by Lynne Truss
‘Yes, Cecil. You set her up well, I admit that. Everyone said, It’s Adelaide Vine doing this out of revenge for her mum, and I kept on saying, It’s not, though; this goes bleeding deep. But I tell you what, Cecil. That was cruel to make me think someone had hurt you.’
They all looked into the distance at Adelaide Vine, who had now stopped walking and was looking back uncertainly, as if waiting for an instruction. Cecil waved her on. Adelaide, with obvious relief, began to run.
‘I suppose I should congratulate you on saving Inspector Idiot,’ said Cecil. ‘But he was only the icing on the cake. It’s Sergeant Stupid who’s your Achilles’ heel.’
‘Don’t call him that, Cecil. I’ve told you before.’
‘I’ll call him what I like,’ he said sharply, tightening his grip. ‘Either way, his days of doling out ten-bob notes to me is over. Condescending bastard.’
‘Listen, Cecil. Don’t you go hurting Jim Brunswick, I won’t stand for it.’
He laughed. ‘You should hear yourself.’
‘I mean it, Cecil. Anything else we could come to terms on, but not that.’
‘Ha!’ he said to the others, smiling in triumph. ‘I knew it! Didn’t I tell you? For a woman with no soft spots, she’s got so many soft spots! Tell Mrs G what we’re planning for Sergeant Stupid if she don’t concede to me at once, Stanley.’
Stanley leaned in and grimaced. ‘We’re gonna start by shaving some bits off,’ he whispered, drawing the Stanley knife from his pocket for her to see.
She closed her eyes. ‘No, you’re not.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Cecil. ‘Why don’t we go back to your place, Palmeira? Then you can put your affairs in order just before you unfortunately fall downstairs and break your ruddy neck.’
Back at the police station, Inspector Steine sat at his desk while Twitten busied himself in a small room along the corridor, trying to make them both a nice restorative cup of tea.
This job turned out to be much more challenging than he had anticipated. For one thing, there were no printed instructions to be found anywhere. For another, only tepid water was available in the urn, and the teapot, confusingly, contained old wet tea-leaves. He paused to think. Had he ever seen anyone empty a teapot? Honestly, no. Was it possible that you weren’t supposed to? Yes, it was possible. For a start, where would the old tea-leaves go?
So he added some lukewarm water to the cold, soggy leaves in the pot, and then (to be on the safe side) emptied a half-packet of fresh tea-leaves into it, stirring with effort as he did so. Then he picked up the pot – which was surprisingly heavy – and attempted the deft swirling action that Mrs Groynes always accompanied with the mantra ‘Show it the pictures on the wall.’ He felt sure this would do the trick.
Forgetting to use a strainer, he poured the resulting chunky tepid liquid into a cup, then added a measure of milk and four spoonfuls of sugar. Then he took a sip, gasped ‘Golly!’ in a choking fashion, looked round for somewhere to spit it out, failed, and swallowed it with disgust, and went back to the office a few minutes later to confess that the tea things had unfortunately all been cleared away by persons unknown, and perhaps they should go out for a cup instead?
‘Where’s Brunswick?’ said the inspector flatly.
‘Ooh, well. That’s a very good question, sir, because I don’t know the answer. He’s mysteriously missing, sir.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t understand missing, sir? Gosh, I’m not sure how to explain it. But he didn’t go home last night. His auntie is distraught, and I’m a bit worried myself. I didn’t tell his auntie this, because I didn’t want to add to her anxiety, but last night the sergeant passed up the chance of home-made pink blancmange, so I think it’s quite serious.’
‘Good heavens. The sergeant is quite partial to blancmange, isn’t he?’
‘He bally well is, sir. He once said in my presence that he’d like to “flaming marry it”, sir.’
‘Do you think he’s actually tied up somewhere?’
‘Well, he’s either that or dead. With your permission, I’d like to start making inquiries. The trouble is, sir, I wonder whether it’s advisable to leave you alone right now.’
This was a good assessment of the situation. The inspector had just been through a very traumatic ordeal, most of which was still not fully clear to him.
