‘He was heaving for breath. It was terrible,’ Vesta said. ‘He seemed quite desperate about the picture. I was sure you’d know what he meant.’
‘Well, if he asked us to look for a painting, we’d better do it.’
‘A painting and his son,’ Vesta itemised.
Mirabelle nodded.
‘Did you find out anything at Tongdean?’ the girl enquired.
Mirabelle wasn’t sure how to reply. She didn’t want to tell Vesta she’d ended up at a party in a hotel suite, considering whether to sleep with any of the men there for a surprisingly generous sum of money. ‘Not really,’ she said, still taken aback by how tempting it had been. ‘Though, it’s what American jazz singers call a cathouse all right. I met one of the kittens. And then last night I went back to the Quinns’ house. It had the most astonishing atmosphere, as if no one had lived there for years. There’s a vantage point outside. On the night of the murder, whoever killed Mrs Quinn was watching from the rear. The truth is anyone could have got into the house but not anyone could have killed Helen Quinn. I paced it through. It was a horrible crime. I mean, so violent.’
Vesta laid down her teacup. ‘You better get dressed.’
Mirabelle chose a dark green day dress and heels. She picked out a gabardine coat, tied a moss-coloured scarf over her hair and picked a silver-handled umbrella from the stand. As the women left the house, she opened it to shelter them. Outside, the street was slick, the grass above the pebble beach was swelled and boggy as they turned towards the main road.
‘It isn’t a day to be on a bicycle,’ Vesta said. That was how she usually got about.
Outside a row of shops, several children in wellington boots splashed along the pavement, completely soaked. One child peered hopelessly into a puddle, holding his fishing net as if at any moment a fish might appear. The traffic was only partially slowed by the weather and, as the cars cut through the puddles, they sprayed the pedestrians. Mirabelle and Vesta took shelter in a shop doorway.
Luckily, the buses were operating as normal and it didn’t take long to be picked up. Inside, the windows were steamy and, at the back, the two women shared a cigarette to keep warm. They settled in silence as they bought their tickets from the conductor and Vesta cleaned a patch of window. ‘Almost there,’ she reported. Mirabelle fiddled with a tassel on her umbrella.
Then, dismounting back on to the pavement, she raised the brolly and Vesta grabbed her arm, sheltering from the rain as they turned towards the sea. The laneway outside Fred’s cottage was too slim to accommodate two women side by side or, for that matter, an open umbrella, so, taking their chances, they trotted down it single file, the rain bouncing at angles off the uneven ground. Vesta stamped energetically as she came to a halt. On the step a young man stood with his arms folded, an intermittent waterfall of raindrops channelled along the brim of his hat.
‘D’you know where he’s gone?’ he said. ‘He’s always here on Saturdays.’
‘He’s sick,’ Mirabelle explained. ‘Step aside.’
She made short work of the lock, standing in front of the fellow so that he wouldn’t see she was using picks rather than a key. The three of them bundled indoors. Inside, it was drier than the laneway, though drips fell through a gap in the ceiling into a wide tin bucket. The light was even more dim than usual. Glad to see the chickens had gone, Vesta went to the counter and lit a camping lamp. Mirabelle took off the sodden silk scarf and laid it over the back of a chair.
‘Who are you?’ she asked the man.
‘I come every Saturday. It’s a regular order.’ He wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘Do you know where Fred keeps it?’
The man nodded.
‘Well, go on then. If you give me the money, I’ll pass it on.’
Round-shouldered, the fellow disappeared into the room to the rear of the cottage. There was the sound of packing cases being moved and then he returned with bulging pockets and thrust several shillings into Mirabelle’s palm, mumbled his goodbye and disappeared out of the door. Vesta laughed.
‘I don’t want to imagine,’ Mirabelle said, putting the coins into her purse.
Vesta cast the light around the room, which seemed especially grubby today. ‘We have our mission,’ she said. ‘A picture and something about his son. We’d better see what we can find.’
