Indian Summer

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘So you thought you’d just run away to London?’

  ‘It’s not far enough away now,’ he said sadly. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Did they come to arrest you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I left the mews. I came here. I wanted to see you.’

  That was why he’d broken in. He could hardly wait in full view, on the street in the rain. That was why he had hidden his car.

  In the gloom, Mirabelle made out a case next to her wardrobe. It didn’t belong to her.

  ‘You’re on the run, Chris.’

  ‘You make it sound lame.’

  ‘At the least.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink, eh?’ His voice sounded bluff.

  ‘I don’t want a drink,’ she said.

  He didn’t reply, just got up and walked through to the drawing room. The light was still on and she watched him pour a Scotch and then down it. He reached towards the window and twitched the curtain so he could peer outside – the action of a wanted man.

  ‘I’d be gone by now, if it wasn’t for you,’ he said. ‘I’d have gone a week ago. I’m only the doctor. It might have been OK if I had just got out of here.’

  ‘Don’t let me detain you. For heaven’s sake.’ Mirabelle kicked off her shoes. Her leg ached and she felt exhausted. ‘There’s no point in dragging up everything. Why don’t you let yourself out? Run off, wherever you’re going. There were far worse men than you involved, I’m sure. You’re not a detective, like you said. You were just on the team.’

  She lay down on the bed. The blankets were soft and the window was still open only a sliver. The cold air felt refreshing now. He walked back into the bedroom and stood over her, a dark outline with the halo of the electric light behind him. ‘Don’t you want to know where I’ll be?’

  ‘If I don’t know, I can’t tell, can I?’

  ‘I hoped you might come too.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Because I’m bent? Because I took the money?’

  ‘Because I don’t know you, really. Tonight I met a woman who needed a doctor she could trust. She was pregnant.’

  Chris stared at his shoes.

  ‘You knew that’s what was going on at the children’s home, didn’t you? Those women were in trouble, Chris. Those women were performing abortions for the mob on prostitutes who were being pressed into it. Father Grogan died because of it. And people were just taking envelopes of money. You were taking envelopes of money.’

  ‘What women?’

  ‘The nurses at the home.’

  He considered this. Mirabelle realised that he might not know as much as she assumed. Taking an envelope and asking no questions encouraged a person to ignore a lot, she imagined – and not make the connections.

  ‘My own view is that abortions should be available,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought that. But, ironic as it sounds, I wouldn’t break the law.’

  ‘I think they should be available too,’ she replied, remembering the look on the woman’s face as she had barged into Uma’s hallway earlier that evening. ‘But not under duress.’

  ‘Of course not. Look, I’m sure a million awful things have happened.’

  ‘And that’s all right, is it? Gangsters and coppers in league?’

  ‘No. Of course not. It wasn’t only the envelopes, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I patched them up if there was a problem they couldn’t take to a GP. A knife wound. A gunshot. Well, there was only a gunshot once.’

  ‘They paid you extra?’

  ‘Yes. It piled up, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘And that’s how you were going to finance a flat in Mayfair?’

  Chris nodded. ‘It made the post-mortem on Bone difficult. It’s always more difficult when it’s a patient.’

  ‘Do you know what he did? Gerry Bone? Specifically?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He got rid of the bodies. He messed it up. That’s why they killed him.’

  Chris sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You’ve worked it all out.’

  Mirabelle shrugged. ‘Probably not all of it. I can’t take it in, quite.’

  He moved to one side, so he could see her in the light, and then he leaned in, attentive. ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, noticing the state of her.

  ‘I’m fine. A WPC helped me. She put iodine on the grazes and arnica cream on the bruises.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was assaulted by one of the nurses. I scraped my leg on a wall. I don’t know how they are going to clear everything up. I mean, do you arrest a woman like that? If you prosecute half the police force, it seems you have to let the people involved in the criminal activity get away with it. Otherwise, they grass you up. That, as I understand it, is the reasoning.’

  He took her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘No. You don’t.’

  ‘You have to believe me, I would never, ever do anything like this again.’

  She laughed. The sound made her forget how tired she was. She did not pull back her hand.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He pulled her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Then he bit the flesh below her thumb. ‘Let me put you to bed,’ he said, stroking her forearm. ‘Let me look after you at least.’

  She didn’t reply, but she didn’t stop him as he began to unbutton her blouse. He slipped it off, expertly, and dropped it on the floor. Then he unzipped her skirt, leaning in and kissing her. He was a very good kisser, gentle and yet insistent. ‘You’ll sleep soon,’ he murmured. ‘Sleep is what you need.’

  Then he kissed her again. She knew she should stop him, but that involved a decision.

  ‘It’s wrong,’ she said weakly. But it felt like a relief.

  ‘Let me love you, Belle. You need love, don’t you?’ His lips brushed her neck, feathering kisses on her skin so that she tingled. Then he slipped the damp skirt over her hips and down her legs, and laid it on the bedside chair. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘Perfect, even.’

