London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  Vesta gave Pooch her head and the spaniel, suddenly all muscular energy, tore off in Mirabelle’s wake.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Mirabelle peered in the driver’s window and knocked.

  The man ignored her. Pooch launched herself at the rear doors as the van pulled into the street. Mirabelle tried to catch the handles as they passed but Pooch jumped up once more and knocked away her hand. Pooch was now racing alongside the vehicle as it headed for Merlin Street.

  ‘Harry!’ Mirabelle called as she ran towards the Aston.

  ‘The keys!’

  Harry fumbled in his pocket. ‘Oh God,’ he cursed as Mirabelle opened the passenger door and jumped into the car.

  He threw himself into the driver’s seat and the Aston’s engine roared to life.

  In the rear-view mirror Mirabelle could see Pooch barking on the pavement and Vesta and Charlie trying to catch her as Harry’s car screeched off, tyres smoking. Harry was chewing his lip, focused completely on the road. At the end of Merlin Street they looked frantically left and right. In the darkness they caught a glimmer of light on the road heading towards Skinner Street.

  Harry accelerated towards it. The Aston’s engine was more than a match for the commercial van and they made ground as it turned up St John Street, in the direction of Lindon’s Sat.

  The van tried to speed up but in only a minute Harry and Mirabelle were right on its tail.

  ‘What will I do now?’ Harry shouted.

  ‘Get him to stop!’

  The van suddenly veered left towards Sadler’s Wells and Harry went for the kill. He smashed into the rear and forced the vehicle straight into a lamppost. The Aston jolted to a halt.

  ‘There! I’ll get him!’ Harry yelled, springing from the car. Mirabelle fumbled for the door and scrambled onto the pavement. Harry was hauling the driver into a pool of lamplight. He was a big fellow but he seemed to be in shock. Still, in a split second he landed Harry an upper cut which sent the boy reeling.

  Mirabelle made for the van doors. The Aston was in the way. The left door was ajar but only slightly. It was enough.

  ‘Rose?’ Mirabelle called. ‘Are you in there, Rose?’

  There was an incoherent mumbling and some small movement. Mirabelle squeezed into the back of the van and crawled quickly towards the noise, ignoring the shooting pain in her wrist as it took her weight. ‘Rose?’

  The girl was there all right, tied up so she could scarcely move, blindfolded and gagged. Mirabelle ripped off the blindfold and helped Rose to sit up. She was wearing a stained white shirt and a pair of what looked like men’s trousers. Mirabelle worked the knot of the rope around Rose’s ankles. She was barefoot and her skin was icy.

  Mirabelle could hear the grunts of the men outside. Rose began to kick and twist, and the rope loosened.

  ‘Come on!’ Mirabelle dragged the girl to the van doors.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ Rose’s knees buckled, and Mirabelle put an arm around her.

  Together they climbed gingerly out of the van, Rose scrunching up her eyes in the yellow streetlight. Mirabelle removed the gag. The poor girl was filthy. Lines of mascara encrusted her cheeks and her hair was matted, but she managed a brief smile. She caught sight of her cousin and shouted, ‘Harry!’

  Harry looked up and the van driver took his chance with a powerful left hook that felled the boy. Rose moaned and began struggling with the ropes that were still around her wrists. There was no time for that. Mirabelle pushed the girl into the Aston and made for the driver’s seat, clambering over the bonnet as the van driver wiped blood from his face and looked round seemingly recalling something. He ran to the front seat of the van and emerged with a determined expression.

