‘Max said he was part of a rather seedy group of magicians.’

  ‘Is this linked to the murder?’ said Emma. ‘The one in Marine Parade. Sam was telling me about it.’

  There had been nothing about Cherry’s death in the papers yet but Sam, Emma’s partner in the detective agency, was a freelance journalist who always knew the stories before they made it into print.

  ‘Possibly.’ Edgar couldn’t see any point in denying it. ‘The dead girl was a magician’s assistant.’

  ‘Like Ruby was,’ said Emma.

  ‘Oh, Ruby’s had her baby,’ said Edgar. ‘Max told me. A girl. I’ve forgotten the name.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Emma looked genuinely pleased. Whatever her past feelings towards Edgar’s ex-­fiancée, the two women now got on rather well. ‘We must send flowers.’

  ‘Max is a grandfather,’ said Edgar. ‘I wonder what he thinks about that?’

  ‘He’ll hate it but he’ll carry it off all right,’ said Emma. ‘I wonder whether Ruby will get a nanny. I’m sure she’ll want to go back to acting and I know she’s not living with Dex.’

  Edgar often wondered whether Emma secretly wanted a nanny. She’d had one herself and, while she always insisted that she wanted to bring her children up without live-­in help, Edgar noticed that references to ‘Dear old Brownie’ were more frequent these days.

  A yell and a splash came from upstairs. Emma went to investigate and, almost immediately, the telephone started ringing from the hall. Before Edgar could swallow his scalding mouthful, Marianne had galloped downstairs and Edgar heard her say, ‘Brighton 28097.’ Marianne loved answering the phone.

  Edgar cooled his mouth with some water and stood up. But Marianne was shouting, in a very different voice, ‘Mum! It’s Sam!’

  That meant the call would take a long time. Edgar finished his supper and went into the kitchen to wash up. He’d just finished when Emma appeared in the doorway.

  ‘What did Sam want?’ Edgar dried his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Cherry Underwood’s father has just rung her. He wants us to take the case. To find her murderer.’

  Chapter 5

  Meg sat in the bedroom she shared with her sisters, Aisling and Collette, and surveyed their joint wardrobe without enthusiasm. What on earth could she wear to the theatre tonight? Eighteen-­year-­old Aisling was more fashionable but she was quite a bit shorter than Meg, who was almost six foot. Aisling’s minis would look downright indecent on Meg. Collette was only twelve so she didn’t count and, anyway, all her clothes were hand-­me-­downs from her sisters. Meg’s third of the wardrobe was full of slacks and boring skirts, most of which had their hems hanging down or needed dry-­cleaning. The only outfit that was even slightly smart was the black dress she’d worn to her grandfather’s funeral four years ago. She wished that she could go to the show in her uniform but that would rather defeat the object of being undercover.

  Meg got out the black dress. It was wool with a high neck and long sleeves. ‘You can’t go wrong with black,’ Meg remembered Emma saying once. Emma had been the first woman detective sergeant in Sussex and was still a legend at Bartholomew Square station. But she was also undeniably posh and presumably had rooms full of theatre-­going clothes. It wasn’t that Emma looked exactly stylish. Not like Ruby Magic, whom Meg had met once and who often appeared in Aisling’s fashion magazines. It was just that Emma always looked like she was wearing the right clothes for the right occasion. Maybe that was just upper-­class confidence, something that was in short supply in the Whitehawk council house Meg shared with her parents and three siblings. Before Marie had married and Declan and Patrick moved out, there had been nine of them there. The youngest, Connor, had shared with his brothers but now had a room of his own, aged only ten. ‘It’s so unfair,’ his sisters wailed. ‘He’s a boy,’ their mother had replied inexorably.

  The dress seemed a lot tighter than it had four years ago. Meg didn’t think she’d got fatter but maybe she’d ‘filled out’ as the woman in the brassiere-­fitting department of Hanningtons once put it, causing Aisling to collapse into giggles. Meg thought of herself as flat-­chested – unlike Aisling – but maybe she wasn’t really. Still, at least the dress was long enough. Meg had already reached this height at the age of thirteen, which had made her last years at school rather trying.

