As the waiters fussed, serving drinks, and the Gleesons sat down, Mirabelle whispered in McGregor’s ear. ‘Isn’t Gleeson the name of one of Phil Quinn’s partners?’
‘Yes. That’s him. He sank money into this place last year on top of Hove Cars.’
She eyed the superintendent with a smile as she took in this information. He hadn’t simply brought her here for fun then. They were, to all intents and purposes, working. Pulling in her chair, she leaned towards Mrs Gleeson. ‘How many children do you have?’ she asked.
‘Three,’ Ruthie replied. ‘Can you believe it?’
Gleeson looked mildly uncomfortable. He was a good-looking man and he seemed aware that his wife didn’t match him, though maybe it had been different when they first met. Sometimes couples became more like each other, other times they diverged. Mix and match, Vesta called it. The gramophone was set going again, this time with big band music.
‘We’ve done all right.’ Gleeson sipped his whisky, before he brought up what was really on his mind. ‘It’s a bad business about Phil,’ he said. ‘He’s charged and on remand now. Did you know?’
‘I heard you engaged a solicitor,’ McGregor said.
‘Fat lot of good it’s done us.’
‘Where are you from?’ Ruthie asked Mirabelle, turning towards her as if they were girls sharing a conversation and there was nobody else at the table.
‘We just live around the corner,’ Mirabelle replied, without specifying that she and Superintendent McGregor resided around different corners even if both of them were close. ‘This club is lovely. Did you help set it up?’
‘Dan always wanted a place. He knew how to get it right all on his own.’
‘I would have thought you wanted a garage, Mr Gleeson? I mean, you’re one of the partners at Hove Cars, aren’t you? This is another thing entirely.’
Gleeson lit a cigar. A spiral of smoke floated across the table. ‘The garage was Phil’s idea. It’s a corking little business and we’ve all done well out of it, but—’ Dan gestured openly ‘—I could come here every night and never feel done in. It’s a pleasure.’
Ruthie smirked. She sipped her brandy. ‘You do come every night,’ she said.
‘Gosh. It must be tiring,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘I mean, Hove Cars during the day and then this.’
McGregor watched her. Really, she was remarkable. Never off the job.
Gleeson shrugged. ‘There’s less and less for me to do at Hove these days. At the beginning, we only had two cars and we drove them round the clock between the three of us. I’m not kidding. We had a twenty-four-hour service. We used to kip in the office if there weren’t any calls. Now, that was tiring. But then business took off and we bought more cars and took on drivers. These days, Phil runs the contracts and the men – until this awful business. Tommy Fourcade sees to the cars – he’s the mechanic.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Accounts. I’m good with figures. But the way I’ve set it up, the place runs itself. I pay in in the morning – always up to the bank myself. Then there’s monthly figures – cash flow – but that’s all. Except I’ve been in the last few days helping out because of what happened.’
Ruthie shook her head. ‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘I never would have thought it.’
‘None of us thought it—’ her husband’s tone had an edge ‘—cos Phil didn’t do it, love.’
Ruthie tinkled the ice in her glass as a form of protest. ‘Well, if Phil is innocent, who killed poor Helen then?’
Gleeson deferred to McGregor. ‘We don’t know yet,’ the superintendent said. ‘There’s a difference of opinion.’ He attempted an unaccustomed level of diplomacy. ‘My colleague thinks Phil did kill her . . . he’s charged him.’
‘Exactly,’ Mrs Gleeson cut in. ‘It’s only logical. It’s always the husband. You see it time and time again in the papers. What else did she have, little Helen Quinn? She was pretty, but what else did she have but her husband and look what he did to her?’
‘Now, Ruthie.’ Gleeson stopped his wife. ‘Phil and Helen were a cracking couple. They were devoted.’
‘She must have done something to set him off.’
