McGregor quailed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Look, I’ll help. I just can’t be seen to help. Someone has to have a pair of steady eyes on this and Robinson’s eyes, well, they’re never steady. And you’ve got Vesta. I mean, if you would agree to be part of this, Vesta?’
Vesta nodded. ‘Sure.’
McGregor checked his watch. ‘I have to get back. The chief told me to keep my nose out. He insists I’m too close because of the childhood connection. It’s just nonsense. Like I said, everyone knows Phil.’ He looked sheepish. ‘I lost my rag up at the station. I’m sorry if I came in here at a hundred miles an hour. It’s been a horrible morning.’
Mirabelle paused. She wasn’t going to crow. ‘All right. I just wanted to be clear. Vesta and I will get going straight away. Why don’t I pop in later and let you know how we’re getting on?’
‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ McGregor promised. Then he retreated. They listened in silence as his footsteps echoed down the stairs.
‘I’ve never seen him in a state like that,’ Vesta said. ‘He didn’t even take off his hat.’
Mirabelle kept her eyes on the door. McGregor had remained cool under pressure on a number of occasions that she would have thought were far more stressful. Vesta was right – it wasn’t like him.
‘We better nip up to Hove Cars,’ she said, pulling on her spring jacket and pinning her hat in place.
Vesta reached for her coat. Lately she hadn’t worn a hat. It messed her hair, which she seemed to dress higher every time Mirabelle took a moment to notice. Today the girl had teased it into some kind of extended bun, which was its tallest incarnation so far. Vesta always looked smart, but Mirabelle couldn’t help feel that no woman was properly attired without millinery.
‘I’m starving,’ Vesta enthused as she did up her buttons. ‘Maybe we could pick up lunch on the way back.’
Hove Cars was located in a scruffy set of mews garages that ran behind Hangleton Road. The condition of the garages was in sharp contrast to the gleaming, well-kept vehicles parked outside them, but then, Mirabelle thought, most customers probably never came to the premises. As the women hovered on the cobbles they took in the peeling paint and the smell of engine oil. Clearly on view through a set of open doors, a shiny black Ford was jacked up with a pair of legs sticking out underneath. Mirabelle was put in mind of her investigations into a smuggling ring the year before. The men in question had brought in African diamonds in the sump oil of a racing vehicle. The investigation had not ended well. She didn’t like to think about it.
The women paused and Mirabelle wondered if Vesta was thinking the same, but it seemed that the girl was simply unsure how to attract the attention of the fellow underneath the car. Eventually, Vesta cleared her throat. When this did not produce the desired result, Mirabelle leaned over. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, directing her voice at the man’s knees. The legs stirred and then a figure shuffled out, revealing a very young mechanic, most likely fresh out of school. The boy smiled as he dusted himself down – a useless gesture as the oil stains on his overalls could not be brushed away.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘I’m looking for the person in charge.’
‘Well, if you mean at the garage, I suppose that would be me, what with there being no one else here this morning. Though if you want a car there are a couple of drivers in the office.’
‘Someone left you in charge?’
The boy drew himself up. He skimmed six feet now he was upright. ‘Yeah. What about it?’
‘Is that because of the trouble?’
The boy sniffed and then nodded.
‘I suppose everyone got a terrible fright. A thing like that.’
Once he started, the child seemed eager to talk. ‘The police were here when we opened up. Mr Quinn! Who’d have thought? Mr Gleeson went to get a solicitor. I don’t know what happened to Mr Fourcade. He didn’t even get into his overalls.’
‘Are they the owners?’
‘Them and Mr Quinn. Mates, like, too.’
‘It sounds as if they’re close. I mean if Mr Gleeson is engaging a solicitor on behalf of his friend?’
The boy nodded. ‘I suppose,’ he said.
‘What are you doing to this car?’
‘Changing the oil.’ The boy rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s the only thing I can do. That and check the tyre pressure. It’s an apprenticeship, see. But I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’
Mirabelle changed tack. ‘Tell me, did you know Mrs Quinn?’