They began to root around. Fred certainly had a diverse stock. There were boxes containing bottles of Argentinian orange liquor and a mixed case of Italian perfume packed in straw and sealed with wax. A jute sack turned out to contain Hershey bars that Mirabelle guessed had been stolen from the US army. The Americans still had a base in Yorkshire and, even though rationing was over, there were some things it was difficult to get – American chocolate being one of them. Behind the counter, there were shoeboxes full of insoles, perched on three brand-new refrigerators. Then, in the back room, there were medical supplies. ‘This will be what that boy wanted,’ Vesta said, lifting a condom between her thumb and first finger and looking delighted. Mirabelle ignored her.
‘You said a picture.’ She leafed through a stack of paintings propped against the plaster, protected by old blankets. They were traditional oils, framed in gilt. They looked valuable and she wondered momentarily where Fred had got them. One in particular looked disconcertingly familiar. ‘Do you think this is what he meant?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vesta checked the rear of the pictures one by one. ‘But look, there’s a note on the back.’
‘Delivery instructions,’ Mirabelle said flatly. ‘I doubt we’ll find anything directly helpful, to be honest – nothing personal for a start. Fred knows what he’s doing.’
‘I had a vision of a child being trapped,’ Vesta said. ‘Fred seemed to think it was urgent. Life or death.’
Mirabelle shrugged. She tried the back door. It opened on to a miserable backyard with an old-fashioned privy. The water ran in rivulets off the back wall. She picked her way across the mud and opened the thin wooden door of the outhouse. Always check everywhere – those were the rules. Just keep going.
Inside, the privy did not smell as bad as she expected and it was dry. Beside the pan there was a pile of newspapers torn into strips. Above it, Fred had hung a clipping taken from the London Illustrated News Coronation edition, published three years before. It portrayed Her Majesty arrayed in her coronation regalia. Fred had always been patriotic. Mirabelle cocked her head, pausing only momentarily before carefully removing the picture, trying not to tear it.
Removing the cutting revealed a hole in the wood. Behind it was the brick boundary wall. Glancing over her shoulder, she decided not to call Vesta, not just yet. Mirabelle ran her hand over the facings. Sure enough, several of them were loose. Carefully, she drew out one brick. Then another. In less than a minute, she had a space big enough to put her hand inside. As she fumbled, she found three guns – all ex-service pistols. One of them had three notches cut into its handle. She tried not to think what that might mean and moved on, removing half a dozen boxes of bullets, a stack of money wrapped in oilskin and a couple of notarised deeds, which looked as if they were ownership documents for properties in London – a freehold in Notting Hill and a leasehold in Chelsea. Mirabelle stepped back and surveyed the pile as she leaned against the wall.
‘Oh God.’ The words only barely crossed her lips. ‘Fred thinks he’s going to die.’
Vesta appeared in the doorway. The rain had worsened and water was beginning to seep over the makeshift threshold, which was only an old piece of wood tacked on to the ground. ‘What is it?’
Mirabelle held up the money.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s his legacy. That’s what he meant. Life or death. He wants us to find his son and give him this.’
‘Marlene said they can do wonders for bronchitis.’ Vesta didn’t sound convinced.
‘Poor Fred,’ Mirabelle said sadly. She bundled everything into her arms and handed Vesta the boxes of bullets. Back in the cottage, the
y found a shopping bag to pack them in. Mirabelle checked each item, then wrapped the guns in tea towels and stowed them safely. Vesta watched, impressed by her competence. ‘I’m not going to ask,’ she promised with a grin.
‘I suppose we better go and visit him,’ Mirabelle replied.
‘The son?’
‘No. Fred, of course.’
Mirabelle locked the front door and the women splashed up the lane. On the main street, the pavements were busy with Saturday shoppers and people were heading into restaurants for an early lunch. Mirabelle checked her watch. It was only midday. It seemed like a lot more than forty-eight hours since Helen Quinn’s body had been discovered and Superintendent McGregor had hammered up the office stairs, demanding she look into it.
Ahead of her, a woman in a smart red two-piece was picking her way across the road under a stylish green umbrella. Mirabelle caught herself wondering just how many women were funding themselves by means of the kind of party she’d attended only the afternoon before, in the very way she’d considered. How much of this tawdry trade was hidden in Brighton, just below the surface?
Vesta took control of the umbrella. ‘It looks as if it’s set,’ she said. ‘Makes you wish you had wellingtons, doesn’t it? Like the kiddies.’
