The Man That Got Away

by Lynne Truss

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but sky; he felt the sharp, cold metal against the skin on his neck, and then a great spasm of shock and pain that was over in seconds. As his body subsided, he felt the parcel torn from his arms.

  The last, strange sensation that registered in his mind was, curiously, an overwhelming smell of peppermint.

  Seven

  The problem with informing two hundred criminal underlings that you are looking for a particular wall-eyed man in Brighton is that over the following week you will receive (taking into account a little slippage due to illness, laziness, stupidity and sudden death in suspicious circumstances) one hundred and ninety-two individual sightings, reported to you on one hundred and ninety-two different – and increasingly exasperating – occasions. At fault here was Mrs Groynes’s rudimentary chain of command: people weren’t authorised to tell others that the message had already got through. Thus, each and every minion who observed a suspicious wall-eyed man entering Colchester House on the seafront thought to himself, That must be him! I need to tell the boss! – and acted on that impulse immediately.

  The first time the telephone rang at the station and the caller asked for Mrs Groynes, it was Sergeant Brunswick who answered. He was nonplussed.

  ‘You’d like to speak to who?’

  The person at the other end of the line sounded like one of the snotty herberts who hung around the railway station, nicking Granny Smiths from the fruit stall. From the band-music noise in the background, he appeared to be speaking today from the public call-box at the entrance to the West Pier.

  ‘You want to speak to our charlady, sonny?’ he said. ‘On a private matter? On this telephone?’

  ‘That’s right, mister,’ said the supremely confident child. ‘And look sharp, won’t ya? I ain’t got much shrapnel.’

  Sergeant Brunswick huffed.

  ‘Listen, sonny. This number is for official police business. The reporting of crime and such like. The reporting of incidents. You’re speaking to a police sergeant, not a secretary.’

  ‘Yeah, but go on, mister,’ urged the caller. ‘Be a toff.’

  And so Brunswick had summoned Mrs Groynes to the telephone, and she had shrugged her shoulders as if mystified, and then laid down her mop and taken off her heavy-duty rubber gloves.

  Once on the telephone, she said, ‘Now what’s all this, calling me at work? Sauce, I call it.’ And then, when the caller had introduced himself, she demanded in a businesslike manner, ‘All right, Shorty. What’s the lay?’

  Twitten, pretending not to take an interest, listened intently to her slightly impatient ‘Ah-ha’ and ‘Mm’ responses. He noted that there was no inflection of surprise in her voice. Whatever this ‘Shorty’ person was telling her, she obviously knew it already.

  ‘All right, ta-ta, good boy,’ she said finally, and hung up.

  She picked up her mop again and began bustling with it.

  Brunswick and Twitten exchanged glances.

  ‘Who was that, Mrs G?’ asked Brunswick.

  ‘J. Sainsbury,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘They got a new consignment of Vim. That was the manager.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, all this standing around jawing won’t buy the baby a new bonnet, will it? How about a nice cup of tea?’

  Five minutes later the telephone rang again, and this time Twitten hastened to answer it.

  ‘Brighton CID, Inspector Steine’s office, Constable Twitten speaking,’ he said. ‘May I ask the nature of your enquiry? Would you call it a crime or an incident?’

  There was a hesitation at the other end. Then a lightly disguised, rough Greek-accented voice asked in strangled tones for Mrs Groynes. It was obviously Ventriloquist Vince.

  ‘Are you calling from J. Sainsbury, by any chance?’ Twitten enquired, in tones of concern. ‘You see, sir, this line needs to be kept free as far as possible, and if you’re calling about the important new shipment of Vim, I happen to know that Mrs Groynes has been told already.’

  As he spoke, he watched Mrs Groynes’s reaction. She showed no emotion other than polite bafflement. Vince, on the other hand, was definitely rattled.

  ‘About what fucking shipment a fucking what?’ he said.

  ‘Vim. It’s a kind of scouring powder.’

  Twitten put down the receiver. ‘He hung up,’ he said, smiling.