‘I saw her,’ the boy said eagerly. ‘She came down with some sandwiches for her old man last week. She didn’t want him going short.’
‘How very kind of her.’
‘She was a looker. She had one of them fancy sweaters like in the glamour magazines – you know – the ones with shapes on. Do you think they’ll bang up Mr Quinn for it?’
‘That depends on the evidence. What do you think?’
The boy’s eyes burned. ‘I ain’t no grass.’
‘Which would suggest, if you don’t mind me saying, that you think that he did do it.’
A flicker of annoyance crossed his young face. ‘I’m just the apprentice. What do I know?’ He shrugged.
Mirabelle was about to push the boy further when a purring engine sounded and a red Jaguar drew up. A man in a tweed jacket got out and a whiff of aftershave cut through the dense smell of oil that hung around the garage door. He was clearly a more promising prospect, and Mirabelle and Vesta turned towards him as one.
‘Adrian.’ The man nodded as he eyed the women. ‘Go and sweep up inside. Can I help you, ladies?’
Mirabelle offered her hand. ‘I’m Mirabelle Bevan. And this is my business partner, Vesta Lewis.’
‘Tommy Fourcade.’ The man’s handshake was firm. He was patently a fellow who could handle himself. And he was well dressed – the tweed jacket was immaculately cut.
‘We’re here in connection with the murder of Helen Quinn,’ Mirabelle announced.
Mr Fourcade’s tone hardened. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘We’re private detectives,’ Vesta cut in with rather too much enthusiasm. She was silenced by a cold glare from Mirabelle who considered that kind of comment showing off.
‘I see.’ Tommy Fourcade’s green eyes danced as he decided these women were no kind of threat. ‘Lady detectives. Well, well. That’s a new one. You should be worrying about little kids lost on the Prom. Don’t you get your pretty heads in a state about this. We’ve got a bigwig lawyer on Phil’s case. He’ll be out before we know it.’
‘You think he’s innocent, then?’
‘I’ve known Phil Quinn for over ten years. You can take it from me, he didn’t kill his wife.’
‘Did you serve together? It was the Logistics Corps, wasn’t it?’
Fourcade’s jaw tightened. ‘You’re well informed. Look, Phil loved Helen. He wouldn’t have hurt her in a million years.’
‘Someone hurt her, Mr Fourcade.’
‘Well, whoever did it, they’ll pay. Don’t worry about that.’ His tone hardened again, only barely masking a threat. ‘Once we’ve got Phil out, we’ll find the bastard.’
‘Do you know who it was?’ Mirabelle pressed.
‘If I did I’d have told the police and Phil wouldn’t be in custody.’
‘Did Mr Quinn have enemies?’
‘No more than any of us. This business isn’t a cakewalk, Miss Bevan. But I’ve never known another firm to murder a fellow’s wife.’
‘Someone killed her. Someone had a reason.’
‘And you think there’s no smoke without fire?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Tommy Fourcade bit his lip as he eyed the women up and down. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘if the police don’t catch whoever did this to Helen, we’ll find them. And, when we find them, we won’t hold back.’
Mirabelle let this comment hang. It was the second time he’d made a threat. ‘Let’s hope they find the murde
rer soon, then,’ she said.
Tommy nodded in the direction of the open garage door through which Adrian could be seen polishing a set of wrenches. ‘I’ve got to get to work. This ain’t nothing to do with you,’ he said.
A driver walked out of the office, sucking the last smoke from his cigarette before throwing the butt into the gutter. He nodded at Fourcade, got into an Austin and, after pulling on to the road, accelerated in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Vesta lifted her fingers to shield her nose but Mirabelle didn’t move as Mr Fourcade removed his jacket and headed for his overalls. He meant what he’d said, she thought. This murder must be especially awful for someone like him – someone who wanted to feel in control. No wonder he wanted them out of there – women asking questions must be difficult, particularly competent women. But, then, perhaps he was the kind of man who always decided when conversations started and finished. Either way, she and Vesta had been dismissed. Vesta was clearly more accepting of the arrangement. She had already turned towards the street and Mirabelle fell into step behind her. As they mounted the pavement, the sun came out. Further along, a grocer’s boy polished apples and laid them carefully in a neat pile on display. A whiff of hyacinth snaked towards them from the florist’s, mingling with the fresh smell of the fruit. It would be a lovely morning if someone hadn’t died.
