‘And you came to visit my father? That’s very kind.’ Marcus’s tone became serious. He cast a glance towards the ward as if he was nervous his stepmother might emerge like a wrathful harpy.
‘Didn’t Fred ever tell her about you? Mrs Fox, I mean? I thought he was so courageous – I mean, he saved you. He brought you back.’
‘I don’t know, to tell you the truth. If he told her, the reception probably wasn’t good, let’s be honest.’ The young man didn’t sound bitter. If anything, he seemed extremely cheerful, which, after all, was only sensible. Life in England in 1942 was probably better than where he’d come from and a brave, interesting, if unconventional father might, she supposed, make up for having two parents. ‘I always felt I’d dodged a bullet.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t like to ask Dad much about it.’
It struck Mirabelle that all his life Fred had dealt in secrets – secrets of state, secret desires, secret people. He’d kept everything under control and everyone happy. Till now. It must be difficult for this handsome young man to sit, waiting, while only a few yards away a woman who should have been his mother was standing proprietorially over the man who had saved his life all those years ago. But that was how things were around Fred. She wondered if he was addicted to intrigue. She could see how that could happen.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She turned to Marcus. The boy was solicitous. Mirabelle wondered what was behind the manners. ‘How did you hear about Fred’s collapse?’ she asked.
‘He was supposed to turn up last night. We always have a meal on a Friday and Dad didn’t show.’
‘In London?’
‘We were going for a curry. I waited for two hours in a restaurant off Regent Street. Veeraswamy. It’s one of his favourites. In the end, the waiters got annoyed because I hadn’t ordered. I knew something was wrong. He can be eccentric, my dad, but he’s rock solid reliable when it comes to food. He works out of Brighton a lot so I figured that’s where he would have been coming from. I caught the next train. It didn’t take long to track him down.’
‘Have they said anything about his chances?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m so sorry. Your father is a wonderful man. It must be awkward for you with Mrs Fox here.’
Marcus shifted. His eyes lingered on Vesta for a moment then he seemed to rally. ‘I explained to the ward sister. I don’t expect we’re the only family with a secret. Or that doesn’t get along, for that matter. “Estranged” they call it. Anyway, Sister was understanding about the whole thing. She has it in hand and Elsie won’t know I’m here – not from the nurses, anyway. I suppose she might notice me though. Like you did.’ He halted. They all knew that Mrs Fox was not the kind of person to notice anything on the sidelines. Marcus continued. ‘She thinks he was down for the racing, though there are no races this week. He was knocking stuff out down here, wasn’t he, Miss Bevan? That’s why he was spending such a lot of time in Brighton. He was selling stolen goods.’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. Now Marcus had said it, it sounded worse than it had felt when she had periodically visited Fred in the cottage to pick up bits and pieces.
The young man smiled. ‘I’m going to stick around anyway. Poor Dad. I can probably sneak in a visit early doors. I’ll take him some brandy. He likes a tot. I’ll just keep an eye on him, you know, till he goes.’
This recalled Mirabelle to the reason she was there. She checked over her shoulder. Then she opened the shopping bag. ‘Fred asked me to fetch these for you. It’s some money and the deeds to a couple of properties. There are also three guns, but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather dispose of those.’
‘Guns?’ Marcus peered over the rim of the bag.
‘Service pistols. I think all this is his legacy to you. Unwritten, of course, but he wants you to have it.’
Marcus took the shopper. ‘Thank you. Leave the guns to me,’ he said. ‘A lady like you shouldn’t have to do that kind of thing.’
A ghost of a smile crossed Mirabelle’s face. The boy was personable, but he clearly didn’t recall anything other than the ginger drink from that day in the Charing Cross Hotel more than a decade before. However, she didn’t quibble. There was something about Marcus Fox, she realised – something competent. She watched as he secreted the goods around his person with admirable discretion – maybe he’d learned a thing or two from his father apart from good manners.
‘Well,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘If you need me you’ll find me at McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery on Brills Lane. Please keep in touch.’