  Meg added black tights and her flat, everyday shoes. She wished she had a brooch or one of those scarves that women like Emma are born wearing. She compensated by putting her hair in a bun and using some of Aisling’s mascara and lipstick. Her face, in the bathroom mirror, didn’t look too bad but she couldn’t see the rest of herself. Her mother regarded full-­length mirrors as self-­indulgent, if not actually sinful.

  ‘That’s my lipstick,’ said Aisling, when Meg presented herself in the kitchen.

  ‘You shouldn’t be wearing make-­up at your age,’ said Meg’s mother, Mary, from the gas stove. ‘I like to see young women as God intended them.’

  ‘Naked?’ said Aisling. ‘Like Adam and Eve before the Fall?’ She was the clever one and went to the grammar school. She was about to take her A levels, which in itself seemed an amazing achievement.

  Connor and Collette laughed. Padre Pio, the budgerigar, joined in. Mary waved her spoon at all of them, spattering a few drops of gravy like holy water.

  ‘If that’s how you’re going to talk at university, Aisling,’ said Mary, ‘you’d be better off entering a convent. The Little Sisters of Mercy have a vacancy, I believe.’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Aisling.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mary. ‘Very likely He does. Leave Meg alone. She looks very respectable. You can borrow my good green coat, love. It’s still cold in the evenings.’

  Respectable, thought Meg, hunting for the coat in the cupboard under the stairs. She hadn’t thought she looked that bad.

  DS Barker didn’t comment on the dress, or the coat, but it would have seemed strange if he had. Barker didn’t wear uniform for work so he looked the same as usual, tall and thin with teeth that always looked slightly too big for his mouth. His nickname at the station was ‘Chubby’ but Meg had never asked why. Hers was ‘Long Meg’, which was apparently the name of an ancient witch who got turned to stone. Could have been worse, she supposed.

  At first they stood in the lobby, not speaking, and Meg wondered if they were going to spend the whole evening in silence. Then Barker turned and walked away. Just when Meg decided that he’d abandoned her, he appeared again, carrying a programme and two red drinks.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Meg. The programme was a pound so this was surprisingly generous. She thought of a music hall song her dad used to sing about a ‘dirty dog’ stealing a man’s girl while he went to get the ‘nuts and the programme’. She giggled and Barker asked what was funny.

  ‘Nothing. What’s the drink?’

  ‘Bloody Mary. Get it down you. The show’s about to start.’

  Meg’s mother said ‘Bloody’ was a wicked swearword because it was a shortening of ‘by Our Lady’. Also, ‘Bloody Mary’ was the disrespectful title Protestants used for Good Queen Mary, who’d restored the Catholic faith after Henry VIII. All these factors made Meg a little nervous of the drink but she took a cautious sip. It tasted awful, like juice that had gone off. Should she say something?

  ‘What’s in it?’ she asked.

  ‘Just tomato juice. Drink up, there’s a good girl.’

  It must be on the turn, like the NHS-­supplied welfare orange juice Meg used to have as a child when it got left in the sun. Meg tried not to breathe in as she drained the glass. She didn’t want to appear rude.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Barker, putting his empty glass on a nearby ledge.

  Meg followed him, feeling slightly unsteady. Declan was always saying that the piers would collapse into the sea one day. She hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight.

  Meg had been to the Palace Pier Theatre before. When she was six, a Catholic charity called the Knights of St Columba had organised a trip to the pantomime for local children who might not otherwise have afforded such a treat. Meg, Declan and Patrick had actually been driven into Brighton by their parish priest, Father Costello. Aisling was too young and Collette and Connor hadn’t even been born yet. The show was Aladdin, starring Max Mephisto as Abanazar. Meg could still remember the delicious thrill of fear when the wizard appeared on stage, firecrackers exploding from his voluminous sleeves. Perhaps that was why she was still a bit scared of Max.

  The theatre was imposing too, with its intricate metal archways – now rather rusty – and minarets designed to echo the famous Pavilion. Inside, it was easy to forget that you were suspended over the sea. It was a proper auditorium, with balconies and gilt carvings and velvet curtains. Meg and Barker made their way through the excited crowds. They were in the first row of the circle. ‘Lou said we’d have a good view here,’ said Barker. ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Meg. She was pretty sure that the Knights had been in the cheaper seats.

