Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Case solved then?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. It wasn’t going to be that easy. Belton’s grey eyes almost warmed for a moment. He seemed eager. ‘The boys are saying he’ll swing. This kind of crime, he’s bound to.’

  ‘I hope not, Sergeant. I don’t think he did it.’

  ‘Well,’ Belton said simply, his tone making it clear what he meant was ‘This man is guilty. No question of it.’ The sergeant had started on the force when he left school. He always thought people were guilty. In fairness, most of the people he came across were. Mirabelle stepped over the threshold on to the square and the sergeant nodded. ‘Goodbye then.’

  Mirabelle shuddered as the door closed. From somewhere far off the wind carried the sound of church bells across the cobbles. Pulling her jacket around her, she hardened herself to the chill and turned in the opposite direction from her flat at the Lawns, away from the sea. She had one more call to make this evening and it was inland. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes leaked out of the pubs as she passed and now and then there was the sound of someone singing and the plink plonk of a piano. As she got on to a bus on Queen’s Road, she was glad to be out of the chill. Behind her, a man lit a cigarette and offered her one from the packet.

  ‘Cold night,’ he commented.

  Mirabelle declined, turning towards the window. She wanted to think. In fact, as the city flew past the glass, she couldn’t stop thinking. Helen Quinn’s death was like a knot she was determined to unpick.

  After getting off at Hangleton Road, she crossed the street and cut down the mews, where three black Austins were parked outside Hove Cars. The garage doors, where the apprentice had been plying his trade, were closed for the night, but a light was still on in the office. Inside, illuminated in the darkness, a young man sat at a desk, taking incoming calls. The ashtray in front of him was piled high with butts and beside him there was a radio control set. Hove Cars had all the latest gadgets. Opposite the desk, a line of drivers sat on a long bench, reading newspapers. Mirabelle ducked out of sight behind a drum of rainwater as a car turned into the mews. A man got out and proceeded into the office. As he entered, she could make out the murmur of greetings. She sneaked closer to the closed window.

  ‘All right, John?’

  ‘Quiet tonight.’

  ‘Still early.’

  Mirabelle checked her watch. It was just after nine. As if on cue with the men’s comments, the telephone rang and the young man picked it up. ‘Hove Cars.’ He listened, scribbling down the details. ‘Five minutes,’ he said as he hung up. ‘Willie, go and pick up at Tongdean, would you, and take the girl down to the Grand?’ This must be a regular booking and in response there was a murmur among the men, a ripple that felt like some kind of joke. The fellow nearest the desk got to his feet and lumbered outside. ‘Keep your hands off the ladies, Willie! Those ones charge, you know,’ one of the others shouted. The jollity was silenced as the phone sounded again and another driver was dispatched to pick up a girl called Ruby at an address on First Avenue. Mirabelle thought of the times she had ordered a car. She’d never once given her Christian name to a dispatcher. It wouldn’t have seemed right. A minute later and another car was called to one of the dance halls. Inside, as the driver departed, the young man got to his feet. He picked a bottle of beer out of the cupboard and, as he did so, Mirabelle realised that the poor fellow had a wooden leg. He was too young to have been injured in service, but perhaps the Blitz had done for him. Your instinct was always to feel sorry for the people who had been hurt, but the truth was they were lucky to get away with their lives. Once, Mirabelle had helped to dig out a woman whose kitchen had collapsed. When they got through the rubble, the old lady was clutching a small terrier. ‘Here,’ she’d said. ‘Take Sammy first.’ It had felt like a miracle, the two of them alive under all the debris. The dispatcher was young – he must have been a child when it happened.

  Mirabelle shivered. The later it got, the colder the air became and she’d seen enough to tell what was going on. Stepping on to the cobbles, she rapped on the office door. One of the men got to his feet and opened it.

  ‘Yes, miss. A car, is it?’

  ‘To the Arundel guest house.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘It’s not the Grand,’ she added with a smile, just to check the reaction.

  The man behind the desk had the grace to look uncomfortable. He fiddled with the radio control set and didn’t meet Mirabelle’s eye. Outside, the driver held the car door and she slipped into the back seat. The cold leather creaked. ‘I didn’t want to walk into town,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘Not with that terrible murder.’

