PROLOGUE
Sunday, 19 September 1965
Sunday afternoon, thought Verity Malone, was a blameless time of day. It was a time for snoozing after roast beef, for going on long walks with a dog, for making duty visits to grandparents. Well, Verity was a grandmother herself now, but she was resolutely unvisited. She didn’t have a dog and it was years since she’d cooked anything more adventurous than cheese on toast. There was church, of course. St Margaret’s was next door and, on Sunday mornings, the bells were both deafening and enticing. Once or twice Verity had got as far as putting her hat on, preparatory to attending a service, but, somehow, she never got further than the front porch. People would stare and, although being stared at used to be part of her job, nowadays she found it rather tiring.
When Verity was a young dancer in variety, Sunday was changeover day. All over the country, the performers would be on the move, from one weekly show to the next: Glasgow to Manchester, Eastbourne to Liverpool, Scarborough to Yarmouth. Hours on provincial trains enlivened only when, at key junctions like Crewe, you saw other pros, huddled on the platform with their trunks containing costumes, props and ventriloquists’ dummies. You would chat about last week’s run (‘The audiences sat on their hands, my dear’), exchange horror stories about bed bugs and lecherous ASMs, then your train would arrive and you wouldn’t see your colleagues again for years, unless you were on the bill with them. Then, when you reached your destination, you would haul your luggage through the grey Sunday streets until you found your digs. The landlady would meet you at the door, cigarette on her lower lip, and spell out the house rules. ‘Lights out at midnight, no smoking, drinking or followers.’ Happy days.
Marriage to Bert Billington had put an end to all that. He was one of the biggest impresarios in the business and was, in Verity’s mother’s words, ‘a good provider’. Detached house in Lytham St Anne’s, then Surrey, and now this house in Rottingdean, part of what had once been a hotel beloved of Hollywood stars. It was mock Tudor, all twisted beams and diamond panes. Very picturesque but sometimes, when Verity looked out over the graveyard at St Margaret’s, she felt that Tudor Close itself was like a giant tombstone, rising out of the ground, covered in lichen and frost, nothing more than a remembrance of past glories.
A ring on the doorbell. A voice from the present. Verity adjusted her wig before going to answer it. ‘Always think of your public,’ that’s what Madame Fou Fou, the celebrated pantomime dame, used to say. Verity tightened the belt of her kimono and went to the door.
‘Hallo, Mum.’
Wonder of wonders, it was one of her sons. At first, with the low afternoon sun in her eyes, she couldn’t quite tell which one. Then she saw a motorbike helmet, sinister and black. Aaron then.
‘I said I might pop over,’ he said, pushing past her. Quite rudely, in Verity’s opinion. ‘To show Dad the new bike.’
‘He’s in the sitting room,’ said Verity. And she waited until Aaron’s casual ‘Dad?’ turned into something sharper and more urgent.
ONE
Monday, 27 September 1965
‘Bert Billington, the theatrical impresario. Poisoned in his own armchair.’
The DI clearly expected this to make an impression, so WDC Meg Connolly arranged her face into lines of wonderment.
‘Bert Billington! Amazing.’
DI Willis sighed. ‘You’ve no idea who he is, have you?’
‘No,’ said Meg. ‘Sorry.’ She didn’t remind her boss that she was born in 1945 and so didn’t share his happy memories of the war years and whenever it was that this Bert Billington was famous. What was an impresario anyway?
‘He owned theatres,’ said DI Willis, in a patronising voice that made Meg think that he wasn’t sure either. ‘And he produced shows. He was married to Verity Malone.’ This name was definitely said as if it should mean something. And it did stir a faint memory in Meg’s brain. Something to do with feathers and shiny satin.
‘The singer?’
‘Yes. The one and only Miss Malone.’ The DI sounded like he was quoting now. ‘She started out as a dancer but she was really famous as a singer in the 1920s. My mum and dad went to see her once. At the Croydon Empire.’
‘I think my dad had a picture of her.’ The memory was coming into focus: brilliant smile, costume that was little more than a corset, plus feather boa. ‘My mum used to say it was indecent.’ Strangely, though the picture had been black and white, Meg’s memory of it was in technicolour, yellow hair and red lips, the boa a brilliant, clashing pink.