‘You might be right.’ Steine shook his head. ‘Look, just explain again, Twitten. It was all an elaborate trap, you’re saying? Even the zebra crossing?’
‘The zebra crossing was at the heart of the plan, sir.’
‘So Miss Lennon was behind it?’
‘Well, she might not have conceived the plan herself, but she made it happen, sir. Didn’t it strike you as odd that the preparations for the crossing came together so incredibly quickly, sir?’
Steine had never questioned it. ‘Those poor Frenchmen with the onions. Did she mean for them to die?’
‘No, sir. That was where the plan went wrong. What Miss Lennon wanted was for the clock to chime the hour, at which point Mr Chaucer would come forward and—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Steine shuddered. ‘Yes, that’s enough. You did explain, although I still don’t see why it had to be in German. But remind me why she wanted me dead; I thought she liked me.’
‘I’m afraid the pretending to like you was all a ruse, sir.’
‘Good God, is nothing what it seems?’
‘She nearly got away with it, sir. It was only because the person called from London Zoo about charging the penguins to Mr Chambers that I began to put two and two together. I’ve been bally blind, sir.’
Twitten handed the inspector the framed picture. ‘That’s her as a child, sir, with her little brother Terry.’
‘Bobby?’ said the inspector, puzzled.
‘Roberta, sir. I suppose she preferred the name Bobby. Like the older girl in The Railway Children, sir. It must have helped Mr Chambers enormously to have his sister working as such a senior secretary at Scotland Yard. She was well placed to feed Chambers confidential information, destroy evidence that incriminated him, and of course she never come under suspicion, you see, because people always underestimate women.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m sure I don’t.’
‘Oh, but everyone does. It seems to be a sort of universal rule.’
The inspector looked at the picture: of the young Terence Chambers holding hands with his big, big sister, whose greatest quality was that she was ‘insanely loyal’.
‘But I recall Miss Lennon was sent here by the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,’ Twitten continued. ‘So a rather larger and, may I say, darker issue presents itself, doesn’t it, sir?’
Steine frowned. ‘Does it?’
‘Sir, I believe your killing of Mr Chambers might have made you a marked man with many high-ranking members of the Metropolitan Police who were accustomed to receiving money from him. I am therefore wondering whether the commissioner sent her here not in ignorance but actually knowing who she was?’
‘Good God,’ the inspector said again. He returned the picture to Twitten and faced the window. ‘It’s very shocking, isn’t it?’
‘What, sir?’
‘Corruption. In the police, I mean.’
‘Oh, I agree. It’s bally awful, sir. You happily forget all about the subject of bent coppers. In fact everyone prefers to. And then, crikey! Up it pops again.’
‘Do you think there’s any corruption here in Brighton?’
‘Oh, golly, I don’t think so, sir. Or not of the conventional kind. Here it’s done more with fruit cake and sausage rolls and—’
But Inspector Steine wasn’t listening. ‘You don’t think Brunswick would ever … ?’
‘No, sir! Absolutely not.’
‘Good.’
‘He is totally honest, sir. Too honest, arguably. His problem is that he’s too trusting, especially where attractive younger women are conc
erned. But since you’re asking, I do have suspicions about Constable Jenkins. His behaviour at the zebra crossing was quite peculiar, sir. When the plan to murder you collapsed, I saw him punch a brick wall with his bare hands.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, sir. He realised I’d seen it, and came running over to check you were all right. But his knuckles were bleeding. And I’ve been meaning to say: did anyone ever ask him to be your bodyguard, sir?’
The inspector frowned again. ‘That’s a very good question, Twitten. I have no idea. When he started protecting me, I assumed he’d been ordered to do it.’
‘Well, I think he deliberately overdid it, so that you’d get cross with him and be driven to put all your trust in Miss Lennon, sir.’
‘But why would he allow himself to be bent, as you put it?’
‘Oh, I expect the usual reasons, sir. He’s been here for years and he’s still a constable, for a start.’
Steine’s gaze swept back and forth across his desk a couple of times, as if a lovely consoling hot beverage made with leaves originating in India or China might materialise. It didn’t. Perhaps the shock was beginning to come home to him. He realised his hands were shaking.
