Smoke and Mirrors (6 page)

Emma looked at the framed cricket bat above Dr Hammond’s head and realised that this was quite an accolade.

‘What about drama?’ she asked. ‘I’d heard that he was interested in acting.’

Dr Hammond looked quite as affronted as Mrs Paxton before him. ‘Acting? I’ve never heard of anything like that. We do a Gilbert and Sullivan every year and, as far as I know, he never took part.’

Perhaps he was a music lover then, thought Emma. She asked about Mark’s friends.

‘Simkins Minor, I think, and Warburton. A small group of the quieter sort. I can make enquiries if you’d like to talk to them.’

‘I would, but perhaps we should leave it a day or two.’

‘I think that would be wise. We’re all quite cut up at the moment.’

‘Dr Hammond, I know this sounds a bit strange, but did you ever hear of Mark being involved with writing plays? We know that he and Annie Francis, the girl who died, that they enjoyed writing and producing plays for younger children.’

Dr Hammond shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know. In my opinion, he wasn’t the sort.’

What sort is that? wondered Emma. She thanked the headmaster for his time and made her way out of the school. The rugby players were still dashing about in the sludge. Emma had never been able to work out the rules of the game. She tried to imagine quiet, sensitive Mark, his glasses mended with sticking plaster, in the middle of these confident, yelling boys. She couldn’t do it. To her, Mark still belonged in the primary-coloured safety of junior school, putting on plays with Annie’s acting troupe. Emma went through the gates and started to walk down the Old Shoreham Road. She suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, remembering. What had Annie said to Mark on the night that they had disappeared? That he should go back to primary school. Bob had said that it was an insult but what if it was, after all, just a suggestion? That the two of them should go back to their old school, perhaps to see someone. But who? Emma quickened her pace, looking for a bus to take her to Kemp Town.

Sam Gee stared at the array of sweets spread out on his counter-top: Taveners Pontefract cakes, pear drops, Mighty Imps, liquorice sticks, Sherbet Fountains, Parma violets, fizzers and dolly mixtures. In their red, yellow and orange wrappers they looked innocent and festive, recalling the pre-war days when sweets could appear in this sort of profusion, the products of a visit from a favourite relative or a particularly fruitful Christmas stocking. Edgar saw Bob staring hungrily at the hoard, and at the glass jars behind Sam Gee’s head. Only a few mud-stained wrappers ruined the effect. That and the fact that this confectioner’s treasure trove had been found in the grave of two murdered children.

‘Do you sell these sweets here?’ asked Edgar.

Sam Gee rubbed his eyes. He was a small man, probably nervous at the best of times, but now, after three visits from the police in as many days, he was almost quivering with terror.

‘Some of them we do,’ he said at last. ‘Haven’t had the Imps for a few months now, and I don’t think I’ve ever stocked Pontefract cakes, but the others, yes.’

‘What about Brighton rock?’ The stick of rock found under Annie’s body had been liberally stained with her blood. Edgar hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch it.

‘There’s no rock these days. Not with the sugar rationing. That must be pre-war.’

That was interesting. Edgar and Bob exchanged glances.

‘Mr Gee.’ Edgar deliberately assumed a more official manner. Bob got out his notebook. ‘Can you tell us again what you did on the night of Monday the twenty-sixth of November?’

The voice, or perhaps the notebook, did the trick. Sam actually backed away from them until he was standing behind the counter with his back to the wall.

‘What’s all this about? And why are you asking me about sweets?’

The detail about the sweets had not been released to the press. Edgar didn’t want to give fuel to any ‘Hansel and Gretel’ fantasists, nor did he want a gang of vigilantes at Mr Gee’s door. Even so, the morning papers had been full of the discovery of the bodies. He was dreading the appearance of the
Evening Argus
.

‘We’re investigating the murders of Annie Francis and Mark Webster,’ he said. ‘And we’re speaking to anyone who might be connected with the case.’

‘But I’m not connected,’ protested Sam. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with it. Those poor children. I hope they hang the bastard who did it.’

So do I, thought Edgar. This despite being against the death penalty. ‘The children disappeared on their way to your shop,’ he said again. ‘We’re going over every second of that day.’

‘They never came here,’ said Sam. ‘I told you, I knew them by sight and they never came here. I closed up the shop at five-thirty, had my tea and stayed in with the missus all evening, listening to the wireless. She can vouch for me.’

‘We’ll certainly be speaking to Mrs Gee,’ said Edgar. ‘What about Tuesday the twenty-seventh?’

‘I opened the shop at seven and worked here until five-thirty. There’s precious little time to be committing crimes in my line of work, I can tell you.’

‘And you didn’t have a break all day?’

‘I had a lunch break at one. The missus covered for me.’

‘And you’ve got no other help in the shop? It’s just you and your wife?’

‘There’s a boy who helps on Saturdays. Hinders more than he helps, most days.’

‘What about your children? Do they ever help in the shop?’

‘No, they’re too young. The oldest is only eight.’

