Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  Jinty changed the subject by lazily flipping open the lid of the suitcase, to reveal a lace-edged, ivory boudoir set. She scrabbled underneath and brought out a tortoiseshell box. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘try some lipstick. There’s powder too.’

  Dubiously, Mirabelle clicked open the lid and picked a pillar-box red for her lips. She raised a leather-cased mirror to her face. It felt like putting on warpaint.

  ‘That’s better.’ Jinty smiled, as if things were settled. She put the box back in place and slammed the suitcase shut. ‘When we get there, you have to chat, you know. See how you get on. I don’t think there’ll be any trouble, but if anything happens, come and find me, all right?’

  At Eastbourne, the car slowed as it drew up behind the hotel. The women got out at the entrance to an underground garage. Arrangements had clearly been made. An attendant got to his feet and slickly directed them towards a lift without asking why they were there. Perhaps, Mirabelle considered, that was the virtue of the red lipstick. ‘Fourth floor,’ he said, pressing the button once they were inside and drawing his hand back quickly so the closing door didn’t catch his fingers. It struck her that the ease with which these things were managed was extraordinary. To say nothing of the ease with which she had taken to it. Jack had teased her about her abilities – a cool head, but not really with the right stuff for work in the field, he’d said. Well, this was the field. The lift rang some kind of bell as it halted and the door opened on to a carpeted hallway where the sound of music drew them to the right door.

  Mirabelle laid a hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Are you sure I look all right?’ she checked. She couldn’t remember the last time she had even considered such a thing, but there it was.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Jinty grinned, squeezing her hand. ‘Don’t worry.’ Inside, it was packed. Men in suits crammed in, the low hum of their conversation providing a base note to the music and the staccato of female laughter. Several waiters served champagne and short glasses of whisky on silver trays. Jinty raised a hand to wave at two girls who were sitting on a low sofa surrounded, it seemed, by several older fellows in dark suits. ‘Sandra! Emily,’ she squealed and pushed her way through, elegantly picking up a flute of champagne as she passed a waiter. Mirabelle followed.

  ‘This is Belle,’ Jinty pronounced. ‘She’s new.’

  Mirabelle smiled. The men, she noticed, behaved quite normally. This wasn’t some pagan hellhole or even the kind of orgy she’d heard went on in Whitehall when it was necessary to let off steam. Midday marriages, she’d once heard the parties called by an elderly civil servant who had seen it all. ‘From the Greek,’ he had explained.

  The chap sitting beside Sandra got to his feet and gestured Mirabelle to take his place. A waiter offered her a drink. It was less Bohemian than she expected. A hundred Friday afternoon parties all over the country would feel the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a girl kissing a man in a suit in a corner. He had her wedged up against the wall with such force, Mirabelle wondered if they might sink into the bricks and pass straight through into the bedroom that was no doubt next door.

  ‘Are you from Eastbourne, Belle?’ the man enquired, drawing her attention back to the niceties.

  ‘Brighton,’ Mirabelle replied.

  ‘Really,’ he said, as if this information fascinated him.

  ‘Though originally, I’m from London,’ she continued.

  He held up his drink and she clicked her glass. So this was how it happened. Ice-cold champagne. Men with money. Sofas upholstered in thick yellow velvet. And all around, music and chatter. Floors and floors of bedrooms, so very nearby.

  ‘How much do you get?’ Mirabelle whispered into Jinty’s ear. She really should have thought of this in the car, but the details hadn’t occurred to her.

  Jinty smiled flirtatiously in the direction of her audience, but her tone was serious as she replied, talking behind her palm. ‘Twenty a night. Upfront. Davidson will take a fiver. If you’re not living in, that is. If they tip, you get to keep it. It’s good isn’t it?’

