The Man That Got Away

by Lynne Truss

  ‘I don’t know, sir. She was here earlier.’

  Twitten glanced at the holdall on the desk, next to the dossier. He was torn. Did he want to explain what was going on? No, he really didn’t want to do that. But on the other hand, did he have a duty to explain it?

  Luckily, there was something else he could say for the time being.

  ‘Ooh, I have important news for you, sir,’ he said. ‘The Maison du Wax would like you to go and see your model this afternoon. They say their Inspector Steine figurine is a jolly triumph, sir. Although I have to say that Monsieur Tussard might not be the sternest judge of his own work, sir, even though he’s probably only pretending to be blind.’

  Twitten stood awkwardly. He was hoping Steine would say ‘Well, carry on’ – but something seemed to be stopping him. He was evidently in a pensive frame of mind.

  ‘How good are you at making tea?’ said the inspector, waving at the accoutrements in Mrs Groynes’s corner of the office.

  ‘Bally awful, sir. But I could pop downstairs and ask for instructions, if you like.’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’

  Steine pulled out Brunswick’s chair and sat in it, and waved to Twitten to sit down too. As he sat down at his own desk, he quickly moved the dossier and the holdall to the floor.

  ‘So how’s the delusion going?’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Twitten. You know what I’m talking about. Do you still believe against all the evidence of your own eyes and ears that our uneducated cockney charwoman is an artful criminal? On a scale of one to ten?’

  Twitten frowned. He couldn’t help remembering that the whole Argus operation was the brainchild of Mrs G. And what was it Sergeant Brunswick had said? You’ve got to get over this nonsense about Mrs Groynes. It will ruin your career if you don’t. On the other hand, honesty should always prevail.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s still ten, sir.’

  Steine sighed a weary sigh. ‘Oh, well. And how’s the what-do-you-call-it – the case?’

  ‘I have reason to believe we’ll have cracked it by the end of the day, sir.’

  ‘Oh, good. Good old Brunswick.’

  This wasn’t the time to tell Steine how useless his sergeant had been. Instead, Twitten decided to face the music regarding the Argus story. ‘Sir, I have to tell you something. I’m afraid that without your permission, sir, I am using a slightly unconventional subterfuge to flush out the murderer—’

  But Steine wasn’t listening. ‘Do you realise, Twitten, that if it weren’t for that poor boy’s death, I might never have met my niece, Miss Vine?’

  Such an abrupt change of subject was slightly bewildering.

  ‘Oh.’ Twitten searched for something platitudinous to say. ‘Well, I expect she’d have found her way to you sooner or later, sir.’

  At this, Steine seemed satisfied, so it showed particularly bad judgement on Twitten’s part to press on by saying, ‘Sir, are you absolutely certain that Miss Vine is your niece?’

  Steine eyed him steadily. ‘Yes, thank you, Twitten. I am perfectly certain.’

  ‘You don’t think a little caution … ?’

  ‘As it happens I met with her solicitor just this morning.’

  ‘What, already?’ Twitten could not disguise his alarm. ‘Oh, cripes, sir!’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Twitten thought quickly. ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘You said cripes.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, you did. It was highly un-policemanlike.’

  ‘Then I’m very sorry, sir. But I do hope you didn’t sign anything, that’s all!’

  Steine frowned. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Constable, but our meeting concerned matters of inheritance that are highly complicated. I have been informed that it was inconvenient for Miss Vine’s prospects when I turned up in her life, so I needed to do the decent thing and – well, in fact, sign a few papers, yes. As I say, it’s very complicated but at the same time beautifully simple.’

  Twitten bit his lip. ‘I’m sure it is, sir. And – and I apologise again for saying “cripes”. It was both unprofessional and a tiny bit blasphemous. Perhaps I should just tell you my news and then go? You see, we’ve planted a story in the Argus—’

  Steine accepted the apology with a wave of his hand, but was still not interested in what Twitten had to say. ‘It’s really knocked me for six, all this.’

  ‘What has? Oh, are we still talking about Miss Vine?’

  ‘It’s made me think a lot about Mother.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And … Father.’