  Mirabelle started the Aston and backed it up about three feet before the engine cut out. The van driver raised his hand, and she realised with horror that he was holding a revolver. Time slowed. She tried the engine again. He moved his arm to the right, aiming, Mirabelle realised all too slowly, for Rose. I haven’t been up all bloody night just to get this poor girl shot, she thought. In a split second, without thinking, she was back out on the pavement. She threw herself at the gunman with such force that he lost his footing, tried to steady himself and tripped over Harry’s legs. The gun went off. Mirabelle felt a stinging sensation, but she somehow kept her balance and kicked him hard. Someone had told her once that her legs were the strongest part of her body. That made sense now. She hauled up her skirt and kicked the man again with all her might, then stamped on his wrist until he dropped the weapon. After what had happened last year she wasn’t going to pick it up. She kicked the revolver away and collapsed on the pavement, gasping for breath. Her shoulder exploded with pain, and she tried not to look down. She could feel warm liquid dripping down her skin inside the tweed jacket. She couldn’t faint now. She was aware of Rose running past her towards Harry … followed by a pair of expensive shiny shoes tearing down the street into the distance …

  Mirabelle closed her eyes, allowing herself a single moment of relief, before there was the sound of running and Charlie and Vesta rushed to her side. She looked up gratefully. They were both out of breath.

  Across the street Harry got to his feet, spitting out blood-flecked phlegm and swearing profusely. Pooch jumped up on Rose, delighted.

  ‘Vesta!’ Mirabelle said urgently. She pushed Charlie away and pulled Vesta close. ‘Listen to me very carefully. You need to take charge. Right now. We don’t have long. Harry has to take Rose back home, do you hear? And he mustn’t stay with her. He’s to drop her off. She’s to say she escaped under her own steam from somewhere else – not up here – and she’s to clear Lindon, like we discussed. She mustn’t mention Paul Blyth. Not a word. That’s really important. Tell Harry the car has to go to the club – Miles can fix it up and hide it for a while.’

  ‘But, Mirabelle, you’re hurt. Seriously hurt.’

  Mirabelle took a deep agonising breath. She was worried she was going to pass out. ‘Vesta, no questions. You have to do what I tell you. You have to trust me. Do you understand?’

  Vesta looked at Charlie, who gave her a nod.

  ‘Whatever you say,’ she promised.

  ‘We haven’t long. Someone will have heard the gunshot. The police’ll be here any moment and we don’t want a bloody inquest like last year. Charlie has to disappear now. It’s too risky for him. If they place us all together it puts everyone in more danger. Get me to the hospital and say that we went to the market looking for something or other – just you and me. Something for the office. Make it all as true as you can, whatever you say. That way there’ll be less to remember.’

  ‘A typewriter?’ Vesta tried. ‘That green typewriter I wanted.’

  ‘That’ll have to do. We got into a fight with some ex-serviceman over what he was charging. We bought it off him then walked away and he followed us in his van. He crashed it in a fury and took the typewriter back. I tried to fight. Nothing about Charlie, and nothing about Harry and Rose. We don’t know them. They don’t know us. Not from here, anyway. They mustn’t be able to tie it together.’

  ‘But why …’ Vesta’s voice trailed off. She was close to tears.

  Mirabelle was shaking violently now. She couldn’t feel her legs. Intense heat pulsed through her followed by a wave of icy cold. She grabbed Vesta’s hand. ‘I’ve realised what it was about the policeman … You have to get everyone out of here now.’

  ‘The policeman?’ Vesta sounded as if she was speaking to a child. ‘Do you think the police are after us? Do you think they did for Lindon?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. The pain was excruciating. She laid her hand on Vesta’s forearm to reassure her. ‘Wrong policeman,’ she mouthed.

  Then it all went black.

  Chapter 28

  Every normal person is only normal on the average.

>   4.50 a.m.

  Vesta tried to make out the notes the matron had taken about Mirabelle’s injuries but the angle of the clipboard made it difficult. The woman’s appearance was terrifying – not a scraped-back hair out of place and a greying complexion made more severe by the harsh lighting in the corridor. The uniform made her look unreal, like part of the hospital itself – as if she’d been installed with the Victorian plumbing. Squinting, Vesta checked the time on the watch that rested upside down on the matron’s flat chest. It was almost an hour since they had arrived.

  ‘It’s family only, I’m afraid,’ the nurse said firmly. There was a hint of Yorkshire in her accent. ‘You can’t go in.’