Marcus scrambled to shake it. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know when he goes. She’ll want to bury him, you see. In her mind it’ll only be her at the graveside, the grieving widow, but I’m minded to go to the service. And you could come too, if you like. Once she can’t hurt him any more.’
Mirabelle didn’t ask what he meant. ‘Goodbye,’ she said and Fox nodded gravely.
The women walked in silence to the main entrance. Outside, the rain was bouncing off the steps. Vesta stared up the corridor towards the staircase – inside where it was dry. ‘Do you mind?’ she said. ‘We could have a look at the baby ward.’
Mirabelle followed. It was better than walking through puddles and more cheerful than where they’d been. Upstairs, the hallway smelled of talcum powder and hot milk and the atmosphere was businesslike with nurses moving around efficiently behind the glass wall. Vesta peered in. The cots were alive with squirming babies. Mirabelle laughed. ‘Look at them. Isn’t it heartening? I mean, Vesta, it’s normal.’
Vesta focused on the tiny faces and the tiny hands. The tidy, coloured blankets. She stopped when she came to a black face, solitary among the sea of pink. A little boy swaddled tightly in blue. One of the nurses spotted her. She went to the cot and picked up the child, holding him aloft, assuming Vesta was a relation. The boy dribbled and the nurse wiped his chin. Vesta put up a hand in thanks.
‘Maybe it’ll be all right,’ she said, sounding less dubious than she had previously. As they turned to go, a pretty blonde nurse carrying two babies rounded a corner.
‘Oh, Vesta,’ Marlene said without missing a beat, as if she had expected her friend to be there. ‘I meant to ring you. Morphine. That’s what’s most likely in your gin bottle. But they’d need to be careful with the dosage.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s easy to stop breathing, do you see? If you have too much.’
Vesta started to introduce Marlene to Mirabelle when the nurse noticed something over her friend’s shoulder. ‘Sister,’ she hissed in a tone of pure panic, and then, more loudly and in a normal voice, she said, ‘It’s not up here. You need to go downstairs, madam. Turn left at the bottom. Good afternoon.’ Then, with the children gurgling, she sped off in the direction of the ward.
‘Morphine,’ Vesta said when she’d gone.
Mirabelle nodded. That made sense. It would have made the Quinns woozy, it would make them sleep. The puzzle was who had done it – sneaking into the house and knocking them both out. The puzzle was why. The sound of a crying baby echoed down the hallway.
‘Are you feeling better about everything?’ Mirabelle asked.
Vesta nodded. Maybe tonight was the night. ‘Charlie’s home later. He’s going to cook dinner,’ she said.
Chapter 12
Love is not a fire to be shut up in the soul
That evening Mirabelle had just drawn a bath and drizzled in some lavender oil when the buzzer sounded. She checked the clock. It was only seven. The rain had continued all day and now the light was beginning to fade and the street-lamps were casting their honey glow. Inside, the curtains were half drawn and the flat felt unusually warm. She had spent the afternoon thinking about the case. About Fred and poor Marcus, the boy just sitting there, waiting for his old man to die. Now, she found herself running over tiny details and sorting her laundry as she did so. The bed was piled with clothes as she swept past barefoot and opened the front door. On the doorstep, Superintendent McGregor’s hat
was dark with rain.
‘I finished early,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like dinner. There’s a French place opened in Rottingdean.’
Mirabelle kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘That sounds nice.’
McGregor hung up his coat and hat and strode into the drawing room to pour a drink. ‘It smells good in here.’ He smiled, the cut glass shimmering.
‘I was going to have a bath.’ Mirabelle tipped her chin towards the drinks tray, encouraging him to pour her a tot of whisky.
‘You still could, if you like. I’ll wash your back.’
Mirabelle settled into one of the armchairs by the fire. She liked it when he flirted with her.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’
‘May I wash your back?’
‘No, silly. About the case.’
‘Of course.’ He became more serious. ‘Actually, I have some news. I managed to get a copy of the post-mortem. Helen Quinn was stabbed with a thin, sharp blade, probably a flick-knife. We’re looking for a slasher.’
‘Did Phil Quinn own a flick-knife?’