‘Well, we’re going to see her now,’ said the DI. ‘They live in Tudor Close in Rottingdean. Get your stuff together.’
Meg jumped up with alacrity. What ‘stuff’ did the DI think she needed? Women police officers were meant to carry handbags but Meg never bothered. She was in uniform and she stuffed her purse into her jacket pocket. It was a rare treat to get out of the station on a job that wasn’t traffic duty or pounding the beat. From across the room, her colleague, DC Danny Black, pulled a gorilla face at her.
‘I thought it would be good,’ said the DI ponderously, as they drove along the coast road towards Rottingdean, ‘to have a woman officer with me, seeing as how Verity Malone is . . .’
‘A woman?’ suggested Meg.
‘Sensitive,’ said DI Willis, frowning slightly. Behind his head the late September sun shone on a blue sea. Meg couldn’t rid herself of a ‘day out’ feeling, which she knew was inappropriate in the circumstances.
‘You said Bert Billington was poisoned,’ she said, adding ‘Sir’ because she often forgot. ‘How do we know?’
‘Post-mortem,’ said DI Willis. ‘At first the son, who found the body, thought it was a heart attack. Bert suffered from high blood pressure and angina. But Solomon Carter confirmed today that Bert Billington had quantities of rat poison in his blood.’
Solomon Carter was the pathologist, a sinister individual given to bow ties and suggestive comments.
‘Rat poison,’ said Meg. ‘He can hardly have taken it by accident then. Sir.’
‘No,’ said the DI. After a pause, he said, ‘They had the funeral yesterday, as soon as the body was released. The son, Aaron, was on the phone to me today.’
‘Saying that his mother did it?’
‘He said his mother was becoming confused and may have done it by accident. But he also said that she was resentful towards her husband.’
‘Resentful? That’s an odd word to choose.’ Or was it? wondered Meg. Her own mother’s attitude—towards everything really—was one of barely concealed anger. Anger at her parents for leaving Ireland at the turn of the century, anger at her husband for giving her seven children and a council house in Whitehawk, anger at the children for keeping her trapped in the house, taking in ironing for her richer neighbours. Despite this, she wasn’t a bad mum really.
‘Is this Aaron an only child?’ she asked. She had once longed for this status. Fourth child of seven was definitely the short straw. Neither of her parents ever got her name right first time. ‘Pass me the milk, Marie, Aisling, Collette . . .’ They’d once had a dog called Mollie and even she got a mention before Meg.
‘No, there are three sons,’ said the DI, stopping at the Rottingdean traffic lights. ‘The eldest, David, runs the family business and lives in London. He has two children. The middle son, Seth, is an actor, I believe.’ He said the word with a slight distaste, despite being married to a former actress (one who once wore even fewer clothes than the young Verity).
‘Seth Billington?’ The words came out as a sort of controlled shriek. ‘Seth Billington’s her son?’
‘Have you heard of him then?’
‘Heard of him? I’ve seen all his films. Black Hawk. The Highwayman. Darkest Before Dawn . . .’
Meg lapsed into silence. They were driving along the High Street and she remembered a previous case when she had discovered that beneath these neat terraced cottages lay a network of tunnels, once used by smugglers. The whole community had been involved in the trade, even the vicar. It certainly gave another perspective on the picture-perfect village. They passed the pond and the solid mansion once owned by Rudyard Kipling, then they turned left by the church, where once the Reverend Hooker had preached about honesty whilst storing stolen brandy in his cellar.
The DI drew up in front of a timbered building that formed three sides of a square surrounding a smooth, green lawn. The beams were so twisted and gnarled that they looked almost soft. Meg thought of the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel. She felt as if she could break off one of the door frames and eat it. The windows were the old-fashioned diamond-paned sort and they glittered in the autumn sunshine.
‘Do the Billingtons own this whole house?’ said Meg.
‘No, it’s been divided into several houses. Quite some place, isn’t it? Used to be a hotel.’
‘Is it really Tudor?’ Meg was vague about history but Tudor meant Henry VIII, didn’t it? A ribald song about his six wives came into her head.
‘No,’ said the DI with scorn. ‘It’s all pretend. Nineteen twenties or thereabouts.’
This meant he didn’t know either.