  Twitten had now tried several times to deliver his confession to Inspector Steine. It was time to try a different approach.

  ‘Look, sir,’ he said, ‘can I take it that you’d rather I didn’t tell you about my slightly unconventional method for flushing out the murderer by planting a false story in the Argus?’

  ‘Absolutely right, Twitten.’

  ‘You don’t want me to tell you anything?’

  ‘Don’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Not even that it involves planting a story in a newspaper, which might constitute entrapment and thereby compromise any potential subsequent prosecution, sir?’

  ‘Not even that.’

  Twitten jumped up. ‘In that case, may I borrow a few chaps to help with the arrest, sir?’

  ‘You may.’

  That was all Twitten needed to hear. He grabbed the holdall, and started filling it with books to make up the right weight.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘And I jolly well hope Miss Vine is your niece and not some beautiful confidence trickster worming her way into your affections and making you sign away your rights to some huge inheritance or other, as would be the obvious supposition, sir, to anyone not acquainted with the parties concerned.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But I did see something jolly interesting about her in the dossier Peter Dupont assembled. I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Something about Miss Vine?’

  ‘Yes. Dupont was present, you see, at one of the meetings concerning the formation of the Brighton Belles, and advised on a grammatical point. Apparently it was Adelaide Vine herself who first proposed the idea of the Brighton Belles to the council! Wasn’t that clever of her, sir? Part of the proceedings was to compose a letter of thanks, inviting her to be the first-ever Brighton Belle. That’s interesting, isn’t it, sir? Whether she’s really your niece or not, she’s definitely a very fine and upstanding young lady.’

  Half an hour later, at the Argus, men in braces were busily ferrying page proofs in and out of the editor’s office; Ben Oliver was having a cup of muddy tea at his desk; Twitten was poring over the copy Ben had written.

  ‘This is perfect,’ he said. ‘Not a word untrue. It just omits to say that we know where the bag is, and have already digested its contents. It’s very clever, Mr Oliver. And I particularly appreciate the way you’ve pluralised me as “the tireless men of the Brighton Constabulary”.’

  ‘Yes, I thought you’d like that.’

  The telephone rang on Oliver’s desk. The call was for Twitten.

  ‘It’s me, son,’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘Sergeant Brunswick?’ Twitten felt both relief and utter fury. ‘Where on earth have you been, sir?’

  ‘Where have I been? Where the flaming heck have you been? I’ve telephoned you at the station a dozen times! I finally got the inspector just now, and he suggested you might be at the Argus. What the flip are you doing there?’

  ‘Why didn’t you just come to the station to report once in a while, sir?’

  ‘Why didn’t I just come to the police station? Because I’m undercover!’

  ‘I have needed your bally help, sir!’

  ‘Look, it’s been frustrating for me too, Twitten. But as I am trying to explain—’

  ‘Why couldn’t you just change out of the disgui
se, sir? It’s only a quiff and a pair of shoes!’

  ‘Because I don’t want the Bensons to suspect anything.’

  ‘Well, if you’d communicated with me at all, I could have told you that the Bensons already do suspect you, sir.’

  ‘What? Oh, no.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But luckily they think you work for Terence Chambers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And, of course, they’re working for him in some capacity themselves. It’s likely that he killed Uncle Kenneth to keep them in line.’

  Ben Oliver, who was pretending not to listen, doodled the word ‘Chambers’ on a piece of paper, added a series of exclamation marks and drew a circle round it. This did not escape Twitten.

  ‘Look, I can’t really speak here, sir,’ he said. ‘People might overhear. Can we meet?’

  ‘All right. How about the wax museum? Twenty minutes. In the horrors bit. But who the heck told you that the Bensons think I work for Terence Chambers? And who told you Chambers killed Kenneth Benson?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.’

  Brunswick’s money was running out, but Twitten shouted over the beeps, ‘But I’m jolly glad to hear your voice, sir!’

