The Midnight Hour, page 7
Ruby asked for a champagne cocktail which was brought by a waiter who professed himself ‘your greatest fan’. Max and Lydia drank martinis. Lydia started to tap her fingernails on the table.
‘How’s the TV show?’ Max asked Ruby.
‘We’re just about to start filming a new season,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s tough trying to think of new things for Iris to investigate. The scriptwriter wants to give her more love interest but I put my foot down. Romance is so boring.’
‘Are you still dating Dex?’ asked Lydia. For the last year Ruby had been seeing a jazz trumpeter called Dex Dexter. Max liked Dex although he wasn’t a big fan of his music. The trouble with jazz, he thought, was that you never knew when it was going to end.
‘Yes,’ said Ruby, sounding less than enthusiastic herself. ‘It’s not a big thing though. We’re just friends really.’
‘I think you’re very brave,’ said Lydia. ‘In America there would be a scandal if an actress went out with a black man.’
Ruby’s eyes flashed. ‘Then thank God we don’t live in America. All my fans have been lovely about Dex.’ This wasn’t entirely true. Max knew that Ruby and Dex had faced some unpleasant reactions when seen in public together. Ruby would never admit this to Lydia though. And there was a definite emphasis on ‘all my fans’. Lydia was a genuine Hollywood star but Ruby was more famous in England.
‘I saw Emma this lunchtime,’ Ruby said to Max. ‘She’s investigating the Bert Billington case.’
‘I know,’ said Max. ‘Seth told me.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Ruby. ‘I keep forgetting you know Seth. Do you think Bert was murdered?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Max. He didn’t know why but he was reluctant to discuss the case in front of Lydia.
But Lydia leant forward with more enthusiasm than she’d shown all evening, ‘Tell me about the murder,’ she said.
* * *
‘Here you are,’ said Aisling. ‘I got it out of the library on my way home.’
She put an orange book on the table. The title was written in that trendy type that looked as if it was reflected in water. The words swam in front of Meg’s eyes. The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan.
‘I can’t believe they had it in Whitehawk library,’ she said.
‘They didn’t,’ said Aisling. ‘I walked to the Dome.’
The main Brighton library was in the palatial surroundings of the Pavilion. The Dome had apparently once been the Prince Regent’s stables but it was a grand building by anyone’s reckoning, with ornate ceilings and a vast curving staircase. Meg had always been too intimidated to enter the library although, as Aisling always told her, ‘it’s free for everyone’.
Meg opened the book and read, ‘part of the strange newness of the problem is that it cannot be understood in terms of the age-old material problems . . .’ She looked at Aisling who was still in her greengrocer’s apron. ‘Have you read any of it?’ she asked.
‘I read a bit on the way home,’ said Aisling. Aisling was famous in the family for being able to read while she walked. She’d once finished Jane Eyre while walking to the bus stop.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Meg.
‘It’s about women wanting more than husbands and children,’ said Aisling. She was now opening the cake tin in a search that Meg could have told her would be useless. ‘Betty Friedan says that magazines are full of pictures of women happily doing housework but the magazines are all written by men. I suppose that’s the “mystique” bit. I couldn’t read any more because I nearly walked into a phone box.’
The Feminine Mystery, Aaron had called it and it was still a mystery to Meg. Had this book convinced Verity to kill her husband?
‘Can you read some more?’ she asked. ‘And tell me what it says?’
‘OK,’ said Aisling, absent-mindedly hoovering crumbs from the empty tin with a moistened finger. Meg knew that reading was never a chore to her sister, but it was very kind of her to track down the book after a day’s work. And, luckily, Meg had something to give her in return.
She got out her notebook and opened it at Seth’s autograph, waiting for Aisling to register the magic words.
* * *
Although Emma could still not quite believe it, she and Sam were enjoying early evening drinks with Seth Billington and Verity Malone. Sam had rung just after lunch: ‘Verity suggested that I go round at six. Could you get away for an hour? It would be good to meet Seth together.’ So, when Edgar got in at five, Emma had thrust Jonathan at him and dashed upstairs to change. Now, wearing a summer dress that was just slightly too thin for the cooler evening air, she was sitting on the patio at Tudor Close, watching the starlings swirl over the church tower.
