‘It was the wife,’ said Mary. ‘That’s what I think. She’s no better than she should be, that one.’ Meg had noticed before that her mother was always on the side of the patriarchy, however little it had done for her. But maybe she was still resentful about the picture of the one and only Verity Malone in her husband’s wallet.

  Meg got up, washed her cup and plate and put them on the drying rack. She wasn’t going to do her sisters’ washing up too.

  ‘I’m off, Mum,’ she said. ‘DI Willis is picking me up at the end of the road.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to work on a Saturday,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’ll get a day off in lieu.’

  ‘I’d better get going too,’ said Aisling. She worked at the local greengrocer on a Saturday. ‘Time and cauliflowers wait for no man.’

  She winked at Meg. Her sisters weren’t that bad really. She would see what she could do about an autograph.

  * * *

  It was still a shock to see Seth Billington in the cluttered sitting room at Tudor Close. He looked too shiny to exist in real life, his hair too dark, his teeth and shirt front too white. He stood up when Meg and the DI entered and his head brushed the chandelier.

  ‘Watch out, Seth,’ said Verity. ‘You clumsy clot.’

  Clumsy clot. Meg could hardly believe her ears. This was the man described by Film Frolics as ‘the handsomest actor alive today’.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Seth, smiling. Again, ‘Mum’ sounded wrong. It was what Meg called Mary. Surely Seth should say ‘Mother’ or ‘Mama’?

  They sat down and Verity offered tea or coffee. Again, the DI refused. Was this because he suspected Verity of being a poisoner? Meg thought that Verity seemed to want to stay in the room but after a few minutes she drifted away. Meg was sure that she was still in listening distance, though.

  ‘We’re very sorry about your father,’ said DI Willis stiffly. ‘Please accept our condolences.’

  Seth inclined his head but said nothing.

  ‘You may know,’ said the DI, after a pause, ‘that there are some irregularities surrounding your father’s death.’

  ‘You mean he was poisoned?’

  ‘It looks that way, yes. We’re speaking to all of the family and we’re asking everyone, can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt your father?’

  Seth looked at them steadily, his dark eyes serious. He looked both sad and straightforward, thought Meg. But then, he was a very good actor.

  ‘This is rather a sensitive subject,’ he said. He looked at Meg as he said this, as if she would understand. She could feel herself reddening.

  ‘In what way?’ asked the DI.

  ‘Dad wasn’t . . . He wasn’t always faithful to Mum. It was an open secret. We all knew. Mum knew. I remember a woman coming up to me after a show once, thrusting a child in front of me and saying, “This is your half-sister.” And, a few years ago, a woman turned up here. I remember it because Dad was in hospital—it was when he had his mini-stroke—and I was here, keeping an eye on Mum. Anyway, this woman turned up and said that she’d had an affair with Dad and had a child by him who was now eighteen. She wanted some money to set him up in an apprenticeship.’

  ‘What did your mother do?’

  ‘She gave her the money, I think.’

  ‘Did you see this woman yourself?’

  ‘Briefly. Mum took her away and spoke to her in the study. I couldn’t give a very good description, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you remember the child’s name? Or the woman’s?’

  ‘No. I think the son had one of those modern names. Kit or Kim maybe.’

  Meg remembered Sheena saying, ‘Of course Bert wasn’t a good husband.’ This was beginning to sound like an understatement. She glanced at the DI and addressed Seth: ‘Sheena, your sister-in-law, said that at least three women contacted David saying they’d had Bert’s children. Do you think this woman was one of them?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Seth, running a hand through his hair in a way that mysteriously made it look more styled than ever. ‘It sounds like the sort of thing Sheena would say.’

  What did that mean? Meg wondered. She sensed the DI was going to ask his grudge question and sure enough . . .

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have harboured a grudge against your father?’

  ‘I can think of a good many people,’ said Seth.

  ‘But did any of them have access to your father’s food that day?’ said DI Willis.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Seth, his smooth brow creasing.

  ‘As far as we can make out, the only people with access were your mother and the daily woman, Mrs Saunders.’

