Operation Goodwood

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Too busy saving lives.’

  ‘This kind of damage can kill people too.’ Mr Timpson stuck to his guns. ‘It is going to take some weeks. Just to be clear.’

  ‘I know.’

  Mr Timpson nodded curtly. He put away the sheaf of papers in his well-worn leather satchel and sighed. ‘Well, thanks to your efficiency, I’m finished far earlier than I expected.’

  ‘And if I understand you correctly, you are happy to underwrite the cost of cleaning, refurbishment and replacement as required?’

  Mr Timpson looked over the top of his spectacles. Really, this woman was a marvel. Often when he turned up at the site of a large claim there was only confusion. Most times if there was a woman there, she’d burst into tears. Mrs Lewis’s professionalism was inspiring. ‘You understand correctly,’ he confirmed with what could only be described as a toothy smirk. ‘And if I might just ask, will you be dealing with the claim on Miss Bevan’s behalf?’

  Vesta nodded.

  ‘Well, she is, I think, extremely fortunate to have you. Now, as I’m finished here, I wonder if I might tempt you to join me for a drink? It is almost that time.’ Mr Timpson gave another smile and checked his watch. It was a quarter past midday, easily time for lunch, liquid or otherwise. ‘I’m running rather early, you see. I expected this business to take well into the afternoon and I confess I’m curious to find out how you ended up here, Mrs Lewis?’

  ‘Working for McGuigan & McGuigan?’

  ‘No. Here in Brighton, I mean. One doesn’t expect such an exotic person . . .’

  Vesta stiffened. He wasn’t trying to be rude. ‘I’m a London girl really,’ she cut in. ‘From Bermondsey. And I’m afraid I need to get back to the office.’

  Mr Timpson’s eyes strayed only momentarily across her figure. ‘That’s a shame.’

  Vesta made a move for the door. A couple of years ago she’d have taken up Mr Timpson’s offer. She’d have smiled and laughed and won him round so that he wouldn’t think of the colour of her skin before he thought of anything else. These days, since she and Charlie had got hitched and the trouble they’d had with the neighbours when they moved out of town, the truth was that Vesta felt a good deal less inclined to bring people round, one way or another.

  ‘And where is Miss Bevan?’ Mr Timpson made to follow Vesta downstairs.

  ‘She’s gone up to London. She needed some essentials.’

  ‘You seem very protective of her.’

  ‘She’s more than just my boss. Over the years we’ve become friends.’

  ‘And I can’t tempt you to just one little drink?’

  ‘I must get back to work. Thanks, though.’ Vesta closed the front door with a sense of finality. She locked it and held out her hand. Mr Timpson shook it and watched her as she wheeled her bike into place so she could mount.

  ‘It’s an easy cycle along the front,’ she said.

  Mr Timpson raised his hat as Vesta’s figure receded along the promenade, wishing he could have been more persuasive. He’d expected the girl to be keener but there was no accounting for taste. Still, he thought, there was plenty of time – the renovation would take a couple of months and he’d have every opportunity to take Mrs Lewis for lunch on another occasion. Turning towards Hove, where he had parked his car, he wondered if Miss Bevan was as much of a honey as her clerk. Perhaps he’d have the opportunity to take her for lunch at some point, too.

  Mirabelle hopped on to a Routemaster and headed eastwards. As the bus drove through town, she stared out of the window. The pavement was dappled in autumn light and the air felt warmer than it had on the coast. She had not set out for town with the sole reason of a visit to the Beaumont residence in mind. Before she left Brighton she’d had the foresight to make another appointment but Madame Vergisson had not been able to see her till three o’clock so there was plenty of time to undertake more investigation. The bus filled and emptied by turns. At Fleet Street, she alighted only a few yards from the Daily Telegraph’s office, an imposing Victorian building fronted by a line of stone columns.

  When she enquired after George Highton at the reception desk, the girl who was stationed there didn’t even check. ‘He’s out to lunch,’ she said.

  Mirabelle looked at her watch. Often she simply forgot that most people punctuated their days with food and drink. ‘Do you know when he might be back?’ she enquired.

