Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Hello.’ Marlene came over, ebullient as ever. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was visiting Charlie,’ Vesta admitted. She must have let a smile slip.

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  Vesta nodded. Marlene grabbed Vesta’s arm. She seemed on a high. ‘Oh that’s wonderful. Have you met Marcus? This is my friend Vesta,’ she said. ‘She’s having a baby.’

  Vesta realised as soon as the words were out that she didn’t mind now.

  ‘You’re Miss Bevan’s business partner.’ Marcus tipped his hat. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I met Marcus on his father’s ward. Remember I said I’d keep an eye out?’

  ‘How is Fred doing?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘We don’t have high hopes.’

  ‘No,’ Marlene agreed. ‘It’s not looking hopeful.’

  ‘Poor Fred.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get the doorman to find us a taxi, shall I?’ Marcus wandered up the hall.

  ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Marlene hardly waited for the tall figure to move out of earshot. ‘This is our second date.’

  ‘You’re a fast operator!’

  ‘It was him. Keen as mustard. Drinks at the Grand. Not too shabby,’ Marlene whispered, as if she was reporting on an endeavour of national importance. ‘I can’t believe my luck,’ she continued. ‘Most of the fellows I meet are practically indigent, or, if not, they’re terminally ill or new fathers. New fathers are the worst.’ She rolled her eyes.

  Vesta grinned. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘He’s such good fun. Full of stories. I’m going to let him take me out for dinner. I’ll have to sneak out of the nurses’ quarters, but it’ll be worth it and I don’t care if I get caught, as long as it’s not till after.’ She sneaked a smile.

  ‘I’m so glad, Marlene.’

  ‘You’re a pal. Imagine if Marcus and I get married, I’ll have to move to London. Me.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Oh, not yet.’ Marlene brushed away the suggestion as if she wasn’t the one who had made it.

  Marcus gestured from the doorway. Marlene preened herself. The feather in her hat was yellow and Vesta couldn’t help thinking of a budgerigar. There was something in the way she moved, readying herself before she set off across the tiles, puffing out her chest and fluffing up her feathers. ‘Bye,’ Vesta called. It felt as if the Grand was the centre of everything today. She smiled, the ting of the lift opening distracting her, as a woman swathed in fur stalked into the hall. Every member of staff in the hallway stiffened. A man rushed forward.

  ‘Countess,’ he said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I need a taxi,’ the woman replied, each word distinct as she spat her request.

  Vesta kept thinking about Hartley’s jam. This was a piece of luck. A piece of theatre. The countess was beautifully dressed. Like a jigsaw piece falling into place, Vesta realised she was the lady from Tatler. She gazed at the woman’s elegant stilettos and the large ostrich clutch bag that seemed to sink into her lush fox-fur stole. She might have felt jealous, but then, the poor woman didn’t know a thing about preserves. Sometimes people aren’t quite what they seem, Vesta thought. Sometimes you might notice a black woman in an armchair and she is in fact a goddess. Sometimes you notice the back of your friend retreating and you’d never guess how many lives she’d saved. Sometimes you start the day too nervous to even face toast and by the afternoon you’ve had cake for lunch.

  ‘Where shall I instruct the cab?’ the man enquired, as the countess passed.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘It’s customary. To tell the driver.’

  The countess glared. ‘I should have brought my own car,’ she said. ‘It saves backstairs gossip.’

  Vesta got to her feet. She checked the buttons on her jacket were fastened and fell into step. ‘Really—’ the countess sounded as if she was despairing ‘—this whole trip has been a trial. It is so small here. So quiet. I’m not sure about Brighton.’

  ‘We can organise tickets for the Variety if you’d like.’

  A smile played on Vesta’s lips. The countess did not honour the man’s suggestion with a reply. Outside, she slipped into the back seat of the car with a sour expression on her face, as if the vehicle was inadequate in every way. Vesta wondered why the hotel hadn’t organised one of Hove Cars’ Rolls-Royces, but perhaps there hadn’t been time. From the ting of the lift to the countess’s departure had been perhaps ninety seconds. What a very unpleasant woman, Vesta thought, and in Tatler too, as she turned towards town and the car pulled away.