  ‘Now look here.’ Seth’s face changed as suddenly as if a director had said ‘action’. He stood up and Meg was suddenly aware of his height and strength. ‘There’s no way my mother or Alma would have killed my father. They both loved him. It’s impossible.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to Alma,’ said Meg, trying for a soothing tone. ‘She’s been with the family for a long time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Seth. ‘She helped bring us up. She’d never harm any of us.’

  Seth seemed to be back in control. He sat down and smiled at them but now the smile looked mechanical. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s an emotional time for all of us.’

  ‘We understand,’ said the DI.

  ‘It must be very hard,’ said Meg. ‘When did you last see your father?’

  ‘In early August,’ said Seth. ‘I’ve been busy shooting a film in Whitby.’

  ‘The Prince of Darkness,’ said Meg.

  ‘Yes,’ said Seth. ‘Are you a film fan?’

  Meg said that she was. Seth chatted about the film for a while and was so friendly that, when they took their leave, she was emboldened to ask for autographs for Aisling and Collette, carefully spelling out the tricky Irish names. She could feel waves of disapproval emanating from the DI as Seth wrote in her notebook. When they got outside, she saw that he’d signed ‘To Aisling’ and ‘To Collette’ but also ‘To Policewoman Meg’. She put the book carefully in her bag.

  She expected some comment from the DI but, as they drove around the village pond where children were feeding the ducks in the sunshine, he said only, ‘You know who didn’t love Bert Billington? His son, Seth.’

  And, despite the generosity of the autographs, Meg had to agree with him.

  Eight

  ‘The Triumph Tiger Cub,’ said Aaron Billington. ‘That’s a gutsy little bike.’

  Sam Collins gave herself a mental pat on the back for thinking of visiting Aaron Billington on two wheels. He hadn’t been exactly keen to speak to a private detective. ‘I can’t see the point,’ he said on the phone. ‘The police are dealing with it.’ Sam had persuaded him to give her ten minutes but, when she roared into the mews on her blue and silver steed, Aaron’s attitude had changed immediately. He welcomed both Sam and her bike into his workshop and made them instant coffee from a lime-encrusted kettle. Aaron walked around the Tiger Cub, examining it with an expert eye. He was a tall man, physically not unlike the handsome Seth, but nervier, less comfortable in his skin.

  ‘I love it,’ said Sam. ‘It’s perfect for getting around Brighton.’

  ‘I used to have a Triumph Tiger,’ said Aaron. ‘I’ve got a Royal Enfield now.’

  ‘Is that the bike you brought over to show your parents that Sunday?’ said Sam.

  ‘To show my father,’ said Aaron. ‘Mum wasn’t interested.’

  He sounded like a sulky teenager, but Aaron Billington was, by Emma’s calculations, thirty-four years old, two years younger than Seth and eight years younger than David.

  ‘Was your dad interested in bikes?’ asked Sam. Ask different questions, Emma had said. The police will have asked Aaron about finding his father’s body. He won’t want to go over it again. Find a different path. It looked as if Sam’s path was the open highway.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Aaron. ‘Dad was interested in anything mechanical. He always had the best cars. I remember him picking us up from school in the Lagonda. Everyone stared. Seth said it was embarrassing but I loved it.’

  Interesting, thought Sam. There was genuine emotion in Aaron’s voice. However much of a bastard Bert Billington had been, his youngest son had obviously loved him.

  ‘Dad gave me the money to buy this garage,’ said Aaron, loquacious now. ‘I was never any good at school, not like David and Seth. Mum didn’t like me working with bikes. “Nasty, dirty things”, was what she said. Last year, when the Mods and Rockers were fighting in Brighton, she supported the Mods because “they had nicer clothes”.’ He put on an affected voice when imitating his mother.

  ‘Sounds as if your mother and father were very different,’ said Sam.

  ‘You could say that,’ said Aaron. ‘Dad was much older, of course. He was over fifty when I was born. But, I don’t know, he seemed younger. Even recently—I know his health wasn’t good—but he didn’t have a hearing aid or carry a stick. He had all his own teeth. And he was always interested in new things. Mum was stuck in the past, with her wigs and false eyelashes and calling everyone “darling”. It was as if she was still on stage. Seth’s the same, always smiling and being charming, but he doesn’t really care about anyone but himself.’

