A Shot in the Dark

by Lynne Truss

  ‘I’m not with you, dear.’

  ‘I’m just saying, it was some small thing that triggered his memory. Perhaps it was the bunnies, it’s too early to tell. But once it’s eight o’clock, I’ll telephone Mr Crystal’s secretary in London and get her to come down on the train with the manuscript of his memoirs. I’ve got her home telephone number. She worked with him extremely closely on memory-retrieval and she’ll be familiar with his very thought patterns. I’ve got it all worked out! I’ll also request a copy of the play so that I can check precisely what was being said onstage when Mr Crystal got excited. So you see the list was only the starting point.’

  ‘But if you haven’t got that list, dear,’ said Mrs Groynes, gravely, ‘who’s going to believe it even existed?’

  ‘I’m not a liar, Mrs G! You saw the list yourself!’

  ‘I saw a piece of paper, dear.’

  ‘But –’

  Mrs Groynes stood up and moved away. She picked up her mop and bucket. Twitten felt bereft. Wasn’t she on his side, after all? After a few seconds, she turned to face him, and her expression was serious.

  ‘Look, dear. You probably don’t want me sticking my oar in. But I’m afraid after what you’ve told me, my advice is let the whole thing lie.’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘Listen. They’ve got to catch that escaped strong lady first, haven’t they? And they’ve already got that actor bloke for the shooting –’

  ‘But he can’t have –’

  ‘I’m just thinking of you, dear. Thinking of your reputation; your career. They already know you’re someone who wants a huggie from his mummy. They already think you’re an annoying brainbox. You’re this close to being moved on again, am I right? If they thought you’d made up phantom evidence –’

  ‘I can prove it all without the list, Mrs G,’ said Twitten, firmly.

  Mrs Groynes put down the mop and bucket. ‘Can you, though, dear?’

  ‘Yes, I think I can. But I do appreciate your trying to help me. You’ve been so awfully kind.’

  Mrs Groynes threw up her hands in mock defeat. ‘Well, it’s up to you, love,’ she said. ‘It’s no skin off my nose. How about a nice fig roll?’

  * * *

  Bobby Melba woke at 9 a.m. in his Ship Street B & B, and was initially puzzled by three things. Why was he on the dusty sofa with a heavy overcoat on top of him? Why were the curtains open? Why could he hear the unmistakable sound of female emotion?

  A few seconds’ reflection brought everything to mind: after the sensational arrest of poor Jo Carver at the end of last evening’s performance, he had rushed into the night to find Penny. So great was his urge to protect and comfort that wonderful young woman that he hardly paused to take off the beard.

  As he raced across town, he felt slightly ashamed that he had so little compassion for the slaughtered Jack; that all his thoughts were for Penny – but that’s just the way it was. Although he had technically been friends with Jack since drama school, he’d had good reason never to like him particularly; whereas Penny! The very idea of a stricken Penny filled him with passion. So beautiful, so vulnerable, and now in such a fix! Not only had she lost her budding-playwright boyfriend, but she was probably out of a job as well, since it’s quite a well-known rule of the theatre that plays don’t usually survive a first performance cut short by two brutal murders and the arrest of one of the cast.

  He had found Penny in the pub next door to the theatre, drinking brandy, with hollow eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Initially she’d gone there with Todd Blair to get over the shock of the shooting in the stalls, and to await news of Jack; when they later learned of his death, she had wailed piteously. Todd hadn’t been of enormous comfort. His main concern being whether he might be the next target himself, he kept wondering aloud whether he should reach out to the Brighton Teddy Boy community for protection. But then Bobby appeared at the door and Penny rushed to him. Bobby had never felt so strong a natural (or instant) connection with anyone in his life.

  ‘I heard what happened,’ said Bobby, his voice breaking. She was pressed tightly against him; instinctively, he cupped the back of her head.

  ‘We argued!’ she said. ‘The last time I saw him, I begged him not to go back to his digs. I was angry, Bobby! I called him a bastard! I called him selfish!’

  ‘Oh, Penny. I know. But to be fair, he was a bastard, wasn’t he? And he was selfish.’

  ‘And then someone took his life!’

