‘We’re trying to trace the agency,’ said Bob, apparently addressing the light fitting. ‘They’re not in the London directory. We don’t know if Sara Henratty had any links to modelling agencies but WPC Connolly and I are interviewing Percy McDonald, known as Peanuts, Sara’s ex-boyfriend, later this morning. WPC Connolly is also maintaining contact with the Bobby Hambro fans. We’ve warned them to be on their guard too.’
‘What about you, Meg?’ said O’Neill. ‘Fancy being a centrefold?’
Meg blushed redder than ever. Edgar waited for Bob to reprimand O’Neill and, when he didn’t, said, ‘That’s no way to speak to a colleague and fellow police officer, O’Neill. WPC Connolly is a valued member of the investigation team.’
O’Neill muttered something that might have been an apology. Bob looked as if he was about to say something but then coughed and looked back at his notes. Edgar wondered if he was angry that his boss had stepped in or just embarrassed by O’Neill’s behaviour. Bob continued, in his usual monotone, ‘Ernest Coggins, the man who abducted Rhonda six years ago, has escaped from Ford Open Prison. It’s hard to see how he could have had any involvement with the other girls but it’s still a link and one that should be investigated. We think that Coggins had an accomplice, a released fraudster called Howell Davies. We need to track him down.’
Edgar waited for O’Neill to comment but the sergeant was staring straight ahead.
‘Time is of the essence,’ he said. ‘Rhonda has been missing for a week now, Louise for longer. We have to find them. Brighton will be chock-a-block this weekend for the bank holiday. Easy for people to go unnoticed in the crowds. The last thing we want is for another girl to go missing.’
Emma had thought long and hard about what to serve for lunch. Sam never minded what she ate but Astarte favoured exotic food, salad made from garden herbs, soups full of ginger and spices. In the end she settled for ham and salad but she boiled some eggs and scooped out the yolks and mixed them with mustard and mayonnaise, the way Cook used to do.
‘Devilled eggs,’ said Sam when she saw them. ‘Very fancy.’
‘Is that what they’re called?’ said Emma, who was putting Johnny in his high chair. The name suddenly struck her as ill-omened.
‘They look like little suns,’ said Astarte. As she spoke, the actual sun seemed to break into the basement kitchen, blazing on Astarte’s golden hair and Johnny’s ruddy cheeks. The baby laughed and tried to grab Astarte’s necklace as she bent over to kiss him.
‘You can’t have that,’ she said, ‘but you can have this.’
She got a toy out of her bag. It was a wooden soldier that divided into three blocks. Johnny was enchanted, took it apart, looked at the pieces and put one in his mouth, then took it out to inspect it further. Emma tried not to think about the Zig Zag Girl, the woman cut into three. She hadn’t worked on the Conjuror Killer case but it had achieved mythical status with the Brighton police.
Over lunch they talked about the children, about Tol in the South of France, about Sam’s unsympathetic editor. They could have been three housewives meeting for a gossip apart from the moment when Astarte reached into her bag and brought out her crystal ball.
‘Do you have anything that belonged to the three girls?’ she asked.
‘I’ve got Rhonda’s school hat,’ said Emma. ‘I asked Ed to bring it home so I could look at it. All I’ve got from the others are the newspaper cuttings that Sam gave me.’
Astarte took the felt hat and placed it on the table in front of her. Jonathan watched her, fascinated, the toy halfway to his mouth. Then she put the three newspaper articles in a circle around it and placed her hands over them. There was silence apart from Johnny’s appreciative grunts as he gnawed on the wooden block.
Astarte turned the crystal ball so that it caught the sun, the rays flashing around the room, illuminating the china on the dresser, the cobwebs on the ceiling that Emma hadn’t been able to reach. Astarte took a deep breath and stared into the orb. What could she see, Emma wondered for the hundredth time. Were there really images in the cloudy depths, things that had happened and events yet to come? Or did Astarte just dream it all up and present her clients with vague platitudes that they wanted to believe? Astarte had once told Emma that occasionally she looked at a person’s palm and saw nothing. ‘Does that mean they’re dead?’ Emma had asked, facetiously. ‘Sometimes,’ Astarte had replied.
Now Astarte raised her head. She looked at Sam and Emma, her eyes unfocused and distant.