  The receptionist looked confused as if Mirabelle had asked when Mr Highton might be landing on the moon. There was a pause, then she said decisively, ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

  ‘Does he have a secretary?’ Mirabelle pushed.

  The receptionist shook her head in alarm. The ritual of lunch on Fleet Street was generally accorded a quasi-religious respect and it would seem callers who ascertained that Mr Highton was so engaged seldom asked any further. Mirabelle folded her hands as if she was set to wait. There was a small bench to one side and she eyed it.

  ‘I suppose you could speak to Mr Vinestock, if you like,’ the girl said. ‘He writes about the Grand Prix and that sort of thing. He’s upstairs. Second floor.’

  ‘That’s very helpful. Thank you.’ Mirabelle smiled as she turned to take the stairs.

  In the second-floor hallway there was a glass screen through which she could see the newsroom. It wasn’t busy at this time of day – the morning editions were long gone and the pressure was off until tomorrow. Over half the desks were abandoned and of the journalists who remained in the office, several were smoking laconically as they spoke on the telephone or read newspapers other than the one they were employed to produce. As she walked through the glass door, their voices joined in concert with the clacking of typewriters. She paused in front of the bank of desks, taking in the layout to see who she might ask for help. In the event there was no need. A stocky, blue-eyed young man caught her eye and raised his hand in greeting. He strode towards her and held out his hand.

  ‘Mr Vinestock?’ Mirabelle checked.

  ‘That’s right.’ He grinned, revealing a wide, white smile. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I understand you work with George Highton. I wondered if you might know where I could catch up with him?’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘Brighton. I was up in town on other business and I wanted to drop in. I bumped into Mr Highton yesterday when he was down on the coast.’

  Vinestock paused. He ran his hand through his hair, releasing the scent of pomade on to the air, then he hooked his thumb into his waistcoat pocket. ‘He’ll be out on the town, Miss Bevan. He’s been out on the town ever since, you see.’

  ‘Since yesterday, you mean?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Since the fire?’

  ‘You know about it, then?’

  ‘I was in it, Mr Vinestock. Dougie Beaumont lived directly above me.’

  Reuben Vinestock seemed to relax a little. The explanation of a tragedy was always difficult because you never knew how people might react or how much it was politic to tell them. Mirabelle, after all, might have been anyone. In this case the matter was now sufficiently illuminated. Mirabelle had an interest.

  ‘You can call me Reuben,’ he said, drawing a bashed silver cigarette case from his trouser pocket and offering it in her direction. She shook her head, and he lit a smoke for himself, regarding her carefully. Mirabelle knew that look – he had realised she had a story. Journalists and policemen always wore the same slow-eyed expression when their interest was aroused. He glanced momentarily back towards his desk.

  ‘Do you think you might be able to point me in the direction of Mr Highton’s drinking spree? I’d very much like to catch up with him.’

  Reuben shrugged his shoulders and drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a couple of questions. Things to clear up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Mirabelle paused. There was no point in being coy. ‘I have reason to believe he
removed something from the scene of the fire.’ Vinestock took another draw and waited for her to continue. ‘The police don’t know Mr Highton was in Brighton on Sunday and I didn’t tell them he had visited Mr Beaumont’s flat. He has been bereaved, after all, and sometimes people do odd things. But I think he took something that belonged to Mr Beaumont and I’d like to know what it was.’

  Mirabelle let her words settle.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like George,’ Reuben said, doubtfully. ‘He’s not a sneak thief. Perhaps he had lent Dougie something. Perhaps it was a photograph or a keepsake. He was pretty cut up about what happened. They spent a lot of time together. They’d known each other since they were children.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps it was something like that. There’s no need to get the authorities involved but I’d very much appreciate your help. Do you think you could help me track him down?’

  It took a moment or two as Reuben weighed up Mirabelle’s resolve alongside his own curiosity. There was no doubt that given the state George Highton was in, he was far better speaking to this woman than the police.

  ‘Let me get my hat,’ he said. ‘There’s a couple of places we could try.’