  Chapter 21

  Experience is the name we give our mistakes

  Mirabelle walked for miles in London. It was a bright, clear, spring afternoon and she passed several wartime haunts, but she was so busy going over the details of Helen Quinn’s murder that she scarcely noticed. The information she had picked up at Luna Street and on the King’s Road had taken her nowhere new, although it had left her with a more detailed picture of Helen Quinn and what she had achieved. Turning back towards town, Mirabelle realised she was mirroring Helen’s journey from poverty to affluence as the slum housing fell away and smart shops with their canopies took over. Children no longer played in the street and dogs were kept on the leash. At Cadogan Gardens, a Harrods van passed and the flash of green prompted her to make for the park. As she swept through the wrought-iron gates, the spring flowers were in bud and a scatter of blossom flecked the grass. She didn’t miss London like she used to. In fact, if anything, she found when she was in town she missed the sea. Had Helen Quinn made the same transition from the excitement of the capital to the freedom of the open view along Brighton’s pebble beach? Did she know her husband had visited the house at Tongdean? And, if so, did she care?

  Through the wrought-iron gate on the other side of the wide lawns, Mirabelle turned back on to the pavement and realised that the Quinns were well matched. They inspired the same loyalty in people. She wondered how Inspector Robinson could discount that just because it made his life easier. Poor Phil Quinn. She hoped he was managing on remand.

  Back in the hurly-burly, she tried to stop her mind wandering to Alan McGregor. As she reached Regent Street, she found she couldn’t help herself. She’d spent time with McGregor in this part of town. The memory of the shared lunches and drinks at the bar felt tainted by Jinty’s revelation. McGregor was a police officer, of course, but she hadn’t fully realised the roughness of the world he inhabited. The sleazy places he’d been and what he might have got up to. The superintendent always seemed straightforward – this was a new side to him. She felt angry and that scared her. Her fury in the past had always been reserved for real enemies. For murderers. For enemies of the state. Now she wondered if this painful edge that folded in her gut was only hurt feelings? She couldn’t bear to think about it – not for long.

  As she passed the turn-off for Swallow Street, she looked up at the Indian restaurant where Marcus Fox was meant to meet his father the Friday before. She’d gone for dinner there once and Sir Winston Churchill had been installed, eating curry and chapattis, with two chaps from the Foreign Office. She hadn’t meant to overhear, but they had been discussing watercolours, as if painting was more important than politics. She must focus, she decided. She must put this nonsense with McGregor out of her mind. She hadn’t thought about Fred all day. She hadn’t even known he was partial to spicy food. How little we know people, she berated herself. How little we notice. Rounding the corner, Mirabelle turned into St James’s, passing an elderly gentleman in full military regalia, who was making his way slowly but surely towards the tobacconist’s on Duke Street.

  When she reached Victoria, she made for a telephone box and got through to the office.

  ‘Oh hello.’ Vesta sounded light-hearted as she answered. Mirabelle smiled. The sound of the girl’s voice lifted her spirits immediately.

  ‘It’s good to speak to you,’ Mirabelle said. ‘How’s your day been?’

/>   ‘Good. You’ll never guess what,’ Vesta reported proudly. ‘Billy Randall is no longer employed at CVA. The lady said he just walked out. He didn’t even give proper notice and he’s supposed to. She said he was not a promising candidate for life insurance. Too unreliable.’

  ‘Did she say why he left?’

  ‘No. But she said when.’ Vesta’s tone became even more triumphant. ‘It was the twentieth. The day after Helen Quinn’s murder.’

  Mirabelle leaned against the cool glass panes. On the other side of the station, she could see a porter waving a red flag and a train pulling away from the platform in a cloud of steam. Her legs felt tired and she wanted to sit down. She had walked for hours.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Vesta checked.

