Tonight, though, as he took the empty glass through to the kitchen, there was something different about the house. He could sense it, even though there was no sound apart from the grandfather clock wheezing in the hall. Crispian rinsed the glass under the tap and, as he did so, he thought he saw something through the window, a fleeting glimpse of white, a movement somewhere out there in the carefully tended shrubbery. Crispian fetched a poker from the drawing room and went to the front door. He flung it open and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ Silence. A dog barked a few houses along. ‘I’m armed,’ shouted Sir Crispian, although the First World War Enfield rifle over the fireplace hadn’t been fired since Crispian’s father had fought desperately in his Ypres trench nearly fifty years ago.
His words echoed through the dark street. But Crispian knew that someone was listening.
Twenty-Seven
On Bank Holiday Monday the reinforcements came. More Vespas on the Brighton Road, more motorbikes outside the Daygo and the Little Chef.
‘We’re bringing in police horses today,’ said Edgar, as he snatched a quick breakfast. ‘Hopefully just the sight of them will put some of the rioters off.’
‘I want to see the horses,’ said Marianne, her bottom lip starting to protrude.
‘Another time,’ said Edgar, getting up and putting on his jacket. ‘Anyway, you saw some horses on Saturday, Mari. You went riding. Mummy said that you were really good. You’d better play it safe again today,’ he said to Emma. ‘Keep indoors. Trouble was mostly restricted to the area around the Palace Pier and the arches yesterday but there are some pretty nasty customers in town.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Emma. Officially, she and Edgar had made up but she still found herself talking to him as if he was a stranger. She knew that Marianne had noticed something and was acting up accordingly.
‘Some minor injuries but it was mostly damage to property,’ said Edgar. ‘The windows of the Savoy Cinema were smashed and hundreds of deckchairs were broken.’
‘It’s hardly the Battle of the Alamo,’ said Emma. She still thought that Edgar was exaggerating about the threat posed by the mods and rockers and was not looking forward to another day trapped in the house with the children.
‘Could be worse today,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve got every man out. There are rumours of another thousand mods coming down from London.’
‘I like the mods best,’ said Marianne, ‘because they’ve got nice clothes.’
‘They’re both as bad as each other,’ said Edgar. ‘Bye.’ He kissed Emma politely on the cheek, patted Jonathan on the head and hugged both girls. ‘Stay safe.’
‘Bye,’ said Emma. She wasn’t going to add ‘you too’.
Edgar reached the station to find the place in ordered chaos. The new officers had been bussed in and were being briefed by Bob in the incident room. There was a palpable sense of excitement and tension. In his office Edgar got out his map of Madeira Terrace and the area around the Palace Pier. He marked the places where the police should be stationed, blue for the first wave, red for the second. The plan was to keep the mods on the shingle and the rockers on the promenade and prevent the twain from ever meeting. It was like a battle, he thought, and enjoyable while the forces were just different colours on paper. The reality might prove very different. He checked the list of equipment provided for each constable: truncheon, whistle, rattle, torch, handcuffs. There weren’t quite enough truncheons to go round and tempers in the changing room were apparently getting frayed. Edgar picked up his pocket wireless. The Brighton police had been one of the first forces to use these radio sets but the quality of transmission was notoriously poor. Edgar tested his now: ‘One, two, one, two . . .’
When his phone rang he thought at first that the noise was coming from his radio. But it was Rita saying, ‘Inspector Jarvis on the line.’
‘Hi, Fred,’ said Edgar. ‘What’s up?’
‘Sorry to bother you when you’ve got the barbarians at the gate,’ said Jarvis, ‘but there’s been a development with the Isabel Rowlands case.’
‘Who?’ At first Edgar didn’t recognise the name.
‘The girl in Dollis Hill who saw a man hanging round her house.’
‘Oh yes. The Bobby Hambro fan.’
‘Well, last night a note was pushed through her door. It said, “You are beautiful. You should be a model.” There was a telephone number too. A Brighton number. I rang but no answer as yet.’
Edgar exhaled. ‘Do you think that was our man?’
