‘But …’ Mirabelle started. ‘Well, in that case, what is Mr Claremont doing here?’
‘No idea,’ Vesta grinned. ‘I ain’t seen you, Lindon, since last summer.’
Lindon nodded. ‘Must be about that.’
‘Would you like a pie? They’re hot,’ Vesta offered. ‘They make these wonderful pies down here – beanos. They’re a taste of the seaside. I haven’t seen them in London but they’d go a bomb. Delicious!’
‘I’m starving,’ he admitted.
Vesta handed him a beano before scrambling around on the floor and picking up her possessions. ‘I’ll make more tea and then you can tell me what you’ve been up to. We got a lot of catching up to do.’
Mirabelle glanced at the sea of paperwork strewn over Vesta’s desk. ‘I’ll need to go out and get started on the collections. Can I leave all this with you?’
‘Sure.’ Vesta gestured, as if the mountain of paperwork could simply be dispersed by a wave of the hand.
Mirabelle reached for her coat and hat. She had done up the buttons and was considering whether, given the wind, it was worth even taking an umbrella, when for the second time that day Lindon Claremont made her stop in her tracks. His voice changed to a low register, and he had the demeanour of a naughty child, one who clearly couldn’t wait any longer before blurting what was on his mind. He leaned over Vesta’s desk.
‘Thing is,’ he hissed, the pie uneaten in his hand, ‘I had to come. The police are probably looking for me. It’s not my fault – I didn’t hurt anyone. They was too fancy – I said that to the others. The police have found out I talked to the girl, I think, and now they’ll assume what they always assume.’ He drew a long finger across his neck in a macabre motion. ‘I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t hurt her. I swear it.’
Vesta froze. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘What are you talking about? Who didn’t you hurt, Lindon?’
Lindon’s eyes sank to the drab linoleum floor. He shrugged his shoulders. The boy’s expression suddenly became difficult to read. ‘They didn’t give no names. I just spoke to them. Young white kids. The girl, she was laughing, you know, chatting. Glossy they was, well turned out. Liked music. Liked dancing. She gave me this.’ He held out a gold cigarette case with musical script engraved on its face and laid it on Vesta’s desk. His hand was trembling slightly.
She picked it up. ‘That is fancy merchandise,’ she said.
‘“Too Young”,’ Lindon replied wistfully.
‘Oh no,’ Vesta groaned. ‘I should have known! Too young for what?’
‘Nothing like that, girl. “Too Young” by Nat King Cole. The music on it. See.’ He gave an engaging smile and began to sing the tune, pointing to the notes. ‘She said she was sick of it and didn’t want it no more. She thinks she’s cutting-edge, whatever. Hep.’
‘And then what?’
‘She went off. I went back inside for a drink. Next thing I know, Barney tells me the police have been around the clubs asking about her. The girl’s in trouble. She’s hurt. Last place she’d been was with me, and now the pigs are working their way round, trying to figure out where she’s been and who’s responsible. I didn’t do nothing, I swear, Vesta. They left. I never laid a finger. But you know what it’s like. I panicked.’
‘You said she was hurt?’ Mirabelle stepped in. ‘What do you mean hurt?’
‘I dunno. Barney didn’t say. But I got some white chick’s cigarette case, and they’re trying to figure out what happened to her. I didn’t touch no one, but things don’t go so well for a brother, not that kind of thing. Vesta will know what to do, I said. I walked to Victoria straight and got on the milk train. I mean, you solve mysteries, right? You’re cosy with the law?
You caught all them Nazis last year. You’ll be able to tell them it wasn’t me.’
Mirabelle ignored the inaccuracies – the less said about last year, soonest mended.
‘It was really Mirabelle who worked everything out,’ Vesta started, ‘with the Nazis.’
Mirabelle waved her off and focused her attention on Lindon. ‘Was it this girl?’ she asked smoothly as she turned over the paper. The headline read missing heiress and there was a photograph taken the previous year of a girl in a white ball gown and pearl earrings. The police were appealing for information.
