‘No, but people are free to come and go. I don’t lock the front door until about midnight. It’s not like some lodging houses. I mean, we’re not in the fifties now. Things have changed. I’m a modern woman. I don’t care who my guests have in their rooms.’

  Meg was all for being a modern woman but this liberal attitude was going to make the investigation more difficult.

  ‘Can you make me a list of all your lodgers? Everyone who was here on Sunday and Monday?’

  ‘Okey-­dokey,’ said Linda. Then, without warning, her face crumbled. ‘It’s just so awful . . . poor Cherry.’

  Annie, entering with the tea, looked accusingly at Meg.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Max.

  The baby was still crumpled and cross-­looking but, even so, Max thought he could see Ruby’s perfect features there. He remembered when his son Rocco was born, finally being allowed onto the ward and seeing Lydia holding him like a Madonna. Max had cried then, for almost the first time since adulthood. Of course, he hadn’t been there for Ruby’s birth, hadn’t even known of her existence until she was twenty and applied to be his assistant. Back to magicians’ assistants again. Surreptitiously, Max crossed his fingers to ward off the evil eye.

  ‘Has she got a name yet?’

  ‘Poppy,’ said Ruby, reaching out to reclaim her daughter.

  ‘Poppy?’

  ‘Yes. It’s nice, isn’t it? Goes well with Ruby. Dex wanted Marguerite after his mother. Imagine!’

  ‘Imagine,’ said Max. He would have preferred ­Marguerite. ‘How is Dex?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, fine. They don’t let fathers in until the next day but he stayed here all night, sleeping in the corridor. He whistled our favourite tune so I’d know he was there. When he saw her, he cried.’

  Max felt a wave of fellow-­feeling for the man who wasn’t quite his son-­in-­law. Dex Dexter might be divorced with two children but he loved Ruby. If it had been up to him, they would be married by now. He wondered how the nurses had treated Ruby, knowing that she was unmarried and that the father of her baby was a black jazz musician. Of course, Ruby was famous and fame trumped most things. Max wasn’t sure about prejudice though.

  He asked about the care in the hospital. ‘Oh, they’ve been nice enough,’ said Ruby. ‘Asking for my autograph and all that. I did hear two of the nurses speculating on how dark the baby’s skin would be though.’

  Poppy’s skin was the colour of weak tea. Her eyes were tightly closed but Max assumed they would be brown like Ruby’s. And like his. People had often speculated that Max – with his dark hair and Italian complexion – might have ‘black blood somewhere’. But Max’s blood was the same colour as everyone else’s.

  The private room was full of flowers. Max could see a gigantic bunch of lilies and wondered if they were from Dex. Max didn’t like lilies. He liked to boast that, unlike most pros, he wasn’t superstitious, but lilies were ill-­starred flowers. By dint of squinting, Max read the card on some pink roses. All love, Mummy and Daddy. Gavin French wasn’t Ruby’s father, Max thought, with a surprising stab of anger. But he was pleased that Ruby’s mother had sent flowers. She hadn’t been wild about the whole illegitimate baby thing either.

  ‘Has Emerald been to see you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘She came yesterday. She said that Poppy looked like her.’

  ‘I think that’s a good sign.’ Emerald wasn’t Max’s biggest fan, something to do with getting pregnant by him at the age of twenty-­two, but Max hoped that the slight rift with Ruby would be healed.

  ‘I think so too,’ said Ruby, but she didn’t seem too concerned. There was something self-­sufficient about Ruby, sitting up in bed in her gorgeous dressing ­gown trimmed with swansdown, cradling her baby in her arms. Max sensed that she didn’t care much what he, Emerald or even Dex thought. It was Ruby and Poppy now.

  Feeling awkward, though he couldn’t have said why, Max said, ‘Do you remember an act called The Great Deceiver?’

  ‘Magician?’ said Ruby. ‘A bit seedy? I think I met him in Hastings once, when I was working with Ray. I remember, because that was the first time I met Pal.’

  ‘I saw Pal on the television recently.’

  ‘Please,’ said Ruby, with a sudden shiver. ‘Not in front of my daughter.’

