Marlene didn’t reply at first. She sipped her gin. ‘All right,’ she rallied. ‘Well, is there alcohol involved in this scenario of yours?’’
‘Gin.’
‘Well, that speeds things up. Alcohol makes most drugs work more quickly or more effectively – too effectively sometimes. It gets things to the bloodstream more quickly. Like when you take an aspirin with a cup of tea.’
‘Aspirin?’
‘You know. If you have a headache.’
‘Well, this drug would need to work quite slowly, I suppose. It must have made the person who’d taken it tired. It certainly sent them to bed before they passed out.’
Marlene nodded. ‘Righto,’ she said, considering the implications. ‘Low dosage, I guess. And if you were drinking gin and it made you woozy, you’d just think you were tipsy. Leave it with me. I’ll see what Harry says.’
Marlene had almost finished her drink, but Vesta had only managed a sip. The smell of lemon had entirely lost its allure. Suddenly, she found herself thinking about potato. Soft, fluffy potato. Mounds of it.
‘Are you all right?’
Vesta nodded. She hesitated. She hadn’t told anyone yet. No one but Mirabelle and she had guessed. ‘The thing is,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘that I might be coming to see you soon. In a professional capacity, I mean.’
Marlene looked blank. ‘I’ll ask him as soon as I can, don’t worry.’
‘Not that.’ She laid her hand on her stomach. It seemed an outrageous action and she blushed. Marlene’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, Vesta, that’s wonderful.’ She flung her arms around her friend. ‘You must be thrilled.’
Vesta was clearly not thrilled. ‘I’m more curious,’ she said. ‘And a little scared, if I’m honest.’
‘What on earth are you scared of?’
Vesta found she couldn’t say.
‘And Charlie – he’ll be a great dad. He’s so patient!’ Marlene sounded as excited as Vesta knew she ought to feel. Her eyes filled with tears.
‘Do you think so?’ She sniffed. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’
Marlene regarded her friend. Charlie would be the perfect father. He knew right from wrong, but he’d teach his children that gently. More than that, he’d teach the kid to cook – that had to be a bonus. Vesta looked tortured. ‘You haven’t told him yet, have you?’ Marlene understood suddenly.
Vesta shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. It just seems overwhelming. Having a baby. Being a mother. I don’t know if it’s for me.’
‘Well, it’s a bit late for that,’ Marlene said. ‘Oh, Vesta, it will be marvellous. There’s no need to be afraid. Not of the birth. Not of anything. I’ll show you.’ The girl sprang to her feet and pulled the nurse’s cape around her shoulders with one hand while hauling Vesta to her feet. ‘Are you having that?’ Marlene asked, gesturing towards Vesta’s scarcely touched glass. Vesta shook her head and Marlene smiled, lifted the drink and drained it. ‘To the baby,’ she said.
As they marched back into the stiff breeze and made their way towards the hospital entrance, it came into Vesta’s mind that the Royal had been built as a workhouse. She wondered if it was haunted and how many paupers had brought their babies there, poor things. How many had died. She told herself off for being melodramatic, but she couldn’t help it. Marlene was oblivious. ‘It’s good it’s the afternoon. There’s visiting,’ she prattled.
Through the heavy double doors all trace of the workhouse was gone. The light through the long windows was opaque and there were notices on the walls about hygiene and keeping quiet. A man with a bunch of flowers overtook them, bursting through the doors and pushing past an old lady who was manoeuvring a tea trolley across the green linoleum.
‘New father,’ Marlene explained. ‘I bet you. Charlie will be the same.’
‘How long does it take?’ Vesta asked. ‘You know.’
In the warmth, Marlene slowed her pace to leisurely. She slipped her arm comfortingly through Vesta’s. ‘You haven’t a clue then? It varies. I mean, different women are different. A couple of hours maybe, if you’re lucky. Worst ways, a whole day and night. Maybe more. There’s no point in lying.’
‘And it’s painful?’
‘Always. Though you get a baby at the end of it – as a consolation prize. And there’s gas and air, which takes the edge off. We’ll look after you, Vesta. I’ll look after you. I promise.’
‘Do many women die?’