Mirabelle’s eyes widened. The champagne felt suddenly refreshing as she realised Mrs Gleeson had made a good point even if it was misdirected. She was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. What if Helen Quinn had done something – Helen herself – not Phil. Everyone investigating the poor woman’s death had assumed the murder must be something to do with her husband – either that he did it or that it was some kind of blackmail attempt or revenge. But what if Helen Quinn was murdered on her own account? The idea rankled. If it had been a man who’d died, such assumptions never would have been made. Robinson obviously hadn’t considered it either, or, if he had, he’d dismissed it straight away.
‘I’ve been so stupid,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Sorry, dear?’ Mrs Gleeson leaned in. ‘What did you say?’
Mirabelle looked up. ‘Did you know Mrs Quinn well?’ she asked. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘I don’t know. She wasn’t really a friend. Helen was much younger and they had no children.’ Mrs Gleeson sat back as if she was retiring from battle.
It wouldn’t have surprised Mirabelle if the woman had raised her hands in surrender. She cast her eyes towards Dan Gleeson. ‘Do you know? Anything about Mrs Quinn?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he said, puffing on his cigar. Ruth held out her hand and he dug in his pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case from which she extracted a smoke. Gleeson fired his lighter so she could kindle it. He seemed to be trying to recall the details of the year or so since Helen Quinn had arrived. It was interesting – clearly neither of the Gleesons thought of the poor woman as anything other than Phil Quinn’s wife. ‘Phil met her at the Palais,’ Gleeson reflected. ‘She was down from London. It was one of those whirlwind romances. He snapped her up pretty quickly.’
‘Did she work in London?’
‘She must have. She wasn’t posh or anything. Whatever she did, she gave it up when they got hitched – no need, you see. She was a nice woman. Terrible cook, though. They made a kind of joke of it.’
Mirabelle’s eyes darted. She thought of the apprentice at the garage who’d said Mrs Quinn had brought her husband sandwiches. Perhaps that was part of their joke. Maybe breakfast that morning had been inedible.
‘What is it, Mirabelle?’ McGregor laid a hand on her arm.
‘We’ve been looking at the wrong thing. We’ve been concentrating on him. Don’t you see? We never considered Helen Quinn might have been killed because of something she’d done.’
Mrs Gleeson snorted. ‘That scrap of a girl!’ she said. ‘Ten years younger than Phil? What could she possibly have done?’
Mirabelle thought of the women at the party in the suite in Eastbourne. They all had secrets that ordinary people wouldn’t believe. Being a fallen woman wasn’t written large on you any more than anything else. It was only a matter of detail that most people wouldn’t even notice. Helen Quinn might have had secrets and it seemed, if she did, she was good at keeping them.
‘I’d like to know more about her. Did you meet her family at the wedding?’
Mrs Gleeson thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know that she had any family. Maybe an uncle. Do you remember, Dan? An old fellow. He sat at the side all afternoon and went through a power of stout.’
The waiter poured more cocktails. ‘Have you got any of that rock and roll?’ McGregor asked.
Mrs Gleeson rolled her eyes. ‘That rubbish! What would you want to put that on for? You can’t dance properly to rock and roll. Put on “Mambo Italiano”.’
The waiter rummaged till he found it and there was a burst of brass. ‘Let’s mambo,’ she said and Mr Gleeson got to his feet. You could see they were a couple now. Dancing knocked years off Mrs Gleeson.
‘I want to take you home,’ McGregor whispered, as he eased his arm around Mir
abelle’s waist. A smile played on her lips. It was too late to take this line of inquiry any further tonight but it was a step forward at least. ‘All right,’ she said, as it occurred to her that they were becoming adept at enjoying themselves. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter 13
A clue is guiding information
The Sunday bells were ringing all over the city as they ate breakfast in McGregor’s bedroom. No meals could be taken in the Arundel’s dining room outside the times allotted for guests for fear that the guests might expect similar privileges. Miss Brownlee had accommodated McGregor, however, with a generous tray of toast and tea and a crumpled copy of a Sunday newspaper. The butter was refrigerated almost solid and was impossible to spread, so Mirabelle spooned a thick layer of marmalade over her toast and bit into it with a satisfied murmur. She was hungry. When she’d eaten, she’d get to the business of finding out more about Helen Quinn. In the meantime, she glanced at McGregor sipping his tea, engrossed in the sports pages before he moved on to the crossword. It felt like a comfortable arrangement, if rather domestic. Maybe I’m getting used to this, she thought.