‘You ought to go and find out what you can about Brunswick, Constable,’ he said, his voice as steady as he could manage. He cleared his throat authoritatively. ‘Yes. It’s probably best if you leave me now. Get someone from downstairs to guard the office until Chaucer is picked up.’
‘Very good, sir. I’m so sorry I failed with the tea.’
‘No matter. I need to take it all in, I think.’
Twitten picked up his helmet and turned to go, but paused.
‘Sir? If I may … ’ He blushed. This was a difficult thing to say, but he felt compelled. A day like this had never occurred before.
‘That was a very selfless thing you did earlier, sir,’ he gushed. ‘Hurling yourself in front of the car. I can’t get it out of my mind. It was—’ He stopped and blinked, slightly overcome. ‘Well, it was bally marvellous.’
To Twitten’s surprise and alarm, Steine’s eyes welled with tears. ‘No, no, Twitten,’ he said, distraught. ‘You mustn’t say that.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Listen, Twitten. This is the truth.’ The inspector took a deep, steadying breath. ‘When I jumped in front of the car it wasn’t marvellous. I saw the stupid man fixed to the spot and … ’ He trailed off and gave it some thought. ‘And it just seemed like the right thing to do.’
Sergeant Brunswick heard the distant sound of a door being opened. He moaned, but didn’t try to move, because he had tried it before and achieved nothing. His head hurt, his body ached and his hands were numb. But mainly he was angry. How quickly things had gone wrong for him last night! No sooner had he walked through the door of the wax museum with Adelaide Vine than whack! – he’d been hit on the head.
In his police career he was accustomed to walking into dangerous situations, but generally he did so understanding the flaming risk. This meant that when (invariably) his ill-considered undercover operations were tragically blown at the last minute, he was able to face his fate with equanimity. He was even able to tell himself that being shot in the leg so many times was a mark of his dedication as a policeman.
But last night’s reversal was very different. He had met Adelaide Vine out of kindness, agreed to enter the old Maison du Wax, explained politely, ‘I can’t stay long, miss, because I have a dinner appointment at seven’ – and the next thing he knew he was waking up with a blinding headache, tied to a blooming chair! He kept thinking of Len the Photographer, when he was taken away in the ambulance the other day, moaning ‘Ow, my head!’ At the time, Brunswick had thought, Blimey, mate, you don’t have to keep saying it. We all know what happened to you. But now, with every conscious second that passed, he wanted to say, ‘Ow, my head! Ow, my head! Ow, my head!’ just as Len had done.
Of course, if he thought more deeply about it, he had to admit that Twitten had warned him about Adelaide Vine at least once. Miss Vine is a trained con artist with years of experience, sir, the pipsqueak constable had said. Also: You shouldn’t trust a single word from her, especially when she’s assuring you how bally wonderful you are.
But looking at it another way, didn’t Twitten judge people quite harshly? Wasn’t he basically a brain on a stick, without a shred of human feeling? ‘There is no need to torture yourself remembering what Twitten said,’ he told himself. ‘None of this is your fault, Jim. You responded to a woman in distress, because you’re a kind person with a big heart.’
But more of Twitten’s warnings crowded into his mind. And if you remember, sir, Miss Vine did, on a previous occasion not so long ago, sort of shoot you in the leg. Also: … it behoves us, sir, as responsible policemen and trusted servants of the public, to resist Miss Vine’s womanly wiles.
Brunswick groaned again at the memory of that word ‘behoves’, and then, remembering the recent fateful sound of the upstairs door opening, looked up to face his beautiful nemesis. This wasn’t how he had pictured his end. He had fancied a dramatic showdown on a Soho rooftop, followed by a lavish police funeral (with plumed horses) and a posthumous medal for bravery. But now his poor body would doubtless be left down here, mouldering in the dark basement of a condemned seaside wax museum, only to be found when the wrecking ball was sent in.
There were footsteps on the stairs, and a torch beam lit up fragments of the dusty exhibits. He closed his eyes. They were female footsteps, all right: high-heeled shoes clacking on tiles. A waft of female fragrance reached his nose. He held his breath.