There was no sound at all as they walked across the lawn, only the faint buzzing of bees in the hollyhocks. The High Street could have been miles away and Brighton another country. But, even so, there was something about Tudor Close that Meg didn’t quite like. The house seemed to close in around them, so many windows, so many doors, yet no sign of life. It’s all pretend, the DI had said, and suddenly Meg thought of a film set. She had the strange thought that if she knocked on one of the twisted beams the whole building would collapse like a pack of cards.
The DI didn’t seem to notice anything. Meg couldn’t imagine him ever having fanciful thoughts of that kind. He marched up to one of the doors and knocked. After a long wait, it opened and Meg was face to face with the one and only Miss Malone. The former variety star was tall and slim, wearing what looked like a Japanese robe in red and gold. Her hair, still improbably golden, was piled on top of her head, and she wore an array of jewellery, including chandelier earrings and, Meg noticed, rings on every finger.
‘Good,’ said the apparition. ‘You’ve brought a woman officer. I said I wouldn’t talk to you without a woman present.’
So that was why Meg had been invited.
‘I’m DI Bob Willis and this is WDC Meg Connolly.’
‘Glad to meet you, Bob and Meg. Come in.’
Meg could tell by the look of the DI’s back how he felt about the use of his first name.
Verity led them into a long, low sitting room, made longer and lower by the presence of ceiling beams and mullioned windows. She offered them tea and coffee which were declined by the DI.
‘Meg?’ Verity smiled at her. She was old, in Meg’s eyes—seventy at least—but the smile was as brilliant as in Dad’s indecent photo. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Meg longed to say yes, just to see what the DI would do, but decided it wasn’t worth it.
‘No thank you, Miss Malone.’
‘Call me Verity. Miss Malone is long gone and I never answer to Mrs Billington.’
Interesting, thought Meg.
Verity sat on one of the velvet sofas and waited. The DI cleared his throat.
‘Mrs Billington. Ah . . . Miss . . . er . . . Verity. We have recently received the post-mortem report on your late husband and I’m sorry to tell you that—’
‘He was poisoned. Yes, Aaron informed me. He suspects me. Did he tell you that?’
The Dl’s ears went red. ‘We are investigating the case,’ was all that he could manage.
‘Perhaps you could tell us what happened on the day your husband died,’ said Meg. ‘To help us build up a picture of events.’
‘I can see why you brought this one along,’ said Verity. ‘Beauty and brains. Nice and tall too. I can’t bear short people.’
It was Meg’s turn to blush. At nearly six foot, it was her experience that everyone preferred short people, short girls in particular. And no one had ever—ever!—called her beautiful before.
‘It was Sunday,’ said Verity. ‘We’d had lunch. Just an egg on toast. Neither of us are big eaters these days. Bert can’t taste anything much, what with his condition.’
‘What condition was that?’ asked the DI.
‘Bert had a stroke a couple of years back,’ said Verity. ‘Just a small one,’ she added. Although Meg betted that it hadn’t seemed small to the sufferer. The DI nodded at Verity to continue.
‘We had our lunch in the conservatory and, afterwards, Bert came in here to watch television. I can’t bear TV. It’s killed entertainment, in my opinion. So I sat in the kitchen listening to the wireless. Then Aaron came round to show us his new motorbike. He went into the sitting room and found Bert sitting in his chair. Dead.’
She gave the word a theatrical flourish but there was no other sign of emotion.
‘And did Mr Billington eat anything else besides the egg on toast?’ asked Meg.
‘Yes, he had a big snifter of rat poison. Don’t get excited, Bob. Aaron told me what had killed him.’
‘I’m afraid we will need to search your kitchen,’ said DI Willis stiffly. ‘Are you the only person who prepares food in there?’
‘No, we have a daily, Mrs Saunders. She usually makes us breakfast and leaves something cold for lunch. She doesn’t come in on a Sunday though.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against your husband?’ asked DI Willis.
‘Only everyone who ever knew him,’ said Verity. Then she laughed. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have a long list of suspects, Bob. But don’t worry. I’ve got you some help. I’ve engaged a private detective. A lovely young woman she is too.’
Meg and the DI exchanged glances. There was only one person this could be.
The one and only Emma Holmes.
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