  The orchestra was playing ‘Sussex by the Sea’ and Meg found herself swaying to the music. She really must get a grip and behave more like a policewoman. Barker didn’t seem to mind though. ‘They play this at Albion matches,’ he said. ‘It’s a grand tune.’

  But soon the lights dimmed and a voice off­stage intoned, ‘And now – courtesy of Larry Buxton Enterprises – a night of good old-­fashioned entertainment. Please welcome the stars of the show!’

  The curtains opened and the stage was suddenly full of people, waving as the band played ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’. Meg thought she saw Bigg and Small but the other stars were unrecognisable under the lights. They trooped off, still waving, and a more soulful tune began. Meg opened her programme and managed to make out the first act: The Dancing Snowflakes.

  It was very pretty, thought Meg. The stage was dark apart from shapes like lace doilies projected onto the backcloth. The dancers, in white floaty ballet skirts, swayed and twirled. Meg clapped enthusiastically at the end but Barker remained slumped in his seat. Perhaps ballet wasn’t his thing. Aisling had once longed for ballet lessons but it was an ‘extra’ at school so their parents couldn’t afford it.

  Next to perform was Mario Fontana. He had a loud, operatic voice and, when not singing, spoke in what was obviously meant to be an Italian accent. Meg, who had interviewed John Lomax yesterday, found this rather disturbing. Lomax was from Birmingham, he’d told Meg, and he’d spoken in a flat adenoidal way that reminded Meg of Liverpool, a town she’d visited last year. Fontana got a big hand for his final number ‘O Sole Mio’ and departed blowing kisses and shouting, ‘Bella! Bella!’

  Next, a large cabinet was wheeled onto the stage and, accompanied by a drum roll, the off­stage voice announced: ‘And now, for your delectation and wonderment, The Great Deceiver!’ When the small man in a dinner jacket appeared, there was a ripple of laughter. Did Ted English mean his appearance to be an anticlimax? wondered Meg. There was no sign that the act was meant to be funny. She watched closely. After all, the magician was their number one suspect. Next to her, Sergeant Barker also sat up straighter.

  The Great Deceiver started off with a few card tricks that were visible only to the front rows. Then he juggled with some balls before making them disappear one by one. This was quite clever but the flashes of light and clashing of cymbals distracted Meg, making it hard to concentrate on what was happening. Then, to another drum roll, the magician asked the audience to applaud his ‘lovely assistant’. Meg leant so far forward that she was peering over the edge of the parapet. A woman marched onto the stage. She had long blonde hair and her figure, in a spangled dress, was curvaceous, but she was at least a head taller than English. Another ripple of laughter. Something about the woman seemed familiar to Meg. But where would she have met such a glamorous creature?

  After a few twirls, the woman went into the cabinet and Ted, with obvious effort, revolved it. Then – drums again – the door was opened to show that it was empty. This time there was genuine applause, generous enough to get the man and his wardrobe offstage. There was no sign of his assistant.

  The curtains closed for the interval. ‘What do you think?’ asked Barker.

  ‘I liked the dancers,’ said Meg, ‘and it was quite clever how he made the girl disappear.’

  ‘She was an Amazon, if you like,’ said Barker. ‘Did you know that Amazon warrior women used to cut their tits off? Want another drink?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Meg. She couldn’t face another glass of the awful red stuff. Also, did he just say ‘tits’?

  ‘Go on,’ said Barker. ‘It’s your night off.’

  This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. As far as Meg was concerned, she was still working. But she was worried about offending her colleague. Maybe you always had to accept a drink if one was offered? Barker was looking at her in a strange way. She couldn’t work out if he was angry or not.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘But could I have lemonade this time, please?’

  Barker pushed his way through the crowds to the bar, leaving Meg standing by the door. The small space seemed very full of people, all talking in loud confident voices.

  ‘Traditional entertainment . . .’

  ‘Rather trite, to my mind . . .’

  ‘Definitely not a lyrical tenor . . .’