‘He hasn’t got a blonde,’ she said.
Percy ‘Peanuts’ McDonald lived in Southwick, a small town to the west of Brighton. He was seventeen and worked as an apprentice plumber.
‘During the week,’ he explained to Meg and the DI.
‘And at the weekends?’ asked Meg.
‘At the weekends I’m a mod.’
He said this with real fervour. Up to this point, Peanuts had been an uncommunicative, almost sullen interviewee. As he was only seventeen, the DI had asked if an adult could be present so Percy’s father, Alf, also a plumber, sat glumly on the sofa, dressed in his overalls as if to emphasise how ill he could afford to take any time off work.
‘Two of my brothers are mods,’ said Meg. ‘They spend hours attaching things to their bikes.’
‘Ah, well.’ Peanuts leant back in his chair, properly relaxing for the first time. ‘Your scooter’s your calling card, isn’t it? My Lambretta’s got chrome on the rear rack, side guards and front wheels, spotlights, a two-tone air horn and fifteen wing mirrors.’
‘He spends all his wages on that thing,’ said Alf McDonald. ‘And on the clothes. Ask him about the clothes.’
Peanuts shot his father a look. Unlike McDonald Senior, Peanuts was not in overalls but neatly dressed in slim-fitting trousers and a Fred Perry shirt. Meg instantly recognised the look as off-duty mod.
‘We’re investigating the murder of Sara Henratty,’ said the DI, obviously feeling that the fashion chat had gone on too long. ‘I know you’ve already spoken to one of my officers, Percy, but we’ve just got a few more questions about Sara. I’m sorry. I know this must be upsetting for you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Peanuts, reaching up to pat his hair into place. This too was carefully arranged and gleaming with oil. But Meg thought that the gesture was more for reassurance than anything. ‘I didn’t know Sara that well but I was upset. I mean, she was so young. It’s not what you expect, is it?’
Meg agreed that it wasn’t. ‘How did you meet her?’ she asked.
‘It was at the youth club,’ said Peanuts. ‘It’s run by the church but it’s not too God-squaddy and they’ve got a pool table. Sara was there with a friend. We got talking and we went for a walk the next day.’
‘Did you see her often after that?’
‘Just once or twice.’ Peanuts looked at his father. ‘Just to the cinema and that. It wasn’t anything serious.’
‘He brought her here once,’ said Alf. ‘Pretty little thing. The wife and I were really shocked when we heard the news.’
‘Mum didn’t like her,’ said Peanuts. ‘She thought Sara stole one of her necklaces.’
‘It wasn’t that Mum didn’t like her,’ said Alf. He turned to Meg as if appealing for her support. ‘We felt sorry for Sara. She lived in a children’s home. She didn’t have much. If she took the necklace, then she was welcome to it. Like I said, we were very upset when we heard the news.’
Sara had been wearing a necklace when she died, Meg remembered. Had it once belonged to her boyfriend’s mother? The chain had been broken when her killer put his hands round Sara’s neck. Meg hoped that Sara had managed to get some pleasure out of the stolen jewellery but she doubted it somehow.
‘Peanuts,’ she said. Percy had asked them to use his nickname (‘everyone does, except my mum’) although the DI was obviously finding it difficult. Meg sympathised. Her mother still called her Margaret. ‘Peanuts, I saw a picture of Sara in the papers. She was dressed in mod clothes. D
o you remember that photograph being taken?’
Peanuts shook his head. ‘No, but I heard about it. Sara was really proud of that photo. She had all the mod gear, the dresses and the boots, and she looked really good in it. And she had that blonde hair. Mum said it was dyed but it still looked great. Like a film star. Like Marilyn Monroe.’
Hardly a happy comparison, given that the film star had killed herself two years earlier. Meg’s brother Patrick had been inconsolable. She exchanged a glance with the DI and leant forward. ‘Do you remember anyone approaching Sara and saying that she should be a model? Did she ever mention anyone who had said something like that to her?’
‘Yes,’ said Peanuts immediately. ‘She told me that a man had stopped her in the street and said that she should be a model. I didn’t know whether to believe her. Sara . . . well, she didn’t lie.’ Another look at his father. ‘But she made things up sometimes. She said this man stopped her in Western Road and said that she could make a fortune as a model.’