  Outside it had started to rain again. A mist of fine drizzle descended like a blanket over Fleet Street but this time it did not obscure the bright autumn light. Reuben had brought a long-handled black umbrella and he opened it, motioning for Mirabelle to shelter underneath.

  ‘Well, this is cosy,’ he said.

  ‘I understand you cover events on the racing circuit. The Grand Prix and so on?’

  Reuben shook his head. ‘Only if George can’t get his copy in for one reason or another. Mostly I write about foreign policy. I just fill in sometimes when people are off.’

  ‘You’ve got languages then?’

  He nodded. ‘You can say it, if you like. I mean it’s obvious, but you can ask if you want to.’

  ‘Ask what?’

  He cast a glance sideways at her. ‘I’m Jewish, Miss Bevan. I’m one of those clever, hard-working Jews. You know: the lucky ones. I speak just about everything – French, Russian and, for that matter, Arabic. And yes, I speak German too. That’s what everyone always asks. “Do you speak German?” As if the whole war was our fault because we stupidly settled in Germany and picked up the mother tongue. So, yes, I have languages. It’s less awkward just to get the thing out.’

  Mirabelle faltered. ‘Well, that’s none of my business,’ she said and cursed herself for sounding prissy.

  Reuben laughed. He took her arm and guided her around the corner on to Red Lion Close, skilfully manoeuvring the umbrella to miss the low-hanging shop signs and wall-mounted lights. This part of town had character but that came with disadvantages in wet weather.

  ‘No. I mean it,’ Mirabelle insisted, recovering from the frankness of his admission. ‘There’s really no need. You sound so very het up. I wouldn’t tell you anything like that about me.’

  Reuben eyed her. ‘Church of England?’ he snorted. ‘Nothing to tell. Look, it’s very nice of you, but I know what everyone thinks. I mean, the English at least try to be polite. I just wish I was half as good with money as you lot assume.’

  ‘We didn’t fight the war . . .’ Mirabelle’s voice trailed as he met her eyes with a glance that could freeze water. He lifted the umbrella higher to let her enter a pub beside the advocates’ chambers. Inside, the atmosphere was subdued. If anything it was darker than outside, despite the downpour. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and vinegar. Two men dressed in legal gowns huddled over glasses of oily-looking brandy. Reuben Vinestock made for the bar where a tall, thin fellow in a crumpled plaid shirt was cleaning a beer pump.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’m looking for George Highton.’

  The tall man shrugged. ‘I ain’t seen him, mate. Not since yesterday.’

  ‘Who was he with?’

  The barman eyed Mirabelle, considering perhaps if he ought to say.

  ‘With a woman, then?’ Vinestock guessed.

  The man nodded.

  ‘Just the two of them?’

  He nodded again. Vinestock checked his watch. ‘Right,’ he said, ushering Mirabelle back out on to the lane. The door banged behind them and he motioned her towards Fleet Street.

  ‘He’ll be somewhere in Soho,’ Reuben said. ‘He’ll have taken the girl drinking and dancing, whoever it was. He’ll stop off somewhere, get some sleep. He’ll be up by now more or less and, well that’s my guess, he’s probably back in Soho, drinking. Everyone knows him round here. Yesterday the whole world was commiserating with the poor guy – regrets and regards, all that. All the fellows in the office dropping by one by one to pay their respects. I think that’s the worst thing – everyone feeling sorry for you when someone has died. Everyone trying to help when the truth is that nobody can. About now, if I were George, I’d want to be alone. Look, I’m sure he didn’t take anything valuable from Dougie’s flat, Miss Bevan. He wouldn’t remove anything he didn’t have a right to. He isn’t like that. But if he’s over in Soho, I don’t want to intrude. He’s probably blind drunk and he’s gone there to avoid people.’

  ‘And the girl he was with when he was here . . .?’ she asked. Reuben’s eyes shifted slightly. ‘He doesn’t have a regular girlfriend, then?’ Mirabelle pushed.

  Reuben skipped only a beat. ‘It’ll just be someone from the typing pool.’ He looked over his shoulder and Mirabelle just knew. Sometimes people gave themselves away without even realising. Reuben Vinestock had the air of being frank, but it was what he hadn’t said that was important. That and a remark Mrs Beaumont had let drop about her son – girls followed him around like puppies – she had emphasised that, almost as if she had been convincing herself. Now, understanding dropped into place like a penny in a slot.