And there was Seth opposite her, wearing a blue fisherman’s jumper and drinking beer. He was even better-looking in real life. Verity and Emma were drinking gin and tonic. Sam had opted for orange juice, ‘otherwise I’m a danger on the bike’.
‘We had the police here earlier,’ said Verity. ‘Bob Willis and Meg Connolly. I like her but I think he’s an awful stick.’
‘Emma used to work with Bob Willis,’ said Sam.
‘Did you?’ Verity batted her sooty-lashed eyes at Emma.
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘He’s not a bad detective. Just a bit plodding.’ She felt a slight twinge of disloyalty to Bob, who had, in truth, always been a good colleague to her.
‘He’s married to an ex-chorus girl,’ said Sam. ‘In fact, she used to be one of those living statues, standing around naked on stage pretending to be Cleopatra and what have you. I wrote them a terrible review when they appeared at the Hippodrome.’
‘Oh, that makes me feel more kindly towards Mr Willis,’ said Verity. ‘Mind you, I bet his wife’s gone ultra respectable. They always do.’
Did you? wondered Emma. Verity was right about Betty though. Bob’s wife was the mainstay of the local WI, never seen without twinset and pearls.
‘We went to see Pamela Curtis,’ said Emma. ‘She was very helpful.’
‘I always liked Pamela,’ said Verity. ‘She’s one of those, you know.’
‘Mum,’ said Seth. ‘You can’t say things like that. It’s 1965.’
‘I like queer people,’ said Verity. ‘I always have. I had lots of lovely pansy friends when I was on stage.’
‘Mum!’ Seth almost groaned, sounding very much like Marianne when Emma did something excruciatingly embarrassing. Like breathing.
‘Pamela told us about Glenda and Angela,’ said Emma, conscious of introducing a new chill to the evening. ‘That must have been an awful shock for you all.’
‘It was terrible,’ said Verity, shutting her eyes so that the lashes seemed to fuse together. ‘You were at drama school then, Seth.’
‘I remember it though,’ said Seth. ‘I remember you ringing and telling me about . . . about the child.’ His voice sounded hoarse, as if remembering were an effort.
‘I just wondered if you knew anything about Glenda’s family,’ said Emma. ‘Did she have parents? Brothers and sisters?’
‘I think her family were from Liverpool,’ said Verity. Her eyelashes had unglued themselves and she fixed Emma with a shrewd gaze, her pale eyes wide. ‘Is that what you’re thinking? That one of Glenda’s family killed Bert? In revenge?’
‘It’s just a line of enquiry,’ said Emma. ‘I haven’t seen the official report but I spoke to the pathologist and he said that Mr Billington didn’t . . . er . . . vomit when he died. That suggests to me that he’d been ingesting the poison for some time. So, the killer might not necessarily have been in the house when he . . . passed away. I think the choice of rat poison is significant too. Bert was playing King Rat when Glenda committed suicide.’
Now both Seth and Verity were staring at her.
‘Max was right,’ said Seth. ‘You are good.’
Emma felt herself colouring. Had Max really said that?
‘I don’t like to ask,’ she said, ‘but can you think of anyone else who might have had a grudge against Bert?’
‘Do you want me to make a list of Bert’s mistresses and illegits?’ said Verity. ‘I’m quite happy to.’
‘That would be great,’ said Emma, glancing at Sam.
‘I spoke to Aaron today,’ said Sam. ‘He said that Bert hadn’t an enemy in the world.’
Seth gave a bark of laughter that sent the starlings spiralling upwards. Verity said, ‘Aaron hero-worshipped his father. It’s very sad.’ She didn’t say if it was the hero worship that was sad, or her husband’s death.
‘Have you spoken to David yet?’ said Seth.
‘Not yet,’ said Emma.
‘Well, you’ll get a very different story from him,’ said Seth. ‘He told the whole sob story to the police. How he’s the one that gets the letters from the penniless women claiming to have had a child with Bert Billington.’
‘David runs the family company, doesn’t he?’ said Emma.
