McGregor stopped. His gut was churning. It had been a while since he’d felt the need to explain what he’d done in wartime but something about Mirabelle kept making his thoughts return to those six years and how guilty he felt for not actually fighting. Now he’d told her the army hadn’t taken him she would know there was something wrong with him.
‘I’m glad you didn’t do something amazingly heroic,’ McGregor admitted. ‘I always feel like an idiot because I stayed at home. The Guard isn’t the same. You can volunteer all you like but it’s not a patch on what some men went through in action.’
‘Everyone did their bit,’ Mirabelle soothed.
‘It’s probably how I ended up in the police force.’ McGregor finished his whisky, glad to have got what felt like a confession off his chest. ‘At least these days I get to do people some real good now and then … What are you up to this weekend? Fancy going to the Regent? Alastair Sim’s in Scrooge.’
Mirabelle breathed in the scent of the last drop of whisky in her glass. If Lindon was in police custody she had other plans. ‘I’m sorry, Detective Superintendent, I can’t. I’m going to London.’
Chapter 5
Sometimes I miss the spirit of London but it’s a very grey place.
Trains went up and down to London till late at night but on a Friday most of the traffic came from the capital and consisted of weekenders looking for a break by the seaside. Even in this weather there were plenty of people who wanted to escape the smog and spend a couple of days in the brisk, clean air of the Sussex coast. Mirabelle hovered in the main concourse of the station pulling her coat around her to keep warm. It would do no harm to go up to Victoria and have a look around. She owed that much to Lindon at least. Despite what London’s finest had decided she was convinced that the young saxophonist was not responsible for Rose’s disappearance. She wasn’t even convinced that Lindon had been the last person to speak to the girl. The intriguing thing was that no one appeared to have discovered what had happened to Rose. Mirabelle wondered if McGregor’s friend, Chief Inspector Green, had charged Lindon and, if so, with what crime.
The six o’clock train was almost empty. Mirabelle settled into a seat in a first-class carriage, folded her gloved hands on her lap and stared out of the window. It was difficult to discern anything in the dark as Brighton receded. The glass reflected a mirror-bright image of the empty carriage and a woman who kept checking her slim gold wristwatch. Mirabelle made herself stop looking at the time.
The prospect of London still made her jumpy. It had been a long time since she’d lived there though the place abounded with wartime memories, many of them painful. She hadn’t been back since the previous spring but some of her happiest reminiscences were of this time of year. It had been in the winter that her love affair with Jack had started. With a jolt she realised it was ten years since they first got together. It seemed a very long time. They met when she was taking notes at a War Office meeting. There had been heavy snow that January, and the secretary who usually took the minutes had been stranded somewhere out of town. Jack took Mirabelle for a drink afterwards, and they had both immediately known they’d be together. It was like falling under a spell.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to lie about it,’ he had said. ‘I’m married.’
Mirabelle hadn’t panicked. ‘Oh, I see.’
When he’d kissed her later, he’d tasted of Glenlivet. ‘I don’t want to rush you,’ he whispered.
But Mirabelle hadn’t felt rushed. Being with Jack had been right from the very beginning – the most natural thing in the world. It had surprised her.
‘I hope your place isn’t too far away,’ she had smiled. She cherished the image of Hyde Park covered in white and those first chilly midnight trysts trying to keep warm in Jack’s shabby flat during the blackout. For some reason, one frosty morning walking in to work not long after the affair started had particularly stuck in her memory. Jack’s cheeks were pink and his eyes kept alighting on her face as they made their way up the Strand past the big white building with the clock.
‘They’re calling it Big Benzene,’ Jack quipped.
It was the headquarters of some oil company. The clock face was larger than Big Ben’s. During the war it had seemed ridiculously Sash and almost un-British but the building had gone up well before the breakout of hostilities. The Strand was busy with silent commuters on their way to work. It was ten to eight and not yet properly light. Mirabelle and Jack had been up most of the night.
‘I could do with some breakfast,’ he said.