  She decided not to reply. If she replied she’d have to reject him, and just now he was her best chance of some kind of escape, if only for an hour or two. She pulled him towards her. He slipped one hand underneath her body and loosened his tie with the other and then she lost all sense of time, moving with him wordlessly until there was skin on skin and they were beyond words, anyway. Afterwards they wound their bodies around each other and slipped seamlessly into sleep.

  When she woke she was alone. The suitcase was gone. She turned over, pulling a pillow from the stack beside her and hugging it. Outside it was raining. She could hear it pelting down, hammering on the window. Along the side of the curtain a thin line of grey light confirmed the summer’s demise. It seemed impossible that a week ago she was setting out on a sunny day for a barbecue at Vesta’s house; Father Grogan was alive, Sister Taylor was in charge of the convalescent home, and she hadn’t even met Chris Williams. She didn’t think about where Uma and Ellen had gone, or the doctor for that matter. She didn’t think about Bad Luck Bone or McGregor pinning pictures of Mary Needle to his bedroom wall. Right now she just wanted to feel warm and safe and comfortable. She ignored the fact that her leg stung as she turned over, the flesh still tender. She didn’t even look at the bedside clock. Instead she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wisdom: to make good decisions

  When Mirabelle woke it was the middle of the afternoon. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared, disbelieving, at the empty flat. Then she closed her bedroom window to stop raindrops dripping inside the sill and, reaching for her robe, she walked barefoot into the drawing room, opening the curtain on to a drizzly scene of light fog and grey skies. The beach was deserted save for one forlorn dog walker, hugging her coat around her body against the wind as the dog, a collie, bounded ahead, clearly enjoying itself despite the squalls. Leaning aga
inst the frame, Mirabelle could hardly even make out the pier in the distance.

  She walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle to boil, searching out camp coffee and dried milk in the cupboard. The long weekend stretched ahead. She stared through the open doorway into the hall at the telephone, and wondered who on earth she might call. McGregor would be working still. It seemed unlikely he would have had any sleep. Vesta was ensconced with her family. The revelations of the night before bounced around her head – the home, the nurses, Jinty, Bad Luck Bone and Chris Williams. The mobsters, she thought, were probably gone by now, but best to wait a day or two and check in with McGregor. She’d retrieve Jinty once she was sure it was safe.

  Taking her coffee with her, she rummaged through the cupboard for winter clothes – a brown cashmere sweater, a tweed skirt and a pair of boots – and then she decided to walk into town. Puddles strewed the pavement all the way along the front. The rows of tall Georgian windows seemed half asleep – shutters half closed, and only an occasional electric light bringing colour to the windowpanes. Closer to the pier there were a few children at the shoreline, dressed in wellington boots and mackintoshes, running away as waves bubbled between the white pebbles. She squinted but couldn’t see any faces from the home; anyone she recognised.

  At Old Steine she turned back out of town again in the other direction. Rain dripped from the last of the summer leaves on the trees that lined the main street. A bus cut through a puddle, spraying the pavement in a frenzied shower. On instinct, Mirabelle realised where she was going. She stood at the bus stop for only a minute or two before the service came.

  On board the air was steamy. She bought a ticket and sat next to a woman who was clutching her handbag so tightly it might have been a child. Behind, two schoolboys were sharing an illicit cigarette until the conductor took it away, throwing it out of the door on to the road. Mirabelle counted the stops – the windows were dripping with condensation and it was impossible to see how far they had come. After four stops, she hopped off and walked the final couple of rain-glossed streets to Bill Turpin’s house, only realising at the door that perhaps she should have brought something as a gift. Bill wouldn’t want flowers, she thought. All Bill wanted was his wife back.

  She rapped the door knocker and waited. Debbie opened it.

  ‘Miss Bevan,’ she said, standing back to let Mirabelle into the hallway.

  The house seemed half dead itself. It smelled of abandoned cups of cold tea. It was unlikely Bill had eaten, Mirabelle thought. Julie had been the cook. Then, out of the front room, Panther trotted towards Mirabelle and nudged her knees. She patted him.

  ‘I came to visit Bill,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d see if he needed anything.’

  ‘He went to the pub.’ Debbie’s expression was disapproving. ‘I don’t know which one. He said he might walk over to Kemptown. He’s got mates there from his police days. I thought I’d wait in case anybody came,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sorting out Julie’s things.’

  ‘He left the dog?’ It wasn’t like him.

  ‘I think he’s forgetful. If you ask me, he’s in shock.’

  She led Mirabelle into the front room. On the table, Julie’s clothes were folded in two neat piles and on top there was a wooden-backed hairbrush, a felt hat and a packet of talcum powder. A small scatter of dress jewellery sprayed outwards, like a pile of spilled sugar lumps. An empty cardboard box sat on a chair.

  ‘It doesn’t come to much,’ Debbie said with a shrug. ‘I’m not sure what to do with it all. I suppose the Salvation Army might want it. Cuppa? Please. Sit down.’

  ‘I’m fine for tea, thank you.’ Panther sat on Mirabelle’s feet and nuzzled her leg. Mirabelle pushed the dog away, but he would not relent, and licked her graze with some enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s tough on you as well,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Losing a sister.’

  ‘Do you have a sister, Miss Bevan?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I’m an only child.’