  ‘It was always Dougie Beaumont for George Highton, wasn’t it?’ Mirabelle pressed her suspicion home. ‘And his feelings were reciprocated. That’s why Highton came down to Brighton after the fire. That’s why everyone was commiserating with him. And that’s why he’s so cut up. It was more than just a friendship. They were lovers, weren’t they, Mr Vinestock?’

  Reuben stared blankly. If there was any suggestion that what Mirabelle had said was untrue, most people would take tremendous offence. Reuben Vinestock did not. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me you’re a young man who says what he thinks. Only a few minutes ago, you were extremely frank.’

  Mirabelle was surprised at the flush that bloomed across Reuben’s cheek.

  ‘What George and Dougie got up to is their business, not mine. They’re decent blokes, both of them. Look, I need to get back.’

  He stepped away. A fine mist of rain dusted Mirabelle’s skin, or at least what little of it was protruding from her outfit. Reuben held out the umbrella. ‘You can take it, if you like.’

  ‘Mr Vinestock, I have to ask. Is this why Dougie Beaumont killed himself? I mean, it can’t have been easy for him. His father is a member of parliament—’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Reuben cut in, but he shook his head as he said the words. Homosexuality was illegal, but worse than that was the shame. Reuben shifted on his feet.

  ‘I’m not accusing you, Mr Vinestock. To be honest, I feel a lot of empathy. The more I find out about this young man – he had such tremendous talent but that meant a lot was expected of him. And it can’t be easy . . . I mean, Dougie Beaumont might well have felt tremendously guilty.’

  ‘Well if he did, none of us knew,’ Reuben relented. ‘I mean why should he? People think that they’re perverts or ingrates or whatever but whose business is it? People are just different from each other. Dougie seemed absolutely fine the last time I saw him.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Last month. In Deauville. He was excited because he’d had an idea about how to modify the steering column. He was planning to have a prototype to try out in time for Goodwood next year. Y
ou can’t tell what’s going on inside people.’

  ‘Did Beaumont keep a diary? A notebook of some kind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘I’d still like to know what George Highton removed from Beaumont’s flat.’

  ‘It’s not your business. Look, the chances are it was probably something private – I mean, between them. A revelation would be the last thing the family would need now and the last thing Dougie would have wanted. Don’t break his mother’s heart by making a point of this. All it would take is a nosey copper to decide it was his duty to hunt out the sodomite. I don’t like witch-hunts. Or fag-hunts. Or Jew-hunts. You must know what the police are like. Please. I think you should drop it. George is devastated. That much I can definitely tell you. I really ought to get back now.’

  Mirabelle followed Reuben on to Fleet Street. As the drizzle dried up, a rainbow appeared between the clouds. From this angle it looked as if it ended at the Old Bailey. Vinestock picked up his pace and she fell into step with him as he strode back towards the office.

  ‘I’m not like that,’ she insisted, ‘I believe in live and let live.’

  ‘Well, you should leave it be, then. I don’t want to know anything more about it,’ Vinestock mumbled. ‘I can’t get involved.’

  Mirabelle felt suddenly wise – a woman of the world. Her friend, Eddie Brandon, was brazen in his love affairs, but then Eddie knew a lot of secrets. If the police were to arrest him they would risk an unholy security breach. Once it had been suggested that his sexual behaviour was risky for the department.

  ‘Why?’ he’d asked, his tone characteristically cool.

  ‘Well, you know.’ The man Eddie had been speaking to was his superior. He’d dealt with war crimes, corruption and espionage, but somehow he couldn’t find the words for this. ‘There’s a fear you might compromise us, Brandon.’

  ‘The thing is—’ Eddie retained a twinkle in his eye ‘—we all know about me. I never deny it. So what is someone going to threaten to do? Unmask me for the unholy sybarite I am? Report me to the police for sodomy? What I don’t know about the Commissioner isn’t worth knowing.’