  ‘It sounds as if you were the one who saw your parents most often,’ said Sam. ‘It’s the same with mine. I live nearer so I do all the visiting.’ This was actually completely untrue. Sam’s parents—fit and healthy in their late fifties—lived in Southend, a few streets away from her brother and his family.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Aaron. ‘Seth’s too busy swanning about being a film star. He’s at home at the moment though. Mum waiting on him hand and foot. Dave’s in London. That’s fair enough, he runs the company and he’s got kids. But it’s me that has to take the oldies to the doctors and pick up their prescriptions and all that. Dad gave up driving after the last stroke. Mum never learnt. Typical. There’s a Rolls in perfect condition in their garage. It’s a tragedy.’

  He really did mean the car, thought Sam.

  ‘What do you think happened to your dad?’ she asked, trying to keep the same light tone. But Aaron’s face darkened immediately. When he was angry, he looked even more like Seth.

  ‘I think Mum killed him,’ he said. ‘She was fed up with looking after him. She kept going on about being a liberated woman. Well, she liberated herself, didn’t she?’

  * * *

  Emma was having a frustrating day. Normally she liked Saturdays. She took Marianne and Sophie horse-riding in the morning and loved watching them trotting round the ring, so serious and so happy. She even loved the smell of horse manure and the constant battle to stop Jonathan playing with it. Sometimes her friend Vera, who owned the stables, let Jonathan sit on a pony for a few minutes. Watching his face, wreathed in smiles as he clung to the bristly mane, never failed to make Emma’s heart contract.

  But this morning she kept thinking about the case. She envied Sam who was interviewing Aaron and then, possibly, Seth. It should be me, she thought. I’m the one who used to be a detective. Why wasn’t Edgar supervising the riding lessons? Because he had to work, of course, and his work always trumped everything. The previous superintendent had spent most of his time on the golf course but Edgar was more conscientious. It was one of the things Emma had loved when he was her boss. It seemed far less lovable now, though.

  At least she had the car. For years they had managed without, borrowing a police vehicle when they needed to, but last year Edgar had surprised Emma with a five-year-old Morris Minor. It rattled when you drove over thirty and let in water when it rained but Emma loved it. So did the girls, who called it Betsy. They were in a raucous mood driving home, singing Beatles’ songs and arguing about who was best at the rising trot. All you need is love, thought Emma, as they drove past Roedean, looking as bleak as a prison even in the autumn sunshine. If only that were true.

  She parked in the underground garage and they walked back to the house. Well, Emma walked. Marianne and Sophie trotted, cantered and galloped, occasionally neighing loudly. Jonathan refused to move at all and had to be carried. Emma wished that she had brought his pushchair but it was such a pain getting it into the little car. As they approached their front door, the human ponies shied and stopped. Emma, her arms full of Jonathan (as heavy as lead at nearly two), caught up with them. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a lady . . .’ said Sophie uncertainly.

  It was, in fact, a vision of loveliness: pink shift dress, white tights, white shoes, shiny black hair pulled back with a brilliantly clashing red scarf.

  ‘Ruby?’ said Emma.

  ‘Oh hi,’ said Ruby. ‘I thought I’d just drop in. Hallo, kids. Goodness, is that the baby? He looks bigger than you.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Emma.

  Ruby French was probably the most famous woman on British television. She had once been a stage magician and had even briefly appeared in a double act with her father, Max Mephisto. For years Ruby had played a fictional version of herself in a highly successful TV show called Ruby Magic. Now she was fearless private detective Iris Green in Iris Investigates. Emma had helped her research the series, which Ruby also directed. They were—cautiously—friends, only slightly complicated by the fact that Ruby used to be engaged to Edgar.

  Emma invited Ruby to stay for lunch and the girls were so awed that they changed out of their jodhpurs without a protest and even helped lay the table. Ruby sat smoking and asking them a series of quickfire questions.

  ‘Who’s your favourite Beatle?’

  ‘If you could be any animal, what would you be?’

  ‘Dogs or cats, choose now.’

  The girls soon lost their shyness and started shrieking the answers. Jonathan joined in from his highchair, shouting his favourite word, ‘Dad, Dad, Dad.’