‘That’s her!’ Lindon’s finger hovered over the picture.
‘Rose Bellamy Gore,’ he read, clearly sounding out the words for the first time. ‘Some name!’
‘But it says she’s missing,’ Mirabelle pointed out. She scanned the paper. ‘They don’t know what happened to her. She’s not necessarily hurt, Lindon, they just don’t know where she is.’
‘That’s not what they was saying last night,’ Lindon insisted. ‘Barney said someone hurt her. I thought she was dead!’ He bit into the pie and chewed slowly, looking slightly sheepish. Perhaps he’d jumped the gun by making a dash for help.
‘Well, she might be hurt, of course,’ Mirabelle mused, removing her coat and sitting down at the desk. ‘And that’s the assumption, I suppose. Tell me your story one more time, Lindon. Tell me everything all over again.’
Twenty minutes later, Lindon Claremont was beginning to wonder if showing up at McGuigan & McGuigan wasn’t more trouble than turning himself in to the police. He had gone over the story several times, but Vesta’s boss wasn’t giving up. He’d told her about the damp bedsit in a rundown Georgian tenement off London Spa where he’d lodged for the last four months and the clubs where he played his saxophone. He’d explained how sometimes the gigs paid and sometimes they didn’t. If the company was right, he drawled, he played free, just for the experience. He’d told her about everything he’d done the day before, how long he’d known Barney the doorman (ever since he started booking proper gigs in Soho – eighteen months) and exactly what had happened when Rose and two of her friends arrived at Mac’s Rehearsal Rooms where he’d been jamming. Then he’d explained jamming and revisited the conversation he’d had with Rose about her favourite musicians – Tony Crombie, Ronnie Ball, Leon Calvert – some of whom Lindon had played alongside. It was difficult to break into the scene, he said, but his persistence had started to pay off.
‘The girl – Rose – had seen me on the horn, but she didn’t say where. Then she ranted on about Ronnie Scott, how he was only in it for the money, and then she said, “And money’s just too dreary, darling. Too dreary for words.” She called me darling but she didn’t mean anything by it. Cut glass she was.’ Vesta perched on her desk, listening intently as Mirabelle asked question after question. Occasionally she nodded but she let her boss get on with it.
‘So Rose knew about music?’ Mirabelle confirmed.
‘Oh yeah. She knew what was what.’
‘But she didn’t play an instrument herself ?’
‘Nah. She was audience but she’d been around every swing joint in town, even the trade ones – bare lightbulb and a bad bottle of whisky if you’re lucky. She’d spent time. Asked me about Charlie Parker. Johnny Dankworth. We had a laugh, really. The other two was dancing but she wanted to talk.’
‘And she was drunk?’
‘Yeah. She’d had some. That time of night all of London is drunk as a fiddler’s, innit? She liked my shoes,’ Lindon said proudly.
Mirabelle considered a moment. Rose was missing, and, at the least, Lindon was a key witness. The boy was no saint, but the police would certainly need to speak to him. Until he’d turned in a statement, there was no other way to establish his innocence, unless the girl turned up in the meantime.
‘Vesta,’ she said, ‘we need to speak to Detective Superintendent McGregor.’
Lindon sat up straight. ‘You’re turning me in?’
Vesta put out her hand to calm him. ‘Don’t be silly, Lindon. It’s not like that. Mirabelle’s right. If they’re looking for you, you’ll
have to speak to them in the end. And you’ll be better off if you volunteer the information than if they catch you halfway across the country on the run.’
Lindon bent forward in the chair and moaned, ‘Mama’s gonna kill me if I get nicked again.’
‘Any trouble from your mother and I’ll speak to her,’ Vesta snapped.
‘Again?’ Mirabelle enquired.
‘Last year.’ Lindon kept his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Drunk and disorderly. Happens to all the jazz boys now and then. It’s like they got a room reserved for us at Savile Row nick – the jokers even call it the dressing room. Seems there’s always one of us in there. I’ve been more careful since. It’s easy to get carried away. I was stupid but I was unlucky, too. They don’t catch a brother every time.’