  ‘I know. I know. I mean, I bet he was asking for it, but I know.’

  ‘I can’t take it in! I just can’t take it in!’

  ‘It’s impossible, Penny.’

  ‘I keep expecting him to walk in.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Penny’s eyes filled with love. ‘He’d say, “There you are, you posh tart!”’

  Bobby flinched, but agreed with her. ‘Yes, he probably would.’

  He ordered more drinks from the waiter, and they sat together for another hour in the pub, talking quietly (Todd Blair soon gratefully made his excuses and left). With difficulty, Bobby explained to her how he knew what had happened: it was one of his own co-stars at the Hippodrome who’d been arrested for killing Jack; evidently she was a cunning thief who had turned to violence on this occasion for reasons as yet unknown. She used to tell everyone she was a brickie by day, but in fact she must have been out posing as an Opinion Poll lady and ‘casing joints’ before returning in the early evening to steal the valuables! Jack must have challenged her, not realising that she was a hundred times stronger than she looked.

  ‘So there was a struggle?’ said Penny.

  Bobby said he imagined so. What with all the blood up the fireplace, the torn curtains, disturbed furniture, and so on.

  After the landlord had rung the bell at closing time, Penny had asked if she could sleep at his digs – she couldn’t face her own lonely hotel room – and he had led her back there in a complicated state of happiness.

  And now it was morning, and Bobby was blearily aware of his surroundings, and Penny Cavendish was dressed and standing by the door, which she had noiselessly opened.

  ‘Bobby, you’re awake,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought I should go. I left you a note. It’s not goodbye. It was so sweet of you to let me spend the night here. Let’s meet again later.’

  ‘Penny, please don’t go.’

  ‘I needed to pin my hair so I used this comb-thing, is that all right?’

  Bobby didn’t look. Of course it was all right.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed aside the oppressive overcoat he’d been sleeping under, and rocked himself into a sitting position on the settee. ‘Please stay and talk,’ he said, gently.

  ‘Bobby, I’m very confused,’ she said. He longed to rush to her and put his arms around her.

  ‘I love Jack, you see. I mean, I loved Jack. I do love Jack!’

  ‘I know, Penny.’

  ‘I need some time to think.’

  ‘Of course you do. I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Penny, it’s just that –’

  ‘Oh, why do you have to be such a lovely man?’ she wailed.

  And then they both laughed, weakly, and she let herself out.

  It was his cue to go back to sleep. But the last thing he saw as she left the room made him jump to his feet in alarm, run to the mantelpiece and punch it with his fist. On the back of Penny’s head, holding her hair in an improvised knot, something had sparkled like a diamond – in fact, just like the exact large diamond decorating a stolen Victorian hair-comb illegally in Bobby’s possession, with an estimated value of a thousand pounds.

  * * *

  By the time Brunswick had located Maisie – not at Luigi’s in fact, but opening up her little shop under the arches – he was angry.

  ‘Guess who called at my house this morning, Maisie!’ he demanded.

  He hadn’t reckoned on the girl being quite so angry herself. After all, he hadn’t left her last night out of choice, had he?
There had been a flaming murder to attend to! But not a bit of it. She was seriously furious with him. When she saw him approaching, she pointedly turned her back – shoving colourful windmills-on-sticks into a blue bucket and setting her little pink mouth into a pout. When she finally turned to face him, holding a scarlet windmill-on-a-stick in her hand, her eyes were blazing and he noticed a tiny pucker in her otherwise unlined brow, which ought to have scared him, but in fact had an immediate electrifying effect on his loins.

  What was it about this girl? Maisie looked magnificent in her fury, and also (he couldn’t help noting) the neat white socks were transcendently white and virginal today.

  ‘You left me, Jim. You left me like a lemon.’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Two people were murdered last night, Maisie. What was I to do? I’ll make it up to you. Name the day, name the place, I’ll take you.’

  ‘You left me before that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You went in by that stage door and left me outside on my own.’

  ‘But only for ten minutes!’

  ‘Ten minutes? It was more than half an hour, Jim!’

  Brunswick couldn’t let this go unchallenged. She was being completely unreasonable. ‘It was ten flaming minutes, Maisie.’

