Vesta’s eyes were burning. It was clear that the idea of poisoned gin lent a certain glamour to Mrs Quinn’s death. Mirabelle tutted. She disliked this modern vogue for glamourising violence. Cheap paperbacks at the railway station were full of it and in the last few years it seemed there had been a spate of well-dressed gentlemen killers who covered their tracks with war medals and respectability. People wanted to forget what they’d seen during the war, what they knew about death. It was easier, somehow, to cover things up with nice outfits or cocktails. It made crime easier to gawp at it. But the truth was that death, or at least murder, was always the same shoddy business, no matter how you tried to gloss it over.
Mirabelle took Vesta’s arm. If the policeman wasn’t going to let them in, they might as well try something else. ‘Thank you, Officer,’ she said.
As they closed the gate behind them, a heavily pregnant woman was making her way up the street. Mirabelle squinted. It seemed the poor woman was unravelling. In one hand she carried a loosely wrapped brown paper parcel and in the other she clutched a crumpled linen handkerchief. The top buttons of her coat gaped, as if she couldn’t summon the will to fasten them, and her eyes were pink. Mirabelle glanced back towards the policeman, who had taken Mrs Ambrose’s tray into the house and was pouring tea for the rest of the men. Turning back, she caught the woman’s eye.
‘Oh dear. You knew Mrs Quinn?’ she said gently. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The woman sniffed. ‘I won’t talk to the papers,’ she said, trying to push past Mirabelle and Vesta and through the gate of number thirteen.
‘We don’t work for the press,’ Mirabelle assured her. ‘We work with the police. If you don’t mind, Mrs Lewis and I would like a word.’
The woman paused as she held the gate open, her eyes darting. ‘You don’t have a camera?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘I talked to an officer already.’
‘It’s the detail, you see,’ Mirabelle said vaguely. If she was going to get anywhere, she needed people to talk. ‘And you live next door.’
‘I suppose it’ll be all right,’ the woman decided. ‘I’m Violet Randall,’ she said, as she turned up the path and opened the front door. ‘It’s good they have you. I’d far rather talk to a woman.’
The Randalls’ house was full of flowers. Milk bottles with sprigs of blossom peppered the hallway and further in Mirabelle and Vesta could see empty tins arrayed with daffodils and bluebells. The place was spotless, if a little threadbare. A tabby cat lazed in a patch of sunlight by the window.
‘I’m sorry for the mess,’ said Mrs Randall, as her coat almost fell off her shoulders and on to the chair. ‘I’m not terribly domestic.’
‘It’s lovely here,’ Vesta declared with a grin. Mrs Randall looked taken aback as if she couldn’t quite believe what Vesta had said. ‘You haven’t introduced yourselves,’ she pointed out, hovering by the door.
‘Oh yes, of course.’
They shook hands solemnly. Mirabelle and Vesta gave their names and Mrs Randall said to call her Vi and nodded them towards an old sofa patched with squares of faded hounds-tooth. Between the tins of flowers on the mantel, Mirabelle just made out last year’s Christmas cards. Mrs Randall clearly hadn’t read the Good Housekeeping guide to the seasons, but the room was bright and the house immediately had the feel of a home. A novel lay open on the chair. Mrs Randall closed it. ‘I need to take that back to the library,’ she said.
‘I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re late, after what’s happened,’ Mirabelle reassured her.
Mrs Randall nodded. ‘You want to know about it. We all want to know. My husband, Billy, spoke to the policeman. He found Helen’s body. The thing is, we didn’t see anything. We were asleep. Billy got up first. By the time I came downstairs your colleagues were here and Helen was gone.’ She raised the handkerchief to her nose.
‘We’re just mopping up,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Sometimes it’s the small things. I wondered if you’d heard anything in the night?’
Vi shook her head. ‘I sleep like the dead at the moment.’ She placed her hand on her baby bump. Then she remembered. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ Tears began to well. ‘It just makes you tired, that’s all. I didn’t hear anything.’
‘You were close to Mrs Quinn?’