‘Phil hates that kind of thing. There’s a lot of knife crime at home. When it’s around you, you go one of two ways. Have you heard of a Cheshire grin? Or rather, in Scotland, we call it a Glasgow smile?’
Mirabelle shook her head.
‘It’s a gang punishment. It’s becoming more common down here. Knife crime is on the rise in London but we haven’t seen much in Brighton. Not yet.’ The superintendent paused, finding it strange talking to Mirabelle about this. She looked beautiful in the lamplight. Why had he thought she’d know about the Glasgow smile? She was a lady. Perhaps it was that contradiction – Mirabelle’s grace set against her grit – that always reeled him in. He turned his attention back to the case. ‘None of the knives in the house – in the kitchen, that is – match the weapon that killed Mrs Quinn. It was a four-inch blade and it would fillet you. Robinson hasn’t been able to find it.’
‘But he’s charged Quinn anyway?’
‘The evidence is purely circumstantial. But Robinson doesn’t mind that. I managed to speak to Phil before they took him up to Lewes. He hasn’t taken it well. I told him we’re working on it.’
‘And Robinson?’
‘I tried. The knife that killed Helen Quinn was a criminal’s weapon, but, when I pointed that out, he just snorted. One way or another, it looks like there’s a gang involved. It’s made me jumpy. I don’t understand. There’s never been anything like that around Phil.’
‘And the drug used to knock them out was morphine?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Educated guess.’
‘The doc reckons Helen Quinn might have still felt some pain – if it was only that. He said she’d been drugged on top of the stuff in the gin bottle. The morphine knocked her out and then she was injected. They found a mark on her arm. In any case, both drugs are too widely available to be easily traced – any pharmacy or hospital would have them in stock and there have been no recent break-ins or thefts that could be the source. There’s nothing like that recorded in Brighton over the last six months – more, actually. There have been a few in London, but it’s impossible to link the drugs to a particular robbery. Tell me, what else have you been up to, apart from making educated guesses?’
Mirabelle thought of her introduction to Mr Davidson at Tongdean, her afternoon in Eastbourne, being caught by the beat bobby at Mill Lane, Fred heaving for breath and then she and Vesta in the long hospital corridor handing three illegal guns to Marcus Fox. ‘I’ll go over it with you when I’m in the bath,’ she said. ‘Come and talk to me.’
Vesta had chosen peach for the walls. Above the sink, there was a wide mirror in a gilded frame. It reflected the steaming tub, from which lavender scent was wafting through the flat. On the shelf, a line of glass bottles dripped with condensation. The clock on the wall ticked. McGregor settled by the door and watched intently as Mirabelle slipped out of her clothes and stepped into the warm water. He sipped his whisky, his eyes still, as her skin distorted under the surface and the water lapped against the enamel. Once she was comfortable, she offered him a large sponge. He laid his glass on the side and began to wash her, planting kisses on her slick skin. She picked up his drink and took a sip, letting the whisky evaporate on her tongue, the taste smoky in contrast to the lavender on the air. He bit her shoulder.
‘We’ll never get to dinner if you start that,’ she said.
‘Damn dinner.’ He smiled, as he took back his glass and leaned against the wall so he could look at her. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw.’
Later, they shared fish and chips instead of going to Rottingdean and walked along the front. It was dark and the rain had eased to a fine drizzle, almost like lace. Now and then, they stopped to kiss under the umbrella. The pubs would close soon and the first people to leave were stumbling towards their bus stops or starting the long walk home. A line of taxis waited at the bottom of the road, the drivers smoking.
‘Want to dance?’ McGregor suggested.
‘Where?’ Mirabelle didn’t fancy the ballrooms around the pier with the girls in bright skirts and their keen young men. It was too raucous. Her dubiety showed. McGregor laughed.
‘Don’t worry. I know somewhere,’ he said, pulling her up Queen’s Road as if they were young and in love.