‘Did she say anything more about the man?’ said Meg. ‘How old was he? What did he look like?’
‘I can only remember one thing,’ said Peanuts. ‘She said that he was American. That’s what made me think it wasn’t true. I mean, how many Americans do you get in Brighton?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Emma.
Astarte put her hands on the newspaper cuttings. ‘Rhonda’s a redhead, Louise has black hair. He had a blonde but he lost her. He wants another.’
Emma felt her skin prickle. The sun disappeared behind a cloud and the room seemed suddenly to be full of shadows.
‘How did you know that Rhonda has red hair? The picture’s in black and white.’
‘I saw her in the crystal ball,’ said Astarte. ‘She’s alive but she’s in danger. He’s looking. He’s looking for another girl to add to his collection. He has a brunette now. All he needs is a blonde.’
‘A brunette? Do you mean Ruby?’
‘I can’t see Ruby,’ said Astarte. ‘She’s behind a veil. But he has another girl. He has them in a cage.’
For some reason, Emma thought of Edgar’s description of the playpen where he had found a woman’s body behind the bars. She remembered now what the killer had called it. The wolf trap.
Twenty
Meg was alone in the incident room when the call came through. The sergeant, McGuire, put his head round the door.
‘Where’s DI Willis?’
‘District strategy meeting with the super,’ said Meg. ‘In Hove.’ She was typing up her notes from the interview with Peanuts McDonald and was glad of a break. She’d never really learnt to touch-type although all the male officers seemed to believe that this was her forte. Well, that and making the tea.
‘Got this man on the phone,’ said McGuire. ‘He says he’s found some shoes in a tunnel. In Rottingdean. Could be a nutter but he’s asking for the DI.’
As clearly as if he were in the room, Meg heard the DI’s voice. ‘It appears that the shoes were removed from the scene.’ Sara Henratty’s shoes had been taken away. Sara’s body had been found on the undercliff at Rottingdean.
‘I’ll go and check it out,’ she said, standing up.
‘You?’ said McGuire.
‘I’m a member of the investigation team,’ said Meg, quoting the super. ‘And I’ll investigate.’
‘On your own?’ McGuire was smiling now. Meg wanted to slap him.
‘I’ll get PC Black to drive me,’ she said. She’d seen Danny in the rest room. She was pretty sure that he’d jump at the chance of escaping from the station for an hour.
‘What shall I tell the DI when he gets back?’
‘Tell him I’m on the case,’ said Meg grandly. She attempted to sweep out of the room but spoilt the effect by almost falling over a chair.
She was right, though. Danny was only too happy to drive her to Rottingdean.
‘We’re on a mission,’ he said, as they bowled past Roedean, high on the cliff, the seagulls circling around the clock tower.
‘Connolly and Black. Secret Agents.’
‘Black and Connolly. Alphabetical order.’
‘It sounds better my way round.’
They parked by the village green which was complete with duck pond, ancient stone church and various grand-looking houses.
‘It’s like a picture postcard,’ said Meg. She found some crumbs in her pocket and threw them into the water.
‘It’s full of nobs,’ said Danny gloomily, watching the ducks fight over the specks of bread.
The call had come from a man called Tony Peters, who ran a gift shop on the High Street. Its name was The Smugglers’ Cave and it was the sort of place that Meg usually avoided because of her propensity to knock things off shelves. She entered sideways, trying to keep her limbs in check. Danny looked at her oddly.
Tony Peters was a tall man with a rubbery, humorous face. ‘I didn’t know what to make of it,’ he said. ‘I never normally go into that tunnel.’
‘Are there lots of tunnels then?’ asked Meg, keeping well away from a display of glass animals.
‘Yes,’ said Tony. ‘Rottingdean’s famous for smugglers. The gentlemen, they used to call them. You know the windmill on the hill by the golf course?’
‘Yes,’ said Meg. She’d seen it many times, the stocky black shape against the sky.
‘Well, the villagers used it to send messages. When the windmill’s sails made a cross, it was safe for the smugglers to land. When they made an X-shape, it meant that the excise men were around. The whole village was in on it. Even the vicar, apparently.’