  ‘Quite an Amazon . . .’

  There was that word again. Meg didn’t think she’d ever heard it before. She flattened herself against the wall and observed the drinkers. There had been a few families in the audience but here it was all older people, mostly very well-­dressed. No one her age and, she was willing to bet, no one from Whitehawk either. There were some fur coats and quite a few bow ties. People from Hove, she guessed. Then Barker was back with two more Bloody Marys. Meg’s heart sank even as she thanked him.

  ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ said Barker.

  Was that some kind of toast? ‘And in yours,’ said Meg, trying to be polite. She took a sip. It tasted even worse this time.

  ‘I suppose this is all new to you,’ said Barker. ‘The ­theatre and all that.’

  ‘I came here when I was six,’ said Meg. ‘Me and my brothers.’

  Barker made no answer to this so Meg thought she’d better carry on the conversation.

  ‘Have you got any brothers and sisters?’

  Barker drained his glass. ‘Got a sister but I haven’t seen her for years. I bet you’ve got a big family. Mick used to say you were typically Irish.’

  Mick was DS O’Neill’s first name. Meg could just imagine the way he’d said this. She was saved from answering by the bell ringing for the second half.

  ‘Drink up,’ said Barker.

  Meg managed to swallow the rest of her drink but, for a second, was genuinely worried that she’d be sick. The bar, with its red walls and gold furniture, seemed to spin like the waltzer on the pier. She had to grab Barker’s arm to stop herself falling. To her surprise, he patted her hand. ‘Good girl. Let’s get back to our seats now.’

  The orchestra was playing as they edged their way back along the row. Then the curtains rose and the disembodied voice was intoning, ‘Please welcome – Ida the Strongwoman.’ A woman in a fur bikini strode onto the stage. It was her walk that gave her away. Meg looked at Barker. ‘That’s her!’ ‘Shh,’ said someone in the row behind. Meg’s whisper must have been louder than she intended. But there was no doubt that Ida had done a quick change from being English’s lovely assistant.

  Her act was better than his. She tore up telephone directories and called for volunteers from the audience and then lifted them into the air. There was lots of laughter and, when she lifted a young man right above her head, actual gasps. Ida left the stage to the loudest applause yet. The dancers then appeared again, this time dressed as Cossacks, doing a lot of crouching and kicking out their legs with their arms folded. Then there were two gymnasts who were proficient without being very entertaining. Next was a man who sang while riding a unicycle. Meg was starting to feel rather dazed, or maybe it was the effect of the single, spinning wheel. She couldn’t really see the point of the act. You couldn’t do it yourself but why would you want to?

  The final act was Bigg and Small. Meg assumed it was the coincidence of the names that had brought the com­edians together because, as she had pointed out earlier, they were exactly the same size. The audience loved them though and shouted out the punchlines to their jokes. Meg didn’t follow it very well. Her head was aching now and her stomach was churning. She was relieved when the show was over and they were singing the national anthem.

  Outside, the fresh air made her feel slightly better. Lights were twinkling in the arcades but the sea was dark on either side of them. It must have rained while they were in the theatre because the planks were slippery. Meg tried to walk in a straight line but she must have been staggering because Barker took hold of her arm and steered her through the crowd.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ said Meg, when they reached the pavement. ‘I’ve had a lovely evening. My bus stop’s over there.’ She pointed in the general direction of the Aquarium.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ said Barker. ‘I’m parked in the Old Steine.’

  Meg wanted to say no but somehow she seemed incapable of resisting, as if her willpower had leaked away with the remains of the vile red drink. Besides, Barker was still holding her arm. He manoeuvred her across the main road, past the Albion Hotel and into one of the dark alleyways that led to the bus station in Pool Valley. Was Barker parked here, amongst the Southdown buses? Meg turned to ask the question and, to her horror, saw Barker’s large teeth approaching her face.

  ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said throatily.

  ‘No!’ Meg backed away and found herself pushed up against a brick wall. Barker’s lips were on hers and his hand was fumbling under Mum’s good green coat. Thinking of her mother gave Meg extra strength. She pushed harder and managed to get Barker’s face a few inches away.

 

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