Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  Roberts shook his head. ‘You made a helluva mistake.’

  ‘We’d both owe you one.’

  ‘We don’t need debt collectors here,’ he chortled. ‘No one reneges, or at least not for long.’

  She let the silence sit. It didn’t seem more difficult for him to hit a woman than to hit a man, but still, there was something there.

  ‘All right,’ he relented. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The door closed.

  ‘We haven’t got long,’ Mirabelle said.

  Behind her, tears were streaming down Vesta’s face. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’ the girl managed.

  ‘He’ll kill us. She’s not going to let us out of here. Why should she? She’s suspicious. She’s right. We have to find a way out. I tried the window, but I couldn’t get any purchase.’ Mirabelle cast her eyes upwards to the small skylight. It had a heavy, iron frame. The glass was too small to make any difference if they broke it. Vesta got to her feet and pushed her hand upwards, but it didn’t move. ‘Give me a lift,’ Mirabelle said. ‘If both of us push together, it’s double the weight against it.’

  Vesta didn’t like to say there was no weight to Mirabelle. She clasped her hands and Mirabelle stepped up, using them as a ladder. She thumped painfully against the window but it didn’t move. Back on the ground she tried again. No dice.

  ‘Let me have a go,’ Vesta said.

  Mirabelle jimmied the girl upwards and Vesta thumped hard against the glass. It jumped. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’m heavier. Let’s try again.’

  The second effort did it. Vesta pushed open the window and peered outside. The roof was steep. She hauled herself on to the slates and leaned back to pull up Mirabelle behind her. ‘Be careful,’ she said. A steep drop of three storeys gaped below. Carefully, Mirabelle closed the window and surveyed the situation. The roof was complicated – a series of flat areas punctuated by sheer slates. She led Vesta up to the top and then across the width of the house where a sturdy iron downpipe dropped twelve feet on to an old extension. ‘Come on,’ she said, glad of her flat shoes. Vesta was not so well equipped. She slipped off her kitten heels.

  ‘You shouldn’t have followed me,’ Mirabelle scolded. ‘In your condition.’

  Vesta hesitated. She agreed, but, if she hadn’t, Mirabelle wouldn’t be on the roof now. ‘It’s just as well I did,’ she snapped back. ‘These people are hateful.’

  Mirabelle didn’t reply. She lowered herself over the side, her legs dangling before she curled them around the pipe. Then, taking a deep breath, she held on to the gutter as she left the safety of the roof and, clinging to the pipe, began to clamber down. Vesta loitered. ‘I can’t go over the edge,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t make me come back up,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘You’ve got to.’

  Vesta closed her eyes and fell to her knees. Then she realised she needed to see what she was doing. Her hands felt clammy and they were shaking. She wondered if she might be sick. But there was no time. ‘Vesta. Come on,’ Mirabelle said sternly. Gingerly, following her friend’s lead, Vesta took a deep breath as she edged off the roof and dropped into place on the pipe. ‘It’s easy once you get started,’ Mirabelle encouraged her. Vesta began to cry quietly as she shimmied down. At the bottom, Mirabelle gave her a hug. They held hands as they made their way across the slates, still a good fifteen feet off the ground. The garden was deserted. Mirabelle wondered where the men had put Davidson’s body. She didn’t want to trouble Vesta with the enquiry. ‘It’s only ten feet if we go over the side and then drop and roll,’ she said. A vision of the boy at the cricket ground flashed across her mind. ‘Like the SAS.’

  Vesta nodded. This seemed easier for Mirabelle. She obviously wasn’t afraid of heights.

  ‘Drop and roll,’ Mirabelle repeated, as Vesta sat on the edge and slowly let herself hang from the gutter. Then she dropped. The roll was more difficult than expected and her ankle stung. Mirabelle managed better, dropping and rolling like a professional. She got up and dusted herself down. Vesta realised that her friend didn’t know how awful she looked. She limped over and smoothed Mirabelle’s hair.

  ‘There,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Thank you.’