‘Helen was a friend. We used to have a cuppa most days. There was no side to her. She and Phil had everything. You should see their place. But she wasn’t snooty. I was going to ask her to be godmother to the baby.’
‘When are you due?’ Vesta leaned in.
‘Next month.’ Vi sniffed. ‘And now I don’t know who to get to do it.’
‘Mrs Randall, do you know the police have arrested Mr Quinn?’
Vi sat up. She sniffed once more but the crying stopped. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What for?’
‘They suspect him of the murder.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Phil wouldn’t hurt Helen in a million years. He adored her.’ Vi got to her feet and, with her hands supporting the arch of her back, she began to pace up and down the thin carpet. ‘I don’t know why anyone would even think that.’
‘Well, for a start, he was in the house with his wife’s body for a long time – several hours – and didn’t seem to notice she was dead. He can’t account for that. The police suspect he drugged her, then stabbed her. After that it would appear he waited till morning before he alerted anyone.’
‘And they reckon he thought he’d get away with that? I mean, that was his plan?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Miss Bevan, I was a nurse in the war. I was in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. If you want to kill someone there are lots of ways to go about it that would give you a better alibi. I mean, if Phil drugged Helen it was premeditated, wasn’t it? If you premeditate a murder you generally plan to get away with it. In that respect the theory you’re suggesting was a terrible plan. And besides, Helen was stabbed in the stomach. That’s painful. It takes a long time to die. Phil would never have been able to watch her suffer.’
‘Does Mr Quinn have any enemies that you know of?’
‘Apart from the idiot policeman who came up with that cockeyed theory?’ Vi’s eyes flashed. ‘I can’t think of anyone. The Quinns were nice people. I’ll say that in court.’
‘How long have you known them?’
Vi shrugged. ‘I know them perfectly well,’ she said.
‘Not long then?’
‘We moved here last autumn. Billy’s aunt died and left him the house.’
‘And the Quinns?’
‘They got married last year. It’s almost their anniversary.’
Mirabelle thought of the wedding photograph in the Argus. Was that only a year ago? The Quinns really hadn’t had much of a chance. She got to her feet. ‘Who had you thought of for the godfather?’ she enquired.
‘Oh, Billy’s brother, I expect. In Portsmouth.’
‘Not Phil Quinn?’
‘You’re supposed to spread it around, aren’t you? In case . . . well, something like this happens.’
‘If you were friendly with Mrs Quinn, was your husband friendly with Phil too?’
‘They got on. I mean, Helen and I saw each other every day. The boys only got together now and then in the pub. On a Friday, you know. I can see what you want me to say, but there’s nothing in it. Phil Quinn is a good man. He’d lend anyone a hand.’
‘Had you noticed anything between Mr Quinn and his wife? I mean, anything unusual? Anything that was different recently?’
‘They were trying for a baby. But that’s just normal, isn’t it?’
Mirabelle noticed Vesta shift in her chair. Vesta had been married to Charlie for two years. They were a happy if, by most standards, unconventional couple. She ignored the girl’s awkward movement and continued. ‘And you never heard them arguing? Not about anything?’
‘Billy and I argue now and then, but, honestly, Helen and Phil weren’t like that. They were properly lovey-dov
ey. They had it easy, I suppose – they were newly-weds. Phil makes a lot of money too. That gives you less to squabble about, doesn’t it?’
Mirabelle couldn’t comment. She had never married. During the war she and Jack had shared digs but they had been separated for weeks at a time, and even though she and Superintendent McGregor had become close, they didn’t share a place of residence, let alone a bank account. Being married seemed completely out of reach, but that wasn’t something to think about now.
Mrs Randall continued to rub the small of her back. ‘Do you think they’ll let Phil go? He couldn’t have killed her. I won’t believe it.’
‘His business partners have secured the services of a solicitor,’ Mirabelle said. ‘The nub of it is if Mr Quinn didn’t kill his wife then who else would want to, let alone have the opportunity?’
‘I thought the law was innocent till proven guilty.’
