Free Smoke and Mirrors by Elly Griffiths Page A

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.

Chapter 7
    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