  The Brighton Belles had less to do when the weather turned misty like this. There was no point promenading in your smart uniforms and little pillbox hats when no one could see you coming. But the council had provided them with a small, gaily painted caravan near the entrance to the West Pier, to which members of the public could come with their enquiries. At ten-thirty a.m. Adelaide and Phyllis had already been on duty for two hours, and had so far directed one person to the post office, and another to the nearest set of public lavatories. Neither enquiry had, disappointingly, necessitated speaking in a language other than plain English.

  ‘Phyllis, didn’t you say you had some information for the police?’ Adelaide said, suddenly.

  ‘It’s something I remembered from the day of the murder. I don’t suppose it’s important, but that sweet young constable did ask us to think about it.’

  Adelaide narrowed her eyes and said, teasingly, ‘And you’d like any excuse to see him again, am I right?’

  ‘Addy, don’t say that!’ Phyllis reddened. (She couldn’t deny it.)

  ‘Well, I’m going in to see Uncle Geoffrey this afternoon. Why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘About three o’clock?’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  Meanwhile, Mrs Groynes and Lord Melamine sat together in the morning room of Colchester House. Hoagland was downstairs with the tearful Mrs Rogers, supervising removals.

  ‘Look, this note,’ Mrs Groynes whispered. ‘It might not be as bad as we think. Hoagy is assuming the sender knows where Marriott is, knows all about what happened. Perhaps it’s all baloney, though.’

  ‘I’m afraid it might not be, my dear. Captain Hoagland didn’t want to alarm you, but he spotted the woman the other day. Here in Brighton. The woman Vivienne. He was in J. Sainsbury’s buying bacon and he spotted her in the mirror behind the counter.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘So it’s likely that Marriott is nearby.’

  ‘Why do you think they’ve asked for so much money? It’s a ridiculous amount.’

  ‘I expect, like everyone, they think I am rolling in cash! But in fact I’m not. I could certainly raise the sum – and I certainly would, to help Hoagy. He’s one in a million. But within the day? Impossible. These people want the money in just a few hours’ time. What does the note say again?’

  From downstairs, they could hear the side door closing, and Captain Hoagland locking it from the inside. He would be back with them soon.

  ‘It says to leave the readies in a suitcase in the alley at the back here by half-past two. Look, Melamine, just between us, what if I could get the money together?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, my Lord, what a suggestion! I appreciate that you care for Captain Hoagland, but what are you going to do? Rob a bank?’

  The Argus published a morning edition, but most people waited for the afternoon before they bought one. On a misty, nasty day like today, the sellers on the street corners had to work harder at shouting the headlines. The seller on the corner of Grenville Street was a man named Phil, who over the years had perfected his shout so that the original message, ‘Get your Evening Argus’, was now abbreviated to a singsong: ‘GIT-your-own-ARSE!’ In the early editions today the main story was about the upcoming beauty contest at the Black Rock swimming pool, to be judged by comedian Arthur Askey. ‘Git your lully gels! Git your own arse! I thank you!’

  Members of the Black Cat band passed this man every day, and all of them bought their papers from him. It was part of their cover, to show interest in local news. Only Tommy Drumsticks was a genuine avid reader of the paper. He had a particular interest in the disappearance of Humbug Hastings; since the killing of Dickie George, he had bought virtually every edition, hoping for follow-up news.

  The assault had been a terrible thing – swift and brutal. Drumsticks had witnessed it himself, being in the crowd at the time, watching the humbug demonstration, as always. The shock when Dickie appeared behind Hastings’s back, like an apparition! The way he stood there, blinking against the dazzling light of day, and then held out an accusing hand, as if to say, ‘You! Drumsticks! Why did you do this to me?’ And then – struck down, dead.

  It was Dickie’s own fault, of course. He had been about to help the girl get away.

  I had to do something, Drumsticks told himself. I had to stop her going away with that silly boy.

  He bought a paper from Phil, and riffled through it. There was nothing on Hastings. He glanced across the road to the rock shop, closed until further notice. The large roll of striped, malleable humbug mixture that had been abandoned by the master sweet-maker (when Hastings, seeing what he had done, dropped everything and fled the building), had quickly subsided and spread across the table, forming long drips and puddles on the floor. While other people called for the police, Drumsticks had stood there watching as the mixture sank and hardened, thinking it the saddest sight he had ever seen in his life.