‘Did the smugglers use the tunnels to hide stolen goods?’ Meg only had a vague idea of what the goods might have been. Brandy? Tobacco?
‘That’s right. The smugglers used to land here, you see, because there’s a natural gap in the cliffs and they used the tunnels to bring the goods from the beach into the village. There were loads of them at one time but most are blocked up now.’
‘Where does this tunnel lead? The one where you found the shoes?’
‘I’ll show you.’ Tony took a torch from a shelf and opened a door by the till. ‘You’ll have to duck,’ he said to Meg. ‘It’s not made for people our height.’ Danny, who was shorter than Meg, did one of his cross-eyed looks.
Tony led them down stone stairs into a brick-lined passage. ‘This leads down to the beach,’ he said, ‘but the end is blocked up by rubble. Or so I thought. I brew my own beer and I keep the barrels down here. There’s another tunnel that leads off at right-angles. I don’t usually go in there but this morning I thought I’d just check that the ceiling hadn’t fallen in. That happens sometimes. So many buses and lorries on the High Street these days. It dislodges the chalk.’
They had reached what seemed to be a dead end but Meg saw that there were actually two archways, one leading left and one right, like Sister Angela’s story about the fork in the road. In that version, one road led to heaven and the other to hell. She hoped that Tony was going to choose wisely. They took the left-hand entrance and immediately found themselves in a new tunnel, more roughly hewn than the one before, with walls and ceiling made from chalk. It was cold and uncomfortably narrow.
‘We’re almost at sea level now,’ said Tony. ‘Like I say, I thought the end was blocked but I was wrong.’
He stopped suddenly, causing Meg to bump into him and Danny to cannon into her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. He was laughing though. Meg could see his teeth gleaming in the darkness.
‘We’re at the end,’ said Tony. He shone the torch to show a low door. ‘That leads directly onto the undercliff walk. There’s a sort of niche here and that’s where I found the shoes.’
They were in a semicircular space, almost a cave. There was a concrete floor here and alcoves carved out of the chalk. In one of these were eight shoes, neatly placed together in pairs: schoolgirl’s brogues, nurse’s rubber-soled flats, tatty white stilettos that needed heeling and a pair of black-and-white sling
backs, so shiny and new that they could have been part of an avant-garde fashion shoot.
‘It seemed so odd,’ Tony was saying. ‘That’s why I called the police. I asked for DI Willis because I heard him on the radio, talking about that poor girl who was found near here.’
Near here. Where were they exactly? There was a distinct smell in the air, something unpleasant but also familiar.
‘Is the door locked?’ asked Meg.
‘I assumed so,’ said Tony, ‘but look.’ He pulled at the door, the wood scraping against the concrete. Sunlight streamed in. Shielding her eyes, Meg stepped out onto the paving stones of the undercliff walk. She looked around. The White Horse pub was directly above them, the beach opposite. They were in the exact spot where Sara Henratty’s body was found.
Meg telephoned from the shop and the DI was there in twenty minutes. Meg was disappointed to see that he had Sergeant O’Neill with him.
‘Been doing some digging, Meg?’ That was O’Neill’s first comment.
Meg ignored him. ‘Mr Peters telephoned to say that he’d found some shoes in a tunnel under his shop,’ she said, addressing the DI. ‘I drove out here with PC Black to investigate.’
‘Why didn’t you call a DS?’ said O’Neill. ‘Someone senior?’
‘There was no one available,’ said Meg. ‘And I thought it was urgent.’
She was relieved that the DI seemed satisfied with this.
‘Where’s this tunnel then?’
‘We can get in from the undercliff walk,’ said Meg, looking at the DI and O’Neill, neither of whom were exactly sylphlike.
‘Lead the way,’ said the DI.
They walked down the ramp towards the sea. It was almost midday and the sun was bright overhead. The tide was out and the beach was deserted apart from a man throwing stones for his dog. Meg led the way to the wooden door and pushed it open. The DI switched on his torch and stepped inside.
‘The shoes are there, in that alcove,’ said Meg.
The DI continued to shine his torch around the cave, the chalk walls, the concrete floor. The shoes were in one corner and for the first time Meg saw some sacking in another alcove alongside a plastic bucket.
Now You See Them Page 15