  On cue, Poppy opened her eyes and started to cry.

  Chapter 3

  Superintendent Edgar Stephens looked at the list in front of him.

  Linda Knight – landlady

  Ida Lupin – strongwoman

  Geoffrey Bigg – comedian

  Perry Small – comedian

  Mario Fontana (aka John Lomax) – singer

  Annie Smith – live-­in maid

  The names, with their aliases and job descriptions, brought on an unexpected wave of nostalgia. They evoked the glory days of variety: playbills, ‘Sold Out’ boards outside theatres, Max Mephisto’s name in lights. Those acts had almost disappeared now, existing only in nostalgic TV programmes like The Good Old Days. Even the show on the pier was billed as ‘Old-­fashioned family fun’. It claimed to be touring the country. Edgar wondered if Cherry’s death would end the run before it had begun.

  ‘Bigg and Small were the same size,’ said Meg. ‘It was a bit of a shock.’

  WDC Meg Connolly could never remember that, when she was with superior officers, she was not meant to speak until spoken to. Edgar didn’t mind much but Bob’s ears went red, always a sign of embarrassment. But Edgar was always interested in what Meg had to say and besides, if they followed protocol, she wouldn’t get to speak at all because everyone in the room outranked her, apart from her fellow DC, Danny Black. The other officer present was an older sergeant called Barker. He’d once been part of a team with DS O’Neill, a relic of the bad old days of policing, who was rumoured to enjoy beating up suspects as well as leering at all the women in the station. Thank goodness O’Neill had retired at the end of last year, not without some persuasion from Edgar. Barker was far less objectionable without him.

  ‘Are these all the people resident in the Marine Parade house?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bob, ‘but the landlady said she didn’t keep tabs on who came and went. She said she was modern that way.’ Bob sniffed. Although he was only thirty-­seven, nine years younger than Edgar, Bob clearly disapproved of the modern world. The sixties had come too late for him. He was set in his ways now.

  ‘What about Cherry’s partner, Ted English? Have you been able to contact him?’

  ‘DC Black went to his digs,’ says Bob, ‘but Mr English is apparently in London for the day.’

  ‘He went to London as soon as he heard that his assistant had been murdered,’ said Edgar. ‘That sounds suspicious to me.’

  ‘He’ll have to be back for tonight’s performance,’ says Bob.

  ‘The show’s still going on?’ Edgar knew that pros were a tough breed but this seemed to be bordering on the tasteless.

  ‘Apparently so.’ Bob at his most wooden.

  ‘We’ll send someone to the theatre,’ said Edgar.

  ‘Can I go?’ asked Meg.

  Edgar approved of Meg’s keenness but this sounded a bit too much like she wanted a treat. Besides, it might be dangerous for her to go on her own. Edgar remembered sending Emma to watch a variety show once, in similar circumstances. She had nearly died as a result.

  ‘No. DS Barker can go.’ To soften this snub, he asked Meg to summarise her interviews with the occupants of number 84 Marine Parade.

  ‘They were all in the house for Sunday lunch,’ said Meg. ‘Then Bigg and Small went for a walk. Ida Lupin went to see her mother in Worthing. Mario Fontana – he’s not Italian, by the way – took a bus to Beachy Head. To see the view, apparently. They were all back in the house by six p.m. when Linda Knight served sandwiches. Cherry didn’t appear but Linda didn’t think that was odd because she’d said she had a headache earlier.’

  ‘And no one saw a stranger entering the house?’

  ‘No. Mario said that he heard voices in Ida’s bedroom but that could have been the wireless. I checked and she has a set.’

  ‘Might be worth following up all the same,’ said Edgar. ‘What time did Ida get back from Worthing?’

  Meg consulted her notes. ‘She said she got back about five but Mario heard voices at around four, he said.’

  ‘And no one heard a girl being murdered?’ said Bob, sounding personally offended, as he often did when confronted with terrible events. ‘When did Carter think the attack occurred?’

  ‘Between nine and midnight.’ Edgar looked at his notes. ‘I think that’s as specific as he can get. It does seem strange that no one heard anything.’

