Smoke and Mirrors (16 page)

Emma began Friday by interviewing Annie and Mark’s school friends. It was very different from talking to the acting troupe in the primary-school hall. Annie’s grammar-school friends were trying hard to be sophisticated, tossing their hair and calling things ‘feeble’. Emma had to put in a lot of work, and a little hair-tossing herself, before they relaxed and began to talk about Annie as if she was a real person and not the heroine of a wireless melodrama.

‘She always made me giggle in worship,’ said Felicity. ‘She could keep her face really serious and still make you laugh.’

‘She did that to me in history,’ said Sally, ‘and Miss Drew sent me out.’

‘Did she ever show you anything that she’d written?’ asked Emma. ‘I heard that she wrote plays.’

‘I don’t know about plays,’ said Jean, ‘but she wrote poems sometimes.’

All three girls started to giggle. Emma smiled encouragingly.

‘There was the one about Monsieur Jones,’ said Sally. She turned to Emma. ‘He’s our French teacher.’

‘Can you remember any of it?’

Felicity assumed a declamatory position.

‘
Barbe
is French for beard,’ explained Sally kindly. ‘Monsieur Jones has got this really feeble little beard, like it’s been painted on.’

‘So he didn’t really make Annie go “ooh là là”?’

‘Nooo.’ A long, contemptuous syllable. ‘She thought he was feeble.’

‘Did she ever talk to you about her friends outside school,’ asked Emma. ‘Did she ever mention Mark Webster, for example?’

‘Mark? Oh . . .’ Felicity’s face, which had relaxed for the poem, became tight again. ‘The boy who was killed. No, I never heard her mention him.’

‘Did she ever talk about her family?’

‘I knew she had a baby brother,’ said Jean. ‘She said she had to babysit for him sometimes.’

‘Did she ever mention her sister, Betty, or her brother Richard?’

‘She said that Betty would probably be coming here next year,’ said Sally. ‘She said we’d all better watch out.’

‘Why?’

‘She said that Betty was cleverer than her and worse than her.’

‘Worse?’

‘Worse behaved, I think she meant,’ said Felicity. ‘But Annie wasn’t naughty, not really. All the teachers liked her. Because she was so clever.’

This was said without any resentment. All three girls nodded solemnly and suddenly Emma felt very fond of them.

‘Did any of you ever go back to Annie’s house?’ she asked.

The girls looked at each other. ‘Well, no,’ said Felicity. ‘She lived in Kemp Town. That’s almost in Whitehawk.’

At that moment they all seemed a lot less lovable.

*

Taking the forbidden route across the field to the boys’ school, Emma thought about Annie, the girl remembered for her laughter and for her poems about poor Monsieur Jones. But there was obviously a lot that Annie didn’t share with her school friends: her home life, her plays, her friendship with Mark. She had been good at keeping a straight face, at keeping the most important part of her life hidden. And Emma was sure the plays and the acting had been significant. She would have to see if she could pick anything up tonight, at the performance of
The Stolen Children
.

Mark, too, had kept his head down at school. Emma met his friends Simkins Minor and Warburton (no first names here) in the chapel, which might have contributed to their subdued demeanour. Mark had liked cricket and history, he hadn’t been so keen on rugby or mathematics. He played the violin in the school orchestra but they thought it sounded like cats being tortured; they’d told him so. Mark liked books by H. Rider Haggard and had been hoping for a cricket bat for Christmas. He didn’t talk much about his ‘people’ but then no one really did at school.

‘Did he ever talk to you about Annie?’ asked Emma.

To her surprise, Simkins, an earnest-looking boy with glasses and a squint, said, ‘Yes.’

‘We met her once,’ said Warburton. ‘On the bus into town.’

‘What did Mark say about Annie?’

‘He said she was his best friend, more like a sister. I said that I’ve got three sisters and I wouldn’t want any more but Webster was an only. He didn’t know what sisters can be like.’

‘I’m an only too,’ said Emma. ‘I always wanted a brother.’

‘I’ve got a brother in the Remove,’ said Simkins. ‘You can have him, if you like.’

That was presumably Simkins Major, thought Emma. It was interesting that Mark had been more forthcoming with his friends than Annie had been with hers.

‘Did Webster, Mark, ever tell you about the plays Annie used to write?’

Again, the boys surprised her. ‘Yes,’ said Warburton, ‘he told us about the plays they put on with these little kids acting all the parts. He said that they had a proper theatre in someone’s house. Mark’s uncle, I think it was.’