They were out of coupons. That happened sometimes at the end of a run when they had to rely on the office canteen and stick to non-rationed items. When they got in, Jack fetched scalding chicory coffee with hot milk he’d managed to blag and some bread with margarine. They’d scoffed it secretly – no one could know about their fledgling romance. No one ever knew about it in the end – not one other soul over the whole eight years. It was mundane, but she’d give anything to eat bread and margarine with Jack. Just one more time.
At Victoria Mirabelle disembarked, her poignant daydreams still playing around the fringes of her mind. The smog curled between the streetlamps and the spokes of wrought-iron framework. It seeped through your body and into your bones. Mirabelle’s heels clicked as she made her way onto the chilly concourse. One or two people waiting at the arrivals board were coughing. London was still here, in fact with the smog it looked as if it had hardly changed. Already there was something comforting about it despite the seeping spiteful cold.
Mirabelle decided to walk. It was still early and the jazz clubs wouldn’t be open yet. She cut past Buckingham Palace where three off-duty guardsmen were heading into St James’s Park. The park was a notorious haunt. Churchill, when he was told about what went on among the bushes, said it made him proud to be British that men would go there in the dead of an English winter, no matter what they got up to. Mirabelle smiled. She and Jack had made love al fresco a couple of times. Air raids seemed to fire Jack’s passion. They both hated the smelly overcrowded shelters and the crush to find a place to sleep on the Tube station floor or the basement of the department. Several times they’d opted to be out in the open air. The whole town was pitch in the blackout. Jack said it was the London way. Even now the thought gave Mirabelle a frisson.
She headed towards Piccadilly past Jermyn Street and then doubled back. It was almost like time travelling. It had been ages since she’d been in this part of town. Her pace increased as she sneaked down the alleyway behind St James’s and into the discreet hallway of Duke’s Hotel, which although not decked out in the grand style of the nearby Ritz, was at least warm and comfortable. The Same-haired receptionist looked up and smiled.
‘I’m just in for a drink.’
The bar was situated down a corridor. A smart waiter in a crisp white jacket took Mirabelle’s coat as she entered. There was generally only one kind of woman who frequented a hotel bar alone. Well, two, if you counted Americans. He sized her up and discounted both options. This woman was British through and through, and certainly didn’t look like a prostitute – she possessed a different kind of glamour.
‘Are you waiting for someone, Madam?’ he asked with a soft Italian accent.
Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’ll have a whisky sour,’ she said.
The waiter disappeared and she took in the surroundings. Effortlessly understated, Duke’s Hotel catered for travellers, not tourists, and only those with money. The claret-coloured walls were dotted with traditional paintings in gilded frames. The lighting was dim. Small electric lamps with yellowing linen shades lit every alcove and table. Jack used to meet Naval Command staff here in one of the back rooms. It was rumoured the barmen at Duke’s mixed the best cocktails in London. The Italian waiter served the whisky sour with a flourish and left a small bowl filled with tiny crackers. Mirabelle lifted the glass to her lips.
The rumours were true. It was the best whisky sour she’d ever tasted. She settled into her seat and contemplated smoking a cigarette. There was something about London that brought out the devil in her. In Brighton she would have been sitting at the window of her flat on The Lawns reading the Argus with Friday Night is Music Night on the wireless in the background and contemplating a fish paste sandwich before bedtime. This was better.
Taking another sip of her drink, Mirabelle turned her mind to Rose. The girl came from this world, and Duke’s or at least its surroundings were no doubt familiar to her. The Bellamy Gores were established – old money. Rose had come out at court last season. The photograph in the paper had clearly been taken at her debutante presentation. This meant a round of parties and a flurry of privilege. Even during wartime debutantes donned white dresses, pearls and diamonds though many of them, not least Princess Elizabeth, took up worthwhile wartime occupations. They became secretaries, nurses or drivers in addition to the role they undertook at court, much of which was centred on bagging a prestigious husband.