‘I see,’ Mirabelle nodded. ‘Well, it’s time to see what we can do at Brighton police station, I’m afraid.’
She gestured towards the coat rack. Whether she liked it or not she was involved now. Lindon’s eyes met Vesta’s. Should he comply? She nodded. ‘You got to sort it out properly, boy,’ she said. ‘Official.’
Lindon let out a heavy sigh and got to his feet like an unwilling five-year-old. ‘Will you look after my sax, sister?’
Vesta nodded.
As Mirabelle waited she turned over the newspaper in her hand. She scanned the front page. Police corruption was so common in the Brighton and Hove forces she almost didn’t bother to read the tiny item right at the bottom: BRIGHTON COP ADMITS VIOLENCE. When she did she turned hurriedly to page five to get the whole story.
‘Perhaps McGregor can help us with more than one issue on our plate today,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ Vesta asked as she helped a reluctant Lindon into his mackintosh. The fabric was so thin she couldn’t help worrying it would never keep him warm enough in this weather. Nowhere near it. She felt anxious but reassured herself that Mirabelle knew best.
‘Aren’t you coming with me, Vesta girl?’ he moaned.
‘One of us has to stay in the office, Lindon, and you’re better off with Mirabelle. Think about it. Apart from anything else, two black kids turning up at the station isn’t going to go down as well as you arriving with a lady. Mirabelle knows the detective superintendent. She’ll take care of you.’
If anything, Lindon did up his buttons even more reluctantly. He watched Mirabelle from beneath hooded lids.
‘Go on then,’ Vesta shooed him.
As they left the office, she decided not to worry too much about Lindon. He’d been in and out of scrapes as long as she’d known him – since they were kids – but nothing as serious as a missing person. The police, she was sure, would take one look at him and realise he wasn’t a criminal. She distracted herself from the niggling concern by fiddling with her typewriter. It was well past its best. They’d been talking about getting a new one. A fancy IBM Model A with a green case. So far it had been difficult to track down. Vesta sighed. She sat back a moment and peered at the newspaper Mirabelle had left behind. There was some ridiculous story about a policeman who had got into a fight over his dog. Surely that wasn’t what she had been looking at.
Chapter 2
I’m not against the police, I’m just afraid of them.
Brighton police station was a three-minute walk up the hill to Bartholomew Square. Emerging into the biting cold Lindon stared longingly at the bright shaft of sea at the bottom of East Street as if he was thinking of making a run for it. Then with his eyes on the pavement he turned to the right and fell obediently into step. The wind almost blew them up to the station.
‘They gonna lock me up?’
‘Yes,’ Mirabelle answered honestly, glad the wind was at her back. ‘They’ll probably take you up to London. The police who are dealing with the case will want to interview you. You’re a witness, Lindon.’
The pair continued in silence until the imposing station came into view and they climbed the steps and entered. The hallway stank of bleach. The floor had just been mopped, and puddles of water pooled on the linoleum. In the background, the clattering of a typewriter suddenly stopped. There was a burst of raucous male laughter.
At the front desk a pot-bellied grey-haired sergeant folded his newspaper and stood straighter at the sight of Mirabelle. She hadn’t been inside the station since last year, but he never forgot a face.
‘Miss Bevan,’ he greeted her.
‘Simmons, isn’t it?’ Neither did she.
‘What do we have here then, Miss?’
‘This is Lindon Claremont, Sergeant. He is coming in voluntarily to help with a London inquiry. He noticed this item in the paper this morning,’ she unfolded the sergeant’s edition on the high wooden desk and pointed at the headline, ‘and as he spoke to Miss Bellamy Gore last night before he departed for Brighton, he’s coming forward to see if anything he recollects might help to locate her.’
Sergeant Simmons slid a pencil behind his ear. ‘That right?’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
‘I wondered if Detective Superintendent McGregor might be around?’ Mirabelle found herself hopping from foot to foot. It was only a small movement but it wouldn’t go – like a nervous tic. She cursed herself inwardly and tried to stand still.