‘It sounds like him from what you’ve told me.’
‘Did Isabel see anything?’
‘No. She just found the note on the mat. I’ve got officers at the house now. I’ll check the paper for fingerprints but, of course, that won’t help unless our chap’s on file somewhere.’
‘No,’ said Edgar. ‘Thanks, Fred. Keep me informed, will you?’
He put down the phone. The imminent arrival of the mods and rockers, not to mention the row with Emma, had almost taken his mind off the biggest danger of all. There was someone out there threatening women. A man was waiting outside a young girl’s house. He had posted a sinister little note through her door. He felt another surge of anger against Emma. What had she been doing trying to tempt this creature out of hiding? He had already killed a girl. He would almost certainly kill again.
He was so deep in thought that he didn’t, at first, hear the tap on the door. It was only when a face appeared that he realised that the knocking had been going on for a while.
‘Excuse me, sir?’
It was WPC Connolly, wearing a duty band and a rather martyred expression.
‘What is it, WPC Connolly?’
‘Sir, will you be needing WPCs on the seafront today?’
‘The plan is for you to stay back at the base,’ said Edgar. ‘We’ll need officers here if there are multiple arrests.’
‘There are girl mods,’ said Connolly. ‘Sara Henratty was one. They might need a woman constable to go to if they get into trouble.’
Edgar was irritated. He thought that WPC Connolly saw her job primarily as an opportunity to have adventures. Well it wasn’t like that. Policing was hard slog, endless paperwork, pounding the beat. The memory of Emma, always eager for new experiences, further hardened his heart towards this new, keen woman officer. He was tempted to tell Meg to stay behind and sort out the filing. But he stopped himself just in time. WPC Connolly had done good work on this case. She had infiltrated the Bobby Hambro fans, she’d found the shoes in the tunnel and she had acted well on her own initiative. She was also the person who had raised the possibility of a threat to Isabel Rowlands. Besides, she made a good point about the mods. He had seen women—girls really—in the crowd yesterday. It might be good if there were some WPCs around.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘but check with DI Willis first and don’t get involved in any of the scuffles.’
‘I won’t,’ said WPC Connolly. ‘Sir, did you send someone to see Isabel Rowlands?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar. ‘An officer visited her house yesterday. Isabel gave him a description of the man but it wasn’t really any more detailed than the one she gave you. There has been another incident though. A note was pushed through Isabel’s door yesterday evening. It said that she was beautiful and should be a model.’
‘Blimey,’ said WPC Connolly. ‘Sorry,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s just, that must be the same man. The one who told Rhonda and Sara that they could be models.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Edgar repressively. ‘The local police are at the house now.’
‘Good,’ said Meg. ‘I was worried. Those girls are nice but they’re awfully silly. They’d go off with the devil himself if he said he’d introduce them to Bobby Hambro.’
Edgar didn’t smile. He thought that the remark was in bad taste. He nodded a dismissal and turned back to his map but Meg was still standing in the doorway.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘Howell Davies came into the station yesterday.’<
br />
‘Who?’
‘The man who was suspected of being Ernest Coggins’s accomplice. He came in to give himself up, he said. Davies claimed to have an alibi for the day of Coggins’s escape. He was in Wales visiting his family. I followed it up and it checks out.’
‘Good,’ said Edgar. ‘Fact checking is very important. Did you get it all down on the file?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s just . . . Davies said something about Coggins hating Sir Crispian Miles because he was a butcher.’
‘A butcher?’ This rang a faint bell. Oh, yes. Emma’s research in Who’s Who. ‘I believe Sir Crispian used to own a chain of butcher’s shops,’ he said. ‘But he sold them when he became a member of parliament.’
‘But what if Coggins has a vendetta against him?’ said Connolly. ‘He’s still very involved with animals. I read the report about the work he’d done in prison, with the pigs and chickens and all that. What if Coggins broke out of prison to get revenge on the Miles family?’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Edgar. ‘If you’re going to the seafront, you should be getting ready. Don’t forget your whistle.’