Brian was everyone’s uncle, thought Emma. But, again, Mark had been more open about the plays than Annie had been. He was proud of them, she realised, proud of his friend who was almost a sister, proud of their acting troupe and their ‘proper theatre’.

‘Did he tell you what the plays were about?’

‘No, but he said that one of the plays they were putting on,
The Stolen Children
I think it was called, he said that it would frighten a lot of people.’

‘Not frighten,’ said Simkins. ‘Shock.’

Emma sat up straighter. The choir were filing into the stalls at the front of the chapel. She hoped they weren’t about to sing and put the boys off their stride.

‘He said that
The Stolen Children
would shock a lot of people?’

‘Yes. I don’t know why. Maybe it had monsters or something in it.’

There was a Witch Man, Emma remembered, but he hadn’t been the baddie. That had been the parents because ‘Annie likes twists’. Why was Mark so sure that this play – written before any children went missing – would shock people? And why was the troupe putting on
The Stolen Children
tonight? Was Betty – who was reputedly even cleverer than Annie – trying to tell her something? After all, she had gone to great lengths to ensure that ‘the lady policeman’ knew about the performance.

But the boys didn’t seem to know anything else about the play. They were fidgeting now, sniggering at the choir as they performed their warm-up exercises.

‘Do you remember some theatre people coming into the school a few weeks ago?’ asked Emma. ‘They took small groups and did play-writing and acting?’

‘I didn’t go,’ said Warburton. ‘I had a rugby match that day.’

‘I went,’ said Simkins. ‘It was a bit silly really.’

‘Did Mark enjoy it?’

‘I don’t know. I remember we were laughing because Old Hammer, sorry, Dr Hammond was going on about them being like Shakespeare.’

So Martin Hammond, who had claimed hardly to remember the visit, had likened Nigel Castle and Roger Dunkley to Shakespeare. Was this because he knew Denton McGrew from his shadowy double life? But the boys were getting restless. Emma asked one last question. ‘When you met Annie on the bus, what did you talk about?’

‘Her French teacher,’ said Warburton. ‘Apparently he’s got a really stupid beard.’

*

In the end Emma left it a bit late to get to Brian Baxter’s house. After visiting the schools, she had gone back to the station and written up her notes. Then she’d read back through her interviews with the younger children She’d never seen a script of
The Stolen Children
, if one existed, and she had to rely on the synopsis given by Kevin and co: ‘The Witch Man steals children and eats them,’ Agnes had said. ‘He steals children and keeps them in a cage until they get fat enough to eat. All the villagers are scared of him. At night they say to their children, “Children, children, say your prayers . . .” ’ There were definite echoes of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ here, but without Annie’s nasty twist of Gretel wanting to kill Hansel. ‘Annie likes twists,’ Betty had said. According to Bob’s notes, Brian Baxter hadn’t thought
The Stolen Children
suitable for children. Had he been shocked by it?

Bob and the DI had gone to the Devil’s Dyke to follow up on a possible sighting of a man on 29th November. ‘We’d better go today,’ the DI had said. ‘It might snow again tomorrow.’ And when Emma finally set out, she could feel the snow in the air, a dense grey presence that seemed to press her closer to the earth. She’d forgotten what a long slog it was to the top of Freshfield Road. How many times had the children taken this route, walking back from school or visiting Uncle Brian’s house at the top of the hill? Emma imagined Mark and Annie, weighed down by school books, Mark carrying his violin, Annie regaling her friend with stories about Monsieur Jones. Seeing their school friends had made the children seem very close somehow. Emma pushed on up the hill, head down. Halfway up, the streetlamps stopped and it was very dark with just the occasional flash of car headlights and the orange glow from a factory over towards Whitehawk.
She lived in Kemp Town. That’s almost Whitehawk
.

There were lights on in Brian Baxter’s house though, and an actual queue of people waiting for admission into his garage theatre. Emma, who had only heard about the place from the DI, was amazed to see proper seats and a glimpse of velvet curtains. The garage doors were open and a man in a dinner jacket was taking tickets. This must be Baxter, variously described as ‘weaselly’, ‘strange’ and ‘suspicious’. When Emma approached him, he gave her a curious but not unfriendly smile.

‘I’m Emma Holmes,’ she said. ‘The lady policeman.’ She pointed to her invitation.