When the front door sounded neither of them paid much attention. There were a good deal of comings and goings, especially around late morning and early afternoon when people checked out and checked in. As a result, when, in less than a minute, there was a smart knock on the bedroom door, they were taken by surprise. As a fresh-faced constable peered nervously into the room, Mirabelle glanced at the curtains, wondering if she ought to make some effort to conceal herself despite the fact it was clearly too late. The boy must have at least rudimentary observation skills. The force didn’t take them otherwise.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.
‘Ellison, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘There’s a body.’
McGregor continued to sip his tea. ‘Murder?’
‘No, sir. Suspicious circumstances.’
‘How suspicious?’
‘Suicide, sir. The body was found on the Downs.’
‘Apart from the fact the Downs are outside our jurisdiction, I can’t see what’s suspicious about that.’
‘Well, that’s the thing, sir. He killed himself elsewhere. Someone must have moved the body. Dumped him. And he’d been staying in Brighton. He was last seen in his hotel on Friday afternoon. Ex-military, it seems. The Chief wanted a senior officer to take charge and Inspector Robinson is . . .’
McGregor cast his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Robinson is resting on his laurels over the case I ought to have had.’ He drained his cup. ‘All right,’ he said and got up. ‘You were assigned to the Quinn murder, weren’t you?’ he asked, casually, as he put on his jacket.
Ellison nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Know anything about the girl’s family? Her past?’
Constable Ellison shook his head. ‘I was searching for the knife.’
‘Was Inspector Robinson interested in her family?’
‘You have to inform the family, sir. If there is one.’
‘Yes, Ellison. I know. And did he?’
‘No one mentioned it, sir.’
‘I see.’
‘Then you’ve no idea where the dead woman came from?’
‘No, sir.’
McGregor kissed Mirabelle on the cheek. ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He squeezed her arm before grabbing his hat and ushering the boy out of the door.
Mirabelle leaned against the window frame and watched as McGregor left the house and slipped into the back seat of the Black Maria that was parked at the top of the street. She savoured the slant of his shoulders beneath his dark coat as Ellison dotted around him. The sky was blue today and she lingered for a moment at the window, watching the wheeling gulls as she finished her toast and wondered about Helen Quinn and whether somewhere she had relations who were unaware of her death. She’d better get to it.
She grabbed her coat and slipped out of the house, closing the gate behind her. Walking westwards, she strode out smartly for Old Steine and from there caught a bus north, getting off at the now familiar stop for Mill Lane. The neighbourhood had scrubbed up for Sunday and the few people she passed were in their best clothes, either on their way to church or coming home again. The men tipped their hats as they passed and the women murmured their good afternoons. Halfway up the street, Mirabelle strode up the garden path at the Randalls’ house and knocked on the door. It was as good a place to start as any. Vi Randall had known Helen Quinn better than anyone. The door burst open in seconds to reveal Vi wearing a yellow apron, her extended stomach outlined by the daffodils printed on the surface of the cloth.
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘they send a female police officer when someone dies.’ Her fingers were quivering and her eyes were pink. She’d clearly been crying and she looked as if she hadn’t slept. She’d pinned her hair into a roll, but it had slipped into a lopsided mess. The effect would have been comical if she hadn’t been so upset.
‘I’m not actually a police officer,’ Mirabelle admitted. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Randall?’
Vi seemed unsteady on her feet and her eyes darted up and down the street as she grabbed Mirabelle’s arm. ‘Is he dead? You can tell me,’ she gasped.
‘Is who dead? What are you talking about?’
Vi heaved a sob that came from somewhere deep in the daffodils. ‘Billy didn’t come home last night. I don’t know what’s happened to him.’ She stepped back, pulling Mirabelle into the bright hallway. Today there was a bunch of hollyhocks in a long bottle that must have once held cordial. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, closing the front door.