  She stamped her foot. The little plastic windmill caught a bit of breeze and started to whizz in her hand. ‘No, it flaming wasn’t! And then, when you finally do come out, you run off and leave me altogether. If Vince hadn’t been there, I’d have had to go home on the bus.’

  ‘Hang on, Maisie. Vince was there?’

  ‘Blimey, didn’t you see him?’ she laughed, nastily. ‘Call yourself a policeman, he was right behind us in the pub, Jim!’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Then when we were in the queue, he was watching from opposite and pointing us out to that bloke Stanley. Are you blind or something?’

  ‘What, Stanley-knife Stanley was there, too?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Flaming heck, Maisie, why didn’t you say?’

  Maisie shrugged. She liked it that Vince showed such an insanely passionate interest in her. It made her feel special.

  ‘Vince is very keen on me, if you hadn’t noticed.’ She leaned her face close to Brunswick’s, but not in an affectionate way. She had chewing gum in her mouth; it was identifiable as spearmint. Perhaps the shop had run out of multicoloured gobstoppers (which would be a blessing). She chewed in a meaningful manner. ‘So you’d better watch out, daddy-o,’ she said.

  Sensing that she was softening towards him, Brunswick decided not to challenge the ‘daddy-o’ thing. She’d only started saying it in the past ten days; he hoped it was a passing teenage fad.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said. ‘Look, Maisie, all I can do is apologise and offer to take you out again. And I’ve done that, so I’ll get off to the station. There’s a lot to do today.’

  As far as he was concerned, their tiff was over. He leaned towards her to kiss the top of her head.

  But Maisie hadn’t finished. ‘But you didn’t apologise, Jim,’ she said, firmly, backing away with her hands on her hips.

  Brunswick was confused. ‘Yes, I did. That’s why I flaming came here!’

  ‘No, what you said was, Two people were murdered last night, Maisie.’

  He considered this. What point was she making?

  ‘You didn’t say: I’m so sorry, I apologise, I did a thoughtless thing to a defenceless teenager.’

  ‘Defenceless?’ he scoffed. ‘I wouldn’t say you’re defenceless, would you? Vince was at my place this morning with a baseball bat!’

  ‘Was he?’ Her eyes lit up. She smiled, to reveal the devastating buck teeth.

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘Oh.’ She laughed rather unpleasantly and gave Brunswick a little push on the chest. ‘Well, then. That settles it. Run along then, Mister Policeman. Go on. Shove in your clutch.’

  ‘What?’ (He had never heard the expression ‘shove in your clutch’ before.)

  ‘You can practise your apologies on some other girl from now on. Don’t bother asking me out again.’

  Just then, Vince appeared a few yards behind her, and stopped to watch while his rival received his marching orders.

  ‘What?’ begged Brunswick. ‘Oh, Maisie, come on. Why are you being like this? It was only ten minutes.’

  ‘It was half an hour!’

  He backed away. She seemed to be truly enraged. Her eyes were bulging.

  ‘No, I’ve made my mind up. I’ve had enough.’ She stamped a foot again. The windmill whizzed. ‘Yes, mate, that’s it, you’ve had your chips.’ She didn’t care at all that she was mixing her metaphors. ‘I said, on your bike, piss off, and sling your ruddy hook!’

  * * *

  Falling into step with Brunswick in Prince Albert Street, Inspector Steine hailed his sergeant companionably. He didn’t notice that Brunswick looked more miserable than usual. It was such a beautiful day that Steine had left his car at home and walked into town. He felt full of optimism.

  ‘Splendid day, Brunswick.’

  ‘Is it, sir?’

  ‘I slept like a log. Did you?’

  Brunswick thought back. ‘No, sir. To be honest, I had a lot to think about.’

  ‘Really? About what?’

  ‘About the murder suspects, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Those.’

  ‘We have to interview so many people.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘We have to organise an identity parade, search dwellings, check that Alec Forrester’s fingerprints match any on the weapon, take statements, check alibis. For a start, that strong lady insists she’s been working as a brickie at that new airport every day, which would mean –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Steine. ‘Well, I don’t envy you any of that, Brunswick. But I must say, I did enjoy the arresting part. It was surprisingly bracing.’