One of Jack’s friends had romanced his driver only to discover she was titled and the heir to a huge fortune. Jack said it had entirely put off the poor fellow. Still, it took a certain kind of person to come from such luxury and seek out danger. Unlike the secretaries, nurses and drivers, Rose had not sought danger in a good cause. The girl was self-assured, clearly, and there was no harm in that. However, the way Lindon had described her suggested that she was perhaps over confident – even superior. The girl didn’t seem to have made any attempt to put Lindon at his ease. Perhaps Rose wanted to be the fish out of water. She’d been happy to stand out, dispense her opinion (which she no doubt considered expert) and Sash her gold cigarette case. Why had she given the case to Lindon? There was something indiscreet about that and she’d disappeared immediately afterwards. Had the girl’s brashness simply upset someone, Mirabelle wondered. Perhaps she didn’t realise that if they felt humiliated some men might lash out. Or perhaps the girl wasn’t missing at all. Perhaps she’d taken off voluntarily. It would be unusual for someone in her social position but there was nothing to say Rose didn’t have a lover. After all there was still no news of how she’d actually gone missing, or indeed if she’d come to any harm. Lindon had said ‘they left’. Did he mean Lavinia Blyth and the other, as yet unidentified ‘glossy’ young person? She wished he’d been clearer or that she’d pressed him on the point. In any case, in whatever company Rose had departed, she had left only the mystery of where she had gone. There was the possibility, of course, that Lindon had lied and he had accompanied Rose, but if that was the case why had he come to Brighton? There was no question in Mirabelle’s mind that whatever time Lindon left the club, he’d certainly returned later. His account of getting the news of the police looking for him rang true.
So deeply was she pondering this that Mirabelle didn’t notice the man approaching her table.
‘Mirabelle? Mirabelle Bevan! Well, I’ll be blowed!’ Mirabelle started, almost spilling her drink. It took her a moment to realise who the handsome man was, now his hair was greying at the edges and he was out of uniform. Puffing laconically on a cigarette, martini in hand, he wore a lounge suit and an understated silk tie with a discreet regimental insignia woven into the fabric.
‘Eddie.’ She smiled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Well, I could ask you the same thing. You look radiant, of course. Always do. Can I get you another?’
Mirabelle considered the offer for a moment and then nodded. This place was redolent with Jack’s memory and she had a little time on her hands. Eddie waved at the Italian waiter and motioned for a round. Then he sat on the dark velvet chair opposite her, wafting a tiny wave of spicy aftershave her way.
‘I haven’t seen you in a long time, Mirabelle. Did you hear about Jack Duggan? Dreadful business. He died in Brighton, I heard. After all he’d been through it seems ironic it was Civvy Street did for him. Heart attack, wasn’t it?’
Mirabelle nodded and managed to bite her tongue. Like all her wartime friends and acquaintances, Eddie had no idea about her relationship with Jack.
‘I keep meaning to go down and pay my respects. Gravestone Sowers and a visit to his widow. I expect she’s getting over it now and probably wouldn’t welcome the reminder.’
Mirabelle had last seen Mrs Duggan brazenly inviting Detective Superintendent McGregor for dinner the year before. They had been standing only yards away from Jack’s grave. The woman hadn’t appeared the slightest bit bereaved.
‘I expect so,’ she snapped.
‘So, for whom are you waiting in Duke’s bar? Lucky bugger! Come on – confess! What have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since things wound up at Nuremberg. Pretty grim, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m not waiting for anyone – I just fancied some jazz, Eddie. I’ve heard there are some smashing clubs up here around Soho.’
Eddie took a slug of his martini. ‘Oh God! You’re in absolutely the right place. Actually there’s no need to go as far as Soho. It’s splendid! There are a couple just round the corner. There’s even one on Jermyn Street opposite my old man’s tailor. It’s on the left in a basement and there’s another up on Piccadilly. Have you ever been? It’s marvellous! You sit in the dark, smoking. The drink is variable, of course – some places better than others. Anyway, you sit in the dark, in a very small space in the smoke, and the music is incredible. It’s different every time – that’s what gets me. It’s not like going to a dreary old-fashioned concert. The musicians just take off ! These black guys come over from the States and what they can’t do with a horn or a set of drums!’
