money every day. It’s a disgrace. And it’s still costing me four pounds a week.’

  Ted seemed eager to pour his grievances into a sympathetic ear. Emma, sitting on the edge of the single bed to avoid the sloping eaves, only had to listen. She remembered when she first interviewed Ted in his Charlotte Street lodgings and he had cried into his handkerchief. Now he just seemed angry.

  ‘I wouldn’t have hurt Cherry. She was a lovely girl. Like a daughter to me. To think someone did that to her . . . I still can’t believe it. I’m a wreck. Think I’m having a complete breakdown. And then for Larry Buxton to sack me like that. After all I’ve done for him. To replace me with Dave Dunkley, of all people . . .’

  ‘Tell me more about Cherry,’ said Emma. ‘I’d like to talk to someone who actually knew her and cared for her.’

  Ted, who had been pacing the tiny room, sat down. He suddenly looked rather old, with his grey hair and liver-­spotted hands, one of which shook as he rubbed his chin. He hadn’t shaved that morning and the stubble rasped.

  ‘She was a nice girl from a nice family,’ he said. ‘Brothers and sisters. Close, you know. I didn’t have that. I’m an only child. My mum died when I was twelve. I never knew my dad. I was on the boards by the time I was sixteen, juggling, tumbling, that sort of thing. I was fit back then. I met Pal at ENSA. He suggested I turn to magic. Even helped me out with my first act.’

  ‘That was kind of him,’ said Emma. It struck her as suspiciously kind. Why would Pal want to help a potential rival?

  ‘He was like that,’ said Ted. ‘He liked you to be in his debt. It was Pal who introduced me to Cherry. “Be good to her,” he said, “she’s not one of your floozies.” But I never had any floozies.’

  He sounded genuinely disappointed. Emma asked if he had ever been married.

  ‘No wife, no kids,’ said Ted. ‘Not much to show for my life really.’ Emma followed his gaze around the tiny room with its stained bedspread and threadbare carpet. She was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Cherry’s mother had been on the stage, you know,’ said Ted. ‘So she knew you could get some unpleasant types. Well, she worked for Bert Billington. Say no more. Dolores asked Pal to introduce Cherry to some decent people. “I’m so glad Cherry’s working with you,” Dolores said, “You’re a gentleman. Not like some of the others.” Now, of course, they think I’m the devil incarnate . . .’

  There he was again. The Great Deceiver. ‘Mr and Mrs Underwood just want to find the person who killed their daughter,’ said Emma. ‘Did Cherry ever mention anyone bothering her? Following her?’

  ‘No,’ said Ted. ‘When I saw her on the Sunday, she seemed in good spirits. We went through the act – she was shaping up very well – and I said I’d see her for the first house on Tuesday.’

  But by Tuesday Cherry was dead. Emma remembered asking Ted if he knew what Cherry had planned to do on Sunday afternoon and Monday and he said he didn’t know. Ted had said she was in good spirits but, according to the police reports, Cherry had complained of a headache after lunch on Sunday. Had she been worried about something or someone?

  ‘Someone said they saw Cherry talking to a young man on Sunday afternoon,’ said Emma. She owed Meg for this nugget. ‘Have you any idea who that could have been?’

  ‘No.’ Ted looked baffled, an expression that came easily to him. ‘Cherry didn’t know anyone in Brighton.’

  ‘Do you know if Pal kept in touch with Cherry?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said Ted. ‘Not now he’s a big TV star.’

  ‘What about Rex King?’

  ‘Rex? He’s retired now. Spends his time playing golf and being bossed about by his wife.’

  ‘Do you know Tommy Horton?’

  ‘Poor old Tommy. Good magician in his day. Haven’t seen him for years though. Heard he was going a bit doolally.’

  ‘Did you know Tommy’s first wife, Grace?’

  ‘I only met her a few times. Good-­looking woman. His second was too.’ Ted seemed genuine and Emma couldn’t think why he’d lie about this. Why, then, did Tommy say that Ted had treated Grace badly? Did he just get the wrong name? If so, who was he really thinking of?

