At The Plaza Majestic.

Chapter 9

Four days later, at about noon, I was walking down Brighton Pier. I hadn't heard anything about the happenings at the Plaza, as nothing had, as of yet, made the newspapers. I hoped it had all gone alright, and I also hoped Smart didn't think I was dead. Chances were, he might, and as such just not bothered to turn up today. Still, I wanted his side of the story.

I had just finished my second lap of the pier when I spotted a wide brimmed hat, and underneath it, a large overcoat, looking very out of place in amongst all the holidaymakers. The man wearing them also had a characteristic stoop, one I recognised instantly. I watched as he sat down on a bench, looking out over the sea. It was evident from the way he was acting that he wasn't expecting to meet anyone.

He thinks he killed me, I realised with a jolt.

Now I had a dilemma, one which I didn't know how to tackle. Smart thought I was dead, and I wasn't sure whether going up to him and saying I was alright was better or worse than just....leaving it. When I thought about it, leaving it didn't seem like a bad idea. Since I was intending to keep a low profile for at least the rest of my life, he would never know the difference. Walking up to him now could easily hurt him as much if not more as leaving him alone would.

Newham would prefer it if I didn't, I realized. As would Isabel.

And that clinched it.

I'd have to tell Fisher not to tell, though, I realized. And Barnes, if I ever saw him again. It nearly broke my heart, though, seeing him sitting there alone. But I steeled myself. I knew I would hurt him either way, as I had already agreed with Isabel that this was to be the last time I would see him.

In my mind, I ran through everything I would have told him. How I'd realized so early on how the goods were being smuggled. How Stephenson had organised with the gang that early in the morning, they would let themselves in to Slade's room, drug him while he was unprepared, and then carry him out helpless on a stretcher, pretending he had been murdered horribly to knock Smart and I off our guard, and off their backs. Then, before the police arrived, they took Pye's uncle, who had, I hoped, died of his wounds, and swapped the two bodies. With the damage already done to make the second man unrecognisable, it was easy to pass him off as Slade, while the Scotland Yard man was smuggled, still alive, into the circus camp, and probably locked in some caravan somewhere. I now had no doubt that Circus Impossible and Old Man Stephenson had some sort of link between them, and I assumed his exotic friend Carlos was a circus man as well.

And, sadly, that had been all there was to it. It was stupidly simple, and dreadfully dull. And yet all this drama had occurred because of it. Sometimes, I realized, simplicity was far more effective than the complex puzzle.

With my mind distracted, I somehow found the inner strength to turn away, walking back up the pier to Brighton Station, leaving Smart mourning me alone, on a bench, looking out over the sea.

When I got home that night, I confessed to Isabel what I had done. She told me it had been the right thing to do, even though in her eyes, I didn't think she believed it. But I couldn't go back now. I had made my decision, and whether it was the wrong one still remained to be seen.

Just before I went to bed, I picked up a Sedgefield Carburry I had been reading before this whole drama began, in order to put it away. The Beginning Of The End, it was titled.