  ‘Mirabelle doesn’t have any family. I’m her family. I’m the only one who really knows her.’ Vesta felt this was an overstatement the minute she said it. Mirabelle remained very much a mystery. ‘I’m the only one who cares about her, you see,’ she persisted.

  The matron’s brown eyes remained expressionless. Her air of cold efficiency was frustrating. ‘Doesn’t she have someone else? Anyone else? A blood relation?’

  Vesta shook her head. ‘I’m it,’ she said.

  The matron took a moment to consider the plea. It was a difficult situation but it wasn’t the first time someone unrelated to a patient appeared to be their only friend. Not by a long shot. ‘Look, I can’t let you in if you’re not family. Sometimes, well, people pretend. But we can’t have that, can we? Miss Bevan and you are clearly not related. Couldn’t be.’ Vesta crossed her arms and suppressed a flare of anger.

  ‘In any case, visiting isn’t until the late afternoon. And Miss Bevan will only receive visitors then if she wakes in time. You won’t be able to go in for hours.’

  Vesta felt suddenly tearful. Her lip quivered. ‘What do you mean, if she wakes in time? She was fine until she passed out. She’s all right, isn’t she? I mean, I know she was shot but she’ll be all right.’

  The matron sighed. ‘It may take her a while. She’s had a terrible shock. Sometimes the body simply cuts out. We don’t know when she’ll wake up. The doctor has seen her and we’ve dressed her wound and made her comfortable. Now she needs to rest. It may be later today or it might take longer.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Vesta said. ‘I don’t want her to open her eyes and there’s nobody here.’ She turned away and slumped into a seat beside the wall.

  ‘We don’t allow …’ Matron started but the look on Vesta’s face stopped her. ‘Look, let me see if I can find out any more. I can’t promise anything. We can’t just let you sit here once we’ve started our rounds. But you can wait until I come back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Vesta nodded. She wasn’t such a bad old stick, after all.

  After no more than five minutes the matron appeared again at the end of the corridor. She’s a fast worker, thought Vesta, until a policeman in uniform came through the swing doors behind her. The woman was still holding the clipboard. Vesta tried to breathe evenly. Mirabelle’s instructions had been clear but they ran contrary to everything Vesta believed – to lie to an officer of the law. Despite her brush with Hove’s uniformed division the year before, there was something about the dark wool suit and chrome buttons that made Vesta want to go into awkward details and spill every last bean.

  ‘This is Constable Brewer,’ the matron said. ‘This is Vesta Churchill who was with the lady who was shot.’ She turned tail and walked smartly back up the corridor.

  ‘You were with Miss Bevan?’ the officer asked, reaching for his notebook and taking down Vesta’s name. ‘V-E-S-T-A?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Vesta replied. ‘And Churchill as in Winston.’ So far, so good.

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes. And the fellow with the gun.’

  ‘What happened exactly, Miss Churchill?’

  ‘Well, we went up there for some office supplies.’ Vesta kept her voice even.

  ‘To Clerkenwell at four in the morning? Two women on their own?’

  She’d just have to make it sound as plausible as she could.

  ‘Mirabelle and I work together in Brighton. McGuigan & McGuigan. It’s a debt recovery office. We’d tried to find what we wanted in the shops, of course. We’d been trying for weeks. We were up in London seeing friends. We stayed at Duke’s Hotel on Saturday night. But we still couldn’t get hold of some of the items. We wanted a particular make of typewriter. It’s American. We couldn’t find one anywhere. Then someone mentioned this market, up by London Spa on Sunday night.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who mentioned the market?’

  Vesta thought for a second. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Someone Mirabelle knew. Maybe someone at the hotel.’

  ‘So,’ the policeman noted down her reply, ‘it was a black-market item you were buying, Miss Churchill? The market up there is all off the ration and stolen goods, you see.’

  ‘We hadn’t exactly realised, officer. I mean, it was apparent there was black-market stuff up there once we arrived, but we were just after some office supplies – a new typewriter specifically. No such thing as a black-market typewriter is there? It was stupid of us to go up there, I know. It started as a lark.’

  ‘London Spa is no place for ladies at that time of night. Tysoe Street especially,’ the officer commented.