  Momentarily, Vesta wished she’d asked the taxi driver to wait. He’d offered after all. The women moved to the perimeter of the garden and began to make their way towards the front gate. Mirabelle glanced over her shoulder. Vesta could feel her ankle swelling, but she didn’t want to make a fuss. It hurt more with every step. As they made their way along the last stretch of hedge, Mirabelle pulled the girl aside.

  ‘We have to split up once we get out of here, Vesta. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone here killed Helen Quinn. I still intend to find out who it was. And that’s not the only murder. If they’d done for us, we wouldn’t have been the first people they’d killed today.’

  ‘You can’t stay, Mirabelle.’ Vesta’s voice was peppered with shock.

  ‘I have to,’ Mirabelle insisted. ‘Billy Randall is in there. If I can find him again . . .’

  ‘It’s too dangerous. This is a matter for the police. We need to get McGregor.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want you to do. Tell McGregor about this place – what’s going on. Tell him there’s been more than one murder here. Go on.’

  ‘What is going on here?’

  Mirabelle let an impatient gasp escape her lips. ‘It’s a casino. There is a big party tonight and the tables are rigged. That’s what Billy Randall does – he’s a card sharp. A good one.’ She decided not to tell Vesta about the cottage in the wood. There was no point – an illegal casino ought to be enough to bring McGregor. She’d mentioned that more than one person had been killed, after all. ‘I don’t have time to explain, but you have to fetch the superintendent. Promise me.’

  ‘What are you doing to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t want to leave. Oh dear. You’re hurt. Look at you.’

  A wave of nausea broke over Vesta’s body as she realised this was true. ‘It’s strained,’ she said. ‘It’s not broken. There’s a bus stop back on the main road.’

  ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘I think so. But promise you’ll be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful.’ Mirabelle cracked a smile. ‘You get yourself patched up and fetch some help. I’ll see if I can get Billy Randall out and figure out which one of these men killed Helen. Go on.’

  Vesta squeezed Mirabelle’s hand before she turned to go, limping the last few yards and disappearing through the gate with a backwards glance. Mirabelle raised her hand cheerily and then leaned against a run of laurel. She stared at the house, wondering if it was Roberts who had stood behind the Quinns’ place and waited for everyone to go to sleep. He seemed too large, somehow, to have sneaked in and poisoned the Quinns’ gin bottle. Perhaps it was the other fellow. It was almost as if Jack whispered the word to her. Surveillance. Yes, she thought, she’d wait here for a while until she could figure out what to do.

  There was no movement in the house for a good five minutes and Mirabelle ran back through everything. Someone was missing, she thought. There was someone she didn’t know about. Not yet.

  Then, a car turned off the main road and up the drive. She watched as it parked and a lean, green-eyed, familiar figure got out of the driver’s seat. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ she whispered under her breath, as Marcus Fox made his way through the front door. Mirabelle felt as if there was a calculating machine in her head, almost as if her brain were knitting. She stared at the facade of the house as if it might help her, but it didn’t. Then, suddenly, as she checked her watch, she realised what she needed to do. With a backward glance, she sneaked towards the gate. Peering up and down the street, she made sure Vesta had gone and then she turned in the direction she guessed was opposite to the one the girl had taken to catch the bus into town. It was the long way round, but she’d get whe
re she needed to in the end.

  Chapter 28

  Nothing shows a man’s character more than what he laughs at

  Mirabelle stopped at home and slipped the spare key out of its hiding place on the door frame. The flat seemed too quiet. Inside, she discarded the muddy, blood-smeared chambermaid’s uniform on the floor of her bedroom, gratefully slipping into a plain but well-tailored blue suit that was clean. She swept her hair into a bun. There seemed no point in applying make-up when her skin was mottled with bruises. Still, she dabbed on witch hazel and contented herself that at least now she was tidy. She picked a navy handbag from the wardrobe and slipped in some cash, two clean handkerchiefs and a spare set of keys she kept in the kitchen cupboard. Forty minutes later, she tripped up the steps of the hospital and turned in the opposite direction to the baby ward, passing a row of tea trolleys abandoned after the four o’clock service. A small pile of leftover Huntley and Palmers tumbled across a green plate.