‘Is it dangerous, Eddie? I mean, for a woman on her own?’
‘I’ll take you! I insist!’
‘So it is dangerous?’
‘Well, not for you, Mirabelle. I mean, you’re fully trained, aren’t you?’
‘I only worked in the office,’ Mirabelle cut in. ‘I never went on operations.’
‘Yes, but even so. I’m sure you picked up a thing or two. You always knew what was what, and people who know what’s what don’t land themselves in trouble. Or at least they don’t land themselves in trouble they can’t get out of. Mostly the jazz clubs are not half as bad as people say. They only say those things because they don’t know. I’ve seen a couple of fights breaking out but no worse than you’d find in a pub. They say a lot of the musicians use cocaine – you know, the stuff the dentist gives you for toothache. Creative types, of course.’
‘It’s only that I heard about a deb who went missing a couple of days ago. She was in a jazz club somewhere in Soho?’
‘Rose something or other? Yes, I read about that. The Standard ran a whole shock-horror about it. Terrible business. Can you imagine young girls out late at night like that? I mean to say, that’s the scandal. I couldn’t make out if the kid had a chaperone or not. I’d hate to think of my little nieces … Well, they’re probably on the young side for that kind of thing, but still. Who lets their daughter out to a jazz club, green as grass? Those places might not be the dens of iniquity everyone says they are but they’re definitely dives. No wonder the girl got into trouble.’
‘Actually, she wasn’t alone. She was with Commander Blyth’s daughter, I think.’
‘Paul Blyth? Oh God, I hadn’t heard that. Poor chap will be frantic.’ Eddie Sipped open his cigarette case and offered Mirabelle a smoke. She leaned towards him as he gave her a light. She scarcely ever smoked these days but Eddie had American cigarettes. The musky taste emboldened her.
‘So what are you really doing here?’ she whispered.
Eddie’s eyes twinkled. He lowered his voice. ‘Thing is, the palace staff come in when they get off duty. Officers, mostly. There’s nothing like a military man, even out of uniform. And apart from anything else, it’s so convenient for the park.’
‘Oh Eddie!’
Mirabelle laughed. ‘You haven’t changed a bit!’ He always sailed close to the wind – and got away with it.
Chapter 6
The best thing for a case of nerves is a case of Scotch.
The whisky sours were stronger than expected and as Mirabelle checked her appearance in the mirror of the Ladies she realised that she was rather flushed and swaying slightly. The small crackers had not provided adequate ballast. Despite his promises, Eddie had taken off with a naval lieutenant for a ‘baccarat game’. Mirabelle decided it was time to eat something and then get going. It was well after nine o’clock and surely a respectable enough time to get to a jazz club – dive or not. Carefully checking her hat was in place she exited Duke’s and made her way to Piccadilly Circus to pick up some chips. In the doorway of Fortnum & Mason a young couple were kissing, oblivious to the world. The neon signs mounted on the buildings cast a glossy veneer over the streetscape, glowing through the smog. Around the statue of Eros there were crowds of youngsters. The girls were a mass of bobby pins and ribbons, hardly dressed for the cold weather. The boys wore suits with thin ties. They were bantering on their way from the cinemas and theatres to the bars, dance halls and music clubs further along.
‘I fancy you, Kitty Dawson,’ a lone boy shouted.
This provoked a cascade of giggles from a group of girls who then, as one, turned and walked away smartly along Regent Street. To one side a busker strummed a guitar and sang a Bing Crosby number with clouding icy breath. No wonder he sounded forlorn. Mirabelle followed her nose to a street stall and ordered chips with salt and vinegar. The newspaper poke was satisfyingly warm. She removed one glove and ate the contents with her fingers. It tasted good. Feeling fortified and a good deal less wobbly she went back down to Jermyn Street to take a look at the jazz club Eddie had recommended. She wanted to find out as much as she could about Lindon Claremont and see if anyone knew Rose.
London Calling Page 4