  Emma asked Ted if he knew Joan Waters. As expected, he answered that everyone knew Joanie. He’d never worked with her himself but he knew her from the circuit. No, he didn’t think Joan had ever met Cherry.

  ‘But, now Joan’s dead,’ said Ted, brightening up, ‘they can’t think it was me. I was drinking with Dave and all that lot. I’d been to see the show. Dave had quite a good act but he nearly muffed it a few times. He must be getting on a bit now.’

  Emma thought that Ted and Dave Dunkley were probably a similar age.

  ‘Who else was drinking with you?’

  ‘Dave, Larry, Perry Small. Some of the dancers. Larry left early.’

  Emma knew this from Edgar. The doorman at the Grand had seen Larry come in at eleven-­thirty. That still left Ted and Dave, the two men whose assistants had been brutally killed, drinking together.

  As Emma left, Ted asked her if she knew who would be taking the magician’s slot for the London run.

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’ She wasn’t about to mention Max, Ted’s so-­called close friend.

  ‘Well, if you see Larry Buxton, tell him I’m available.’

  Show-­business people never ceased to surprise her.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Have you ever done anything like this before?’

  ‘No,’ said Meg.

  She could not quite believe that she was having this conversation with Max Mephisto, sitting on his sofa in a room that looked out on one of those swanky London squares. She’d caught an early train and arrived at ten. Max was obviously expecting her. He ushered her into the sitting room and offered to make her coffee. Meg didn’t dare ask for tea instead. Max left the room and Meg heard a tremendous grinding and clanking noise coming from somewhere in the flat but, when Max returned, he was holding the smallest cup she had ever seen. Meg raised it to her lips. The liquid tasted bitter and thick. Luckily it was gone in two gulps. Max said it was ‘genuine Italian espresso’. Meg couldn’t get the taste of it out of her mouth.

  ‘Never been on stage? Even at school?’

  ‘I was in a nativity play once. I was one of the kings because I was tall. I think that was the last time. And it wasn’t a stage. It was on the altar at church. The kings had to process down the aisle.’

  It had been magical, Meg remembered. The church lit by candles, Margaret Mary O’Hara and Patrick Delaney kneeling by the makeshift crib. Meg had been Frankincense, which meant carrying the thurible, the container that dispensed incense, something only altar boys were usually allowed to do. She remembered swinging it as she led the procession, the smoke drifting around her, cardboard crown over her nose. Sister Bernadette had said that she walked too slowly (‘I know the kings took their time, girl, but the Baby Jesus would have been grown up by the time you got there’) but Meg had wanted to savour every minute.

  ‘I was brought up Catholic too,’ said Max, greatly surprising Meg. ‘I got to play Joseph once. Not a role with any great dramatic potential.’

  ‘That must have been because you were tall too,’ said Meg.

  Max looked at her for a moment. He had very dark eyes, which made his stare particularly intense. Then he said, ‘Stand up.’

  Meg stood up, aware that her slacks didn’t fit very well and that her jumper had ridden up. Max came to stand opposite her, still giving her The Stare. Meg knew that she was blushing.

  ‘We’re almost the same height,’ said Max.

  In fact, Max was a good few inches taller but Meg knew what he meant. They were almost on eye level, if Meg could bring herself to look him in the face.

  ‘Most magicians’ assistants are small,’ said Max.

  ‘Joan Waters was quite tall,’ said Meg. She’d noticed that on the coroner’s report.

  ‘That’s unusual,’ said Max. ‘The height difference is usually part of the power play. The magician is in charge. The assistant rarely speaks. It’s all part of the misdirection, of course. The assistant is often the one doing the trick but the audience doesn’t suspect this because they’re so passive. Of course, old-­style magicians didn’t speak much either, they relied a lot on mime, but I’ve always done a lot of talking. It helps to create a connection with the audience. The assistant has to manage that with smiles and eye contact.’

  That must be why Max was so good at staring, thought Meg.

  ‘You were great as Abanazar,’ she said.