Mirabelle took her arm. The girl would make a good mother, she thought. Though she obviously hadn’t yet come to terms with her condition or, for that matter, told Charlie. There’d be a new air about her when she had. Mirabelle had noticed it before – a kind of confidence that came with pregnancy. A very female kind of triumph.
‘We’ll be lucky to get a cab in this weather,’ she said, ‘but let’s go up North Street and give it a try.’
Chapter 11
There is no instinct like that of the heart
A miasma of overcooked vegetables hung around the main hallway of the hospital. Lunch had been served and, though the plates were now cleared, the odour lingered. Vesta tried not to retch. She felt quite peculiar. She took a couple of deep breaths and watched as two little boys with aggressively combed hair and matching coats marched up the hallway in the direction of the Maternity Ward. Ahead of them, a flustered man, carrying a formal flower display and a large box of Fry’s chocolates adorned with a wide red ribbon, urged them to keep up.
‘This is where I’ll have mine, I suppose,’ Vesta managed. ‘The baby, I mean. If I don’t do it at home.’
‘Perhaps I’m mistaken but I think most women prefer hospital these days. It’s safer, isn’t it?’
‘I know.’ Vesta cut her off.
The hems of their coats dripped on to the linoleum as the women turned down the corridor and followed the signs for Ward 12. Along the hallway there were seats – old wooden benches – for people to wait. A young man was reading a copy of The Times at the entrance to Ward 12. He was wearing a brown gabardine coat and hat. Both were dry so it appeared he had been inside for a while. He peered over the top of his newspaper as the women passed and then returned to the sports pages.
Inside the double doors, the main body of the ward lay straight ahead. It was airy and bright with more than a dozen beds. Here, the long windows were open despite the rain, and the smell of cooked vegetables had dissipated. Vesta felt her stomach settle, as a tidily turned out nurse directed them to Fred’s bed, beside which a woman was already stationed. An angular navy hat was perched on top of her greying, smartly set hair and she was curiously stationary – like a statue set in place covering the frail figure in the bed – as if she was smothering him. She was talking in a low voice. ‘Well,’ Mirabelle managed to catch the words, ‘I’ll have to deal with the delphiniums, of course, but now I’ll be coming up and down, I can’t say when I’ll have the time.’ Behind this figure, Fred’s breathing was strained. ‘It’s just as well they found me. What were you doing out here in the sticks, Fred? What a place for it to happen.’
Mirabelle coughed and the woman turned. Her mouth pursed as she eyed these newcomers and then, clearly annoyed, let her steely gaze rest on Vesta. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Fox. We haven’t met. I’m Mirabelle Bevan and this is my business partner, Vesta Lewis. We’re friends of Fred.’ She held out her hand.
Fred’s wife’s eyes narrowed. She ran a hand around the back of her neck, her fingers dipping in and out of her bun. Then she straightened her blue cardigan as if she was limbering up for a fight. ‘Oh,’ she said, her jaw so tight with disapproval that Mirabelle thought it might pop. ‘He never mentioned you.’
Fred lifted his head and strained to speak, but before he could do so, his wife stepped across the bed as if she was defending a beach in Normandy, spitting her words like well-aimed bullets. ‘You can’t just come here and upset him like this. He’s ill. Really, it ought to be family only. I’m surprised they let you in.’
‘Are the rest of the family coming?’ Mirabelle enquired smoothly. These were difficult times for everybody. She should try to diffuse them.
‘Oh there’s no one. Not a soul. Only me.’ Mrs Fox sounded satisfied. Mirabelle let the statement lie. She glanced around the woman’s frame as Fred raised his hand and reached out vaguely, motioning her closer with weak fingers. Mrs Fox cast a fiery glance, peppered with outrage. ‘How did you meet my husband?’ she asked loudly, as if poor Fred wasn’t there. ‘I mean, he can’t know anyone down here.’ Her voice was thick with suspicion. Brighton was clearly beyond the pale. Mirabelle wondered what Mrs Fox might think of the rest of the county – or even the countryside. Perhaps the whole of England outside London was unacceptable.