  ‘Most of them watched television after supper,’ said Meg. ‘That was probably quite loud. My dad always turns the volume all the way up. And there’s the wireless too.’

  ‘If the assailant took the girl by surprise,’ said Barker, ‘she might not have had time to cry out.’

  This was a valid, if unsettling, point.

  ‘Let’s check on them all again,’ said Edgar. ‘Mario’s bus trip sounds a bit odd too. Talk to the bus company. See if there are any witnesses. Anything from the scene, DI Willis?’

  Edgar knew that his team teased him for his preoccu­pation with the ‘scene’. He always insisted on taking photographs and dusting any available surface with fingerprint powder. ‘One day,’ he told his sceptical officers, ‘we’ll be able to identify a murderer by a single hair.’

  ‘A couple of fingerprints were found,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll match them against the files.’

  Edgar had watched the fingerprint experts at work, leaning over the black-­and-­white photos with a magnifying glass, examining loops, whorls and arches. It was fascinating but, unless they had a match on file, ultim­ately pointless.

  ‘Murder weapon?’

  ‘Carter thinks it was a kitchen knife. Not found at the scene.’

  ‘I checked with Annie, the live-­in maid who does the cooking,’ chipped in Meg, ‘and she said nothing was missing from the kitchen.’

  ‘Any news on next of kin?’ Edgar asked Bob.

  ‘The cleaners found a letter from her parents in Cherry’s room,’ said Bob. ‘They live in Cheshire. The local police will be with them now.’

  ‘Poor people,’ said Edgar. He could just imagine the encounter. ‘You’re too sensitive,’ his mother used to tell him and, sadly, this trait didn’t seem to improve with age.

  When his officers had left the room, Edgar’s secretary, Rita, told him that Max Mephisto had telephoned. Edgar was mildly intrigued. He wondered if Max was calling to tell him that Ruby had had her baby. That didn’t seem likely though. Edgar had once been engaged to Ruby but this episode was rarely mentioned by any of the people involved. Edgar was happily married to Emma, his former DS, with whom he had three children. Ruby had become a star and now seemed to be having a baby without the complication of a husband.

  ‘Max. Sorry to miss you.’

  ‘Your secretary said you were in an important meeting.’

  ‘Rita likes to make everything sound dramatic.’

  ‘Was your meeting about the murder of a girl called Cherry Underwood?’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ People often said that Max had magic powers but Edgar had never seen proof of it before.

  ‘Cherry’s stage partner, a man called Ted English, came to my flat today. He’s convinced that he’s the main suspect.’

  ‘I’m certainly anxious to speak to Mr English,’ said Edgar.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling. Ted said that he was getting the one-­thirty back to Brighton from Victoria.’

  Edgar looked at his watch. Two o’clock. ‘I’ll send an officer to the station.’

  ‘Are you going to arrest him?’

  ‘Not immediately. As I said, I’d like to talk to him. What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘Inoffensive, I’d say. Got a reputation for drinking a bit too much. Ruby described him as seedy. I saw her this morning. Did you know she’d had her baby? A girl called Poppy.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Do pass on my congratulations. Mine and Emma’s.’

  ‘I will. She seems very happy. But Ruby reminded me that Ted – his stage name is The Great Deceiver – was part of a group of magicians that worked the south coast circuit. The Great Raymondo was another one.’

  ‘They all like to call themselves “the great”, don’t they? Like dear old Diablo.’

  ‘He was great, in his way. Have you ever heard of a man called Gordon Palgrave? Known as Pal?’

  ‘That rings a bell.’

  ‘He’s reinvented himself as a television presenter but he used to be a magician. And he’s a very nasty piece of work. Lots of rumours about forcing himself on young girls, promising to make them famous if they slept with him. That sort of thing.’

  ‘He sounds vile.’

  ‘He is. I just thought, if Ted was part of that set, he might not be as innocuous as I thought.’

  ‘I wonder why Ted came to you? It seems like he took the train to London as soon as he heard about Cherry.’

  ‘Misdirection,’ said Max. ‘He is a magician, after all.’