Marianne was inclined to be sulky after Edgar had left. She didn’t want to play with Sophie, she didn’t want to read a book and the suggestion of starting on her homework was met with the contempt it deserved.
‘Let’s make a cake,’ said Emma. If Edgar was going to hold the newspaper article against her, she might as well play up to the stereotype. She quite liked the thought of herself as the beating heart of the home, dispensing delicious meals as well as pithy advice.
The girls were immediately excited by the idea, tying tea-towels round their waists and helping to get mixing bowls and cake tins out of the cupboard. Jonathan watched from his high chair, occasionally beating the tray with a wooden spoon. But, when Emma got out her Mrs Beeton and started searching the larder, she found that she was missing half the ingredients. She hadn’t got any baking powder or vanilla essence and there was only one egg in the ceramic hen by the cooker.
‘Will Mrs Minton have them in the Little Shop?’ said Marianne.
The Little Shop was on the corner of their road. It was a chaotic space filled with cardboard boxes and old packing cases but it mysteriously seemed to stock most things. ‘I don’t know if it’s open on a bank holiday,’ said Emma. ‘It is,’ said Marianne. ‘I saw a sign outside. Open until midday. What time is it now?’
It was half past ten. Emma started to hunt for her handbag. ‘Will you watch Johnno?’ she said to the girls. ‘I’ll only be five minutes.’
‘Can I go?’ said Marianne. ‘You promised I could go to shops by myself when I was eight. And I’m nearly nine now and I never have.’
Emma hesitated. It was true that she had made that promise. Edgar had told them to stay inside but the streets hardly seemed to be teeming with violent hooligans. She looked out of the window. Their road was utterly deserted. From the corner of the bay window she could see the seafront. It looked as if spectators were gathering by the railings hoping to see another battle. But, in the other direction, not a creature in sight. And, by craning her neck, she could just see the awning outside the Little Shop. She’d be able to watch Marianne all the way.
‘Take Sophie with you,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a list and ten shillings.’
Marianne was too delighted even to complain about Sophie’s presence. She put on her cardigan and took the list and the note.
‘Come straight back,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll be watching.’
‘I will,’ said Marianne.
Emma watched them walking up the road, hand in hand, like an advertisement for Start-Rite shoes.
From his balcony at the Grand, Max could also see the crowds converging on the seafront. The gangs of youths, some sharp-suited, some in studded leather, reminded him of the Montagues and the Capulets at the start of Romeo and Juliet. He’d played Mercutio at school, the best part because you got to fence—something he’d been rather good at—and have a showy death scene before all the love stuff really started. As Max watched, four police horses passed by, their muscular rumps gleaming. Their hooves sounded a self-important tattoo on the tarmac, both stirring and rather sombre. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Max reached for his hat. Staying in his room wasn’t going to make Ruby appear again. He might as well see what all the fuss was about.
‘Going out, Mr Mephisto?’ said the doorman. ‘Be careful. There are some ruffians out there today.’
‘I’ll be sure to steer clear of them,’ said Max.
‘They should never have stopped National Service,’ said the doorman. ‘That’s my opinion.’
It was a viewpoint that Max had heard rather often in the past few days. These young people had too much time on their hands, they needed some hard physical work to keep them occupied, some discipline, etc., etc.. For himself, he was glad National Service was over. He’d hated any kind of enforced discipline, at school and in the army, and was glad that, if the family returned to England, Rocco wouldn’t have to serve. Would they ever come back to the country that Max couldn’t quite think of as home? He’d thought so once, walking through the shrouded rooms at Massingham Hall. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Max strolled along the promenade. The action was clearly taking place around the Palace Pier again. He could see the crowds and hear the whistles and shouts of the police. There were spectators too, hanging over the railings above and shouting encouragement as if they were at the races. He wondered what Edgar was doing. Presumably this whole operation came under his jurisdiction. If Max knew his friend, he’d be at the centre of it all, organising and worrying.
It was another beautiful day. A shame that all his favourite restaurants would be shut. But then, he didn’t really feel like eating with Ruby still missing. Where was she, his beautiful, errant daughter? He remembered walking on the pier with Ruby before he knew their true relationship, thinking how young she was, how vulnerable to life’s vicissitudes. Well, she was older now with a carapace of sophistication but he still felt that she could easily be hurt. And he, Max, would kill anyone who did so.