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Do you reckon he could be the murderer, Mirabelle? Billy Randall, I mean. He reported the crime. He could have sneaked over in the night and done it, and, as for drugging the bottle of gin, well, he was only next door. Perhaps it’s no wonder nobody spotted anything unusual.’ Vesta waited, but Mirabelle did not reply so the girl continued playing out the scenario. ‘Then maybe he was overtaken by guilt afterwards and quit his job . . .’ she gushed. ‘As if he was having some kind of breakdown.’

  ‘He didn’t seem overtaken by guilt when I saw him at the Quinns’ house the other evening,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘He chatted to the beat bobby for quite some time. He was adamant about Phil Quinn’s innocence, which I wouldn’t expect if he were the murderer. If he did it, you’d think he’d be delighted the police had fingered Helen’s husband.’

  ‘What do you think he’s up to then?’

  ‘I don’t know. The Randalls and the Quinns seem so terribly nice despite everything that’s happened. I spoke to Helen Quinn’s old landlord today – he was genuinely fond of her. I think she was a really nice girl.’

  ‘Well, it’s the first time something interesting has happened. Something suspicious, I mean. Billy Randall going off like that and not telling his wife.’

  Mirabelle made a sound that confirmed the veracity of this statement. It drew her back to the details. The small changes. The things that were out of place. ‘I know.’ She ran over it slowly. ‘And you’re right. He had the opportunity. But it’s the motive I can’t get a handle to. I mean, even if Billy Randall and Helen Quinn were having an affair . . . ’

  Vesta took in a sharp breath, as if she hadn’t considered this possibility. Mirabelle felt even more weary. It was the easiest thing in the world to jump to conclusions, but you couldn’t make people fit into theories just because it was convenient – the method of cracking this case or any other was the opposite way around.

  ‘Maybe you’re right – or if Phil Quinn and Vi Randall were at it . . .’ the girl started.

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No. That doesn’t make sense. If that were the case, Billy Randall would have killed Phil Quinn, surely. Not taken it out on Helen. There’s something we don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘More than one thing. We just have to keep digging. At least this is a start.’

  ‘I’ll think about it tonight,’ Vesta promised. ‘I’ll reason it through.’

  As she hung up, Mirabelle realised that Vesta must have told Charlie about the baby. The girl sounded different. Mirabelle cursed herself for being too slow to have noticed in the moment. There was too much on her mind. Loitering by the telephone box, she considered ringing back, but it seemed somehow intrusive, so instead she walked on to the platform and waited for the train to pull in. A smart woman in a lavender tweed suit marched a Border terrier up and down on a lead. ‘Come along now, Barker,’ she encouraged the little dog. ‘He gets fractious on the train if he isn’t tired out,’ she explained apologetically, as she passed for the second time. Mirabelle smiled. She felt more than a little fractious herself, as she turned her thoughts to Billy Randall and the possibilities around his strange behaviour.

  It was unsettling when death came out of the blue, murder especially. There was no saying how it might take someone, even a man who had seen death before, who had seen action. Even someone with everything to live for, she thought, as she considered Vi Randall, the house filled with flowers and the baby due to arrive over the next few weeks. Had Billy Randall dallied with his wife’s best friend? Was the friendship between the Quinns and the Randalls more than it seemed and, if so, how had they managed to hoodwink Mrs Ambrose? Mirabelle had a sudden vision of the net curtain of number fourteen Mill Lane twitching furiously. The street had been constructed in such a way that the houses overlooked each other. On the upside, it made for neighbours who knew each other well, but, on the downside, it was difficult to hide anything and certainly not an affair.