‘Do your children go to the local school, Bristol Road Juniors?’

‘No. They go to St Alban’s in Rottingdean. I want better for them. That’s why I work all hours.’

From what Edgar had seen of prep schools, he doubted that the education was better, though it would certainly be different. He had won a scholarship to the local grammar school (the product of his mother’s relentless drive for self-improvement) and his schooling had been excellent, if cheerless, but Max had left his public school without a single qualification (albeit with an impressive collection of card tricks).

‘Thank you, Mr Gee,’ he said. ‘That’ll be all for now.’ He nodded at Bob to gather up the sweets. He half expected Sam Gee to complain about the ‘for now’ but the shopkeeper seemed lost in thought. As they reached the door, he called after them, ‘Make sure you find the bastard.’

‘We will,’ Edgar promised him. ‘We will.’

Edgar used the police box at the end of the road to telephone the station. He heard that Emma was on her way to Bristol Street Juniors, the school considered not good enough for the young Gees.

‘What’s she doing there?’ he asked Bob. ‘I thought she was seeing the grammar schools.’

‘She must have had an idea,’ said Bob, who was red-faced from the cold. ‘A Holmes special.’

Edgar considered this. Initiative was all well and good but now was not the time to be chasing false trails. ‘We’ll meet her there,’ he said. ‘It’s only round the corner.’

Bob grunted his assent and they set off through the dirty snow, sometimes in single file, like a modern-day King Wenceslas and his page.

*

Bristol Road Juniors didn’t have a flag to fly at half mast but there was, nevertheless, a palpable sense of sadness about the school. It was an ugly Victorian building, opening straight onto the street, with doors marked ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’. Emma was surprised, and not entirely pleased, to see Bob and DI Stephens loitering by the gate.

‘We’re going in that way.’ She pointed at the word ‘Girls’.

‘Perhaps we should go in by the front door,’ said DI Stephens mildly. He rarely rose to her challenges. Now he was asking, again without heat, what she was doing at the school.

Emma explained her hunch about the exchange between Annie and Mark. ‘I mean, we never knew what the context was. Perhaps Annie was suggesting that they went to see someone at the school.’

‘The witness said they quarrelled,’ said Bob. Emma could see that he was not in the mood to accept any ideas that didn’t appear on his to-do list.

‘The witness was a ten-year-old boy.’

‘He saw Annie push Mark.’ That was the trouble with Bob, he had a memory like an elephant. Unfortunately he had an elephant’s power of reasoning to go with it.

‘Well, maybe they did argue. Maybe Mark didn’t want to go to the school.’

DI Stephens cut in. ‘It’s an interesting idea, Emma. Have you any ideas why they would want to visit their old school? I mean, it was a winter’s night, well past school hours, getting dark.’

Emma tried not to look at Bob’s sceptical elephant’s face. ‘I think someone was influencing Annie. Someone who was behind her play-writing, her imaginative ideas. I’ve just been to the grammar school and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anyone there. The headmistress had her down as the scientific type, said she wanted to be a doctor. I think it’s likely that she was influenced by someone here, maybe someone who taught her when she was younger.’

DI Stephens looked at her. He didn’t ask whether she thought that this childhood mentor was also a killer. Instead he gestured towards the main entrance, flanked by two sooty pillars. ‘Let’s go in.’

The headmaster, Duncan Pettigrew, was a man whose face had already fallen into dispirited lines. Emma couldn’t guess at his age: forty? fifty? sixty? Probably more than forty and less than sixty. Today, he looked as much like a bloodhound as was possible for a man in football kit.

‘Can’t get a male PT teacher,’ he explained. ‘Lost all the male teachers in the war, except those too ancient to run, and we haven’t got them back. Lots of keen young women teachers but you can’t expect ladies to go training with the First Eleven.’

‘Where do you train?’ asked Emma. As far as she could see, the only playground was a small square of concrete flanked by dustbins.

‘Queen’s Park,’ said Pettigrew. ‘It’s not far and I think we could all do with some fresh air. It’s been a very difficult day.’

‘Do you remember Annie and Mark well?’ asked DI Stephens.

‘Of course.’ The lines around Pettigrew’s mouth turned down even further. ‘Annie was just about the brightest pupil we’ve ever had at the school. Mark, too, was a solid scholar. I thought they’d both go far, have great futures . . .’ He looked at them mournfully.

‘I’m sorry,’ said DI Stephens, sounding it. ‘It must be very hard for everyone at the school. Annie’s siblings are here, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, Betty and Richard. They’re not in today, of course. Betty’s very like her sister, actually. Same quick mind.’

‘We’re looking again at the events of Monday afternoon,’ said DI Stephens. ‘Is there any chance that Annie and Mark could have visited the school, after school hours?’

‘Visited the school?’ The bloodhound lines turned upwards in surprise. ‘This school?’

‘We’re just discounting possibilities.’ DI Stephens was using his reassuring voice. ‘Would the school have been open, say at five or half past?’

