Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘It’s my friend’s husband. He got home late and said he was working.’

  The boy chortled. ‘Got caught, did he?’

  ‘I suppose he’s been caught. Yes.’

  The question was, caught at what? Napoleon woofed good-naturedly. Mirabelle wondered if the boy might be able to haul her up, but she judged him too small and she didn’t want to topple him. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Enjoy the match.’ The dog followed her back to the side door and whimpered as she disappeared over the top.

  Back on the street, she walked quickly away from the rank air. The sound of the cricket proceeding felt soothing. Really, it occurred to her, the club should be encouraging a boy who was keen enough to spend his weekend perched precariously on twelve feet of bricks just to watch some amateurs whack a ball around. From her point of view, it was just as well he had. The match must have broken for half-time and voices raised in conversation floated in her direction. She walked away from them, back towards the railway. Billy Randall had lied. He had come home with money that he said was from a shift he couldn’t possibly have worked. What had he got up to last night? she wondered. Where had the money come from and, more than that, why did he lie to his wife about it? The obvious thought was that he’d been out gambling, but most men would boast if they won, not keep it a secret.

  Feeling a cold spit of rain on her skin, she could just make out the sound of groaning in the distance as the club’s worthies picked up their tea and headed, no doubt, for shelter. Mirabelle hurried her pace. Walking often helped when she wanted to think things through. It occurred to her that this line of questioning might be a distraction from what she was supposed to be doing. The idea of looking into Helen Quinn and her background was at least as promising, but so often it was the small details that mattered when it came to figuring things out. The lies. The things that didn’t fit. She couldn’t just ignore the fact that the man who had found the body was behaving strangely.

  Heading up Mill Lane, she cast a glance at the Randalls’ house. Billy was sitting by the fire, asleep in his chair, exhausted after his night out. There was no sign of Vi. Reverting to her original plan, Mirabelle turned up the path of number fourteen and knocked on Mrs Ambrose’s door, which opened rather quickly as if the old woman had spotted Mirabelle coming up the path. ‘What are you doing back here?’ Mrs Ambrose snapped.

  ‘I came to find out more about Helen Quinn. I’m helping the police with their inquiries.’

  Mrs Ambrose cast a low murmur in Mirabelle’s direction and it occurred to her that the old woman was wondering why she hadn’t been asked to help.

  ‘I wondered if you knew anything else about the murdered woman?’ she tried. ‘Anything that hasn’t been covered yet?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her maiden name? Or what she did before she was married? You know – her job.’

  Mrs Ambrose flicked her hand dismissively in the direction of the murder scene. ‘Mrs Quinn came here married. I don’t know anything about her life before. You should ask Violet Randall. They were thick as thieves, those two. Like children.’

  ‘You struck me as someone who was very observant, Mrs Ambrose. I wondered what you’d seen of Mrs Quinn during the months she lived here? What impression you had?’

  ‘I’m a nosy old woman, you mean?’ Mrs Ambrose didn’t wait for a denial. ‘Helen was no better than she should have been. Just a young woman with a taste for gin. We never had time for that in the old days. I mean, only on special occasions. But the Quinns liked a tipple, both of them. I expect he understood.’

  ‘And they never fought? The Quinns, I mean?’

  Mrs Ambrose crossed her arms over her ample chest. ‘Everyone fights. You must know that, dearie, by your age.’

  ‘Do you know what they fought about?’

  ‘I’m not an eavesdropper. But she couldn’t cook. Not at all. You could smell it burning all the way over here. Her mother can’t have taught her anything. Many’s the night he gave up and just got fish and chips.’

  ‘Do you know where she came from?’

  Mrs Ambrose snorted. ‘Clothes like that? London.’

  ‘And did her relations ever visit?’

  ‘Not a one. Nor his neither for that matter. It was just the two of them.’

  ‘I can’t help wondering what she did. You know, before she got married?’

  Mrs Ambrose shrugged. ‘How would I know? She never said. A shop girl, I reckon.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Them clothes.’ The woman’s tone was insistent. ‘You mark my words.’