‘Good gracious,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘Has he ever not come home before?’
‘No.’ Vi was insistent. ‘Not since we moved to Brighton. When we were first married it used to happen now and then in London. But never down here. It’s a clean slate in Brighton. We both promised. He wouldn’t. Not with me in this condition. Oh God, something terrible must have happened.’
Distractedly, she set off into the sitting room and Mirabelle followed her, watching as the pregnant woman paced up and down the threadbare carpet with the palm of her hand pressed into the small of her back, just as she had the day Vesta had been there. It didn’t seem right to sit down, so Mirabelle hovered behind the patched sofa.
‘How long has your husband been missing?’
‘Since yesterday. It’s half-day at the factory on Saturday. They knock off at lunchtime. I had eggs on toast all ready to go and he was going to fix the cupboard upstairs. It’s coming off its hinges. I waited and waited but he didn’t come home.’
‘Did you call the factory?’
‘There’s nobody in the office at the weekend. I don’t know what to do, Miss Bevan.’ Vi sounded hysterical.
Mirabelle kept her voice steady. ‘Where does Mr Randall work?’
‘CVA. On the other side of the railway. At Portland Road by the cricket ground. It’s only half an hour’s walk. He’s usually back by one on a Saturday.’
‘What do they make?’
‘Machine tools. He’s got a mathematical mind, my Billy. The pay’s not bad, just not good enough, not quite. Oh, Miss Bevan. He’s never done anything like this before.’
Mirabelle did not point out that Vi had already said her husband had stayed out all night several times when they lived in London. She wondered why this seemingly devoted couple had needed the fresh start to which Mrs Randall had alluded. Vi paced up and down one more time and then turned.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
‘Do you think we should call the police?’ Mirabelle suggested. ‘I mean, if you’re really worried and, well, there are suspicious circumstances.’
‘What suspicious circumstances?’ Vi sounded hysterical.
‘Well,’ Mirabelle had started now and she might as well say it, ‘the murder next door.’
‘But they locked Phil up
.’ The poor woman was frantic.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Mirabelle suggested. ‘Can I get you a glass of water? A cup of tea?’
Vi Randall glared at Mirabelle, but she relented and flopped into the armchair by the fire. ‘If you aren’t here to tell me Billy’s been done in, then why did you come?’ she asked.
‘I came to talk about Helen Quinn,’ Mirabelle admitted, her mind racing to figure out what might have happened to Billy. Was there some connection she’d missed?
‘Helen? What about her?’
‘I wondered, where she came from? If you knew her maiden name?’
‘Maiden name? She was Helen Quinn when I met her. I think she was brought up in London. All very respectable.’
‘Did she have a job? Before, I mean.’
‘I suppose so. She never talked about it.’
‘Did she have any family?’
‘She never said.’
‘I wondered about those pictures on her mantel.’
‘That’s Phil’s lot. Some uncle who went out to Burma and his mum and dad. None of them are Helen’s. I miss her.’ Vi let out a sob. ‘The thing is, once you’re married, you’re on your own all day and Helen was my pal. She was ever such fun, Miss Bevan. If she were here, she’d know what to do about Billy not coming home. Helen was practical that way. Everyone round the doors is nice, but she was a real mate. It’s been a terrible week. Where on earth is he?’
‘When your husband stayed out before, Mrs Randall,’ Mirabelle tried, shifting slightly because she wasn’t sure how Vi might react, ‘where was he then?’
‘I don’t know.’ The words came very loud. ‘I mean, when you’re first married, it can be hard. You just have to get on. He’d go off with his mates, I suppose. Drinking and that.’
‘His mates?’
‘Yeah. Friends.’
‘Do you think that’s what he’s done now?’
‘Brighton’s different. I mean, I’m having a baby. When blokes go out in Brighton, they go to the pub down the road and they’re home by eleven. I went down last night before closing time but no one had a clue where Billy had got to. You don’t want to be the kind of wife who goes looking for her husband, do you? It’s embarrassing. But it got so late.’
Russian Roulette Page 13