‘Give me a second, Miss.’
Simmons disappeared into the back room though they could still hear his voice.
‘Sid,’ he said, ‘there’s a … darkie out there wants to give a statement.’
So noteworthy was this occurrence that Sid popped his head around the doorframe to verify it and then hastily withdrew.
Mirabelle smiled apologetically at Lindon. ‘McGregor will see us,’ she promised.
They didn’t have long to wait.
The superintendent had moved into a larger office upstairs with a view over the small square at the front of the station. The case last year had not bagged him a promotion but it had settled his men into a more or less coherent team underneath him and put paid to the initial disquiet at his transfer from Lothian and Borders. It would be a long trail to weed out the deep-seated corruption in the Brighton and Hove forces but McGregor had established where he stood and at least made a start on changing things.
Mirabelle noted that his brown tweed jacket was missing a button. A sign, she thought, that he remained a bachelor. When he rose to shake her hand his smile was genuine.
‘I’m surprised not to have seen you in such a long time, Miss Bevan,’ he said.
This wasn’t entirely true. Quite apart from his testimony at the inquiry into the shot Mirabelle had fired the year before, McGregor had seen Mirabelle several times from a distance in the street. Her slender frame stood out in a crowd and it perturbed him that his eyes were drawn towards her. The truth was he’d found himself unexpectedly shy. Although he’d wanted to, he couldn’t seem to pluck up the courage to speak to her. She’d done a remarkable job when the investigation had come her way last year and though at the time he’d considered her nothing but a nuisance, on reflection he’d had to acknowledge that without her they would never have solved it. What impressed him most was that Miss Bevan hadn’t dwelled on this fact. As a result of both her actions and her humility, both during the case and at the tribunal afterwards, he now held her in awe. Last summer while she was in the newsagent’s at the end of the Twittens he’d spotted her through the window. His fingers had gone weak and he’d avoided going in, instead retreating at speed to the Sussex Bar where he spent some time trying to figure out why he’d run away. After a soothing half-pint he’d realised it wasn’t only because Miss Bevan was beautiful, it was that she was unnerving. It was as if she could see right through people. The last time they had spoken was at one of the funerals after the Nazi case. He’d noticed Mirabelle weeping behind the veil of her pillbox hat and he had wanted to put a comforting arm around her elegant shoulders, but he’d found it impossible.
‘Sounds like London will be happy we’ve found you, Mr Claremont.’
‘Mr Claremont is volunteering his information, Detective Superintendent,’ Mirabelle pointed out. ‘I’d like that to be perfectly clear when you hand him over. He came down to visit Vesta for the weekend and then saw Miss Bellamy Gore’s picture in the paper.’ Mirabelle decided to fudge the truth.
McGregor stared at Lindon thoughtfully. ‘So Miss Bellamy Gore spoke to you?’ Lindon nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Had you met her before?’
Lindon shrugged his shoulders. ‘Might’ve.’
‘Well, had you or hadn’t you?’ McGregor pushed him. Mirabelle shifted in her seat. Lindon had become monosyllabic. He couldn’t do a better job of seeming guilty if he tried. ‘You need to be honest with the police today, Lindon. You don’t have anything to hide. Just tell the detective superintendent what you told me. Answer his questions.’
‘I might’ve seen her. She’d been around. But I’d never spoken to her before. She came up to me, see. She was interested in the music. She asked a couple of questions. Wanted to talk about saxophone players – the legends, that kind of thing.’
McGregor pressed one of the buttons on the telecom on his desk. He didn’t want Mirabelle coaching the boy. Her intentions were good but she wouldn’t help matters. The lad was reacting to her being there, and they’d get a lot more out of the kid if they spoke to him alone.
‘Robinson, will you interview a witness?’
McGregor’s second in command, though initially resentful of his appointment, had become a friend. It had taken a while to earn each other’s respect but the men worked well together now. Sometimes they played a round of golf. McGregor invariably won.
London Calling Page 2