  Mirabelle took her leave. She found the idea of keeping a house quite mystifying. She ran her flat, of course, but only barely. A marital home was different and it always fell to the woman. Vesta had been nervous about taking it on before she married Charlie, and Mirabelle hadn’t understood entirely, but suddenly, here on Mill Lane, she realised how alone some of these women must feel. Girls got married and were flung together, meant to stay in the house whether they were good at domestic duties or not. They were judged on the state of their husband’s shirts and their ability to turn out a home-cooked meal. No wonder they ended up hitting the gin.

  She wandered around the block on to Dyke Road and cut through the gap between the houses into the Quinns’ back garden, where she crouched close to the hedge, knowing she would be difficult to spot. A few gardens along, three little boys threw a clapped-out ball against an old wooden hut. On the back doorstep, a couple sipped mugs of tea and talked animatedly, watching the boys out of the corner of their eyes. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano, practising the same tune over and over – Hayden, Mirabelle thought, though they were mangling it. And, ahead, the Randalls’ house was still and next door, inside the Quinns, it looked just as it had the night she’d broken in to recreate the murder. This is where they’d stood, all right, Mirabelle told herself, hunkering down. This was the spot exactly.

  Chapter 16

  All travel has its advantages

  Mirabelle was stirred from her meditative state later that afternoon by Billy Randall entering his kitchen to cut a slice of bread and spread it thickly with butter. Vi had still not returned. He chewed and swallowed as he stood at the sink, filling his belly in a workmanlike fashion. Then he straightened his tie. There was something about the movement that made her realise he was readying himself to go out. Mirabelle got to her feet and sneaked back on to the street down the side of the Quinns’ house. Mrs Ambrose’s curtains twitched as she loitered by an apple tree covered in blossom so she raised her hand in a cheery greeting – she didn’t want to be accused of sneaking around. The curtain fell back into place. Then, sure enough, Billy left the house and began to walk down the road. Mirabelle fell into step behind him, carefully keeping her distance. Tailing someone in the suburbs was tricky. The streets were quiet and strangers stood out. On the plus side, men’s hats restricted their field of vision. Mirabelle hung back and watched Billy turn on to the main road. The Sunday service meant that buses were few and far between and he didn’t loiter at the stop, instead striding towards town past the shuttered shops. The pavements felt too wide without the outdoor displays at the grocery and the florist. Billy checked his watch. He must be meeting someone.

  Further towards town, the sun came out and he opened his coat. A car drove past, the first Mirabelle had seen on the road – two young children peered out of the back window, one with a smear of chocolate on her face. A family outing. Could Billy Randall have committed the murder? Could he? He was the one who’d found her body. He had been there that night – all night. Had he had an affair with Helen Quinn? It hardly seemed the kind of thing you’d get away with on Mill Lane, but people did fall in love. It happened all the time. And he was behaving erratically.

  As she kept her distance, Mirabelle was so busy running through the possibilities that Billy Randall’s destination took her by surprise as he cut into Brighton Railway Station by the side entrance, crossed the plaza, bou
ght a ticket and headed for the London platform. There were regular trains to the capital, even on a Sunday. Today, there was a gaggle of women who had clearly enjoyed a day out by the seaside, early though it was for tourists. Two of them were holding prizes won at stalls on the pier – a toy bear and a jar of Brighton rock. Periodically, they hooted with laughter, almost like gulls. Billy Randall took a seat on a bench, checking his watch once more. It wasn’t an appointment he was heading for, Mirabelle realised, it was a departure time. Billy was going up to town. The Randalls had moved down from London, she recalled. They had come to Vi’s hometown to build what she’d called ‘a new life’. Perhaps Billy hadn’t given up his old one.

  There was nothing for it. Mirabelle bought a ticket and, using the tourists as a screen, she stood further up the platform as the train chugged in.