‘That’s what Inspector Robinson will be looking into. Trying to prove him guilty, I mean.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘We’re going to see what we can turn up. Honestly, this doesn’t make sense to me either. For the reasons you pointed out for a start.’
‘And beyond that?’
‘It’s a vicious crime. It feels like there’s more to it. If Phil Quinn didn’t kill her, then I’d like to find something – just a trace – of the person who did.’
Vi sighed, but she seemed to relax a little. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least you’re on the case . . .’
Mirabelle’s eye was caught by a forsythia bush outside the window. She momentarily wondered why Vesta had been so quiet. The girl had hardly asked a single question. Now, she was sitting back in the chair with her eyes on the floor, or, more accurately, Mirabelle realised, with her eyes on Mrs Randall’s ankles, which were slightly swollen. Beside the fire there was a knitting basket with a storm of white 3-ply wool attached to a pair of wooden needles – like a flurry of snow piled against a wall. As she raised her eyes from the pregnant woman’s ankles, Vesta noticed the knitting and seemed momentarily stumped. Whatever the girl was pondering, it was not Helen Quinn’s murder.
‘Thank you, Mrs Randall. We mustn’t take up any more of your time,’ Mirabelle said, getting to her feet. ‘Come along, Vesta, let’s get going.’
Chapter 3
A cat in gloves catches no mice
The women proceeded down the road. Around the corner, the footballing boys had disappeared and the rubbish bins they had used as goalposts were abandoned, knocked over on the pavement. Vesta bent to pick them up and replace the lids. It was the deciding factor. Mirabelle folded her arms.
‘How long have you known, Vesta?’ she asked, as the girl pushed the bins back into place.
Vesta blushed. ‘What do you mean?’
Mirabelle eyed her and said nothing. Vesta’s forehead creased with both guilt and worry. ‘Does it show?’ she asked. The words came out garbled.
‘You refused pudding at lunchtime. You can’t bear the smell of exhaust fumes. You were transfixed by Mrs Randall. And her knitting. And you’re clearing up after children in the street. Of course it shows.’
‘I meant my stomach.’
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I made an educated guess based on your behaviour. That’s far more reliable. Have you told Charlie?’
Vesta’s fingers twitched. ‘They say you should wait three months. You know, just to be sure. Before you tell anybody.’
‘I don’t expect they mean your husband to be included in that embargo.’ The girl didn’t respond. ‘Congratulations, silly. Aren’t you excited?’
‘Yes.’ Vesta’s reply was knee-jerk, her tone, more tellingly, was uncertain. ‘Of course I am.’
Mirabelle smiled. ‘We have to celebrate.’
‘I could murder a gin and bitter lemon,’ the girl admitted. ‘I don’t know why, but I could really murder one.’
They continued back to the main road in silence. Mirabelle tried to imagine what it must be like, knowing there was a baby growing inside you. Those days were long gone for her. No woman had her first baby at forty-three and, besides, Superintendent McGregor was always careful. Vesta clutched her bag with an unaccustomed tenacity as they headed down the main road. ‘I don’t know,’ she said out of the blue. ‘Maybe everyone can tell.’
‘Let’s chat about it when we sit down,’ Mirabelle said, her tone soothing.
As they passed the turn-off for Hove Cars, she came to a halt outside the off-licence next to the florist’s with the hyacinths outside. ‘Do you mind if we just check in here?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ Vesta nodded as she pushed open the door.
A bell sounded as the women walked into the gloomy interior. It was so dark inside the shop it felt like being swallowed. Mirabelle shuddered as her eyes adjusted. Vesta rubbed her arm as if she was trying to keep warm. Inside, an elderly man stood in front of the long mahogany counter. He wore a suit made of material so thick that the creases at his elbows looked like folded cardboard.
‘Rabbit again,’ he said mournfully. ‘Why she can’t get duck, I’ll never know. I ask for duck but she doesn’t listen. A nice juicy breast.’
Halfway up a ladder that reached from the floor to the top of the fitted shelves, a far younger man in a brown apron perused the stacked bottles. He was impressively steady on his feet.
‘Well, you’ve had the Pinot Noir, Major. I mean any light red burgundy would work well . . .’