‘We have a mutual friend, Mrs Fox. Up in town.’ Mirabelle tried to smooth things over as she bent towards Fred’s pillow. She wanted to catch whatever he was about to say. Mrs Fox let out a sharp exhalation, outraged at this imposition. She looked as if she was about to interpose herself, but, making a supreme effort before she could, Fred managed to raise himself on to his elbows and grasp Mirabelle’s wrist. ‘Is it all right?’ he rasped.
‘Mission almost accomplished, Fred. That’s what I came to tell you. Don’t worry about it.’ Mirabelle kept her voice low.
Fred held her gaze. His eyes were watery and they seemed to be pleading. ‘Good,’ he managed. The word seemed to come from very deep inside him. Then he slumped on to the pillows and closed his eyes, his fingers falling away. Mirabelle nodded as if something had been settled – Fred’s son was his and his alone and the goods in the shopping bag were a secret. This woman didn’t know anything and wasn’t to be informed.
‘Well, if you don’t mind, as I’m sure you can see, my husband is too ill to have visitors,’ Mrs Fox cut in, stroking Fred’s arm almost as if she was polishing him. Mirabelle wondered how long Fred had left his wife alone at a time. He’d been married all the years she’d known him, but she didn’t blame him for keeping Mrs Fox out of the way.
‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
She stepped back. Mrs Fox bent back over the bed, as if the women had been dismissed. As they walked off, she glanced over her shoulder and, seeing her rivals on their way out, resumed whatever she had been saying. ‘Well, really,’ she started. Mirabelle steeled herself. Walking away felt as if she was abandoning a comrade in arms. But you couldn’t trump a wife’s right to her husband’s final hours. Vesta bit her lip and Mirabelle shoved her gently, moving her on. There was nothing they could do. Once they were out of sight, Mirabelle accosted a young nurse. The girl was preparing medication on a trolley, tipping pills into small cups.
‘Excuse me. I’m an old friend of Fred Fox. Over there. Bed seven,’ she gestured. ‘I wondered if you could tell me, is his prognosis good?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl replied sympathetically. ‘I’m not allowed to say. If you aren’t family, that is.’
There was no point in arguing. Those were the rules and Mirabelle was well versed in them. Vesta pulled her by the arm. ‘Come on.’
Outside in the hallway, the girl couldn’t hold
in her outrage. ‘Family? What does that mean? You’re closer to Fred than that horrible, spiteful woman and anyone who knows anything can see it a mile off. Do you think she’s going to stand guard over him until he dies, like some kind of banshee . . . it’s just downright nasty.’
Mirabelle raised a finger to her lips. She shook her head – only a tiny movement, but it stopped Vesta speaking. The green linoleum stretched ahead, so shiny they could see their vague shadows reflected in it. Two outsiders, waiting. Then Mirabelle’s heels echoed as she stepped up smartly, stopping just in front of the bench. She peered around the newspaper the man sitting there was using to shield his face. He was the right age and he was dark – sallow, people might have called it. When he raised his eyes, they were the striking shade of green that she recalled. He removed his hat as he scrambled to his feet.
‘Miss?’ he said, as he folded the paper, bundling it on to the wooden seat.
‘You’re Fred Fox’s boy,’ Mirabelle said flatly. ‘I hardly recognise you, but I suppose you must be. I haven’t seen you in, let me see, more than fifteen years – you were only a child, a skinny thing. I don’t suppose you remember me.’
The man grinned and held out his hand. In contrast to Mrs Fox’s behaviour this felt like an embarrassment of good manners. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was quite young.’
‘Fred brought you to a hotel in London. He had a meeting. You had to wait.’
The young man’s green eyes flickered. ‘There was a grey sofa – they left me in the corner for ages. Was it you who gave me a ginger drink?’
Mirabelle laughed. ‘It wasn’t me. But that’s right. You had a bottle of pop and a blue straw. Your shorts were the same colour as the sofa.’
‘Marcus Fox,’ the young man introduced himself.
Mirabelle shook his hand. She couldn’t see any trace of the scared, skinny boy except that his eyes hadn’t changed, or not much. ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan and this is my business partner, Vesta Lewis.’
Russian Roulette Page 11