‘James, it’s me!’ called a female voice. ‘Where are you? Are you in here?’
‘Mrs Thorpe?’ he called, opening his eyes. ‘Ow, my head!’
‘There you are,’ she said, shining her torch at him. Her tone was, oddly, not one of relief, more one of accusation. ‘Oh, James, James, I am only flesh and blood. That you would go to such lengths to avoid my dinner table makes me extremely cross!’
‘Mrs Thorpe, what are you talking about? I’m tied up. And my head – my flaming head hurts.’
She dropped a large bag to the floor. It made a metallic clattering noise, as if she had brought the contents of her kitchen drawer. ‘I want you to know that your not coming to dinner last night was very bad manners,’ she said. ‘In fact, we all agreed it was extremely rude.’
Just one thought had given hope to Mrs Groynes as she was frogmarched back to her house in Upper North Street by Cecil and his goons. When she had turned to face them in the rain, she had noticed something very interesting. She had seen that, a few yards behind Cecil and his men, another person was following them.
It was quite easy to pick out the man in pursuit, because when she stopped and turned to face Cecil’s party, he likewise jerked to a halt. How fascinating it was that, just like Adelaide – and just like herself – Cecil had not checked behind him. If she survived this day, she would cite this case on one of her quarterly training sessions, because all these people were adept at following, yet oblivious to being followed. But for the time being, as she was propelled by Cecil along the wet pavements of Brighton, crossing the streets and dodging through the traffic, it pleased her to know that, twenty yards behind was a very conspicuous tall young man with wild hair and bloodshot eyes, carrying a glinting instrument of decapitation.
Cecil wasn’t in the mood for talking, but Mrs Groynes had other ideas. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked him. ‘Oh, let me bleeding guess, dear. Didn’t I treat you like dirt enough? Was I too bleeding good to you?’
Cecil’s grip on her arm grew more painful, but he said nothing.
Stanley leaned in. ‘He don’t like to explain, boss. I asked him the same thing.’
‘Don’t call her “boss”, Stanley!’ said Cecil angrily.
‘Yes, boss,’ said Stanley, shrugging. Half his mind was on the unfinished Gosling’s window display he’d been torn away from. The other half was on the stu
nning autumn-leaf cascading theme that presumably he would never now get to execute.
They had reached Upper North Street. Mrs Groynes needed to slow things down before they reached her house. So she stopped walking.
‘Tell me this isn’t about the bleeding bunnies, Cecil,’ she said.
‘Of course it’s about the bunnies, Palmeira!’ he burst out. ‘I told you at the start. But you said, “The bunnies stay; the bunnies are genius.” And so I’m stuck acting the beggar on a windy corner ’til I’m old and grey, with people buying sodding plastic toys out of pity for me?’
‘But you were brilliant at your job, Cecil. My key man. The bunnies were never the point.’
‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for years, Palmeira. Ruddy years. And then it all came to a head, didn’t it? When you took out Chambers, I thought, well, she’ll be moving into the big time now, and she’ll take me with her. I’m one of her four musketeers, and I work harder than any of the others – I work every day! But nothing changed, did it? Day after day, it’s still bunnies, bunnies, bunnies; still see the bunny run, see the bunny jump!’
She pulled her arm free and stood back, facing them all, partly for dramatic effect and partly to check who was following behind. Also, she was genuinely angry. Was this man really complaining about having to say ‘See the bunny run’ a few times?
‘You could have changed the form of words, dear!’ she snapped. ‘Be bleeding reasonable, Cecil, and for gawd’s sake stop feeling sorry for yourself. No one was making you say the same thing for ever and ever, were they?’
‘Shut up, Palmeira. Shut up!’
‘Don’t tell me to shut up! You’re acting like a kid.’
Passers-by had already started sensing something amiss in this little group arguing so passionately in the rain, but Jenkins waved them past. ‘Move along now, please,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s nothing to see. Perhaps we should take this discussion indoors, madam?’
But people were looking at them anyway. And behind Cecil and his associates, a tall man with an axe was not only lingering, but listening.