Marlene turned to face her friend. ‘You shouldn’t think like that. And the answer is no. Things have improved a lot and the midwives are marvellous. One or two people don’t make it, but most women are fine. Especially young healthy women like you.’
They turned on to the stairwell. ‘I think they put the maternity unit up here because of the view,’ Marlene said, with a smile. ‘There’s quite a bit of sitting around in bed, you see. And we do classes. Bathing baby. That kind of thing.’
Along a corridor, they passed a ward full of cots. The long wall was glazed as a viewing gallery, which afforded a panorama of tiny faces. Inside, three nurses in pristine uniforms fussed between the cots. At the window, an older woman, a grandmother it had to be assumed, stared at a child in a pink cardigan. She put a gloved hand up to the glass and just grinned. Inside, a different baby was picked up and taken out by a grey-haired nurse. Vesta’s expression asked the question.
‘She’s taking it to the mother, you dodo.’ Marlene rolled her eyes. ‘Didn’t you have babies in your house? I mean, when you were growing up? Don’t you know anything?’
Vesta thought. There had been her younger brother, but she’d hardly noticed him. Along the street, many of the women had had babies, but Vesta hadn’t shown an interest. She’d never got involved. ‘The thing is, with the Blitz, most kids were sent away,’ she said vaguely.
‘We went to Devon. It was fun. My brother had to help but I was too small. Where did you go?’ Marlene asked.
‘We didn’t go anywhere. We were black. I mean, people don’t want black kids. Mum thought it was best just to keep us. You know, in Bermondsey.’
‘Gosh. Were you bombed?’
‘The other side of Peek Freans’ was bombed. But we were fine.’
‘So there weren’t many babies then?’
‘No.’ Vesta knew that wasn’t entirely true. The thing was, she had always kept her distance from the business of motherhood. She knew perfectly well that having babies kept women at home. More than that, it kept them in Bermondsey and, from quite a young age, despite loving her parents, Vesta had wanted to leave. That was what she was afraid of now, she realised. That was the thing that was holding her back from telling Charlie. She was scared that she’d love the baby so much she’d end up stuck in the house. She was afraid that she wouldn’t matter any more. That she’d get fat and old, scrubbing the floors and washing nappies. Like all the other women. Like her mother. She felt tears well up. Her mother, after all, was an inspiration – wonderful, joyful Mrs Churchill. Everyone loved Ella. She’d worked all her life to look after her family and she’d loved every minute of it. But Vesta did not want to end up that way.
‘I just can’t see how to do it,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s the thing.’
Marlene withdrew a cotton handkerchief from her pocket. ‘Now, now,’ she said. ‘Nature does it, Vesta. Really.’
Vesta blew her nose. Nobody seemed to understand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go down.’
Their shoes echoed on the stairs and, at the bottom, she handed Marlene back the handkerchief. ‘You can leave the tranquilliser thing to me.’ Marlene smiled. ‘I’ll ring on the telephone. There’s a payphone in the nurses’ home, though I might have to pick my moment. Quite often they listen in case girls are planning to sneak out.’
Vesta gave her a hug. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
As they came out of the double doors, an ambulance had pulled up and a man was being taken out on a stretcher. Vesta hal
ted, as her attention returned to the larger world. That was the other thing – the way this child, growing in her belly, seemed to drink all of her attention so she had nothing left for herself, or Charlie or any of the things in which she’d normally take an interest. It was controlling her appetite. Her taste. Her inclination to sleep. Now, coming on to the pavement, she blinked as she recognised the recumbent figure being unloaded. Yes, it was him, she thought, pushing her way towards an orderly who was hauling the stretcher on to a trolley.
‘Fred,’ Vesta called. The man on the stretcher looked up with some effort and wheezed as she approached. He was clearly unable to form a sentence. His chest heaved and he tried to lift his head but it seemed terribly heavy. He looked thinner than when Vesta had seen him only a few hours before and his skin was an alarming colour of grey. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘He fell over in the street,’ the orderly said. ‘It looks like bronchitis. Are you a relation?’
Vesta just stared at him. ‘No,’ she said flatly. Fred might have looked grey but he was nowhere near black.