  ‘Where is Dad?’ said Ruby, when Emma put the gala pie and salad on the table.

  ‘Working,’ said Emma.

  ‘My dad’s a policeman,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Really?’ said Ruby. ‘Mine’s a magician. He can make people disappear.’

  Emma was struck by the way that Ruby seemed eternally youthful. She and Emma were almost exactly the same age but Ruby seemed almost like one of the children whereas Emma felt like such a grown-up. But Emma was a mother and, whilst that made her ageless in a way, it didn’t make her young.

  ‘Edgar makes himself disappear,’ said Emma. Then, aware that she was sounding sour, she asked Ruby what she was doing in Brighton.

  ‘Visiting my mum,’ said Ruby. ‘And meeting a friend. Max is in town too.’

  ‘I know,’ said Emma. ‘Edgar and I are having lunch with him and Lydia tomorrow.’ She wondered if she should ask Ruby’s advice about clothes.

  ‘So tell me,’ Ruby leant forward, ‘are you really investigating the Bert Billington murder?’

  ‘Pas devant les enfants,’ said Emma.

  ‘That’s French,’ Marianne told Sophie. ‘It means not in front of us.’

  ‘Sacre bleu,’ said Ruby. ‘Don’t be so stuffy. I’m sure they like a good murder.’

  ‘They’re only nine and seven,’ said Emma.

  ‘Really?’ said Ruby. ‘I’m no good at children’s ages. Tell me, Marianne, have you ever heard of Seth Billington?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marianne immediately. ‘My friend Sally’s got his picture in her bedroom.’

  So that was Ruby’s mysterious ‘friend’, thought Emma.

  Nine

  Max still wasn’t sure why he had agreed to come to Brighton for the weekend. Filming had stopped to allow Seth to visit his mother and Max had assumed that he and Lydia would go home to Somerset to see the children. But Lydia had wanted a ‘break’, she wanted to see Brighton and she wanted to stay at the Grand. Max couldn’t exactly see why Lydia, who had been relaxing at the Royal Whitby for weeks, would need a break and why she’d want to stay at another hotel. But he had acquiesced. Perhaps he’d agreed they could come because of Ruby, who was in Brighton on mysterious business of her own. Or maybe it was because he wanted to see Edgar and talk murder again?

  Lydia had been delighted with Brighton so far and Max had to admit that it was looking its best in the early October sunshine. They had visited the pier and the Lanes and walked past the Theatre Royal, where Max had spent many happy nights sawing women in half. ‘What a darling little theatre,’ Lydia had said. But she hadn’t seen the stage door, in a noisy side street, or the subterranean dressing rooms with their prevailing smell of gas and damp clothing. Thinking of those backstage corridors gave Max a stab of nostalgia so acute that it almost made him gasp.

  Lydia was in such a good mood that she hadn’t minded too much about Ruby joining them for a drink.

  ‘Is she coming to supper too?’ Lydia had asked.

  ‘No, she’s got plans of her own.’

  He wasn’t sure what those plans entailed but the sound of them certainly seemed to placate Lydia. She went as far as to say that she’d be pleased to see her stepdaughter.

  Her smile didn’t even falter too much when, in the cocktail bar at the Grand, Ruby greeted her with, ‘Hallo, Mum.’

  ‘Hallo, Ruby.’ Lydia stood up to kiss her on the cheek. The two women couldn’t look more different, thought Max. Lydia, blonde and ethereal, wearing black lace with ropes of pearls, Ruby, dark-haired and vibrant, in a pink dress so short that sitting down presented a real challenge. They were both beautiful enough to send heads spinning though and Max suddenly felt very proud of them.

  ‘Have you seen your mother?’ he asked Ruby, to remind them all that Ruby possessed her own maternal parent. Max wasn’t exactly on close terms with Emerald, an exsnake charmer, but he had to admit she’d been a very good mother to Ruby.

  ‘I’m seeing her tomorrow,’ said Ruby. ‘Sunday lunch and all that.’

  Max had invited Emma and Edgar to join him at the Grand for Sunday lunch. He hoped that Emma and Lydia would hit it off and allow him time to chat to Edgar.

 

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