  At the first opportunity, Mrs Groynes put out the word through Shorty that she knew already about the so-called Lord Melamine, thank you all very much, but it proved impossible to stem the flow. For a whole week, everywhere she went, men with facial scars, tattooed knuckles, low hairlines and unorthodox hygiene sidled up to her and said out of the side of their mouths, ‘I found him, boss.’ Leaving home for work in the morning, she often found a cluster of shady characters loitering outside the front door of her house; in the end she started to climb out of a back window to avoid them.

  ‘There’s no reward, you know,’ she said to them. ‘Tell everyone, I never offered a reward and I know already.’

  But back at the station, the telephone continued to ring all day for her, and she finally informed Sergeant Brunswick that she feared she was the innocent victim of a hoax.

  ‘If they ask for me again, just tell them to bugger off,’ she said. And then she added, with a flash of the innate genius Twitten couldn’t help admiring her for: ‘And you’ll never guess, dears. Even that so-called Vim delivery at J. Sainsbury turned out to be a wicked lie!’

  It was partly because of the annoying phone calls that Mrs Groynes decided to help with the Dupont investigation. If Sergeant Brunswick were to work different hours – say, undercover at the Black Cat night club – he wouldn’t be in the office when all these suspicious tip-offs came through. Tommy Drumsticks had already informed her of Dickie George’s sudden disappearance, and of the recruitment of a new female singer whose musical arrangements suited a larger band. Three new musicians were required, and quickly. Pondering this, Mrs Groynes came up with a creative solution that was also (of course) entirely self-serving.

  The next day Brunswick discovered an anonymous note on his desk, typed on the office typewriter, and smelling slightly of bleach. It informed him that the Black Cat required a trumpet player urgently, and that he should present himself for an audition at midday.

  It was not what you’d call an impersonal note. It ended with the cautionary paragraph:

  Try NOT to look like a POLICEMAN. Pay attention in particular to HAIR and SHOES. These are often a DEAD GIVEAWAY. Be aware, the drummer is A FRIEND. And BLEEDING GOOD LUCK, DEAR.

  ‘Did you see who brought this, Mrs G?’ Brunswick asked, having read it twice. But she said no, dear, she hadn’t. It was on his desk when she arrived for work. Could have been anyone.

  ‘And I didn’t read it, neither,’ she added, turning her back and bustling with a duster (she was the best in the business at seeming to bustle while at the same time doing nothing). ‘What’s it say, then, dear?’

  ‘It’s an anonymous tip-off that they need a trumpet player at the Black Cat.’

  ‘Well, what are they telling you for? You play the bleeding cello.’

  ‘And the trumpet, Mrs G.’

  ‘No!’ She turned to look at him. She seemed impressed. ‘Blimey, you kept that dark.’

  ‘I think I did talk to you about it once, Mrs G, when I kept going to see Young Man with a Horn.’

  ‘Did you? Well, I never. I sometimes think I’d forget my own head, dear, if it wasn’t stuck on with Araldite.’

  He took a thoughtful sip of tea. Not many people knew this, but there was actually nothing he loved more than playing the trumpet. He had played it so much as a teenager that his auntie Violet had often joked (not entirely humorously) that he shouldn’t be surprised to wake up one morning with a drawing pin stuck in his windpipe.

  So this offer of his dream job combined with going undercover to spy on a heavy mob – this was nothing less than manna from heaven. However, a tiny note of caution fain
tly tinkling at the back of his mind did give him pause. Was this offer so perfect that he ought to question its provenance? Scatty old Mrs Groynes might have forgotten their relevant conversation, but who else knew he played the trumpet? For that matter, who else knew he longed to go undercover, or that the Black Cat was a location of interest in an ongoing inquiry? Such were the pertinent questions that floated just beyond the reach of his consciousness.

  He held up the note and studied it through narrowed eyes (as if that would make any difference). It was a moment of truth: passion v. rationality; id v. superego; sensibility v. sense. Sergeant James Brunswick had pondered many such quandaries in his life, and the outcome was always the same.

  ‘I’m doing it,’ he said.

  ‘Good for you, dear. Cup of tea?’