‘Out of the way, please, miss.’
She ignored him. Instead, she clasped Fred’s hand over the thin blanket. ‘Can I get anyone for you, Fred? Your wife, maybe?’
Fred shook his head. His breath rattled and the words came out half formed. She leaned in. ‘Tell Mirabelle,’ he managed. ‘My son. Behind the picture. She’ll get it.’ He fell back on to the canvas, exhausted.
The orderly tutted. ‘Now, now. That’s enough. We need to get you on to the ward.’
Vesta felt helpless as the trolley was wheeled away. ‘Which ward do you think they’ll put him on?’
‘Twelve,’ said Marlene, sounding businesslike. ‘They can do a lot for bronchitis, but then . . . if it turns out TB . . . It’s on the other side of the building.’
Vesta felt her heart sink. ‘Mirabelle is out on a job,’ she said. ‘I can probably get hold of her later.’
‘I’ll drop in on the old guy, if you like. Was his name Fred, did you say?’
Vesta nodded. ‘He’s a friend of my boss. He has this place, where he sells things.’
‘A shop, you mean?’
‘Not exactly.’ Vesta felt ashamed. All these shady dealings and shady people. Usually, she found investigations glamorous, but today, somehow, it didn’t feel that way. The hospital was a place of life and death and no glamour about it. ‘I’ll come back to visit him over the weekend,’ she promised, clasping Marlene’s hand. As she turned away, she realised she wouldn’t mind seeing the baby room again. She hadn’t realised that newborns were so tiny. The image of a little dot in a blue cardigan over the nurse’s shoulder remained with her as she headed down the street.
Chapter 9
We make war that we may live in peace
That evening, the sunset was particularly beautiful. Returning from Eastbourne in time to strip off her fitted skirt and wash away the make-up Jinty had encouraged her to apply, Mirabelle put on a pair of dark trousers and flat shoes and tied her hair back in a simple ponytail. As she left her flat on the Lawns, the sky was streaked with colour. The black outline of the pier was visible from far off, its lights the brightest stars of early evening. Slowly, a broad shadow crept across the city as darkness fell, the streetlights casting a dim, buttery glow over the paving stones as she walked away from the front. The air smelled of the sea tonight. Waiting to catch the bus, she wondered vaguely how Vesta had got on with the poison.
It was Friday so the top deck was full of young people heading into town, chattering loudly. In the main, they were late for the dance halls, but perhaps it was fashionable not to arrive on time. Either way, Jinty had been right – Brighton’s nightlife was particularly lively when you were in the thick of it. The girls wore wide cotton skirts over bright, sugar-starched petticoats – a riot of colours and patterns. The boys wore dark suits, slim cut on the leg, the material emitting a glimmer in the bus’s harsh light. Between the sexes, the banter was alive, as the crowd puffed away, sharing cigarettes and offering lights. Mirabelle wondered if she ought to have sat on the lower deck. She’d never be part of that, never had been. Still, she found herself feeling underdressed.
The revellers quit the bus at the city centre, getting off in a cloud of perfume and brilliantine, which lingered with the remains of the tobacco smoke as the driver turned northwards. This time, at least, Mirabelle knew which stop to get off at without having to ask and, as she stepped on to the pavement, the air felt warmer this far inland. Walking towards Mill Lane, the houses looked cosy. The windows glowed with lamplight and, occasionally, from an open casement, there was the sound of laughter or the crackling of voices on the wireless. Just off the main road an old man was digging his front garden. He had balanced an oil lamp on a wheelbarrow. It looked as if he was planting seeds. Mirabelle deliberately didn’t catch his eye.
Mill Lane looked no different from any of the other streets off the main road. At number fourteen, the windows of Mrs Ambrose’s house were dimmed by drawn curtains, but, across the street, the Randalls hadn’t closed theirs and Mirabelle caught a glimpse of Vi and Billy deep in conversation. Vi was grasping her husband’s hand, her face lit by the lamplight. From behind, Billy Randall was nodding. Mirabelle smiled – young love was such a blessing, the unalloyed happiness of the first time you felt that connection. Stifling the ripple of remembrance that shifted in her gut, she opened the Quinns’ gate carefully and slipped through the gap before it could squeak. Then she drew out her set of SOE lock picks and quickly opened the front door. After slipping inside, she took out her torch. She had come prepared. She switched on the beam, keeping the light low to the floor.