  Victoria Railway Station was busy when she stepped off at the other end, carefully keeping Billy in her sights. The smell of frying bacon emanated from the station café. Mirabelle felt her stomach growl but she ignored it. It was almost seven o’clock as Billy Randall passed underneath the huge station clock and she tailed him to the main road. He paused to light a cigarette and then crossed in the direction of Belgravia. It was always easier to blend in somehow in London. There were simply more people. Careful not to be noticed, Mirabelle followed Billy in the direction of Ebury Street where he disappeared through the doorway of a pub. Mirabelle bit her lip. She couldn’t go in. If he recognised her she’d have wasted her time. On tiptoes, she peered over the frosted glass of the window, through a clear, thin strip that afforded a view. Randall ordered a half-pint of bitter and sipped it standing at the bar. There were no women inside and Mirabelle couldn’t make out a snug. She laid a hand on the cool stucco as she took in the rest of the street. She wouldn’t be able to stand here for long. A woman hanging around outside a public house was easily spotted. Vi Randall was right – following your husband into the pub was undignified and that’s what people would assume she was doing. There was a small hotel over the road, its dining room overlooking the street, so she turned on her heel and went inside.

  The place smelled pleasantly of toast. A solicitous waitress in black and white guided Mirabelle to a table by the window. ‘I do so like being able to see people go by,’ Mirabelle said lightly.

  ‘On your own, madam?’

  This phrase was a judgement and Mirabelle knew it. ‘Yes,’ she said, ordering a pot of tea and a pork chop. A man sitting at a table near the fireplace smiled weakly in her direction, but Mirabelle ignored him, keeping her eyes on the street. It had been a long time since breakfast and she was hungry. Maybe this was for the best, and, besides, if Billy Randall emerged, she could leave money to cover the bill. The waitress disappeared through a swing door to the clatter of crockery being assembled. Across the road, the pub seemed quiet. A man went in with a dog on a lead and another came out and turned on to Eccleston Street. As the sky darkened, the dim pub lights glowed through the opaque glass. When it was served, Mirabelle poured her tea and ate the pork chop. It was a meal best approached with a sense of purpose. The chop had the texture of felt and the vegetables were overboiled. Still, it was warm and it filled her up. She checked her watch as she finished.

  ‘Pudding?’ the waitress offered. ‘There’s spotted dick.’

  Mirabelle considered. Heaven knows what culinary horror the hotel’s cook might be able to unleash on raisins, flour and suet. ‘There’s custard,’ the waitress added.

  ‘Thank you. That was quite enough.’

  The girl went to fetch the bill and Mirabelle kept her eye on the view. It was after half past seven now, nearer eight, and Belgravia was quiet, the chimney stacks smoking. Most residents would have spent the weekend in the country. Now and then, a car passed – latecomers returning to town in time for dinner. Mirabelle paid, leaving a small tip, and resumed her place outside by the strip of clear glass. Billy Randall had left his spot at the bar. She checked the few seats she could see to the side but he hadn’t settled there. She waited. Perhaps he had gone to the lavatory. After five minutes there was still no sign. Mirabelle felt frustrated. This whole case was annoying, somehow – there were too many clues, they seemed to lead nowhere and she could imagine no motive to justify Helen Quinn’s murder or Phil Quinn’s incarceration. She checked once more on tiptoes, but there was no sign of Billy. Slowly, she took a deep breath and opened the bar door, aware that as she did so, the eyes of everyone inside fell upon her.

  ‘No women,’ the barman growled.

  ‘I’m looking for someone. Billy Randall. He came in almost an hour ago. Brown coat? Aged about thirty? He ordered bitter.’

  The barman leaned forwards. ‘I don’t know who you mean, love.’

  ‘He was standing right there.’ Mirabelle indicated the place she’d seen Billy leaning against the bar.

  ‘Sorry, love. No women.’

  Mirabelle ignored him. She walked towards the exit to the privy. ‘Oi!’ the barman objected. ‘You can’t go out there.’

  Two men chortled as Mirabelle speeded up. ‘She’s a harridan all right,’ someone said loudly and there was a murmur of agreement. But it didn’t stop her. Outside, the privy door lay open and there was no sign of Billy Randall. Behind it, the back gate was closed. Mirabelle turned the handle. It opened on to a mews. She looked both ways. It was getting darker and the laneway was not well lit so it was difficult to make out what lay further along. As far as she could see, it was absolutely still. Mirabelle cursed silently – he must have left this way while she was just sitting there, eating that horrible meal. He could be anywhere by now. Had he seen her? she wondered. She’d been so careful. Burly, in an apron with a cloth tucked at the belt, the barman burst out of the back door. He was furious, ready for some kind of fight, with his sleeves rolled up. ‘Look, love, you can’t just steam out here. Your fellow’s got a right to privacy. He won’t appreciate . . .’

