Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

The woman sighed. Mirabelle kept going.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The officer hesitated, but then relented. There was no harm in that. ‘WPC Bunch,’ she said.

  ‘Mirabelle Bevan. I’d shake your hand, but …’ Mirabelle began to soap her hands. The water ran brown as she washed them. There were smears of grit on her forearms so she tackled those as well. It warmed her up. The room had a strange smell of bleach and some kind of cheap perfume.

  ‘I have iodine,’ said WPC Bunch, putting down the toilet seat and opening the first-aid kit.

  ‘Any arnica cream? I had a bash,’ Mirabelle said. ‘That’s the worst thing. It aches.’

  ‘I’ll have a look. What happened to you exactly?’

  ‘Nothing. I fell, climbing over a wall, that’s all.’

  ‘A wall?’ the policewoman repeated, her eyes falling to Mirabelle’s heels, which had survived the escapade in more pristine condition than she had. ‘Here is the arnica.’

  Mirabelle took the tube and squeezed a dot of the white cream on to her finger. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and raised her skirt so she could smear it on to her skin, which had already started to discolour. She bruised easily – always had. Her skin was covered in goosebumps. ‘It’s going to be autumn soon and we’ll be back to stockings before we know it,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Don’t you have a first name?’

  ‘It’s Jessica,’ said the officer, and sucked in a breath through her teeth. ‘Maybe we should take you to the police doctor,’ she said and then stopped. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Dr Williams?’

  ‘Actually, my mistake. He’s … not on tonight.’

  Mirabelle remembered he’d been half an hour late for dinner, if he’d turned up at all in the end. It seemed longer than three hours ago. ‘They’ll have got him back in, surely?’ she said. ‘McGregor has a serious operation under way. They’ll need a doctor.’

  ‘Well, there aren’t any bodies.’ Jessica stopped herself short again.

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Mirabelle ignored the woman’s indiscretion. She put out her leg and Jessica dabbed iodine where it had been scraped by the bricks.

  ‘Sore?’ she asked.

  ‘A little bit.’ Actually, it was a lot, but better than having an infection, Mirabelle told herself. ‘I don’t suppose there is a needle and thread in there,’ she nodded at the first-aid kit. ‘My skirt, you see.’ She illustrated the point by pulling open the rip.

  ‘I could go and see if I can find one.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As the WPC left, Mirabelle turned off the tap. She didn’t look too bad, she told herself, checking in the mirror, and now she might have three minutes if she was lucky. She just had to find him. She opened the door and peered down the corridor. There was nothing to see – the sound of typing seemed to fill the offices to her left. Mirabelle knew this station – she’d been here many times. The holding cells were downstairs and the interview rooms were further along on this level. Quickly she decided she didn’t have time to make it to the cells and, besides, she knew there was a locked grate at the end of the corridor so the interview rooms were the better bet. There was no time to waste. She stepped on to the linoleum and began to make her way along the hallway. Her hip still ached. It was worse when she walked on tiptoes but she persevered and turned the corner. The rooms had frosted-glass doors along here – a new addition. She stopped at the first doorway and listened but couldn’t make anything out, though inside there was the hushed sound of men’s voices, and through the glass she could make out two men on one side of a table and another two on the other. It was difficult to see which were the policemen and which were the interviewees. Next door she had more luck. The interviewee was shouting.

  ‘Damn you! What the hell have you been doing? Spying on me.’

  Lower, McGregor’s tone was insistent. She couldn’t make out what he was saying but Mirabelle recognised his voice. She leaned in. Whatever the superintendent said, he infuriated the other man, who got to his feet. She jumped back against the wall as the interviewee lurched towards the glass-panelled door. It was odd, she thought, that McGregor hadn’t stood up more quickly to stop him. The handle turned and the door opened.

  ‘Sir.’ McGregor followed Chief Constable Ridge into the hallway. The men were so involved in their argument that they didn’t even notice her standing as far back as she could, out of their way. McGregor’s face was pink with fury. He caught the superior officer by the arm. ‘I’ll arrest you if I have to,’ he spat. ‘You don’t want that.’