  It was just too good an opportunity to miss. The stage at the Black Cat would be a perfect position from which to observe any nefarious goings-on. Up to now, his vague idea of working there undercover had involved lowly jobs such as washing up in the kitchens, or being a bouncer on the door. Now he would have the best view in the house.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘I’m off to buy a wig and some winkle-pickers.’

  ‘Good idea, lovey. Look the part for once.’

  ‘Tell Twitten about this development, would you?’

  ‘I will,’ she said. She resumed her bustling, and then broke off to say, ‘Here, I just thought. You’d better not take that note with you, dear. Best leave it safe with me.’

  ‘Blimey, you’re right!’ he chuckled, handing it over. Imagine if someone at the Black Cat saw it! Mrs Groynes might be just a harmless cockney charlady, but he had to admit that she was also very quick-thinking.

  ‘Mrs G, I must say, sometimes you do seem—’

  But he didn’t get to say what Mrs Groynes sometimes seemed.

  ‘Lovely iced bun before you go?’ she interrupted.

  And that was it. Within a couple of hours, Brunswick was posing as Kevin Mundy (a.k.a. ‘Kevin on the Valves’) in the Black Cat’s newly expanded seven-piece band, complete with false quiff and sideburns, painfully pointy shoes, red bow-tie and shiny tuxedo jacket, belting out a jazzy solo verse of ‘Melancholy Baby’. What a whirlwind. It was lucky that he was genuinely musical, and that his auntie had never followed through on that grisly drawing-pin threat, because although the anonymous note had used the word ‘audition’, it was actually a band rehearsal, and new singer Delores Dee had expected to get through at least a dozen standards along with four or five new songs, too.

  There was just one awkward moment: when the double bass player (Bob) said in a spirit of welcome that he was sure he recognised Kevin from other jobs, possibly the Bora Bora Lounge in Portslade? Brunswick pretended to think about it, and agreed this was more than likely – while knowing full well that in fact they’d met when he arrested Bob three weeks ago in Church Street for drunkenly chucking a half-brick through an ironmonger’s window.

  As far as the music went, Brunswick acquitted himself, and loved every minute of it. But the main thing was, he was in! From his position on the slightly raised performance area, he would be able to watch all the club’s arrivals and departures. Meanwhile, access to the back-stage dressing-room meant he had already formed an idea of the general layout of the building, and had spotted interesting unlit staircases going both up and down. The Bensons themselves he was yet to meet.

  How much help he would receive from Tommy the drummer remained to be seen. Occasionally, in the sections of the orchestrations where Brunswick was not required to play – when he lightly held the trumpet on his knee, and tapped a winkle-pickered foot – he glanced across to Tommy and raised a quizzical eyebrow, but no acknowledgement came the other way, other than a flash from Tommy’s gold tooth. Tommy, it seemed, was a bit of a pro.

  So things looked very promising on the Brunswick Undercover front. When he left his auntie’s flat at five that evening for his first night’s performance with the band, he walked to the nearest phone box with a pocketful of pennies and called Twitten at the station.

  ‘So what do you think happened to Dickie George, sir?’ Twitten asked, eagerly. ‘And have you seen Deirdre yet?’

  Brunswick told him to calm down: he’d only been inside the place for a couple of hours so far.

  ‘It was bally good luck about your getting the job, sir. I’ve been doing a little digging and everything seems to point to the Bensons. Scotland Yard have even confirmed a connection to the notorious Terence Chambers.’

  ‘Really? What sort of connection?’

  ‘Well, do you remember the big London Airport robbery, sir?’

  ‘Of course. They couldn’t pin it on Chambers, but they knew he was behind it. The problem was, none of the notes ever showed up.’

  ‘They think the Bensons were involved. Specifically, Frank Benson, the older son, who used to be a boxer and is notoriously touchy and hot-headed. Apparently his mother keeps him in check; if she didn’t, or so my contact informs me, Frank would be murdering people all over the place.’

  Brunswick was impressed. ‘Well done, Twitten.’