‘Yes,’ said Seth. ‘It wasn’t what he’d planned to do. He wanted to go to university after the war but it was getting too much for Dad and someone had to do it. And he’s done well, streamlined the company, made it more efficient. Sheena helps him a lot. She’s helped him cut out the dead wood.’
‘Sam is seeing David and Sheena on Monday,’ said Emma. She noted that while ‘someone had to do it’, that someone was not going to be Seth, who’d been able to escape to drama school.
‘Well, don’t have a meal with them,’ said Verity. ‘She’s the worst cook in North London. Rat poison is cordon bleu by comparison.’
Ten
Rather to everyone’s surprise, Emma and Lydia took to each other immediately. Max watched Lydia’s face when Emma entered the restaurant, saw her registering the fair hair, the good fur coat, the well-cut but unexceptional blue dress and noticed her relaxing visibly. Lydia had been afraid of another Ruby, a dashing sixties girl (at thirty-five Ruby was still a girl to Max) with a sports car and a feisty attitude. Emma was obviously a relief.
Lydia was gracious when Emma talked about her children, and got out pictures of Rocco and Elena to be admired. Max felt a pang when he saw the photos emerging from their Kodak wallet. He should be home in Somerset with his children, not eating overdone roast beef in a hotel restaurant. But it was good to see Edgar and Emma again. He thought Emma looked happier than when he’d last seen her. Being a private eye obviously suited her. What surprised Max was how interested Lydia was in Emma’s work. As soon as the children had been tucked back into handbags, Lydia was questioning Emma about surveillance, fingerprints and whether criminals always made a fatal mistake. Was Lydia hoping to star in a detective drama? Max couldn’t see it somehow but wouldn’t put it past Lydia to want to outdo Ruby as a screen sleuth. The main thing was that Lydia was happy and Max was free to talk to his old friend. When, after coffee and petits fours, Emma and Lydia announced their intention of taking a walk along the promenade, Max and Edgar took their brandies onto the glassed-over terrace. They watched as the two blonde women walked towards the Palace Pier, heads close together.
‘I never saw that coming,’ said Edgar. ‘Our wives becoming best friends.’
Edgar hadn’t changed much over the years, thought Max. He still had that lean, athletic frame and the self-deprecating grin that would have made him a fortune in sidekick roles. His sandy hair was now greying at the temples but that wasn’t a bad look on him. Max’s hair was still black apart from a rather dramatic streak in the centre. Lydia kept nagging him to dye it, but Max rather liked the grey. It was very Dracula’s dad, he thought.
‘I still can’t get used to having a wife,’ said Max. ‘I never thought I’d get married.’
Edgar gave him a rather sharp look. ‘Lydia seems very nice.’
‘She’s not that nice,’ said Max. ‘But she suits me.’
‘I’d like to meet your children one day.’
‘They’re great,’ said Max. ‘Rocco’s very sweet-natured, reminds me of my mother. Elena’s a firecracker.’
‘It’s funny the resemblances you see,’ said Edgar. ‘Johnny’s named after my brother but I keep seeing my dad in him, especially when he was a baby. Perhaps because they were both bald.’
‘How’s life as a superintendent?’ said Max.
‘OK,’ said Edgar, looking into his glass. ‘Busy. It’s not like the old days.’
‘Nothing is,’ said Max. ‘Are you investigating this Bert Billington case?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Everyone in the business knew him,’ said Max. ‘He was a prize creep, always sniffing around the showgirls even when he was in his seventies. He had real power, though, because he owned so many venues and produced so many shows. You couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of him. He was the sort of person who prided himself on being rude. “I can’t stand you myself,” he once said to me, “but the women seem to like you.” I had to laugh as though he meant it as a joke but he wasn’t much of a one for jokes, Bert.’
‘Did you know his wife, Verity?’
‘The one and only Verity Malone. I appeared on the bill with her a few times. She wasn’t a great singer—she started as a chorus girl—but she was really gorgeous. She used to have this gold sequinned dress that was . . . well, mesmerising. Verity mesmerised men. She even mesmerised Bert.’
‘Why did she marry him, if he was such a creep?’
