The Zig Zag Girl by Elly Griffiths Page A

certain. Also, he felt obscurely irritated that Max was disappearing off to France in two days. There was nothing to stop Max going on holiday, but it just felt rather callous in the circumstances. It was all very well Max paying for a headstone and standing beside it looking sad for ten minutes, but, when all was said and done, it was business as usual. Another week, another town. Edgar had often felt, during his Magic Men days, that pros were the hardest-hearted creatures on earth and, now, here was more proof. Ethel was dead, but the show went on. Edgar had an uneasy suspicion that the only person to visit the grave on the hill would be DI Edgar Stephens. PC Muggins himself.
    As for Tony, he certainly never expected to hear from him again. He and Max had poured him into his digs on Monday evening and Max reported (rather gleefully) that a vicious hangover had not improved his act. He wondered if Tony was regretting his return to the boards. Would he now fix his sights on America and television, the ultimate magic box? Edgar didn’t know. He doubted whether Tonywould bother keeping in touch with him. Max was one thing; Tony still courted his approval, wanted to surpass him. But Edgar, he was a nobody, a provincial policeman. He would probably appear in a future Tony Mulholland monologue as a creature of monumental stupidity, saying ‘well, well, well’ and bending his knees a lot.
    So, all in all, he was surprised when, on Saturday morning, he was greeted by Bob with the news that a Tony Mulholland had called in. ‘He wants you to meet him at his digs at one-fifteen,’ said Bob, in the wooden voice he used for official messages. ‘He said that he wanted to talk to you about the Magic Men.’ Lapse into his normal voice. ‘Who are the Magic Men?’
    The precision of the timing struck Edgar as odd. He knew from Max that pros are punctual to the second when in the theatre, but are otherwise casual about time. One-fifteen was a businessman’s appointment, the choice of a person so important that they measured their hours in quarters. He determined to be slightly, but pointedly, late.
    *
    Max spent Saturday lunchtime with Ruby. They had got into a routine of eating at a different restaurant every day, Max choosing places that he thought Ruby would appreciate, places off the tourist trail – or off the trail of the respectable secretary. They had eaten minestrone in subterranean Italian restaurants, sauerkraut and dumplings in Franz’s kitchen and cockles from a stall by the West Pier. But today, their last day, Ruby had said therewas only one thing she wanted to do. ‘Eat fish and chips on the Palace Pier.’ So that’s what they did, sitting in deck-chairs, Ruby in her neat green dress and Max in his best summer suit, taking care not to get grease on his trousers. Seagulls perched hopefully on the railing in front of them but, in Ruby’s case, they were unlucky. She ate every last mouthful, popping each chip carefully into her pink-lipsticked mouth and even moistening a finger to chase the last crumbs from yesterday’s
Argus
. When Max threw a piece of fish in the birds’ direction, she rebuked him. ‘I would have eaten that.’
    ‘Are you starving, Miss French?’
    She smiled, folding the newspaper into a perfect square. ‘I have to keep my strength up, you know. It’s hard work having swords stuck into you every night.’
    Max didn’t respond. He was looking out towards Newhaven and Seaford. In two days’ time he’d be on a ferry heading to France, the seagulls chasing in his wake. And, the way he was thinking, he might never come back.
    He turned to Ruby. Her hat had blown off and she hadn’t put it back on. It was a sunny day, but the wind was strong. The sea was navy-blue with white-crested waves.
    ‘What will you do now?’ he asked.
    She smiled. She had one slightly chipped front tooth. ‘Try to find another booking. I can’t see myself going back to typing and making tea.’
    ‘What do your