  ‘Have you seen him before? Has he been here before?’

  The barman shrugged. Even in the half-light his face looked flushed.

  ‘Look,’ Mirabelle explained, ‘he’s not my husband.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Police.’

  The barman laughed. ‘You’re a copper? Come on, love.’ He eyed her, lingering on her shoes. ‘Special Branch is it?’ he snorted. ‘Set up a ladies’ division, have they?’

  Mirabelle kept her gaze steady. ‘Has he been here before or not?’

  The barman relented. You never could tell what women might get up to these days. ‘He was in yesterday,’ he said. ‘I never saw him before that.’

  ‘Same time?’

  ‘More or less. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Did he leave this way yesterday too?’ The barman kept his mouth shut so Mirabelle repeated the question. ‘Did he leave this way yesterday?’

  The man relented once more. ‘Yeah. Some fellows just like a bit of intrigue. He paid his tab all right. What do I care?’

  Mirabelle considered. Billy was certainly being prudent. It was an old trick to use a bar or café that way. During the war they’d called this kind of place ‘a portal’. Agents had navigated their routes entering by one door, leaving by another, building in routine dodges to guard against detection. She cursed herself for not watching closely enough. Now she’d never find out what on earth he was up to. At least, she figured, it was less likely Billy knew she’d followed him if he’d come in the front entrance and out the back one the day before. At least there was that. ‘You go in and tell them you saw me off,’ she said generously. ‘Tell them it was a cheek and you threw me out on my ear.’

  ‘Quite right. You can’t come into a public house and disturb everyone.’

  There was no point in fighting about it. ‘All right,’ she said.

  The man blustered. ‘Really,’ he muttered but he went back inside.

  The backyard fell silent and Mirabelle closed the gate behind her and stalked along the cobbles just as Billy must
have done half an hour or more before. There was no point berating herself. He was long gone. A thousand agents had fallen for this old trick – she’d just be more careful next time. She checked her watch, recalling there was another lead she could follow up. It was Sunday night, after all, and she’d been invited to a party.

  Chapter 17

  Make the most of your regrets

  As she arrived back in Brighton, Mirabelle checked the station clock and set out in the direction of the front. Ten minutes later, the ease with which she wandered into the Grand Hotel felt somehow taboo. She relaxed in the warmth – there was a stiff breeze off the ocean tonight. At the mahogany front desk, a woman wrapped in thick furs, far beyond what might be necessary for the spring weather, complained loudly in a foreign accent. To one side of her swaddled frame, two men hovered uncertainly and, on her other side, it seemed as if she had washed up on to a hilly beach of expensive luggage. ‘It is your largest suite?’ she berated the man on the desk. ‘I only want it if it is the best.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he assured her.

  Mirabelle smiled as she recognised the lady – the Russian countess who had been featured in Vesta’s Tatler. Today she was wearing Chanel beneath her fox furs, but it wasn’t making her happy. The woman turned to her companions, as if the clerk wasn’t there. ‘I hate staying in a public place. Eating in public. People seeing you go in and out. I wanted the house to be ready,’ she whined.

  Passing the empty seats and potted palms in the hallway, Mirabelle pitied the fellows who had to deal with this tricky customer. Most people who were featured in Tatler were probably difficult to handle, she thought, let alone a white Russian aristocrat who had recently returned from Monte Carlo.

  ‘But, Marianna, it’s five star,’ she heard one of the men object.

  A smile playing on her lips, Mirabelle left them to it. She made for the bar where, ensconced in a booth, Jinty was sipping a smart-looking cocktail with another girl, whose hair was tied up in a ponytail and secured with a diamanté clasp. In the corner opposite them, a thin young man wearing a badly tailored dinner jacket played a piano – the kind of music you might scarcely notice. As she approached, Mirabelle realised there was a cloud of expensive perfume around the girls. The booth smelled both feminine and exotic after the salty evening air.‘Belle.’ Jinty smiled. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.’