‘I’ve always assumed it was for the money. Verity told me once that she came from a very poor family, brought up in an East End slum. Bert was a lot older than her but he was rich. Plenty of women would have made the same decision.’
‘What’s the son like?’
‘Seth? He’s a pretty good actor even in this ridiculous Dracula film. I’d say that Seth has all Verity’s charm. I told you he actually asked me to speak to you about the case. To tell you that his mother couldn’t have done it. He suspects one of Bert’s spurned mistresses.’
Edgar looked uncomfortable. ‘I can’t really discuss . . .’
‘Don’t worry. I know you can’t. But if you start looking for Bert’s enemies, it’ll be a long list.’
‘Emma’s the one for lists. It’s a bit awkward, her investigating the case too.’
‘Are you worried she’ll solve it before Bob?’
No,’ said Edgar. Too quickly, Max thought. He waited and Edgar said, with a slightly self-conscious laugh, ‘Bob’s very twitchy. He thinks that Emma will find a vital clue before he does but I assume that Emma will tell us if she finds anything really significant.’
Max thought that this might be an assumption too far.
‘What about Sam Collins?’ he said. ‘Where does she fit in?’
‘She’s great at the research,’ said Edgar, ‘and she has all sorts of contacts from being a journalist. I think they make a good team.’
‘A formidable one,’ said Max. He drained his brandy. The windows were open and he could hear the music from the merry-go-round, the screams of thrill-seekers on the big wheel. But he was thinking of winter in Liverpool and a mesmerising woman in a golden dress.
* * *
Emma and Edgar walked back to Kemp Town, threading their way through day trippers and people trying to sell them Kiss Me Quick hats. Back at home they found Emma’s parents watching a show written, directed by and starring Marianne. Emma’s mother, Sybil, was sitting on the sofa wearing a paper crown. Her father, Archie, had a bow in his sparse white hair. Jonathan was running around, completely naked, and Sophie was crying because she didn’t have any lines in the play. Downstairs the remains of the lunch prepared by Emma were still on the table.
Emma already had a headache from a gin and tonic and two large glasses of wine. Now her head positively pulsated but she kept smiling while she made tea for her parents, got Johnny dressed, comforted Sophie and told Marianne that her play ‘The Girl Who Won the World’ was the best thing ever written. Then Edgar drove Sybil and Archie home and Emma turned on the TV. Edgar didn’t like to watch anything but the news but Emma was a big fan of the box as a temporary babysitter. Sure enough, although a rather tedious historical drama called Hereward the Wake was showing on BBC1, it seemed to transfix all three children. Emma crept downstairs to tidy up and wash down two aspirin with a mug of black coffee. She was just sitting down at the table to read the paper when she saw trim feet in ballet pumps descending the basement steps. Sam.
Emma felt only a small pang for the Sunday Times. Sam meant real news. She hurried across the room to let her in.
‘Hi,’ said Sam, sitting down at the table. ‘How was lunch with the beautiful people?’
Emma put on the kettle to make Sam coffee. ‘It was fun,’ she said. ‘I actually liked Lydia. She’s quite down-to-earth really. And she’s very interested in crime.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Sam. ‘How was Max?’
‘The same as ever. He never changes. He asked after you.’
‘Did he?’ said Sam, with what sounded like elaborate casualness. ‘Anyway, enough of movie stars. I’ve got a real clue.’
Emma put a mug of coffee in front of Sam.
‘Tell me.’
‘I went into the Argus this morning to file some copy. I was on my way back, on the bike, and I saw Ted Grange in his allotment. I thought I’d stop to say hallo. Turns out he likes motorbikes so we chatted a bit.’
Sam’s Triumph Tiger Cub was turning out to be quite an asset, Emma reflected. At the thought of Sam zipping through Woodingdean on her motorbike, she felt a twinge of envy, even though she’d spent the day having a meal with film stars at a luxury hotel.
‘Anyway,’ said Sam. ‘I asked Ted about the woman in the brown coat, just to see if he remembered anything else. People do remember things, odd things, a long time past the actual event. And he said something interesting.’ She paused, eking out the moment.
‘Spit it out,’ said Emma, although she’d recently told Marianne off for using this exact phrase.