  Max laughed, breaking the eye contact. ‘I had a terrible assistant, then, as I remember. The girl playing Aladdin was never in the right place at the right time. But I wonder if we could do something with the fact that we’re almost the same size.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Meg.

  ‘Maybe we could dress alike, do the doubling thing. On stage, with the right lighting, the audience wouldn’t be able to distinguish between us.’

  ‘That would be better than wearing a spangled bikini,’ said Meg.

  Max laughed again. ‘The sexualised costumes are all part of it, I’m afraid. The audience can’t help following the glittery object. But we might be able to do something cleverer, where they won’t know which one of us to look at.’

  ‘Are you going to do it then?’ said Meg. ‘Superintendent Stephens said you hadn’t decided.’

  ‘Go and see Max,’ the super had said on Friday. ‘Go on Monday morning, when he’s had the weekend to think about it.’

  ‘Superintendent Stephens is a crafty sod sometimes,’ said Max.

  Meg decided not to answer that.

  Emma disliked Mondays. Tempers were always rather frayed in the morning and there was no playgroup for Jonathan. At least she could still walk the girls to school. Emma dreaded next year when Marianne would take the eleven plus and move either to the grammar school in Hove or the secondary modern in Woodingdean. Of course, there was another option. Emma’s parents had said several times that they would pay to send the girls to Roedean. Emma had always refused, saying that she didn’t want them to grow up in a rarefied private school atmosphere. Would she feel differently if Marianne failed the eleven plus? But she wouldn’t fail, would she? ­Marianne was a very bright girl. Emma tried to forget that Marianne’s teacher had told her recently that imaginative ‘unusual’ children often did badly in the exam.

  Emma and Jonathan waved goodbye to Marianne and Sophie as they disappeared into the entrance marked ‘Girls’. Jonathan showed an inclination to whine, so Emma promised to take him to the Peter Pan playground on the seafront. To get there they passed the house where Sam had her flat. On impulse, Emma said, ‘Do you want to see Sam?’

  ‘Want to see Sam,’ Jonathan agreed immediately.

  Emma rang the bell that had ‘Superman’ written in Sam’s characteristically sloping hand. Sam adored the comic book character because he was a journalist.

  ‘Hi, Clark Kent. It’s me and Jonny.’

  ‘Coming down.’

  Sam appeared, wearing jeans and a personalised T-­shirt. It said ‘Mark’.

  ‘You’ve got a mark on your shirt,’ said Emma, as they climbed the three flights of stairs.

  ‘Cool, isn’t it? Got it in Carnaby Street.’

  In Sam’s bed-­sitting room, Emma took the only chair while Sam found the box of toys she kept for Jonathan. Then she sat on another box and grinned at her partner.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Last time, Sam had heated up coffee she’d made the night before.

  ‘Got a few things to update you on.’ Emma got out her notebook. ‘I saw Verity Malone and Ted English on Saturday. Oh, and Ed has had a mad idea.’ She told Sam about the plan for Max to join the cast with Meg as his assistant.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Sam. ‘I can just imagine Meg as the toast of Drury Lane. Do you think it will happen?’

  ‘It depends on Max, I think. Meg is all for it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s more exciting than her usual work.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Emma. ‘She’s already been involved in two big murder cases.’ She was aware that she was sounding sour, so changed the subject.

  ‘Verity told me some pretty horrible things about Pal. Sleeping with fourteen-­year-­old girls, for one thing.’

  Sam shuddered. ‘You know, when I went into his house, I had the strangest feeling that I was never going to get out alive. I think he’s really evil.’

  ‘Verity said he was the devil.’

  ‘Well, she did have a fundamentalist religious upbringing.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that.’ Emma remembered Verity crossing herself. Had Verity been a Catholic before being forced into her father’s cult of one?

  ‘Ted English seemed pretty fed up when I saw him,’ said Emma. ‘But he was more sorry for himself than for Cherry. I think he’s still a suspect. He doesn’t have much of an alibi for Cherry or Joan.’

 

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