  ‘Cold night, anyway, miss,’ the man replied as he switched on the engine. ‘Poor Mrs Quinn.’

  ‘Did you know the woman?’

  ‘Mr Quinn owns the garage.’

  ‘I didn’t realise. I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle lied. ‘You must all be terribly upset. I can’t imagine who’d want to do such a terrible thing.’

  ‘There are bad people out there.’ The driver switched on the wireless. The young man’s voice sounded. ‘Calling all cars. Pick up at the Grand for Eleanor.’

  ‘Is that a regular booking?’ Mirabelle enquired.

  ‘We do a lot of work for the Grand, miss.’

  Mirabelle felt her lips purse. Hove Cars clearly picked up and dropped off at the hotel, that was no secret, but then what she was hearing wasn’t a booking on account of the Grand. It was for quite a different kind of hospitality – a series of young ladies who used their first names. Tomorrow she’d need to look into it. In the meantime, Superintendent McGregor had promised her dinner or at least he’d promised that his housekeeper, Miss Brownlee, would make her dinner.

  The driver cruised smoothly into town. On the other side of the pier, he turned down a Georgian terrace and pulled up at the door of the Arundel guest house. Mirabelle smiled. It wasn’t like coming home but it was close. The man got out to open the door and she paid him on the pavement, making sure to tip.

  ‘I’ll wait to see you safely inside, miss,’ he said. ‘Like you said, you can’t be too careful.’

  McGregor had bought the Arundel a couple of years ago and, ever since, Miss Brownlee (who was already resident) had done a sterling job of turning out the superintendent tidily and keeping him well fed. An easy understanding had grown between the two women in Superintendent McGregor’s life. Last year, they had exchanged Christmas cards and Mirabelle had bought Miss Brownlee a red silk scarf from Harrods, which she thought would suit the old lady far better than the succession of gaudy rayon squares she habitually chose to wear. ‘What a nice box,’ Miss Brownlee had said and Mirabelle hadn’t minded.

  Now, Mirabelle slipped the key from her handbag and silently entered the front door. From the sitting room at the rear there was the steady hum of post-dinner conversation and the clanking of coffee cups. The Arundel was generally fully booked, which was in part due to Miss Brownlee’s skills in the kitchen and, increasingly, McGregor’s reluctance to take out his profits. Instead, he instructed Miss Brownlee to invest in new fittings. Last year, she had bought fresh mattresses and a refrigerator, which she found herself unable to refrain from mentioning at every opportunity.

  Mirabelle crept up the stairs. There was a standing arrangement that the sitting room and its awkward questions were to be avoided. At the top, she knocked and didn’t wait for McGregor to call her in. The superintendent had chosen what had once been the house’s drawing room as his quarters and Mirabelle opened the door on to the familiar sight of two long windows, shrouded in thick, blue velvet curtains. The room was laid out beautifully with a four-poster bed at one end. At the other, McGregor sat in an easy chair by the fire. The late edition lay open in front of him with the earlier editions piled to one side. Jostling the newspaper, he got to his feet and indicated the drinks tray. Mirabelle nodded. He poured a gin and tonic and she wondered, fleetingly, if this was how Helen Quinn’s last night started – with a deadly mea
sure poured by the man she cared about?

  ‘Miss Brownlee left you some pie,’ McGregor said.

  Dinner at the Arundel was served at seven o’clock sharp with no exceptions. If they came in at this time of night, regular guests did not benefit from Miss Brownlee’s trays. Mirabelle peered at her supper. The wooden tray was laid with a thick linen napkin, highly polished silverware, a slice of pork pie with pickles and a generous portion of pudding on blue and white china.

  ‘Is that cheesecake?’ Mirabelle squinted hopefully.

  ‘Lemon cheesecake. She bought an American cookery book from a shop on Duke Street and then, of course, once she’d baked it, she could chill it. She left exacting instructions about the temperature it’s to be served at. I expect by now it’s too warm.’

  Mirabelle couldn’t help but smile. Miss Brownlee had a natural aptitude with food. She could tell what you fancied before you knew it yourself. No matter its temperature, the cheesecake was sure to be delicious.

  ‘What a treat. I wonder if she’d give me a slice for Vesta?’

  ‘I thought Vesta would be fully supplied with cake.’

