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Authors: Elly Griffiths
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accent.’
They were passing the racecourse, two horses jogging along by the side of the road, their quarters swinging out as if they couldn’t bear the slow pace for a moment longer.
‘Ah, the old German accent,’ said Max. ‘Some things never change. What about the handwriting on the letter, the letter to the Post Office? The one signed Hugh D. Nee.’
‘It was typed. We can even track down the make of typewriter, but it doesn’t get us very far.’
‘Did Ethel have any visitors at her digs?’
‘No. The neighbours all said that she was a very respectable lady. Kept herself to herself. No gentleman callers.’
Max felt oddly relieved to hear this. Ethel may have fallen, but not into the abyss. Yet, if she had been a prostitute, maybe she would have had someone to protect her. Maybe it would have been better if she wasn’t respectable to the end.
‘What about the husband?’ he asked. ‘Does he have an alibi?’
‘He was the first person we thought of,’ said Edgar. ‘It’s usually the husband, that’s what my boss always says. But he’s got an alibi. He was on duty that day.’
‘Still a fireman then?’
‘Yes. Calls himself Leading Fireman Williams.’
‘Idiot,’ said Max. He had never met Williams, but this didn’t stop him from disliking him cordially. He disliked him even when all he knew of him was his name scrawled on Christmas cards.
‘I’m going to see him tomorrow,’ said Edgar. ‘See if he can tell me anything about Ethel’s last movements. He was pretty reluctant to meet me.’
‘So he might have something to hide.’
‘Maybe just doesn’t like talking about his private life. He seemed the taciturn type.’
‘They’re just the types that become murderers,’ said Max.
*
They drove down Bear Road, back into Brighton. There was another crematorium here and they stopped to let a hearse go by. ‘The dead centre of town,’ Bob Willis called it.
Max crossed himself, a gesture that suddenly made him look completely alien. He saw Edgar looking, and grimaced. ‘Catholic reflex.’
‘I didn’t think you believed in God.’
‘The question is,’ said Max, putting the car into gear, ‘does he believe in me?’
‘I’m sure he does,’ said Edgar. ‘Everyone believes in you.’
Max grinned, registering the irony. ‘Well, we did get good reviews last night.’
‘So the Brighton
Evening Argus
believes in you. That’s something.’
‘It certainly is. Did you see what they said about Tony?’
‘I didn’t read it.’ Bob had shown him the review that morning, but for some reason Edgar didn’t want to admit this.
‘Mr Mulholland clearly believes himself to be psychic,’ quoted Max. ‘It’s a pity that he couldn’t have predicted the audience’s reaction at the Theatre Royal last night.’
‘Gosh. Do you think Tony saw that?’
‘Of course he did. All pros read their reviews, even if they say they don’t.’
As Edgar remembered, the paper had rhapsodised over Max’s ‘thrilling stage presence’ and his ‘effortless manipulation of the audience’. He felt sure that Max must have read the piece several times over.
‘What’s next?’ he asked. ‘Where are you going next week?’ He wondered what it was like, not having a real home, changing your backdrop every week, like stage scenery. To be honest, it sounded pretty damn enticing at the moment.
‘I’m going to take a holiday,’ said Max. ‘Go abroad for a few weeks.’
‘It’s all right for some.’
‘Come with me,’ said Max lightly. ‘See something of the world.’
‘I can’t,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve got to make some progress on the case. According to my boss, no woman in Brighton can sleep safely until he’s caught.’
‘Oh, he won’t kill again,’ said Max, accelerating smoothly. ‘A trick like that, it’s a show-stopper. What an earth can he do for an encore?’
‘I don’t like to think,’ said Edgar.
*
Max dropped Edgar back at the station. After the air up
They were passing the racecourse, two horses jogging along by the side of the road, their quarters swinging out as if they couldn’t bear the slow pace for a moment longer.
‘Ah, the old German accent,’ said Max. ‘Some things never change. What about the handwriting on the letter, the letter to the Post Office? The one signed Hugh D. Nee.’
‘It was typed. We can even track down the make of typewriter, but it doesn’t get us very far.’
‘Did Ethel have any visitors at her digs?’
‘No. The neighbours all said that she was a very respectable lady. Kept herself to herself. No gentleman callers.’
Max felt oddly relieved to hear this. Ethel may have fallen, but not into the abyss. Yet, if she had been a prostitute, maybe she would have had someone to protect her. Maybe it would have been better if she wasn’t respectable to the end.
‘What about the husband?’ he asked. ‘Does he have an alibi?’
‘He was the first person we thought of,’ said Edgar. ‘It’s usually the husband, that’s what my boss always says. But he’s got an alibi. He was on duty that day.’
‘Still a fireman then?’
‘Yes. Calls himself Leading Fireman Williams.’
‘Idiot,’ said Max. He had never met Williams, but this didn’t stop him from disliking him cordially. He disliked him even when all he knew of him was his name scrawled on Christmas cards.
‘I’m going to see him tomorrow,’ said Edgar. ‘See if he can tell me anything about Ethel’s last movements. He was pretty reluctant to meet me.’
‘So he might have something to hide.’
‘Maybe just doesn’t like talking about his private life. He seemed the taciturn type.’
‘They’re just the types that become murderers,’ said Max.
*
They drove down Bear Road, back into Brighton. There was another crematorium here and they stopped to let a hearse go by. ‘The dead centre of town,’ Bob Willis called it.
Max crossed himself, a gesture that suddenly made him look completely alien. He saw Edgar looking, and grimaced. ‘Catholic reflex.’
‘I didn’t think you believed in God.’
‘The question is,’ said Max, putting the car into gear, ‘does he believe in me?’
‘I’m sure he does,’ said Edgar. ‘Everyone believes in you.’
Max grinned, registering the irony. ‘Well, we did get good reviews last night.’
‘So the Brighton
Evening Argus
believes in you. That’s something.’
‘It certainly is. Did you see what they said about Tony?’
‘I didn’t read it.’ Bob had shown him the review that morning, but for some reason Edgar didn’t want to admit this.
‘Mr Mulholland clearly believes himself to be psychic,’ quoted Max. ‘It’s a pity that he couldn’t have predicted the audience’s reaction at the Theatre Royal last night.’
‘Gosh. Do you think Tony saw that?’
‘Of course he did. All pros read their reviews, even if they say they don’t.’
As Edgar remembered, the paper had rhapsodised over Max’s ‘thrilling stage presence’ and his ‘effortless manipulation of the audience’. He felt sure that Max must have read the piece several times over.
‘What’s next?’ he asked. ‘Where are you going next week?’ He wondered what it was like, not having a real home, changing your backdrop every week, like stage scenery. To be honest, it sounded pretty damn enticing at the moment.
‘I’m going to take a holiday,’ said Max. ‘Go abroad for a few weeks.’
‘It’s all right for some.’
‘Come with me,’ said Max lightly. ‘See something of the world.’
‘I can’t,’ said Edgar. ‘I’ve got to make some progress on the case. According to my boss, no woman in Brighton can sleep safely until he’s caught.’
‘Oh, he won’t kill again,’ said Max, accelerating smoothly. ‘A trick like that, it’s a show-stopper. What an earth can he do for an encore?’
‘I don’t like to think,’ said Edgar.
*
Max dropped Edgar back at the station. After the air up
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