As he got nearer to the Palace Pier Max could see the gangs dividing; the mods in their parkas, some looking rather young and unsuited to such serious business, the rockers, older and more heavily built, some carrying bike chains. The police were trying to keep the two sides apart, he could see the white helmets on the beach, but the youths were running under the pier, throwing stones and shouting insults. The police line was wavering in places. On the promenade above, the horses were feigning charges at the rival groups, curvetting and snorting, unsettled by the noise.
Max reached a vantage point, a stone jetty that projected into the sea. The whistles were sounding again and the youths were responding with shouts and catcalls. Holidaymakers, curious or foolish enough to risk the beach, were running for the steps. Amongst the rush, Max spotted a blond head, a plaid jacket, American-style jeans. What on earth was Bobby Hambro, Hollywood star, doing caught up in this imbroglio? Bobby seemed to be with someone, a slim man dressed in a mod suit with a pork-pie hat. Or were they just thrown together by the crowd? As Max watched, the two of them wove their way through the crowded promenade, heading for the arches. On impulse, Max started to follow but, at that moment, the mods and the rockers charged and the air was full of stones and missiles. Max stepped back onto the pavement. He didn’t want to get concussed by a flying pebble. Think how ridiculous it would look in the next morning’s papers.
‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ said a voice behind him.
He turned. A woman was smiling at him; slim, shorthaired, wearing trousers and what looked like a man’s cricket jumper. She wasn’t his usual type but there was something attractive about her, a directness of gaze, a certain humour in her expression. She also looked vaguely familiar.
‘Sam Collins. Reporter. We met years ago when I was working on the Lansdowne Road case.’
‘I remember.’ He did. The snow-co
vered pier, a cup of black coffee in the café, a respite in the midst of hell.
‘You’re reporting from the front line,’ he said.
‘They’re just children playing games,’ said Sam. ‘This isn’t real crime.’
‘It would feel pretty real if you were hit with one of those rocks.’ As if to prove Max’s point, two mods walked past, holding handkerchiefs to bleeding heads. In the distance sirens sounded.
‘I’m more interested in who abducted your daughter,’ said Sam.
Max stared at her, not knowing whether to be annoyed or not.
‘We don’t know for certain that she has been abducted,’ he said.
‘I’m sure she has,’ said Sam. ‘Emma and I have a theory. He’s kidnapping women with different hair colour. Rhonda’s a redhead, Louise has black hair, Ruby’s a brunette. Emma thinks that he reads about them in the papers and becomes obsessed.’
It didn’t surprise Max that Emma was more involved in the case that she admitted in her husband’s presence. It struck him that, together, Sam and Emma made a formidable duo.
‘How do we catch him?’ he asked, really wanting to know what her answer would be.
‘We have to wait,’ said Sam. ‘I’m almost certain that he’ll make a move today. Look at all this.’ She gestured at the seafront. Someone had set off a smoke bomb and the air was full of vapour, like dry ice before an illusion, through which vague shapes appeared and discordant cries could be heard.
‘It’s the perfect camouflage,’ said Sam.
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ said Max. He looked at Sam with new respect.
Meg was finding the front line rather less exciting than she had imagined. After she had spoken to the super, DI Willis had given in and dispatched her to the seafront. ‘You can be on hand to help anyone who gets hurt. Some of the girls might get overwhelmed and need a shoulder to cry on.’
So her role was to be a nurse/confidante, not a policewoman. Well, it could be worse. Meg positioned herself on Marine Parade, where she could look down on the promenade. The mods were approaching from the Aquarium end, the rockers, appropriately enough, from Black Rock. The police horses were in the middle. Meg had longed to have riding lessons as a child. What would it be like to be on top of one of those restless, glorious creatures? Pretty terrifying, she imagined. As she watched, a dapple-grey half-reared as a mod threw a bottle at it. Bastard. She hoped he got trampled under its hooves.
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