  Mirabelle turned and smiled at the man, who started to talk about a rugby match in Barnes. Jinty was right – twenty pounds seemed quite a good amount of money but then these girls were upmarket – the girls who loitered behind Brighton Pavilion, like the women in doorways at King’s Cross, wouldn’t get anything like that kind of money. The champagne made her feel as if she was floating. She wondered momentarily if she might be anyone. If she might be capable of anything. The man touched her leg as he demonstrated the success of a particular try – the details of a game she wasn’t really following. It was a moment of forced intimacy and only then did Mirabelle realise she didn’t want him. All this was bewitching, but it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t McGregor. How strange, she thought. The superintendent had seemed for a long time like a man who was filling in for Jack. But now, when it came to it, it was him she wanted. She shifted along the sofa and tried to focus on the conversation.

  As the afternoon wore on, more girls arrived and there was dancing. Mirabelle joined in. The man who had been talking about rugby had long since jumped ship with a sullen redhead who seemed to have some knowledge of the league match he’d been describing. The couple who had stood kissing in the corner had disappeared. Now, across a coffee table, Jinty was playing a game that involved flipping a sixpence in the time it took to knock back a shot of liqueur. As if from nowhere, a young man with dark eyes caught Mirabelle’s hand and twirled her around. She laughed.

  ‘Will you come to bed with me?’ he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

  ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re booked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘I’m far too old for you.’

  He kissed her neck and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine as his lips brushed her skin. His cheek was rough – a five o’clock shadow. She pushed him away and he stumbled good-naturedly towards a bottle of whisky perched on a side table. He’d be a handful later for one of the other girls, perhaps when they returned from another assignation. Mirabelle popped her handbag under her arm, took a cigarette from a seemingly abandoned packet that was balanced on the arm of a chair, and waved at Jinty. She was surprised by how liberated she felt.

  Jinty smiled. ‘We meet at the Grand for drinks on Sunday evenings,’ she said, mouthing the words. ‘I mean, the Grand at home. Half past eight.’ Sunday nights were quiet in hotels. Maybe it was the best way to pick up a little business or maybe it was simply a good night to take off. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘Goodbye,’ she said and, picking her way across the room, she slipped out of the suite door.

  In the hallway, the carpet was so thick it was like walking on marshmallow. She got into the lift and pressed the button to go up, exiting on to a hallway almost identical to the one she had left. Through a swing door, she found what she was looking for – an exit that opened on to a fire escape and out to the fresh air. Up here the view was beautiful. The slate roofs of Georgian Eastbourne stretched on either side, the sea an open vista beyond them and the breeze bracing off the front. Mirabelle pulled a box of matches from her pocket and lit the cigarette, then took a deep draw. It was good to know she could still surprise herself. She wondered if she’d stood out particularly among the rabble. It didn’t feel as if she had and there was something good about having got away with her deception. She checked the time. If she hurried she’d get back to Brighton just as it got dark, but now she wanted to enjoy this feeling of independence for a few more moments. Strangely, she hadn’t felt like this since Jack. Not since he’d first kissed her and she’d realised she didn’t care about him being married.

  She leaned against the closed door and thought of what all the people at the party would soon be doing on the floors beneath – crumpled sheets and room service – and, on the ground floor, the pretence of the conference all these men had come to attend. No one had even said wha
t it was a conference about. She laughed as she realised. Still, even if this whole thing wasn’t for her, it could have been. It seemed strange. The ins and outs of where you ended up. You could be perfectly respectable and still get drawn in. That, in itself, was something to think about. How much did Phil Quinn know about this world? she wondered. How much did he know about his drivers acting as bodyguards for Davidson’s girls? He must have been aware of it. The other night the controller at Hangleton had sent out three cars in less than half an hour to ferry girls to and from jobs. Had Quinn become embroiled? Had his wife found out about his premarital habits at Tongdean Avenue?

  She stubbed out her cigarette and flicked it into the gutter, noticing the red lipstick on the heel. She wasn’t used to smelling of smoke. When she got home she’d change her clothes, she thought, as she pulled herself together. This had all been very interesting. It was Alan McGregor she wanted, she remembered. That more than anything. And, for that reason among others, she had to get back to Brighton. There was, after all, a murder to solve.

