“This is dreadful,” Donna said. She herself had felt hatred for Lionel and wanted revenge, but she had never dreamed of killing him. “What I can’t understand is why we’re here now — why you went through this charade of advertising for him, trying to find him — when you knew he was dead.”
“If you were listening, sweetie, I just told you. You knew too much even before I gave you the full story. You’re certain to shop me when the police come along.”
It was getting dark in the car, but Donna noticed a movement of Maggie’s right hand. She had gripped the champagne bottle by the neck.
Donna felt for the door handle and shoved it open. She half fell, trying to get out. Maggie got out the other side and dashed round. Donna tried to run, but Maggie grabbed her coat. The last thing Donna saw was the bottle being swung at her head.
The impact was massive.
She fell against the car and slid to the ground. She’d lost all sensation. She couldn’t even raise her arms to protect herself.
She acted dead, eyes closed, body limp. It wasn’t difficult.
One of her eyes was jerked open by Maggie’s finger. She had the presence to stare ahead.
Then she felt Maggie’s hands under her back, lifting. She was hauled back into the car seat. The door slammed shut. She was too dazed to do anything.
Maggie was back at the wheel, closing the other door. The engine started up. The car bumped in ways it shouldn’t have done. It was being driven across the turf, and she guessed what was happening. Maggie was driving her right up to the cliff edge to push her over.
The car stopped.
I can’t let this happen, she told herself. I wanted to die once, but not any more.
She heard Maggie get out again. She opened her eyes. The key was in the ignition, but she hadn’t the strength to move across and take the controls. She had to shut her eyes again and surrender to Maggie dragging her off the seat.
First her back thumped on the chalk at the cliff edge, then her head.
Flashes streaked across her retina. She took a deep breath of cold air, trying to hold on to consciousness.
She felt Maggie’s hands take a grip under her armpits to force her over the edge.
With an effort born of desperation she turned and grabbed one of Maggie’s ankles with both hands and held on. If she was going, then her killer would go with her.
Maggie shouted, “Bitch!” and kicked her repeatedly with the free leg. Donna knew she had to hold on.
Each kick was like a dagger-thrust in her kidneys.
I can’t take this, she told herself.
The agony became unbearable. She let go.
The sudden removal of the clamp on Maggie’s leg must have affected her balance. Donna felt the full force of Maggie’s weight across her body followed by a scream, a long, despairing and diminishing scream.
Donna dragged herself away from the crumbling edge and then flopped on the turf again. Almost another half-hour passed before she was able to stagger to the phone box and ask for help.
When she told her story to the police, she kept it simple. She wasn’t capable of telling it all. She’d been brought here on the pretext of meeting someone and then attacked with a bottle and almost forced over the edge. Her attacker had tripped and gone over.
Even the next day, when she made a full statement for their records, she omitted some of the details. She decided not to tell them she’d been at the point of suicide when she discovered that bench. She let them believe she’d come on a sentimental journey to remember her childhood. It didn’t affect their investigation.
Maggie’s body was recovered the same day. Lionel, elusive to the end, was washed up at Hastings by a storm the following October.
He left only debts. Donna had expected nothing and was not discouraged. Since her escape she valued her life and looked forward.
And the bench? You won’t find it at Beachy Head.
The Munich Posture
Adolf Hitler stared across the restaurant.
Camilla, blonde, eighteen and English, succeeded in saying without moving her lips, “He’s looking, he’s looking, he’s looking!”
“For a waiter, not you, dear,” Dorothy Rigby remarked. Rigby was, at this formative stage in her life, less flagrantly sexy than her friend Camilla. Rigby’s appeal was subversive and ultimately more devastating. Here in Munich, in September, 1938, the girls were at the Countess Schnabel’s Finishing School. Rigby’s lightly permed brown hair was cut in a modest style approved by the Countess, so that a small expanse of neck showed above the collar of one’s white lawn blouse.
It was Camilla who had dragged her into the Osteria Bavaria. Their table was chosen for the unimpeded view it afforded of the Führer and his party, or rather, the view it afforded the Führer of Camilla. Flamboyant Camilla with her blue Nordic eyes, her cupid’s-bow pout and her bosom plumped up with all the silk stockings she owned. She was resolved to enslave the most powerful man in Europe. It wasn’t impossible. It had been done by Unity Mitford, the Oxfordshire girl turned Rhine-maiden, who had staunchly occupied this same chair in Hitler’s favourite restaurant through the winter of 1935 until she had been called to his table. From that time Unity had been included on the guest lists for Hitler’s mountain retreat at Obersalzberg, and for the Nuremburg rallies, the Bayreuth Festival and the Olympic Games.
Until this moment, Camilla had unaccountably failed to emulate Miss Mitford, though she was just as dedicated, just as blonde and, by her own assessment, prettier.
Until this moment.
“Oh, my hat! He’s talking to his Adjutant. He’s pointing to this table. To me!”
“Calm down, Cami.”
Camilla gripped the edge of the tablecloth. “God, this is it! The adjutant is coming over.”
Undeniably he was. Young, clean-shaven, cool as a brimming Bierglas, he saluted and announced, “Ladies, the Führer has commanded me to present his compliments...”
“So gracious!” piped up Camilla in her best German.
“... and states that he would prefer to finish his lunch without being stared at.” Another click of the heels, an about-turn, and that was that.
“I’m dead,” said Camilla after a stunned silence. “How absolutely ghastly! Let’s leave at once.”
“Certainly not,” said Rigby. “He wants to be ignored, so we’ll ignore him. More coffee?”
“Is that wise?”
They remained at their table until Hitler rose to leave. For a moment he glared in their direction, his blue eyes glittering. Then he slapped his glove against the sleeve of his raincoat and marched out.
“Odious little fart,” said Rigby.
“I hope Mr Chamberlain spits in his eye,” said Camilla.
“He’ll have Mr Chamberlain on toast.”
Outside, in Schellingstrasse, heels clicked and the young adjutant saluted again. “Excuse me, ladies. I have another message to convey from the Führer.”
“We don’t wish to hear it,” said Rigby. “Come on, Camilla. We’re not standing here to be insulted.”
Camilla was rooted to the pavement. “A message from him?”
“This is difficult. The message is for the dark-haired young lady.”
“Me?” said Rigby.
Camilla gave a sudden sob and covered her eyes.
“The Führer will dine at Boettner’s this evening. He has arranged for you to join his party. Fräulein, er...”
“I am not one of your Fräuleins. I am Miss Rigby.”
“From England?” The adjutant frowned and reddened.
Rigby said off-handedly. “Actually I was born in Madras. India, you know. I expect he thought I was a starry-eyed little Nazi wench. Will you be there?”