  Mirabelle shrugged. He might be a chef but Charlie didn’t know yet about his wife’s yen for lemons. Mirabelle fell into the chair opposite the superintendent, sipped her gin and drew the tray on to her lap as the fire crackled. The smell of woodsmoke pervaded the room.

  ‘Well?’ McGregor was impatient. ‘Did you see Phil?’

  ‘He’s in shock, I think. His language was a bit ripe.’

  Mirabelle regarded the pie. The pastry crumbled in her mouth. She was hungry, she realised as it melted on her tongue.

  ‘Any ideas yet?’

  ‘Not really. They kept their door unlocked, day and night. The neighbours all had access, along with anyone else who wanted it. Apart from that, all I’ve established is that the bottle of gin they were drinking may have been poisoned – that’s certainly Robinson’s theory. If it was, that happened some time between Wednesday night and Thursday evening, with the intention of disabling Mr and Mrs Quinn and killing Mrs Quinn, certainly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, why didn’t they kill him, Alan? I mean, going to all that trouble and only killing her? It doesn’t make sense.’

  McGregor’s eyebrows raised. ‘It seemed to me it was a punishment. Or a blackmail attempt. Something that went wrong.’

  ‘Maybe. But Quinn appears to have no idea about it. He’s very convincing.’ Mirabelle speared a piece of pickled cauliflower. Miss Brownlee really was a marvel. She took another bite of pie and once she’d swallowed it, posited, ‘If it was a punishment, that begs the question, a punishment for what? The same goes for blackmail. So, what was Quinn up to at Hove Cars? I mean the most likely thing is that it’s something to do with his business.’

  ‘Like I said – taxis are the lifeblood of the city. But beyond a little cash on the side, I don’t see Phil getting up to much – honestly, Mirabelle. He’s never been like that. Some blokes came back from the war with a chip on their shoulder. A propensity for trouble. A need to take risks. Phil came back with a desire to settle down. He’s a family man. That’s what he came from. What his father was like.’

  ‘Well, someone has taken offence. Maybe someone about whom he turned in information?’

  McGregor shook his head. ‘We haven’t used the lads up there for any landmark cases. It’s only detail. Small clues that build up. Phil hasn’t put anyone in prison – not directly.’

  ‘What kind of information do you usually get from him?’

  ‘Surveillance. Taxi drivers waiting for a fare and see people come and go. Details of who they pick up and drop off. Other cars parked nearby. That kind of thing. It’s more about helping to build a case than clinching one. Basically, they help us place everybody.’

  ‘So it’s doubtful someone could be harbouring a grudge? A serious one?’

  McGregor shook his head. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said.

  ‘What occurred to me is that perhaps we need to look around the taxi company, rather than directly at it. That’s the thing. Maybe it’s a customer. Maybe it’s someone who could be given away but hasn’t been grassed up yet. Someone who thinks they’re defending themselves.’

  ‘Police work often starts out half gossip.’ McGregor nodded. ‘But murder is a pretty aggressive act for someone on the defensive. What’s on your mind?’

  Mirabelle didn’t want to tell him that she’d spent the last quarter of an hour hidden behind a water butt, eavesdropping, but she had to admit what she’d come up with. It was her only lead. ‘Well, who else is the lifeblood of the city? What other profession makes up the most common police informants and, for that matter, the most common criminals? If the taxi owners don’t know what’s going on, who else is there?’

  McGregor sipped his whisky. He watched as Mirabelle cleared her plate. He didn’t like to say the word she was looking for but Mirabelle obviously wasn’t going to help him.

  ‘Prostitutes,’ he managed.

  ‘Yes. Most customers at Hove Cars might be above board. But what if they’re running prostitutes round town? Or more than that – what if they hook up punters? How well are you connected to Brighton’s brothels, Superintendent? Do you know who makes their transport arrangements? There’s something going on and it’s the only thing I can think of that might furnish a way in.’

  McGregor stiffened. ‘I can’t let you go sniffing around whore-houses, Mirabelle.’