  At the end of the corridor, Sergeant Belton appeared with another officer, whom Mirabelle vaguely recognised. She couldn’t quite remember the name.

  ‘Green!’ McGregor gestured. ‘Talk some sense into the chief.’

  Ah yes, she thought. Green was from Scotland Yard. He’d been involved in a case she’d got caught up with four years before – a friend of Vesta’s had been arrested and taken up to London. Green was one of Scotland Yard’s best officers. In some circles he was considered practically psychic, but all those years ago he hadn’t been able to save Lindon Claremont from being killed in his cell. That’s odd, she found herself wondering: what was Superintendent Green doing here?

  Whatever it was, he produced a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Ridge sneered.

  ‘Now sir,’ Sergeant Belton cut in, his gaze moving between the chief and Mirabelle – he was, she noted, the only one who realised she was there. ‘You’d best not make us arrest you, sir. That can’t be for the best. Not for anyone. As I understand it there is a deal to be done.’

  ‘Cut them all loose, you mean? My men. Your fellow officers?’

  ‘Exactly that. I, for one, am sick of bent coppers. With respect, times are changing.’

  Ridge’s face flushed. ‘How dare you? We keep the peace. We keep the peace more effectively in Brighton than you’d have dreamt of as a constable. I’m right, Belton, aren’t I? Cooperation works well for everyone – the public included.’

  ‘It’s got out of hand, sir.’

  ‘So you thought that rather than arresting the criminals, you’d arrest your friends?’ Ridge rounded on McGregor. ‘You think you’re so superior, bringing in Scotland Yard. Playing for the big time, are you? And all over some whore who got herself pregnant, Superintendent. You think that’s worth bringing down good men? Good men with long service?’

  McGregor cut in. ‘You have some choices, sir, that’s all. Do you want to go down with the others, or will you sanction an inquiry and manage the revelations? If you come on board, it’s Brighton Constabulary sanctioning itself. Otherwise—’

  ‘It’s down to us,’ Green cut in, ‘and the Yard will bring High Court prosecutions against everyone – you included. There are no more backhanders, Ridge; it’s only about how you want it to go. It’s in all our interests to manage the way the force is presented. But we can do it the other way, if you won’t play ball.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘It doesn’t touch you, sir. You retire. That’s the deal.’

  ‘They said I’d get a knighthood one day.’

  Green’s eyes fell to the floor. ‘I can’t see it, sir, if I’m being honest,’ he said. ‘But you won’t go to jail. We’re working to the Home Secretary himself on this one.’

  ‘And he sanctioned this? Police officers over criminals?’

  ‘If we arrest the offenders, sir, they’d testify against our officers, wouldn’t they?’ Green pointed out. ‘We’d rather manage it as an internal matter. That’s the instructions – the Home Secretary’s view. Sort out the good guys first and we can pick up the bad guys in time, once the collusion is done with.’

  The chief constable seemed to sink a little.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Belton. ‘Why don’t you go back into number three and work out the details, sir?’

  Ridge didn’t like it but he seemed to accept Belton’s suggestion. Green followed him back into the interview room, his eyes locked on the back
of Ridge’s head. As McGregor turned to join them he saw her. His gaze hardened. ‘Mirabelle,’ he said.

  ‘You want me to wait, do you? While you chat to your lady friend?’ Ridge spat from the doorway.

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’ McGregor sounded contrite.

  The three of them marched back into the interview room. When the door closed, McGregor’s eyes were still on her. Jessica Bunch appeared at the head of the corridor. ‘I found some black,’ she said, ‘it’s all we’ve got.’ She held up a needle and a spool of thread.

  ‘WPC Bunch. Could you bring Miss Bevan this way?’ Sergeant Belton barked.

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Bunch looked confused.

  The three of them walked into the back office, where two officers were huddled over cups of tea. ‘Out,’ said Belton.

  The men scrambled to their feet and disappeared through the door.

  ‘WPC Bunch, you are singularly ineffective. I give you one job to do and you let Miss Bevan go further into the station on her own. What did I tell you?’ He waited.