  Chapter 8

  Mysteries are not necessarily miracles

  Vesta met Marlene outside the nurses’ quarters at the end of the afternoon. She’d first been introduced by a friend at a jazz club in London a couple of years before. Marlene was a student nurse then, on a weekend’s leave, and she had drunk so much that Vesta had organised a cab to take her home. The second time they’d met, Marlene hadn’t remembered anything about the first evening until Vesta had suddenly turned, and then seeing her in profile had brought it back.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she had said as if she was transfixed, pointing at Vesta as she worked it out. ‘I remember. You were the angel. The one who got me back safely.’

  ‘The angel?’

  ‘The black angel,’ she giggled. ‘I thought my time had come.’

  Vesta took this in good humour and, in another dark cellar on another weekend, with Charlie and his friends playing in the background, the women had bonded over bathtub gin and stories of Marlene’s training, which took place at a hospital in East Grinstead. Over the course of this conversation, Vesta had been heartily glad she had chosen secretarial college rather than a medical career. Being a nurse sounded grim, though Marlene seemed satisfied. ‘I like feeling I can help,’ she admitted, her eyes wide and earnest. Vesta liked that feeling too – whether it was with insurance quotes or balancing the ledgers or, like today, trying to unravel a violent murder. Still, actually saving someone’s life must be different, she’d thought as she’d listened to Marlene that second night. On that occasion, it was Marlene who hailed a cab and sent Vesta home. Charlie ended up jamming with a recently arrived American saxophonist who couldn’t get over the time difference. Marlene said it was medically impossible – there was no reason he hadn’t been able to make the change between time zones.

  ‘He’s a chancer,’ she said. ‘He had ten days on that boat. He probably thinks it makes him more glamorous to keep his wristwatch on New York time. Shall we see if we can find you a ride home, then?’

  ‘You’re the angel. A proper one.’ Vesta poked her friend’s arm as they climbed the stairs into the chill London night, the air dense with smog and lamplight. The street was deserted and, till a cab came their way, the girls danced on the pavement to the fading beat of the packed basement. There was something childlike about Marlene and dancing with her reminded Vesta of playing on bombsites when she was younger – of days when a couple of bricks could make a shop counter.

  Today, as Vesta approached, Marlene looked angelic – curled blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, set off by a royal-blue felt cap and a lick of pale-pink lipstick. Her cheeks were glowing in the spring breeze.

  ‘Come on,’ she said urgently, as she grabbed Vesta’s arm and hauled her away from the tall, brick nurses’ quarters.

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Sister,’ Marlene hissed, as if no further explanation was required.

  Although in civvies, Marlene wore a blue woollen nurse’s cape, which she pulled around her frame. Her hair was pinned in a complicated series of twists that looked as if they must have taken hours.

  ‘Well, if Sister’s in there, why did you want to meet right outside the place?’ Vesta objected, staring over her shoulder.

  Marlene shrugged as if Sister and all that went with her was inevitable. ‘She’s a harridan. She made one girl scrub the lavvies twice. You can’t get anything by her.’

  ‘It seems a lot of bother.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying Sister is wrong.’ Marlene sounded surprised. ‘Anyway, Brighton is much better than being at the Queen Vic. The patients were nice down there but it was difficult. Burns,’ she explained. ‘I much prefer working on the baby ward.’

  ‘Baby ward?’ Vesta repeated. She hadn’t known.

  It was blowy and the wind followed the women down Elm Grove. There was a pub on the corner and Marlene pulled Vesta into the snug. A fire had been set and the place was ready for the evening ahead.

  ‘No nurses,’ the barman said, hardly bothering to look up.

  Marlene took off her cape. ‘Do I look like a nurse?’

  The man scratched his head and his mouth widened into an easy grin, which revealed that several of his front teeth were missing. ‘You do, miss. And we ain’t allowed to serve nurses.’

  ‘Oh, go on.’ Marlene nudged him over the bar. ‘It’s quiet and we’re desperate. I haven’t seen my chum in ages. Be a pal.’

  Vesta drew a large white fiver from her purse to demonstrate it would be worth his while. ‘Two double gins and bitter lemon,’ she said, laying down the note. ‘And whatever you’re having.’