  Mirabelle pushed away the tray and took a long drink of gin. It was too late for that. Her interest had been aroused. Besides, the seamy world of prostitution had borne evidence before. Still, she didn’t say so. Instead, she glanced momentarily at the four-poster bed. She stayed here more often than he stayed at her place. She told herself it was because of Miss Brownlee’s breakfasts and that it was more convenient and, for that matter, more discreet. None of these things was entirely true or, at least, they weren’t the real reason. The thing was McGregor’s long-windowed suite didn’t hold memories of anyone else. There was nothing to be reminded of at the Arundel and that was what she liked about it most.

  McGregor met her gaze. ‘You’ll figure it out. I know you will,’ he said, as he got up and tipped her chin with his finger. She smiled as he leaned in and kissed her. Lately, she’d found herself greedy for him. For this. He swept an arm around her waist and scooped her out of the chair.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  Chapter 5

  Imagination decides everything

  Vesta sat at her desk, her frame masked by a copy of Tatler magazine, which promised news of spring fashion. She had first come across the publication at Goodwood House the year before. Always a fan of the Picture Post, her consumption of magazines had risen of late. The last couple of weeks she found it difficult to sleep, waking hungry at seven, making a tottering pile of buttered toast, which she consumed while flicking through the glossy pages, before sneaking guiltily out of the house before Charlie got up. She was glad to have the office to come to.

  ‘Some women get morning sickness,’ Vesta pondered as Mirabelle came through the door. ‘But I’m fine so far. I just fancy what I fancy, if you know what I mean.’ Being pregnant was beginning to feel like something she could share, with Mirabelle at least.

  ‘Did you tell Charlie?’ Mirabelle checked, as she hung up her coat.

  Vesta shook her head. ‘I couldn’t,’ she admitted, as she poured Mirabelle a cup of tea from the pot on the side, like clockwork.

  Mirabelle sipped. It seemed churlish to refuse the cup but Miss Brownlee’s breakfast had been more than adequate and more tea was the last thing she felt like. Vesta’s magazine lay open on the desk, but she tried not to look at it. Tatler made Mirabelle uncomfortable. It was a compendium of the life she’d lost – parties in London, receptions at court and castles in the countryside.

  ‘Look,’ Vesta insisted. ‘Isn’t it glamorous? A spring ball.’ She
turned to the social column. ‘Countess Marianna Iritsin, recently arrived in London from Monte Carlo,’ she read. ‘Look at that dress. It must be a Schiaparelli.’

  Mirabelle peered across the page. The woman was perhaps her own age and beautifully turned out. Still, Mirabelle squinted, she looked as if her smile had been plastered on. But then after Monte Carlo, fog-bound, low-key London must come as something of a shock.

  ‘I wonder what she was doing there,’ Vesta pondered.

  Mirabelle shrugged. She could hazard a guess. Upheavals in Russia over the last forty years had resulted in a swathe of émigrés across Europe – some had got out with money and some were living in penury. Judging by the dress, the countess fell into the former category. Avoiding looking at any more pictures, she turned her attention back to the case.

  ‘Vesta,’ she said, ‘we need to find some . . .’

  ‘Biscuits?’ Vesta offered.

  ‘No. We need to find some ladies of the night.’

  The girl snapped the magazine shut and hooted. She raised her hand and pointed at the clock. ‘At nine in the morning?’

  Mirabelle laid down her teacup. ‘Well, even if it’s not till later . . .’

  ‘Wherever do you think we’re going to find Nancies? I mean in Brighton?’ Vesta continued.

  That was a fair point. Mirabelle had never enlisted the help of Brighton’s prostitutes before. In London it was easier. Girls famously hung around King’s Cross and had done for a century or more. And then you could spot women in Soho. You could tell by the way they flirted as much as anything else. There was something about someone who was selling herself. Something that was always slightly out of place, or perhaps trying too hard to look as if she was in place. The kind of woman who sipped her drink but wasn’t thirsty. Mirabelle checked herself. She might notice things but she didn’t like to judge. During the war, some of the bravest women had sold themselves, if not for money then for information or even just the freedom to get away. Sometimes for all these things and a dash of pleasure. ‘Why shouldn’t I get what I want?’ Mirabelle recalled one saying at her debriefing. Well, why not? And there was no question that, now and then, these women had provided helpful information. When one of Vesta’s old friends had been arrested by Scotland Yard, Mirabelle had found out more about him from the prostitutes he’d visited than she had from his family.