‘He seemed very decisive, didn’t he?’ Mirabelle pondered.
‘He was just being loyal to his mate.’
It occurred to Mirabelle that Phil Quinn seemed to inspire tremendous loyalty in his friends. First McGregor and now Tommy Fourcade.
‘Why don’t we pop into that café we passed?’ Vesta suggested. ‘We can chat about it over lunch.’
Chapter 2
Everyone is made for some particular work
Fortified by gammon, white bread, dripping and tea, Mirabelle and Vesta hopped on to the bus for Portslade, asking the conductor to let them know when they reached the nearest stop to Mill Lane. It wasn’t far.
‘You wanted the stop for that murder, ladies?’ the man announced loudly as the bus pulled up. ‘Here you go. They’ll have a tourist service up here in no time. Non-stop from the front.’
‘Well, really,’ Vesta tutted, feeling the eyes of the other passengers alighting on her as she and Mirabelle stepped on to the pavement. It wasn’t that she cared what other people thought, but it wasn’t pleasant that the other passengers were under the impression they were rubbernecking. A lady in a straw hat as good as sneered as the bus pulled away.
‘Oh well,’ Mirabelle rejoined. ‘I expect they think we’re thrill seekers.’
Vesta looked dubious. She regarded the beautifully fitted skirt of Mirabelle’s peach, glazed-cotton dress and decided that her hem would need to be higher.
As the women turned off the main road, a scatter of small boys in grey shorts kicked a dilapidated football around, making for two bashed-up bins they had set up as goalposts.
‘Excuse me,’ Mirabelle accosted the nearest. ‘Which way is Mill Lane?’
The boy stopped and crossed his arms. ‘You here for the murder? They won’t let no one in the house.’
‘Which way is it?’
‘Just up there and left.’
Mill Lane was quiet as the women turned the corner. The houses on either side ran to two storeys. Each had a wooden gate painted either red or black, the glossy colour echoed by the window frames. The gates opened on to small front gardens, some of which were laid out to vegetables. In one, an apple tree was coming into blossom. It seemed too pleasant a place for a murder to have occurred. There was no question, however, in which house Helen Quinn had died. Three-quarters of the way up, on the left-hand side, the front door of number fifteen was open and a police photographer was clearly visible. As Mirabelle and Vesta approached, a plump old woman, wearing a floral housecoat, opened the door of the house opposite and carefully carried a tray of tea things across the street and straight into the scene of the crime. Immediately, she backed out again, shooed by a bobby, who, it would appear, had mistakenly abandoned his post at the front door.
‘You can’t come in, love.’ The officer held up a hand as if he were directing traffic. It struck Mirabelle that the woman reminded her of one of those vans – wide at the axle and thick of tyre, the sort that made deliveries around town. She seemed to steer from the bust.
‘I brought some tea, that’s all,’ the woman insisted. ‘I thought you’d be parched. You and the other boys.’
‘That’s very nice.’
‘Mrs Ambrose. Number fourteen.’
‘Thank you.’ The policeman relieved Mrs Ambrose of her tray. He was a big man with a stony expression. Momentarily, even from quite far off, Mirabelle was distracted by his shoes, which must have been twice the size of her own. She’d bet he always ended up on door duty. It was as if he had been built for the business of obstruction.
‘So—’ the woman tried to peer past the uniformed giant ‘—any ideas yet?’
To his credit the policeman humoured her. He might be large but he was even-tempered. ‘Who do you think did it?’
The woman sucked her teeth as if not only was this quite some consideration but as if she was speculating for the first time. ‘Well, they say each murderer has their own way. I mean a woman will kill very differently from a man,’ she postulated. ‘I couldn’t say without knowing exactly how poor Helen died. I mean, exactly what happened to her.’