  ‘I was lucky to have her,’ Debbie said. ‘She was a wonderful woman. And they were happy, you know. They had known each other since we were all kids. They used to go courting down the town. My father caught them once, snogging on the beach. Julie was fifteen but she knew her mind. He gave her such a hiding. I don’t think she ever forgot it. But Bill was everything to Julie. He saved up for this place for three years and then they got hitched.’

  ‘They were lucky, then.’ The words had come out of Mirabelle’s mouth before she had even thought about them.

  Debbie began to cry. She pulled a crumpled blue handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘I don’t want to be here, you know. All her things. Her house. But he won’t sort it out, and somebody’s got to.’

  Mirabelle stood up. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t let me keep you. You’ve done more than enough for today. It’s still so fresh – the bereavement, I mean.’

  Debbie sniffed. Her eyes fell to the dog.

  ‘I can take Panther, if you like,’ Mirabelle offered. ‘I’ll look after him for the weekend. Get him out of the way.’

  ‘My husband isn’t keen on dogs,’ Debbie said.

  Mirabelle looked around. Her gaze lighted on Panther’s leash, hanging in the hallway beside the front door. She fetched it. Panther sprang up, tail waving like some kind of navy signal from ship to ship.

  ‘Come on,’ Mirabelle said kindly. She’d never looked after the dog – not since the first day when a grateful client had given her Panther as a puppy. Bill had been so delighted, it had always fallen to him. ‘Poor Panther was supposed to be mine, you know. Will you let Bill know? And I’ll see him on Monday, though he doesn’t have to come in, of course. Only if he’s ready.’

  Debbie nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  She didn’t want to take Panther on the bus. He was too excited that he was outside, so the two of them set off smartly down the main road back towards town. Mirabelle stopped at the grocer’s and bought a packet of dog biscuits to see him through the weekend, and Panther became even more excited than he had been about her fetching the lead. She fed him one on the pavement. Bill, she knew, would not approve. He was a stickler for routine with animals, but she judged Panther had been bereaved too.

  It felt comforting to have the dog with her – she didn’t consider him much in the normal run of things, but today she liked the way he nuzzled her leg when she stopped to look into the shop windows. It had been a troublesome few days.

  Back at the front, the pier seemed deserted. The shops that opened full day on a Saturday were now closing. The weather had clearly shocked people into inaction, though the pubs seemed busy, the sound of chattering voices spilling on to the street on a hoppy tide of damp cigarette smoke as they passed. At the front, Mirabelle let Panther off the lead on the pebbles and he ran off to splash in the surf. She waited for him, lingering beside the huge supports that held up the pier and watched as he bounded in and out of the waves. Nearby, the deckchair attendant was securing a tarpaulin over a stack of chairs. He touched the rim of his hat in greeting.

  ‘Afternoon, miss.’

  ‘No one’s sitting out today,’ Mirabelle commented.

  ‘Doesn’t look likely. You never know, though. That’s the great British weather – comes and goes, doesn’t it? There’s always tomorrow.’

  Mirabelle leaned against the rack of chairs. ‘And he was here,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I was thinking about that body. You mentioned it the other day when I rented a chair. He was a bad man, the chap who washed up. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘He was one to stay away from, all right.’ The attendant pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his apron and offered it to her. Mirabelle shook her head. The man lit one for himself, pinching the end between his thumb and middle finger and sucking on it hard. The smoke was exactly the same colour as the clouds.

  ‘I bet you see everything along here,’ she said.

  ‘I saw him all right. He
was an early bird. There aren’t many people, down on the beach in the mornings. There’s vagrants now and then, and some dog walkers, of course. But he was a regular.’

  ‘When he was alive, you mean?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Did he hire a deckchair?’

  ‘I reckon he liked it along here first thing is all. It’s peaceful when the sun comes up. Just the gulls overhead. And me, of course. He never stopped or made conversation or anything. He marched like he was going somewhere. Most people wandering along the pebbles take their time, but he was practically a sergeant major. Mostly I made out like I never saw him, to be honest. You’re right – he was a bad one.’

  Mirabelle thought about Jinty’s description of Bad Luck Bone. He was fat, she’d said, and lazy. What the deckchair attendant said didn’t square with Bone being up with larks, or even the gulls, marching along the pebbles. The man pulled in another deep draw from his cigarette.

  ‘You’re a good-looking woman, when you ain’t crying,’ he said.

  Mirabelle bit her tongue and ignored the comment. Sodden from the surf, Panther circled back towards her. The man bent down to pet him.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a dog, neither. They’re talking about banning them from the beach but I think it would be a crying shame.’

  ‘Where exactly did you see the man who died? Was it near here?’

  ‘Under the pier.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘That’s the direction he always came from. Ironic that’s where he wound up, really. He’d come out from under the pier and then straight up the steps, quick as you like. You get them sometimes. Them as can’t sleep.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She raised a hand as she walked away. There was no harm in having a look, she told herself, as she wandered between the uprights with Panther following in her wake, distracted by the detritus on the pebbles. There was more litter under the pier, though out of the wind the air felt warmer. Someone had lost a scarf, which half wound around one of the pillars and was studded with cigarette butts.