  ‘We realised that when we arrived but, well, he had what we wanted.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He was on one of the stalls. Quite tall. Brown hair, I’d say. It was difficult to see properly in the dark. He was ordinary-looking – not particularly handsome or anything. I think he was from London. He sounded as if he was anyway.’

  The officer reviewed his notes. ‘This fellow was tall with brown hair, and not particularly handsome, speaking with a London accent.’

  ‘Yes. He was wearing a demob suit.’ Vesta felt inspired. It was easier to be vague than she anticipated. She fluttered her lashes. ‘It was so dark. It was difficult to tell his hair colour, too, with the hat. I’m sorry. I think it just got out of hand. He took offence. I don’t really know why but he just lost his rag. We left with the typewriter and we were walking back into town and he obviously had second thoughts and followed us in his van. Then it turned out he had a service revolver.’

  The policeman sighed heavily. ‘Yes. A service revolver,’ he repeated. ‘We’ve retrieved that. And the van, which appears to have been run off the road by another vehicle. There’s a large dent in the rear of the vehicle. But you were walking, you say?’

  ‘Yes. That’s how we got up there and that’s how we were going to get back. There wasn’t another car or van or anything. It’s very quiet up there at that time of night. I think he was trying to scare us. He screeched down the street as if he was going to run us over. He might have been drinking, I suppose. Then he ran off the road and got out shouting and waving his gun. He grabbed the typewriter from us. You know, perhaps the van already had a dent in the back …’

  ‘What was he shouting about?’

  ‘“Bloody women”, that’s what he kept saying.’ Vesta thought it was going rather well.

  ‘I see. So he took the typewriter back, Miss Churchill?’

  ‘Yes. He said it was worth more because it was the new model. Mad as a hatter – he’d already sold it. Anyway, Mirabelle shouted at him, they got into a tussle and he shot her.’

  ‘Over a typewriter?’ The officer’s voice was laden with sarcasm. ‘In the early hours? Can you recall the make of this foreign typewriter?’

  ‘It’s an IBM Model A,’ Vesta quoted from memory. ‘Green casing. They’re supposed to be awfully good. I wish we hadn’t gone now.’ Vesta heaved what she hoped was a sigh of remorse and kept her eyes wide. ‘Do you think you’ll catch him?’

 
The officer didn’t reply. It was patently unlikely. ‘I’ll need your contact details, Miss Churchill.’

  Vesta reeled off the office number and address.

  The constable narrowed his eyes as he took down the number. ‘Brighton. And you couldn’t get this typewriter anywhere closer to hand?’

  ‘No,’ said Vesta. ‘They’re in short supply and our old one was dicky.’ That really was true.

  The constable closed his notebook and replaced the elastic band. ‘Van was stolen,’ he commented, slipping the pencil into its slot. ‘We’ll come back when Miss Bevan wakes up and see what she remembers. They’ll ring us as soon as she’s compos mentis. In the meantime, we’ll ask around. It’s not much to go on, really.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Vesta said. She sounded as if she really meant it! ‘That guy is dangerous. He must be crazy.’

  ‘Sounds like it, Miss Churchill.’ She didn’t seem like the wayward type, this girl, albeit she wasn’t very observant. And from what he could make out the other woman was perfectly respectable. What on earth had induced the two of them to head towards Clerkenwell in the middle of the night for a typewriter was a mystery. Occasionally nice normal people did something stupid. He’d check with the Brighton station to see if these women were what they seemed. The unconscious one wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while.

  ‘Might I ask if there was drink taken?’ the constable tried.

  ‘On your part?’

  ‘Mirabelle and I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’d had a couple of cocktails with our dinner. Just a normal amount.’

  ‘In town?’

  ‘Feldman’s. The jazz club.’

  ‘And the man with the gun?’

  ‘Well, of course he may have been sozzled. It was hard to tell, really, what with all the shouting and commotion. It would explain a lot though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘And you hadn’t seen him before?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Right, Miss Churchill.’ There was nothing else to ask.