  The ward was quiet. She made straight for Fred’s bed, where he was lying flat, heaving for breath. His eyes lighted as Mirabelle appeared.

  ‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘would you like a pillow?’ Fred shook his head. Then his brow furrowed as he took in her appearance. ‘I know,’ she confirmed. ‘Sometimes I wish they’d given me combat training.’

  Fred’s exhalation rattled with a chortle. On the other side of the bed, a young nurse appeared.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not visiting time. Are you a relation?’

  Fred reached out his hand and, vice-like, curled his fingers round Mirabelle’s wrist.

  ‘Please. I need to talk to him,’ Mirabelle pleaded.

  The girl looked over her shoulder and Mirabelle wondered if every matron terrified her charges in the same way. ‘I’d offer you money,’ she continued. ‘I’m desperate. But you’re a nurse.’

  The girl looked embarrassed. ‘It’s what’s best for the patients. Routine,’ she tried to explain.

  Fred’s breath betrayed another chortle. ‘I’ll . . . be . . . gone . . . by . . . tomorrow,’ he managed with considerable effort.

  The nurse didn’t deny it. She hesitated and stepped away. Fred cast his eyes at the chair beside him and Mirabelle sat.

  ‘Where’s your wife?’

  Fred looked upwards this time. He reached on to the bedside cabinet and, with his hands now quivering, grasped for a pencil and a notepad. Don’t waste my time, he scribbled.

  Mirabelle smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ve come about Marcus.’ Fred’s head moved fractionally away from her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I think he’s involved in something bad. Something dangerous.’

  Fred closed his eyes. When he opened them again he reached for the notepad. He was always trouble. The things he saw before I brought him back.

  ‘Is that why you kept him away from your wife?’

  Fred shook his head. Again, the movement was tiny, but it was clear he was making a huge effort. Bitch, he scribbled, now unable to keep the letters in a straight line. Mirabelle took his hand. She squeezed it.

  ‘The boy might have killed somebody, Fred. A woman. That murder in Portslade.’

  Fred’s cough faltered. His eyes were rheumy. He pulled back his hand. It was then she understood. ‘You know about it,’ she said. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘He’s . . . my . . . son,’ Fred managed. ‘Manners of a saint. He loves me. But a black heart.’

  He was drawing in breath desperately now, as if he had a vacuum inside. Mirabelle couldn’t think what to say. Fred’s eyes focused once more. He fumbled with the pencil as she held the pad in place. Keep away from him.

  ‘This wasn’t his first murder?’

  Fred didn’t bother to reply. Does anyone else know? he scribbled.

  ‘If you’re asking will the police prosecute, I don’t know. People have died. A local man as well as the woman. I was there when they shot him today. In cold blood.’

  A sliver of a smile crossed Fred’s face. Not Marcus?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t Marcus.’

  He gave a half-shrug and Mirabelle felt her temper rise. ‘You’re his father, you should have reined him in,’ she snapped. ‘Your son murdered a woman just to scare her neighbour into doing what he wanted. What kind of man . . . ’

  Fred’s breath rattled again. He looked as if he was remembering something. Mirabelle stopped. During the war, they’d have encouraged this kind of criminal behaviour if it had advanced the Allied cause. She knew what he was thinking. Fred had done worse. And this boy was his son. She sighed. There was no point in berating a dying man – least of all someone she cared about. Fred managed a smile and the picture of Marcus Fox sitting in short trousers on the grey sofa at the Marylebone Hotel all those years ago returned to her mind’s eye. She cursed herself for being naive. Not everyone who was rescued from Europe was an angel. She wondered what the boy had experienced before Fred found him. What allowed him to be so personable and yet so deadly. Whatever it was, he had been old enough for it to affect him. Still, anyone who could poison a bottle of gin and stab a drugged woman to death, just as a warning – well, it didn’t bear thinking about. When I die, it’s Marcus who’ll be here, Fred managed.

  ‘Has he been like this since the beginning? Since you brought him home?’

  Fred tried to breathe. She gave him plenty of time, but he didn’t reply. There was no point. He wanted Marcus to get away with what he’d done.

  ‘I’m going to do something about it,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t leave it. I’m sorry.’