‘I’m longing for a proper, robust Bordeaux. That’s the thing.’
The man dismounted the ladder and pushed it past a pile of beer crates, mounting it again to reach a different set of bottles.
‘There’s this Paulliac,’ he said helpfully, lifting a bottle off the shelf. ‘It’s very good.’
‘With rabbit though,’ the major tutted. ‘I’ve a mind to go to the butcher’s myself. I think it was the war that did it. She’ll never get used to real meat again. It’s all scraps, you see.’
As if he had only just realised the women had come in, the old man turned towards them. His eyebrows seemed oddly bright in the darkness. He tipped his hat solemnly. ‘Good morning, ladies. Goodness, my dear—’ he inspected Vesta as if she was a curiosity ‘—where on earth did you spring from?’
‘Bermondsey,’ Vesta replied.
Mirabelle heard herself sigh. Then she berated herself inwardly. There was no point in meeting rudeness with rudeness, but still. It was turning out to be a trying morning.
‘And you ladies are wine lovers?’ the old fellow continued. ‘Capital. It’s champagne, your tipple, I’d hazard. At your age, I drank champagne most of the time.’ The man on the ladder shifted and this drew the major’s attention back to the business in hand. ‘Give me the Pinot Noir then, Peter,’ he said. ‘I’ll try for the duck again tomorrow. And I need another bottle of that Armagnac. I’m almost out.’
Peter climbed down, carefully placing the bottles on the counter as the old man turned his attention back to Vesta. ‘I was stationed in Southern Rhodesia in the thirties. I lived outside Salisbury. Do you know it?’
‘Shall I put that on your account, Major Farley?’ Peter enquired.
‘Yes, yes.’ The old man hovered. Vesta smiled indulgently.
‘Will you manage all right?’ Peter hurried him towards the door. ‘We must get on, you see.’
The major tipped his hat. ‘Yes indeed. Well then, good day.’
The three of them waited until the bell had chimed and the door closed. A strange kind of calm fell over the shop. Peter looked ruefully at the women. He faced a quandary. The customer had been rude but he was a good customer and besides it was terrible manners to apologise for someone else’s bad manners.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked after he had stopped trying to work out what he ought to say.
‘I hope so.’ Mirabelle smiled. ‘I’ve called to enquire about Mr Quinn’s account.’
‘Mr Quinn?’
‘From the garage ove
r the road.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Quinn doesn’t run an account, madam.’
‘Not to worry. It was only a thought.’
The women turned to go but Peter cut in. ‘Mr Quinn pays cash. All the gentlemen from Hove Cars pay cash.’
Mirabelle caught Vesta’s eye. She let a smile spread across her face. ‘Well, in that case, I don’t suppose you recall Mr Quinn buying a bottle of gin recently?’
The man leaned on the counter, conspiratorially. ‘Mr Quinn usually buys gin. That’s his tipple.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Why?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Quinn was killed last night. The police suspect she was drugged. There was a bottle of gin, you see...’
The man straightened up. ‘Well, that’s very underhand, I must say. Walking in here asking loaded questions. Casting aspersions on our gin.’
‘I’m sorry. I ought to have explained. The police are testing the gin. They don’t know for sure yet.’
‘Yes. Well.’
‘The thing is, I wondered how often Mr Quinn bought a bottle and if he had a favourite brand.’
‘What gives you the right . . .’
‘We’re friends of Mr Quinn. Or that is to say, friends of friends. I might be the first to ask but I imagine the police will get here eventually. I’m simply trying to understand exactly what might have happened.’
‘We don’t sell poisoned gin, madam. Not a bottle.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d last long in business if you did. Please. It would be very helpful just to know what kind of gin Mr Quinn favoured and how often he bought it.’
The man drew in a long breath, as he considered the matter. These women, after all, had been most understanding of the major. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘I don’t see what difference it makes. Mr Quinn buys London gin. Burleigh usually, though it depends what we have. Supplies are not consistent. I suppose he might pick up a bottle most weeks.’
Russian Roulette Page 3