  Chapter 4

  Meg was disappointed with her first sight of Ted English. He came into the station flanked by Danny and DS Barker looking, whatever the DI said, very much like he was under arrest. English was a thin man with sparse grey hair. His nose was dripping and he looked too scared of his escort to wipe it surreptitiously on his sleeve. Barker hustled the magician into the interview room. Meg hoped that they let him have a handkerchief.

  Meg was still in the incident room, typing up the morning’s interviews, when English was ushered out, this time escorted by Danny alone, who winked at Meg as he passed. She hoped that she wasn’t blushing. It wasn’t that she fancied Danny, she told herself, it was that her fair skin coloured very easily. ‘You’re a typical Irish colleen,’ DS O’Neill used to say, before moving on to other, more personal, remarks. Meg, along with every other female in the building, was delighted when he retired.

  The DI, who’d been sitting in on the interview, came out to say that Ted English hadn’t been charged with anything but had been advised not to leave the area.

  ‘He can’t,’ said Meg. ‘The show’s on the pier this evening.’

  The DI gave her a look. ‘I’m aware, WDC Connolly. DS Barker will be attending.’

  Barker looked smug. ‘He seemed a shifty individual to me, sir,’ he said.

  ‘And English had no real alibi for Sunday night,’ said the DI. ‘Said he went back to his lodgings but no one there could vouch for that. We’ll have to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Surveillance?’ Danny sat up straighter.

  ‘Let’s keep him under observation,’ said the DI. ‘No need to make it a secret operation either. If we station a panda car outside his lodgings, it’ll make Friend Ted nervous and nervous men make mistakes.’

  ‘I wonder who’s going to stand in for Cherry tonight?’ asked Meg.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ said Barker with a wink that felt very different from Danny’s earlier.

  But maybe Meg had misjudged the older man. When the DI had left, Barker leant over Meg’s desk. ‘Want to come to the show tonight? I know the manager. I could get another ticket.’

  Meg did want to. Very much.

  Edgar arrived home to find his wife and three children in front of the television. Edgar had initially been against buying a set but, last year, a stint of enforced babysitting had convinced him of the benefits of children’s TV. But it was unusual to see the whole family – Emma, ten-­year-­old Marianne, eight-­year-­old Sophie and Jonathan, not yet three – watching together at seven p.m. Even the baby was staring transfixed at the screen as a man with a startling white quiff was shouting, ‘Hug or Hit!’

  ‘Hallo,’ said Edgar.

  Only Emma turned and smiled.

  ‘Hit!’ shouted Marianne.

  ‘Hug!’ yelled Sophie in the falsetto that meant she was on the verge of laughter or tears.

  ‘Hit! Hit! Hit!’ chanted Jonathan.

  As Edgar watched, the man with the quiff approached a nervous-­looking woman in a miniskirt. He was carrying a large rubber hammer. The studio was full of people yelling and strobe lights flashing on and off. The man turned and faced the camera. He smiled and, to Edgar’s mind, it was the most sinister facial expression he had ever seen. A scroll appeared in the background saying, ‘HUG’. The man advanced on the woman and wrapped both arms round her. The audience cheered.

  ‘What on earth’s this?’ said Edgar.

  ‘Hug or Hit,’ said Marianne, in the world-­weary tone she had recently perfected.

  ‘It’s Pal’s show,’ said Emma, standing up. ‘There’s a singer – usually a woman – and the audience decides whether Pal hugs her or hits her with the hammer.’

  The name Pal was striking its own hammer peal in Edgar’s head.

  ‘He looks an odd character,’ he said. The man still had one arm round the woman as the credits rolled.

  ‘Oh, he’s foul,’ said Emma equably. ‘Do you want your supper? We’ve had ours.’

  Emma bribed the girls to give Jonathan his bath and went downstairs to heat up the leftover hotpot. Watching his wife moving, slightly abstractedly, around the basement kitchen, Edgar remembered where he’d first heard of Pal. He was the ex-­magician that Max had called ‘a nasty piece of work’. He told Emma as she put the gravy-­stained plate in front of him.

  ‘Careful. It’s hot. Pal certainly seems a bit odd. That hair, for one thing. It’s snow white, you know. He dyed it so that it looks better on TV.’

 

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