  Fred looked perturbed. He picked up the pencil. He’ll have you, he wrote.

  ‘Maybe,’ Mirabelle admitted. She shifted in her seat. ‘They have a cottage where he’s working. It’s tiled floor to ceiling. Do you remember, Fred, during the war? The ones who killed themselves – soldiers on their last night of leave. Women desperate for their husbands. Men who just couldn’t take it. We used to play it down – the newspapers wouldn’t report it. Bad for morale, they said. Well, they’ve made a game of it. People pay to play – Russian roulette. You know – a single bullet in a chamber and you don’t know who’ll be the one to die. It was a war hero who died first. A pilot.’

  Fred’s movement was a mere shrug. There was no point in staying here, she thought. It would only torture him. He grappled the pencil as she rose. Everyone wants something. That’s how I always made money. She didn’t reply, only nodded in the direction of the nurse, who was stripping a bed on the other side of the ward. ‘Goodbye,’ she said and planted a kiss on Fred’s forehead. His skin seemed too thin, but he was still there. His eyes lingered. ‘If there’s anything you want to say, you better say it now.’ She waited. But Fred stayed silent and, after a minute, he closed his eyes.

  * * *

  It took almost an hour for Vesta to make it back to the office, finding the stairs, surprisingly, easier than walking on the flat. As she burst through the door, she hopped to the cupboard and pulled out the first aid kit. Unused for long periods, the kit contained a few aspirin, a small bottle of iodine, another of witch hazel, a tube of arnica cream, a thick roll of Elastoplast and two rolls of crêpe bandage fixed with safety pins. Vesta sat heavily on her chair and stared momentarily at the kettle, deciding for the first time in her life, it seemed, that it wasn’t worth making tea. Her ankle was swollen and bruising was coming up on her dark flesh. She thought she might cry. Mirabelle was so much braver. She always seemed to know what to do. Vesta removed one stocking and was about to address herself to the bandages when the door opened and Bill swept in with Panther at his heel. The dog trotted over and licked Vesta’s knee.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ said Bill. ‘What happened?’

  Vesta sighed. It was a very long story and Bill couldn’t help much. He always disapproved of these kinds of cases when what the women had got up to came out later. ‘I tried to drop and roll,’ she said. ‘But I dropped too hard.’

  Bill accepted her explanation
without question. He picked up the aspirin and fetched a glass of water from the sink.

  ‘Start with that, eh?’ he said, dropping to his knees to inspect the injury. ‘Go on, wiggle your toes.’

  ‘It’s not broken.’ Vesta sniffed.

  Bill smiled. ‘I’d say you’re right. But that doesn’t mean it’s not sore, does it?’

  Vesta gulped down the painkillers.

  ‘May I?’

  She nodded. Bill prodded the injury with some expertise and Vesta winced. Then he carefully applied a long smear of arnica cream. ‘It’s a bit late for this but all hands on deck, eh?’ he said, as he picked up one of the bandages. ‘It needs support.’ He began to wind the crêpe tightly round the swelling. It felt better immediately. ‘You’ll need a lift home,’ he said cheerily, as he pinned the bandage in place. ‘You shouldn’t walk too far on it. I’ll call a cab, shall I?’

  Vesta sighed. She’d walked quite far already. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll get one myself, thanks.’

  ‘It needs rest.’ Bill continued his diagnosis. ‘Though, of course, women in your delicate condition actually heal faster.’

  Vesta let out a frustrated yelp. ‘How come everybody knows?’ she said. ‘Who told you?’

  Bill shrugged. ‘My missus and I weren’t blessed, of course. But a fella picks things up. Will you be all right? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be fine.’ Vesta resigned herself to the fact that she hadn’t kept any kind of secret. ‘Turns out the stairs are easy.’

  Bill smiled. He drew a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket and laid them on his desk. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, as he found the paper bag she’d left earlier.

  ‘Oh, rock buns,’ the girl replied distractedly. ‘I thought you’d like to take them home.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  He put the buns in his pocket and called Panther to heel. Vesta stood up, trying out her improved situation. She felt tired now the pain was diminishing.