‘Ah. Well, you’ve got the right name for it, at all events.’

Emma smiled politely. She was immune to comments about her name, except when they came from Bob. ‘I was surprised they were putting on this show,’ she said. ‘I mean, without . . .’

‘It was all Betty’s idea,’ said Brian Baxter. ‘She organised everyone, made sure they learnt their lines, wrote out the invitations. I think it’s her way of paying tribute to Annie.’

His voice broke a little when he said Annie’s name but, unlike Bob, Emma didn’t think this was sinister. He was sad, that was all. A sad little man in a dinner jacket, pretending to be a front-of-house manager.

‘Have you seen the play?’ asked Emma.

‘I saw some rehearsals,’ said Brian. ‘They often come here to rehearse.’

‘What did you think of it?’

‘It seemed a bit dark for a children’s play,’ said Brian. ‘But Betty said you need dark and light in a story.’

‘Betty said you need dark and light in a story?’ Betty, it seemed, was another girl to be reckoned with. Emma thought she could detect Daphne Young’s influence. She wondered how Betty would get on at the grammar school next year, this girl who was ‘worse’ than her sister.

‘She’s a caution, that Betty,’ said Brian. ‘Another Annie.’

Emma felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather. But Brian’s face only showed simple pride in his protégés. He obviously wanted her to move on so she smiled and walked into the garage. Brian Baxter shut the doors behind her.

The curtains were drawn but, behind the scenes, someone was playing Christmas carols on the piano. There were two rows of seats, occupied by solid parent types. Emma recognised Edna Webster but couldn’t see Sandra Francis. Not many fathers. Presumably they were all still at work. Despite a strong smell of Calor gas, the room was very cold. Emma kept her coat on and surreptitiously blew on her hands.

‘Parky, isn’t it?’ said her neighbour, a large comfortable-looking woman wearing a hat like a squashed mushroom.

‘I’m Mareid O’Dowd,’ the woman introduced herself. ‘Kevin’s mother.’

‘I’m Emma Holmes. I’ve met Kevin.’

Mareid O’Dowd smiled complacently. ‘Oh, everyone remembers Kevin. He’s got a big part in this play. He’s the Witch Man.’

The Witch Man. Why not a witch? Was it just to appease Kevin? She was willing to bet that he was one of the best actors.

‘Have you seen the play before?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Mareid dabbed her eyes. ‘They were going to put it on . . . you know, before . . . It was Betty who wanted to go on with it. She said she found the playscript amongst Annie’s “effects”. That’s how she talks, such a clever little thing’

‘It must be hard for Annie and Mark’s parents, coming here today.’

‘Poor souls,’ said Mareid. ‘It’s been such a terrible few weeks. Annie and Mark dying and then that lovely Miss Young. I’ve tried to help Sandra and Jim as much as I can. It’s hard for her, with the baby and all. But she was determined to come today. Said that it was important to Betty. And I must say, we need something, like, to cheer us up.’

From what Emma had heard,
The Stolen Children
was unlikely to cheer anyone up. And if Sandra Francis had been determined to come, where was she now? She was about to ask when the curtains started to move back, jerkily, as if pulled by a string. The piano was revealed and the pianist – Sandra Francis.

‘It’s starting,’ whispered Mrs O’Dowd, sounding genuinely excited.

But there was a dramatic pause. Sandra played a few more bars and then looked at her hands uncertainly. The gas heaters hissed, the mothers looked at each other, the curtains billowed in a sudden gust of wind.

And a red-haired boy rushed onto the stage. ‘Someone’s taken Betty,’ he wailed. ‘She’s gone!’

*

At first Emma even thought that it might be part of the play. Then Sandra Francis crashed both hands down on the piano and screamed, ‘Betty!’ The boy – was it Richard, Betty’s twin? – stood in the centre of the stage with tears rolling down his cheeks, waiting for someone to do something.

Emma climbed onto the stage and put her arm round the boy. ‘It’s OK. Do you remember me? I’m a policewoman.’

Behind her, Sandra said, ‘The police?’

‘Yes.’ Emma turned back to the boy. ‘Richard?’

He nodded, still crying silently.

‘Richard, when did you last see Betty?’

He took a gulping breath. ‘We were just getting ready and Betty realised that we hadn’t got any sweets for the Witch Man scene so she went to Mr Gee’s shop to get some. We’d saved our rations.’