  ‘Reading between the lines, sir, I suspect at root his problem is a bit Oedipal, so do tread carefully there.’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘Oedipal, sir. Being sexually attracted to the mother, and so on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But that’s just my conjecture, sir, so feel free to ignore it. Bruce, on the other hand, has less violent tendencies, so perhaps you could befriend him. It’s wonderful, sir. Just think! From this evening you will be operating incognito in the midst of extremely dangerous criminals, some of whom literally stop at nothing!’

  Brunswick swallowed. Until the last couple of minutes he had felt quite bucked up. ‘Well,’ he said, trying not to sound as unnerved as he felt, ‘that’s a good job you’ve done there, son. You know what they say: forewarned is forearmed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Twitten could have left it there, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t have been true to himself if he had.

  ‘I suppose I ought to add, sir, that my contact at the Flying Squad also said he was shocked the Brighton police didn’t connect the body in the suitcase with the disappearance of Kenneth Benson, sir – especially as he was last sighted boarding a Brighton train at Victoria.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy to say that now, but at the time—’

  ‘And I’m afraid to say I have now examined the suitcase myself and it contains more clues to the victim’s identity than—’ Twitten stopped. He wanted the exact form of words, and after a pause for thought, it came to him. ‘Than a dog’s got fleas, sir.’

  Brunswick huffed. He wasn’t in the mood to hear any more. When the coin box beeped to tell him it needed more money, he was briefly tempted not to feed it, but in the end he inserted the pennies and pushed Button A. When the beeps cleared, Twitten started talking again immediately.

  ‘Anyway, the point is, sir, the Bensons seem to have had more than one motive for killing poor Peter Dupont. I’m thinking that either they killed him because he was going to abduct Deirdre; or because he knew about Kenneth; or because of something to do with the council, because if you remember the Borough Engineer made the memorable remark “Oh, shit, they’ve killed him” before jumping into his car and heading directly for the ports. You’re definitely in the right place to learn more. But I can’t help wondering who wrote that incredibly helpful note to you, sir. Did you form any theory yourself?’

  Brunswick shrugged. This was a slightly awkward question. ‘Not really, son, no. I drew a blank, if I’m honest.’

  ‘I’d look at it myself, but of course I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but I’m afraid the note has gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘I did ask to see it, sir. But apparently – and to Mrs Groynes’s credit she did say, ‘You’ll never believe it’ before sh
e supplied the astonishing details – there was a window open and a seagull hopped inside and took the note right off your desk, sir.’

  ‘A seagull?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Herring gull would be more precise, I imagine, but I wasn’t there, so I can’t be sure.’

  Brunswick was stunned. ‘A seagull?’

  ‘I know, sir. Or herring gull. I’m tempted to say it’s a blatant lie consistent with Mrs Groynes being a criminal mastermind operating complacently from inside the police station – ’

  ‘Oh, not that again, son! Not now!’

  ‘ – but I won’t say that, of course, because it does no good and just makes everyone annoyed.’

  ‘Listen, Twitten. You’ve got to get over this nonsense about the flaming charlady. It will ruin your career if you don’t.’

  ‘I know, sir. I do try.’

  ‘But a seagull … ?’

  ‘I know. Or herring gull. It really does sound like a lie, doesn’t it, sir? Anyway, it means I didn’t see the note and I’m sorry. But I don’t think we should enquire too deeply anyway into how you got there. You’re in, that’s what matters, sir. You’re in!’

  Ordinarily, Inspector Steine would have had quite a lot to say about one of his officers going undercover, especially if the officer was Brunswick. But since his momentous encounter on the train with Adelaide Vine, he had paid almost no attention to what was going on in the station. He was utterly dejected.

  Every day, he sat at his desk, staring blankly out of the window. He barely touched his little plates of assorted highland shortbread.

  When Brunswick had popped in to announce that he was off to the Black Cat to play the trumpet and glean evidence against a patently dangerous heavy mob, Steine had merely advised, ‘Well, try not to get shot again, will you?’

  When Twitten asked him to sign a petty cash slip to cover an unspecified trip to London, he did not demand to know why.

  And when his phone rang with news that another suspicious bag – with what appeared to be human blood seeping out of it – had been found at the Left Luggage office at the railway station, he merely sighed and sent Twitten to deal with it on his own.