  When the train pulled in, Mirabelle settled in a first-class carriage. It felt good to sit down. The journey passed in a flash and, before she knew, it she was standing outside Brighton Railway Station and the light was fading from the sky. The air felt cleaner down here, the breeze off the ocean refreshing after a long day in the city. Behind her a porter blew his whistle, as a train pulled out of the station. It was still early and, suddenly revitalised, Mirabelle decided she wasn’t ready to quit for the day. Not by a long chalk. Jack always said that finding out what you needed to know was a matter of asking the right people the right questions. Maybe, she thought, it was more than that. Maybe you had to ask the right people the right questions at a time when they could answer. She had pussyfooted around enough, she thought as she cut off Queens Road in the direction of Old Steine.

  Catching the bus northwards, it was only a short journey to Mill Lane. As she approached the Randalls’ house, Mirabelle was glad to see that although he might have been out for the last two nights Billy was at home this evening. Vi sat in the fireside chair reading a magazine. At this stage of her pregnancy, she was too large for the chair’s dimensions and perched uncomfortably, looking as if either she, or the chair, might topple at any moment. Billy was behind her at the table. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and was attempting to repair what looked like a clock face. The casement window was open only an inch or two and the sound of music floated towards the pavement. A fat ginger cat sat on the front doormat. With the light on inside, Mirabelle knew it would be difficult to catch Billy’s attention. She stalked up the path to the window. Oblivious, Vi turned a page and moved her weight from one hip to another. The back of the chair creaked. Billy, likewise, was concentrating on what he was doing. Mirabelle leaned towards his line of sight and waved smartly, but he didn’t notice her – men had such poor peripheral vision. She jumped up and down, but he still didn’t look up. Then she considered knocking on the glass, but that was risky. It was Billy she wanted to speak to, not Vi. In desperation, she hissed, but the music was too loud inside the room.

  Sighing, she sneaked towards the front door where she knelt down and petted the fat cat before scooping it into her arms. Then she rounded the far side of the house. The Randalls’ back door was not locked. Mentally, she berated them – after everything that had happened. Tonight, though, it proved lucky for her. After stroking the cat one last time, she slipped the animal through the doorway and on to the tiled floor of the Randalls’ kitchen, clicking the door shut behind it. Then she waited. It was only a matter of seconds before Billy appeared in the kitchen and slung the cat back into the garden. A more slender tabby followed the interloper up the grass like a shot. ‘You see him off. Cheek of it,’ Billy exclaimed.

  Mirabelle stepped into the slice of light the open door cast on to the path.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘On your own.’

  Billy looked up, clearly startled. A call came from inside the house. ‘How did he get in?’ Vi shouted.

  ‘I don’t know. Bleeding animal.’

  ‘We can’t talk in front of your wife,’ Mirabelle hissed, realising it sounded as if this was an entirely different kind of assignation.

  ‘I’m going to the Michaels’,’ Billy shouted over his shoulder
. His expression relaxed. It was interesting, Mirabelle thought, that he didn’t take her to task, accepting that they needed to speak. ‘I’ll borrow a smaller screwdriver. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  He stepped outside and closed the door. Mirabelle retreated further into the darkness. The sound of cats fighting floated from the top of the garden.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I know you quit your job. Where were you the other night, Mr Randall? The night you didn’t come home.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘You haven’t told your wife.’

  Billy let an easy grin cross his face. ‘Are you threatening me?’ He sounded as if he might laugh.

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed your wife’s best friend.’

  Billy Randall pointed to punctuate his words. ‘You’re just a busybody. That’s all you are.’

  ‘Don’t you want to find out who killed Helen?’

  His eyes flashed with anger. ‘Sling your hook, would you? You’re not wanted here.’

  ‘I promised Vi I’d figure out who killed Helen Quinn and I’d say that I’m the best chance there is of finding out what happened the night she died. The police have charged Phil and he definitely didn’t do it. Was it you, Billy? Is that what it is? Did you kill that poor woman?’

  Randall’s eyes narrowed. He seemed somehow deflated. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Where did you get to the other night? What were you doing up in London?’

  ‘Who says I was in London?’

  ‘I followed you. To Belgravia.’