  ‘It’s not Jessica’s fault,’ said Mirabelle.

  Belton hissed. ‘What did I say to you, Bunch?’

  ‘That she’s a slippery customer, sir. Into the lavatory and out again – that’s all.’

  ‘And in the meantime, she persuaded you to take up embroidery, did she?’

  ‘There was a rip in her skirt, sir.’

  ‘It was supposed to be a wash and a brush-up, Bunch. Not a dress fitting.’

  ‘Look,’ Mirabelle started. ‘Blame me—’

  Belton cut in. ‘That’s enough, Miss Bevan. This is a serious business. I hope for the sake of the public good that you will have the grace not to repeat what you’ve heard here tonight. I hope I can have your word on that.’

  Mirabelle nodded. ‘But it’ll come out, won’t it?’

  ‘There will be an inquiry. That’s the aim. It’ll be announced imminently. Formally. Without the need for busybodies or gossip. Do you understand me?’

  ‘And all these police officers are down from London …’

  ‘To help us enforce the action against the Brighton officers who have been in league with the criminal element. You should be proud of the superintendent – he’s struck a blow against corruption this evening.’

  ‘I thought McGregor was investigating the death of Mary Needle.’

  ‘It’s a complicated situation, miss. It’s bigger than just one case. I should clap you in the cells, but I have no more room. So you’re on your own recognisance. Can I trust you?’

  Mirabelle paused. Then she nodded.

  ‘Shall I see if I can find somebody to drive you home?’

  Mirabelle shook her head.

  ‘Right,’ said Belton. ‘Well, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the WPC. ‘I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. I just had to see McGregor about something. I didn’t realise.’

  The sergeant opened the door and Mirabelle swept back into reception and out on to the street, only half glancing at WPC Bunch, whose head had dropped so that she seemed to be examining her regulation flat black shoes in some detail.

  The night air felt cool on Mirabelle’s skin. It had stopped raining. The moon was obscured by clouds. She leaned against the wall of the police station. Somewhere, far off, three drunk men were singing a Frank Sinatra number. They stumbled over both the words and the melody. She struggled to take in this new information. Ridge was an icon of the Brighton Police force but even he, it seemed, had been on the take.

  Slowly, Mirabelle turned towards North Street and began to walk in the direction of home. It was too much to take in, almost – the nurses, Jinty, the mob leaving town in disarray. It would be good to sleep. She wondered if Brighton would feel different tomorrow – less grubby somehow, with no corrupt police officers and the gangsters they’d colluded with gone. On Church Street she stopped and sat on the wall outside Father Grogan’s church. The coldness seeped through her skirt and numbed the pain in her hip. Behind her, Sandor’s grave was lit by a streetlight and Jack’s plot was in darkness. Soon Father Grogan would be joining Sandor in the ground. Would his murder remain unsolved, she wondered. Would Sister Taylor’s disappearance be resolved? And what about Mary Needle? McGregor had used her death to justify his intervention to Scotland Yard, she realised. He must have. She could see him pointing out that this was where it had gone too far – the line that shouldn’t have been crossed, whatever Ridge thought about the poor woman’s death.

  Were there more than these three, she wondered. She wished she’d paid more attention to the photographs on McGregor’s wall that afternoon. There had been a lot of them – twenty, perhaps, at an estimate. Were those that weren’t cars, pictures of murdered people? The superintendent had done a good thing. There was no doubt about that. She thought of the death she’d been holding against McGregor – Freddy Fox, the year before. This would put paid to vigilantes. The police wouldn’t be able to sweep murderers wholesale under the table any more – Freddy Fox, Tony and Gerry Bone. Wearily, she got to her feet again, and with only a fleeting backwards glance at the graves, she crossed the road and turned down towards the front.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do

  There was nothing to make Mirabelle suspicious at the front door. All along the terrace, the long windows were dark. Waves broke on the shore as usual and the front was completely deserted as Mirabelle disappeared inside the tall white Georgian building. The wind was bracing – autumn had arrived all at once. She climbed the stairs to the first floor, the still air inside some kind of comfort. It wasn’t until she reached her flat that she realised her door had been tampered with. She scrambled in her bag and then regretted dropping her torch on the lawn at the children’s home. It was difficult to see in the dark but someone had definitely been here. The door wasn’t closed properly.