  Brunswick stopped walking, and Steine gave him a look.

  ‘I’m sorry to say this, sir.’

  Steine sighed. It was one of the burdens of leadership that occasionally one had to listen to the trifling concerns of one’s underlings.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say this,’ Brunswick repeated, ‘but I think on reflection we might have been too quick to dismiss Alec Forrester’s watertight alibi, sir.’

  ‘Was he the elderly man in the pub?’

  ‘Yes, sir. When a whole bar full of people say they saw a man come in at half-past three in the afternoon and drink gin-and-it solidly from then on, it does seem a stretch to place him at a scene three-quarters of a mile away firing a gun at seven-forty-five and making an escape. Also, his reaction when he heard that Crystal was dead – well, what did you think, sir?’

  ‘Remind me, Brunswick.’

  Brunswick opened his notebook. ‘He said, “Thank fuck”, sir. It was heartfelt and convincing.’

  ‘But he used to be an actor, don’t forget.’

  ‘I know, sir. He still is. But I’ve seen him in many productions, and I have to say that a performance like that would be well beyond him. He is the worst kind of terrible old ham, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Steine pursed his lips, irritated. ‘You realise this will mean rethinking the whole thing?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But in the interests of justice –’

  ‘But you still think the strong lady did the other one, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. Definitely. Apart from the possible alibi placing her twenty-five miles away in the afternoons, which might mean we have a problem identifying her as the Opinion Poll lady. But at least we’ve got the wig and the stolen goods, though, sir. She’s got to be in on it, at least.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  They stood awkwardly on the pavement. Steine felt that all his splendid–day–Brunswick bonhomie was leaching out of him. But he sensed there was even more of this to come.

  ‘I have another request, sir.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, what?’ Steine was getting testy now. He had been looking forward to his first cup of tea.

  ‘I think Constable Twitten might confuse the investigations, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Now. Yes.’ Steine didn’t mind talking about Twitten. He already had quite a lot to say on the subject himself.

  ‘He’s very clever, I know, sir –’

  ‘Too clever, so people say.’

  ‘My very point, sir. I think he might be too clever.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It worries me that he will over-complicate my investigations by being too clever, so my request is that I can ignore his findings or suggestions if they are unhelpful. I don’t like to tell tales, but he talked to me yesterday about –’ (and here Brunswick lowered his voice) ‘– about criminal psychology, sir! In the street! As if it was a normal topic of conversation!’

  ‘Criminal psychology? Good grief. I mean, what does that even mean?’

  ‘He actually said that, given the nature of the Opinion Poll lady’s criminal personality, you could predict she might turn to violence and that it was only a matter of time!’

  ‘Dear me. What sort of hocus-pocus was that? Detecting crimes before they even occur?’

  ‘I know, sir. Anyway, I just think a capacity for forensic observation can make a person quite annoying on its own, but when it’s combined with looking for flaming inner causes…’

  ‘I agree, Brunswick. I mean, good heavens, we’re not living in Vienna. We fought a war to protect ourselves from that sort of decadent nonsense. You yourself jumped out of aeroplanes, if memory serves.’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘While I protected the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘The Bank of England.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Leave Twitten to me.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Brunswick looked up. ‘He’s coming, sir!’ he reported.

  And so Twitten arrived to intercept them on their way to the police station and inform them, breathlessly, and in one long sentence, that the strong lady had escaped, that the contractors building the passenger terminal at Gatwick Airport could confirm that Miss Carver had worked an afternoon shift there every day for the last fortnight, that Alec Forrester was obviously innocent, that a famous journalist from London called Harry Jupiter was already waiting for Steine inside, and that he (Twitten) was actively pursuing leads on all fronts to link the murder of Crystal to the long-ago Aldersgate Stick-up, which was why he was hotfooting it to the railway station to meet Miss Sibert from the next London train, and collecting a copy of the script of A Shilling in the Meter from the green room of the Theatre Royal en route, with twenty-five shillings taken from petty cash to cover any unexpected expenses, hoping that that was all right.