  As midday struck, many things were happening simultaneously (as they generally are). At the Argus, page proofs of the story were being checked by printers. At the railway station, Ben Oliver was briefing Ted. At the wax museum, Brunswick (minus quiff ) was lurking behind an ill-lit and dusty display of the Princes in the Tower being strangled by professional murderers whose faces had (at a guess) originally been modelled to represent Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. In the fog, Henry Hastings hid, shivering, behind a pillar underneath the West Pier. At Colchester House, Captain Hoagland was securing shutters and patting Mrs Rogers on the shoulder. And at the police station, Mrs Groynes was unlocking her secret cupboard in the office, with the intention of removing cash to the value of thirty thousand pounds.

  The telephone rang. It was Dupont’s bothersome aunt, calling from Eastbourne. Could she please leave a message for Constable Twitten? It might have a bearing on poor Peter’s death. With a sigh, Mrs Groynes picked up a pencil and asked her to proceed.

  The meeting between Brunswick and Twitten was a trifle one-sided, when considered from the exchange-of-information point of view. Besides seeing Mrs Groynes enjoying a kiss with an unknown man in Grenville Street yesterday afternoon, Brunswick had virtually nothing to report. He had heard Frank Benson shout in a threatening manner at a few staff members, but by and large the fabulous vantage point he was supposed to have gained by being onstage at the Black Cat every night had benefited their investigations very little. He hadn’t even known that Deirdre had run away. On the plus side, he was getting more solos than ever – but from the warning look in Twitten’s eye, Brunswick thought this might not be the right time to dwell on his moments of transcendent performance.

  ‘Look, sir. There is one thing you could do for me,’ said Twitten. ‘Dupont gave Deirdre one of those record-your-own-voice discs; he mentio
ns in his notebooks that he wishes he’d done it better, but he was feeling scared; he was sure he was being followed. Now, what Mrs Groynes thinks—’

  He stopped himself. What a slip!

  ‘Sorry, what I think, rather, is that the killer is someone who was “soft” on Deirdre – jealous because Peter Dupont was taking her away. And it’s my hope that this record might tell us something. Do you think you could search for it, sir? In Deirdre’s room? It’s possible she took it with her, of course; but it’s also possible that she wouldn’t know its significance, you see.’

  As he meekly took these orders from Twitten (and saw the state he was in), the sergeant realised for the first time how totally and dismally worthless he had been to the investigation. He experienced a wave of shame. Leaving the whole case in the hands of a raw twenty-two-year-old constable? What had he been thinking?

  ‘You’ve done very well, son,’ he said, generously.

  ‘Really, sir? That’s very kind of you but I’m afraid I can’t agree. I feel the whole thing has been completely out of my grasp! I had a complete breakdown this morning in the office. Mrs Groynes was very kind.’

  ‘Well, good. I’m glad to hear you’re getting on better with her. I suppose the inspector hasn’t been much help?’

  ‘Oh, he’s too bally obsessed with the idea of Adelaide Vine being his niece.’

  ‘What? Why should he think that?’

  ‘Because—’ Twitten paused. ‘We really don’t have time, sir.’

  ‘Look, I can pull out of the Black Cat, son, if you like. It’s not fair.’

  ‘No. I think we’ve got enough chaps now for the stake-out at the railway station this afternoon. Do try to find that record, though, sir. I sometimes feel as if the identity of this killer is being shouted and shouted at me, but I just can’t hear the name!’

  An hour later, at the Argus office, the page proof containing Oliver’s story was given its last reading in the newsroom, then a messenger boy carried it down the corridor towards the rackety, smelly realm of the compositors, known as the stone. Oliver and Twitten followed the boy until he reached the thick leather flaps that marked the transition from journalism to hot metal: there they stopped and watched the lad shoulder his way through. The page had gone to press. It could not be changed now. Within the hour the first copies would hit the streets of Brighton, and be read by thousands of people. But the gamble was that one man – one unknown murdering man, either a hardened criminal, or a man with commando-type training – would read the story, panic, and head for the railway station with his Left Luggage ticket clutched in his sweaty hand.