  The barman shifted his head, tipping his chin at a pair of oak chairs next to the fire. ‘If I get into trouble . . .’

  ‘A big man like you? You can’t be afraid of Sister,’ Marlene teased him. ‘Go on. And take sixpence tip.’

  It seemed settled. Marlene fell to her knees in front of the grate and lit the kindling with a match. She blew gently to get it started and sat back on her heels. ‘That’s better,’ she said.

  ‘Why aren’t you allowed in here anyway?’

  ‘Oh, they don’t want us picking up doctors. It’s ridiculous. There’s no doctors at this time of day.’

  Vesta drew out a chair and sat down. Marlene’s world was increasingly mysterious. ‘So. What’s it like?’ she said. ‘I mean, on the baby ward.’

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely. Who doesn’t like babies?’ Marlene settled into a tapestry-lined bench opposite. Her eyes softened. She had the knack of making anywhere she landed feel like home. Vesta was not to be distracted.

  ‘I mean what’s it like for the mothers?’

  ‘They’re happy after.’ Marlene smiled. ‘It’s much more cheerful than the other place. Hardly any women die these days and the babies are sweet. The Royal is a good hospital. On nights, I see to the feeds, to let the mothers rest. They just stare at you, little things.’

  Vesta felt slightly sick as the barman set down the drinks and a pile of change on the bartop. ‘I ain’t serving tables,’ he said.

  Marlene got up and brought everything over. It seemed there was nothing she couldn’t just deal with. ‘Where did you get a fiver?’ she said.

  ‘I always keep one in my purse.’ Vesta sounded nonchalant, as if it wasn’t a fortune. She’d seen the effect a banknote could have – Mirabelle used them all the time. ‘My boss does it. Money can be handy, all right.’

  ‘Any more murders? Any cases solved?’

  Vesta’s expression was serious. ‘Last autumn was the last one. The death looked like a suicide, but it wasn’t. He was my boss’s upstairs neighbour.’

  Marlene’s eyes sparkled. ‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I suppose when you work in debt collection . . .’

  ‘You’d think that, but most of it isn’t that way. I mean, it’s sad, really. People get out of their depth. They owe rent and they just let it slide. Mostly it’s all ledgers. It’s only now and then . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘Cheers.’ Marlene brought the glass to her lips and sipped delicately.

  Vesta sniffed. She didn’t feel like the drink now, but she picked it up to make a gesture and, as the rim neared her lips, she caught a whiff of what smelled like acid. It was as if she didn’t really know herself – she had become so terribly changeable. She put down the glass.

  ‘How’s Charlie?’ Marlene asked cheerily.

  ‘Oh, same old.’

  ‘Is he working today?’

  ‘Yes. And, actually, I’m working too. There is a new murder. A woman. And I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Really?’ Marlene sounded thrilled. ‘Perhaps we should have got some peanuts. If you’re on expenses.’

  Vesta ignored this. Who in their right mind would want peanuts? The thought made her squirm – she couldn’t bear the grease. ‘I wondered about poisons,’ she said. ‘Something that would knock you out.’

  ‘An anaesthetic?’

  ‘Maybe. Or more of a tranquilliser. Slipped into a drink.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I mean, if you popped in something and it took a while before it knocked you out. You’d make it to bed, say. But, when the drug kicked in, it would take you out of it so completely that someone could stab you and you wouldn’t struggle.’

  ‘Stab you?’

  ‘In the stomach. And you wouldn’t feel a thing. You wouldn’t wake up.’

  Marlene eyed her glass as she considered carefully. ‘Well, I can get you something if you want. My friend, Harry, works in the pharmacy. He’ll probably want to be paid and I don’t know if you could trust him. I mean, if he saw something in the newspaper and made a connection . . .’

  ‘Jeez.’ Vesta sounded exasperated. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone. It’s a scenario, Marlene. For this case. I’m trying to figure out how they did it. The poor woman is already dead. That’s what happened to her.’