‘Your people have been compromised.’ Mirabelle tried to sound stout-hearted and certain. She held the phone a moment longer.
‘Who is this?’ the man repeated. ‘Give me a name.’
Mirabelle hung up. She leaned against the glass panes, the sea stirring behind her. ‘At least they’ll have to look at it now,’ she whispered. Somewhere there must still be honourable people who cared.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Marlene went back to work. Vesta chattered. A fish-paste sandwich appeared on Mirabelle’s desk at lunchtime and wordlessly she ate it. After work, there was no question of going home. Vesta headed off to pick up fish and chips, kissing Mirabelle on the cheek as if nothing had happened. There was no point telling her.
As the light began to fade from the sky, Mirabelle walked, aimlessly at first, but then she realised she was heading towards Portslade. Mothers hurried their children home, baskets over their arms. Shopkeepers dismantled their displays. With a heavy heart, Mirabelle turned up Mill Lane. The smell of frying peppered the air as pans were heated. The curtain of number fourteen twitched and Mrs Ambrose appeared in her doorway.
‘What are you doing back here?’
Mirabelle shrugged. She had nowhere else to go.
‘Well, they’re gone,’ Mrs Ambrose announced. ‘I was thinking I should telephone Bartholomew Square and tell that nice inspector. It’s fishy, isn’t it?’
‘Who’s gone?’
‘The Randalls, of course.’ The old woman’s voice betrayed her impatience. ‘Who else?’
Mirabelle’s eyes lit just a little. ‘Last night?’ she checked.
‘This morning. Early doors. I saw them – two suitcases and didn’t they look guilty.’
‘They just needed a fresh start,’ Mirabelle said.
Mrs Ambrose sniffed. ‘So you don’t think I should tell the inspector?’
‘Leave it with me.’ Mirabelle felt her step lighter as she turned. The dark windows on the other side of the street seemed suddenly an optimistic sign.
Mrs Ambrose peered short-sightedly across the road. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Teatime.’
The word sunk in slowly as if it was foreign. Mirabelle wondered if the Boite was open. Perhaps she might have a glass of champagne and some peanuts. She’d achieved something after all – saved two people, at least. And then, she thought, she might sleep. Yes, tonight, with this news, maybe after all, she’d be able.
Acknowledgements
Writing novels is a particular form of communication and with it goes the fun of playing inside other people’s heads. However, no writer does it alone. Many thanks go to Jenny Brown, my brilliant agent and to the team at Constable who love Mirabelle Bevan as much as I do. The Society of Authors Trust helped me financially when I was writing this book – I don’t know what I would have done without them. Encouragement was received from Marianna Abbots and Sarah Brown in the form of suggestions and the high jinx of using Marianna’s name for a Baddy. The joys! To my many patient friends and my ever-patient family, thank you for putting up with me talking about murder over breakfast, lunch and dinner. And to all of those who have contributed in the office at Sheridan Towers – interns, publishing students, clever people passing through – thank you, thank you, thank you.
Questions for readers’ groups
1 How difficult is it to believe a wholly innocent person can become embroiled in a crime?
2 Do neighbours no longer care about each other – is Mrs Ambrose right?
3 How different would Vesta and Charlie’s lives be today? How far have we come?
4 Should Billy Randall have come clean at the beginning?
5 If you could go back to the 1950s, would you?
6 Would you trust Superintendent McGregor? Under what circumstances could he be a hero?
7 Do you condone vigilantes?
8 Gambling was legalised in the early 1960s. Should prostitution be legalised now?
The quotations and misquotations used to open each chapter are taken from the following sources:
Mystery: a matter that is difficult to understand: definition. True friends stab you in the front: Oscar Wilde. The wise are instructed by reason: Cicero. Everyone has been made for some particular work: Rumi. A cat in gloves catches no mice: traditional. Doubt grows with knowledge: Goethe. Imagination decides everything: Pascal. Music and woman I cannot but give way to, whatever my business is: Samuel Pepys. Undercover: to disguise identity to avoid detection: definition. Mysteries are not necessarily miracles: Goethe. We make war that we may live in peace: Aristotle. An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day: Henry David Thoreau. There is no instinct like that of the heart: Byron. Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul: Racine. Clue: guiding information: definition. Vices are only virtues carried to excess: Charles Dickens. All evil comes from a single cause, man’s inability to sit still in a room: Pascal. All travel has its advantages: Samuel Johnson. Make the most of your regrets: Henry David Thoreau. No one ever became wicked suddenly: Juvenal. Silence is one of the great arts of conversation: Cicero. Grit: courage, resolve, strength of character: definition. Experience is the name we give our mistakes: Oscar Wilde. The woman that deliberates is lost: Joseph Addison. The savage in many is never quite eradicated: Henry David Thoreau The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory: Cicero. When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers: Oscar Wilde. No one can give you better advice than yourself: Cicero. What you seek is seeking you: Rumi. Nothing shows a man’s character more than what he laughs at: Goethe. Evil is easy and has infinite forms: Pascal. Never befriend a man who is not better than yourself: Confucius. Every earth is fit for burial: Christopher Marlowe.
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