The policeman put the tray on the doorstep and turned his attention to pouring the tea. He added milk and three sugar lumps and stirred thoughtfully. The mug looked like a teacup in his hands, and the teaspoon was simply ridiculous, like a child’s toy.
‘Stabbed,’ he pronounced, and then, seeing Mirabelle and Vesta loitering at the gate, he turned his attention to them. ‘Don’t tell me, you ladies have brought biscuits,’ he said flatly. The nicer suburbs were always like this when there was trouble – nosy neighbours pretending to be helpful.
The old woman did not take the intrusion so easily. ‘I don’t know you.’ She rounded on them. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’re friends of Superintendent McGregor,’ Mirabelle said, as she opened the gate. It was the tactic most likely to elicit cooperation from the constable, no matter what McGregor had said. Sure enough, the policeman stood a little straighter as the women walked up the path.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re not just here to gawk.’ Mrs Ambrose tutted. ‘You wouldn’t believe what it’s been like. When they brought out poor Helen’s body, there was a crowd. People came up from the other side of the main road. “Get a picture,” I said. And them journalists from the paper. Cheeky beggars. On such a beautiful morning as well.’
The policeman stared at his mug of tea mournfully.
‘It seems odd that nobody heard,’ Mirabelle said, looking round. ‘I mean, if Mrs Quinn was stabbed, you’d think she’d have screamed. It said in the newspaper that she was murdered in the small hours of the morning. Someone must have heard.’
‘This neighbourhood isn’t what it was. I mean, before the war, but not now.’ Mrs Ambrose’s eyes sneaked around the officer as she spoke.
The policeman meditatively turned the mug around in his hand before he took another sip. He knew his frame was big enough to fill the doorway and there was no point in trying to stop the old lady when her cause was so patently hopeless. That was the thing about big men, Mirabelle thought, they had a lot of confidence.
‘What do you think about the issue of noise, Officer?’ Mirabelle asked. ‘I mean, Mrs Quinn must have screamed.’
‘The detectives will be worrying about that,’ the man pronounced. ‘Now, Mrs Ambrose, why don’t I bring back your tea things later? Civic duty aside, we don’t want to hold you up.’
Mrs Ambrose hovered, not wanting to go but realising she had been dismissed. She eyed Mirabelle and Vesta. ‘I was first on the scene,’ she said. ‘I was here before anyone.’ The police officer kept his gaze steady. ‘Just pop it back when you boys
have finished,’ Mrs Ambrose continued as she turned. The three figures waited on the doorstep as the old lady walked down the path and closed the gate.
‘As for you ladies, I’m sorry but I can’t let you in either,’ the policeman announced. ‘Superintendent McGregor or not.’
He was not the kind of man with whom you argued, so Mirabelle turned her efforts to the business of extracting information.
‘Is it an interesting crime scene, Officer?’ she enquired.
‘There’s not much to see now.’ The man’s expression remained stony. ‘And what there was before they took her away, well, I wouldn’t describe it as interesting. Mostly we’ve been looking for the knife.’
‘Have you found it?’
‘Not yet. We checked the house, but the lads are doing the drains now and seeing if the blighter maybe buried it in the back garden or chucked it into one of the hedges.’
‘Mr Quinn, you mean?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘So Inspector Robinson thinks Mr Quinn stabbed his wife, let her bleed to death, hid the weapon and then calmly waited for a few hours before raising the alarm?’
The policeman didn’t rise to the bait. ‘It might not make sense to you or me,’ he said, ‘but you never know. Most murderers are just normal. Half the time they don’t mean to kill anyone – they just lose their rag. And for the ones that are premeditated, the story usually makes sense, you know. But now and then there’s an odd case.’ The man raised a thick finger to tap the side of his head.
‘Did Mr Quinn seem odd?’
The policeman shrugged. ‘More groggy. If my wife was dead I expect I might be fully awake. Paying attention. The inspector reckons he drugged the woman. Most likely in her gin the night before.’ He leaned in, continuing in a whisper. ‘That’s how come she didn’t struggle. The bottle’s gone to the lab to see what the eggheads make of it. You’re right about her not calling out, see.’
Russian Roulette Page 2