After turning off, he bundled her through a glossy black door and up a steep set of red-carpeted stairs with a banister of thick rope on brass loops. Inside, the windows were blacked out. There was a polished ebony bar in one corner and several tables around which comfortable chairs were arranged, some plush to match the carpet and others upholstered in brown leather. The place glowed red with a hint of neon and the effect was luxurious and forbidden. In the background, music was playing. A love song. Mirabelle liked it immediately. Most of the tables were vacant, but at one a young couple, deep in conversation, were drinking cocktails, while at another, three old men in evening dress smoked cigars and played cards.
‘This is lovely. What’s it called?’ Mirabelle asked.
‘I don’t know. There’s no sign.’
‘They’d call it a boite in Paris.’
‘Let’s call it that then. The Boite.’
A maître d’ emerged. He sported a moustache and his hair was slicked back so it shone. ‘Alan,’ he said, shaking McGregor’s hand heartily and laying his palm on the superintendent’s shoulder to guide him to a table. ‘Nice to see you.’
‘I thought you might have music tonight. We felt like dancing. You haven’t met my girlfriend. Mirabelle Bevan.’
Mirabelle felt a frisson as she shrugged off the strangeness of being described that way. There was hardly ever an introduction, hardly anyone to say it to. All those years ago, Jack had never called her that. Not once.
‘How do you do, Miss Bevan?’ The man indicated where they should sit.
McGregor perused the bar. ‘Have you any champagne? I feel like a celebration.’
‘Of course. There’s some Argentinian liqueur that came our way this week. I can recommend it – just a whisper of orange in the glass to bring up the taste of the bubbly.’
Mirabelle smiled. That was Fred. Grafting to the last.
‘Champagne cocktail?’ McGregor offered.
‘Yes. Lovely.’
A discreet, Italian-looking waiter appeared with an ice bucket and two crystal flutes while another man removed two tables to make a dance floor. This place ran like clockwork, she realised. It was comforting to know that on a rainy Saturday night there was somewhere so smart up the road.
McGregor held out his hand and Mirabelle got up and folded into his arms as they moved to the rhythm. She laid her head on his shoulder. From far off, she could hear ice chink. It felt a luxury to have the place almost entirely to themselves. When the song finished, McGregor caught Mirabelle’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. She laughed. They sat down and sipped their drinks.
Then, as t
he song changed, Mirabelle noticed a plump woman appear in the doorway. She was wearing thick make-up and her auburn hair was swept into an old-fashioned bun. Handing her coat and umbrella to the waiter, the woman revealed a well-cut, jade taffeta cocktail dress. Mirabelle wondered momentarily if she was a retired madam. She had a seedy but matronly look and then there was that lipstick. The maître d’ rushed to kiss her on the cheek. Then, they pushed into the room together, Mirabelle noticed, rather than him leading her to a table. As they came closer, she caught the words: ‘I’m bored, Dan, all the way out there on my own. I thought I’d nip into town for a bit of fun.’ The maître d’ smiled apologetically as if he was trying to shoo the woman along, but McGregor’s interest was piqued. He rose to his feet.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening.’ The woman stopped. She looked suddenly almost regal.
Put on the spot, the maître d’ fumbled before introducing her. ‘This is my wife, Superintendent,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Ruthie.’
‘Mrs Gleeson.’
Mrs Gleeson grinned, as if this was more than she was expecting. ‘Bring me a brandy on ice,’ she said dismissively to the waiter and then moved forward with her gloved hand outstretched. ‘Alan McGregor,’ Gleeson continued the introductions. ‘And Mirabelle Bevan.’
‘How do you do.’
Ruth Gleeson stared pointedly at the chair in front of her. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said McGregor, ‘please join us. We’re having a lazy Saturday night. Your husband has brought a little bit of Mayfair to Brighton.’
‘Ruthie, please,’ she replied. ‘Well, it’s better than those dreadful coffee shops that are opening willy-nilly. We always liked a nightclub, didn’t we, dear? During the war, when Dan came home on leave, we were always out on the town. No kids in those days. And hardly any money either.’ She gave a little laugh as if she was nostalgic for old times, which Mirabelle suspected she wasn’t. Close up, it was apparent that nothing on Mrs Gleeson’s person was understated. A thick bracelet of diamonds peeped from under her cuff.
Russian Roulette Page 12