The house felt abandoned already. The police hadn’t tidied before they left. The pillows from the sofa were stacked beside its frame and there was an eerie smattering of fingerprint dust over the mantel and on the wireless set. This was where they had danced, she thought, and that was the table where the gin bottle must have lain. Mrs Quinn’s house was the mirror image of Vi Randall’s, though it appeared immediately more luxurious. There were several modern pieces of furniture and a selection of well-made throws and rugs. On the wall, there was a set of paintings, framed in painted wood. Still, even in the torchlight, it lacked character somehow. There were no newspapers. No books. No flowers. On the mantelpiece there were a few photographs – one of the Quinns’ wedding and a few others of people Mirabelle assumed were relations – the kind of photographs people had had taken before they went to war. Keepsakes, not memories, taken in photographic studios.
She crossed the hallway, noticing the carpet was new and of high quality. Inside, despite everything, the bedroom smelled faintly of lavender. The door of the wardrobe had been left open, revealing a rack of what looked like well-kept clothes and a row of smart, high-heeled shoes. Several colourful sweaters were folded tidily in a pile. Helen Quinn had certainly kept up with the latest trends. Beside them were Phil Quinn’s shirts – a starched stack of white. On the other side of the room, the bed had been stripped and the mattress was stained badly where the woman must have died. Beyond that, there were dark marks on the carpet and a smear along the wall, which, Mirabelle thought, must have been made when they removed the body.
Re-enacting the scene, Mirabelle paced out what the murderer had done. Presumably, they entered the room by the door. The Quinns had been asleep. Helen had lain on the far side of the bed so the killer would have had to go round the base. Mirabelle cast the beam across the wall and, sure enough, there was a clear void in the spatter of blood. That’s where they must have stood. Gingerly, Mirabelle placed herself in the spot and drew back her arm. This was how they had stabbed the poor woman. There were two tiers of tiny blood marks on the wall – yes, that meant Helen Quinn had been stabbed twice at least. And then, how long had it taken her to die? It occurred to Mirabelle that even if Mr and Mrs Quinn had been drugged, surely the bed would have shifted with the force of the attack. The direct nature of the crime s
uddenly became apparent. This was an impossible thing to do to someone you didn’t know. Someone you didn’t hate. If the murderer was going to drug the Quinns, why didn’t they just poison them? It would have been easier.
Mirabelle leaned against the window frame and thought for a moment. The stabbing seemed suddenly a very public way to kill someone, underlining that this was not only a murder but a message too. If Phil Quinn was the recipient of that message he seemed not only unafraid but also unaware. What it clearly said was, I can come for you whenever I want. I can do anything. But Quinn had had Helen taken from him – the thing he valued most. What more could the murderer threaten?
Considering this, Mirabelle reached for the bedside table on Mrs Quinn’s side. The drawer contained a pack of cards, a box of Kirby grips and some safety pins. On Mr Quinn’s side, there was a man’s hairbrush and a bottle of expensive aftershave and below that two drawers full of pressed handkerchiefs interleaved with tissue paper and lavender. On the dressing table, a box containing lipstick, a showy compact filled with pressed powder and a flashy marble and gilt talcum holder with a pale, pink-ribboned puff. She was about to investigate the toilet arrangements when she started at the sound of the front door opening.
A man’s voice cut into the darkness. ‘Who’s in here?’ he called angrily. ‘Show yourself.’
Mirabelle snapped off her torch, called back to real life, and, hardly thinking, she slipped open the bedroom window with the intention of escaping across the back lawn. The sill was on the high side, she realised, as she scrambled up it, dropping the torch and losing her footing. She fumbled, trying to keep away from the bloodstains, desperate not to smear the spatter. Her hands fumbled as she pulled herself up. In a momentary lapse of judgement, she reached down to pick up the torch. Sure enough, the bedroom door slammed open and the man hurtled towards her.
Russian Roulette Page 9