‘I think so,’ said Pettigrew. ‘I left earlyish on Monday, about half past four, but there were still some staff members here. The caretaker usually locks up at six, unless we’ve got a concert or something of that sort. He lives next door.’

‘Mr Pettigrew,’ said Emma. ‘When Annie was here, was there a particular teacher she was close to? We’ve heard that she wrote plays. Was there anyone who could have helped her? Inspired her?’

Pettigrew seemed to register Emma’s presence for the first time. To her surprise, he attempted a sort of smile.

‘There’s Miss Young. She teaches top juniors and she has quite a way with the youngsters. Annie was close to her. I had heard that they were writing a play together.’

‘Is Miss Young here today?’

‘Yes. She insisted on coming in even though she was devastated by the news. She’s a true professional.’

‘Could I speak to her?’ asked Emma.

*

Miss Young met them in her classroom. Her pupils were doing PT, the boys trudging up to Queen’s Park with Mr Pettigrew, the girls in the gym. Miss Young was indeed young, about Emma’s own age, in fact. She was also a beauty, with Pre-Raphaelite hair drawn back from a perfect oval face. Her classroom, too, in contrast to the rest of the school, was jewel-like, decorated with colourful paintings and hangings. Wind chimes glittered and the winter sun glowed through windows covered with coloured paper to give a stained-glass effect. Emma saw Bob blinking in a dazzled way. For some reason, the room and its occupant had the opposite effect on her; they made her feel brisk and coldly competent.

Outside she had asked DI Stephens if she could lead the interview and he had agreed. She had also suggested, as tactfully as could, that the presence of three police officers would be rather intimidating, so maybe Bob could . . . But Bob had flatly refused to go and the boss had backed him up. They’d stay in the background, he promised Emma, but maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to show people how seriously they were taking the case.

Miss Young (Daphne) didn’t seem intimidated at all events. She nodded sombrely when Emma introduced herself and turned limpid green eyes in the direction of the male officers.

‘This must be so hard for you too.’

‘It’s our job,’ said Emma. ‘Miss Young, I believe that you were especially close to Annie Francis.’

She had half expected the teacher to deny this, to say that she treated all her pupils equally and had no favourites. Instead Daphne Young smiled sadly and sweetly. ‘I was. She had great talent, Annie. Such imagination. I try to draw my pupils out, to find out what inspires them. Especially when they’re maybe not getting that encouragement at home.’

Another disparaging comment about Annie’s home environment. Emma was storing them up. She said, ‘Annie’s talent was for writing plays, I believe?’

Miss Young did not protest that Annie preferred the sciences. Instead, to Emma’s surprise, she drew out a folder from a pile on her desk.

‘She wrote plays and stories too. I was just looking at these before you came. Morbid really. But reading them brought Annie back for moment.’

Emma looked at the first sheet of lined paper. The border was intricately decorated with pictures of unicorns and princesses in conical headgear. The writing was perfect primary-school script: ‘The Wicked Stepdaughter’.

Emma started reading: ‘It’s the stepmother who’s meant to be wicked but mine’s just stupid, a fool who doesn’t know what’s coming to her. No, I’m the wicked one . . .’

Miss Young was saying, ‘So imaginative. A retelling of the “Snow White” story with Snow White as the villain, planning to kill her stepmother. A really clever twist.’

Emma remembered Betty saying, ‘Annie likes a twist.’ She tried to keep the shock out of her voice. ‘Wasn’t that rather dark for a . . . How old was Annie when she wrote this?’

‘She’d just come into my class. Ten. Maybe eleven. She was one of the oldest in the cohort.’

‘So, at eleven, she wrote about a daughter killing her stepmother?’

Miss Young faced her serenely. ‘Children’s imaginations are dark, Sergeant Holmes. That’s why they like fairy stories. Parents killing their children. The jealous stepmother. The princess dancing until she drops down dead. The Little Mermaid dying slowly for love. The wicked Queen demanding Snow White’s heart. The stone falling on the bad mother and crushing her. The parents who want a baby and get a hedgehog instead. Life, death, birth, pain, happiness. It’s all there.’

‘Did you talk to Annie about these stories?’

‘Of course. We talked about everything. She used to come here in the evenings sometimes and we’d talk. We were trying to write a play together. She was a better writer than me.’

Emma didn’t look at her colleagues but she could feel their concentrated stares burning into her back.

‘We’re investigating Annie’s movements on Monday night. We believe she may have come here.’

Miss Young met her gaze squarely, her huge eyes wide and guileless.

‘I didn’t see Annie on Monday night. I thought she might have come to see me, to work on the play, but she didn’t.’ Her voice faltered for the first time. ‘I wish she had.’

‘What did you do on Monday night?’

A faint suggestion of a raised chin but Daphne Young’s voice was calm and pleasant when she replied, ‘I worked here until six, when Mr James, the caretaker, locked up. I tidied the classroom, marked some books. I prefer to work here than at home.’