  Had Tony found out where she lived? It was unlikely, but tonight, even if it was only a burglar, she’d be bottom of the list for police attention. After what had happened at the station, there was no point even calling – Belton would be on the desk.

  Mirabelle took a moment to steel herself. She made a plan, such as it was, drew up her strength and then, her pulse racing, she burst through the door, grabbing a paperweight from the small table in the hallway so she would be able to defend herself. She snapped on the light in the drawing room, taking stock of the place. Had she left that glass, she wondered? She couldn’t remember. There was a dent in the sofa, but she might have sat there herself. The flat remained bound in silence. Moving on, she checked the kitchen, which was empty, and then walked towards the bedroom door, freezing as she heard movement inside. Grasping the paperweight, she kicked the door open and, adrenalin pumping, flung herself at the figure beside her bed.

  ‘Jesus!’ He spun around, trying to hold her off, but she was in full flow and brought down the paperweight on his temple with a smack. He was bigger than she was, and stronger. As he turned she pulled back her arm once more to strike a second blow, but then she saw his face in the light from the drawing room.

  ‘Oh no! I’m sorry!’ Mirabelle managed to get out.

  Chris Williams staggered backwards and, tripping over a sheet that was trailing off the edge of the bed, he landed on the floor. At once, Mirabelle dropped her weapon, which hit the carpet with a thump. Then she reached out to help him.

  ‘It’s all right. I must have given you a fright,’ he said. He put his hand up to his face as he scrabbled to his feet. ‘You’ve got a good swing there. That hurt!’

  ‘What are you doing here, Chris?’

  ‘I wanted to see you.’ He sank down on to the mattress with his hand at his temple. ‘We were supposed to have dinner but things got in the way. I came here but you weren’t in. It must be after midnight now,’ he looked at his watch. ‘I was tired. I fell asleep. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘You broke in?’

  ‘I’m so
rry. It was a rotten night outside. Will you forgive me?’

  A rotten night was understating it. Mirabelle found her throat had tightened. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She gasped. It had been a night of disappointment, horror and revelation. She still hadn’t worked it all out but she knew she was glad to see him. Sandor, Jack and Father Grogan couldn’t comfort her, but Chris was here. Alive.

  ‘But your car?’ she said. ‘I didn’t see it outside.’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to know.’

  He reached out to hold her as she sank down beside him on the bed.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t turn up for dinner,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’re fated not to eat together.’ His arms were something to rely on, she thought. They felt that way. She leaned into him.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I thought they’d have you on duty, what with the … operation.’

  He kissed her hair. ‘So you know then? What’s been going on at the station.’

  ‘I think I do. There’s been quite a lot to take in.’

  ‘I’ll bet. I’m sorry, Mirabelle. I wanted to avoid it all. I knew it was wrong, of course.’

  Mirabelle pulled back.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Chris sighed. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry. There’s no nice way to present it. I’m just going to tell you.’

  ‘Your best bedside manner?’

  He didn’t smile. ‘The thing is that I took money like the rest of them. I mean everyone was taking money and I took it too.’

  ‘Not everyone.’ Mirabelle pulled herself free from his grip.

  ‘No. I suppose not. But it felt like everyone. And you know, it kind of worked. I mean, crime was down.’

  ‘Not Father Grogan’s murder. Not Mary Needle or Sister Taylor or God knows who else,’ she babbled, her voice rising.

  He put up his hand. ‘I know. I know. I’ve been an idiot. I didn’t realise – I didn’t make the connections. I’m a doctor, not a detective. The thing is that it all seemed so normal. I mean, you fix up some chap and they just give you an envelope. You attend a crime scene because, you know, there’s a body, and they slip you twenty quid and tell you what to say because they’re not taking it any further. And then when I copped what I’d done … I mean, I was part of it and it was completely wrong and I was an idiot.’