‘When did you last see him?’
‘End of last week. It was raining. Must’ve been Friday.’
‘Did he buy anything else?’
‘Not on Friday.’
‘But generally?’
‘Fancy American beer. He likes that. In bottles, you know.’ Peter tipped his head towards a pile of crates. ‘Quite often, he’d buy a couple of crates and send them home in a car. At Christmas, he picked up brandy and port as well. And whisky – single malt – for presents, he said.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about Mrs Quinn,’ Peter said. ‘She was a nice woman.’
‘You know Mrs Quinn?’
‘Oh yes. She’s a lovely lady. The major would approve of her, all right. She came in regularly for champagne.’
‘Champagne?’
‘She had good taste. She always took Dom Perignon. She said she liked the size of the bubbles.’
‘So the Quinns weren’t celebrating with the gin?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Like I said, they went through gin regular.’
Mirabelle continued. ‘When did you last see Mrs Quinn?’
‘Last month. A birthday, I think.’
‘And her wedding anniversary would have been coming up.’
‘Oh that’s very sad. Well.’ Peter folded his arms and stood up straight to indicate the interview was over. ‘Thanks for telling me about the police. I mean, be prepared, isn’t that right?’
It struck Mirabelle that today the men she was coming across seemed to feel they were in charge.
On the street, Vesta took her arm and they turned towards town. The sun had come out and a refreshing breeze whipped up the hill. Vesta squinted into the bright light.
‘If Phil Quinn was there last week, that means there was plenty of opportunity for someone to tamper with the bottle,’ she observed. ‘A whole week almost. Mrs Quinn sounds stylish, doesn’t she? Nice to everyone and with a taste for champagne. Dom Perignon is good, is it?’
Mirabelle nodded. She couldn’t help thinking about Mill Lane. It was hardly a busy place. A stranger would be noticed. She bet not much got past Mrs Ambrose. Whoever had tampered with the gin was either local or had been lucky not to be seen. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s find you that gin and bitter. I might have one myself, what with your good news.’
* * *
More of the pubs closer to town served women because of the tourists, and Mirabelle guided Vesta through the heavily carved doors of one that looked respectable enough. She nudged the girl towards an empty table by the frosted glass window and ordered two gins with bitter lemon. The barman took a deep draw of his cigarette as if he was considering whether to bother serving them. Then he stubbed out his fag, pushed aside the newspaper he’d been reading and set to mixing the drinks, which arrived in two rather short glasses, a single bottle of bitter lemon shared between them.
As Mirabelle took her seat, Vesta sniffed. ‘It smells good. I can’t tell you. All I want is lemon. Even Vim. At the weekend, I was scrubbing the kitchen floor and I could have practically licked it.’
‘Charlie’s going to notice,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Especially if you start with that kind of thing.’
Vesta looked uncharacteristically shy. ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said.
‘Have you been to the doctor?’
Vesta nodded. ‘He says it’ll be a Christmas baby.’ She looked as if she might burst into tears. ‘I suppose it saves me getting Charlie a present,’ she said gamely.
‘If you want to leave, you know, Vesta. Work, I mean . . . Or if you need time off?’
Vesta had always said she would never quit the small office on Brills Lane. Now, she hesitated. ‘I don’t know what it will be like. I mean, it gets a grip of you. It’s got a grip already.’
Mirabelle tried not to show that the idea of Vesta leaving work upset her. The girl was entitled to change her mind about what she wanted. Motherhood was a woman’s greatest privilege. Before the wedding, Mirabelle had worried that marriage might make Vesta rethink what she wanted. Many women would have quit work to keep house, but the girl somehow managed to hold down her job and look after the place she and Charlie had bought. The upshot was that the Lewises subsisted on fish and chips and meals in a variety of pubs that hosted jazz nights, quite apart from whatever Charlie brought home from his job in the kitchens at the Grand. They managed, though Vesta was certainly no match for her mother, whose fried chicken was legendary. On the upside, her lack of interest in domestic duties left her plenty of time for cross-referencing the ledgers that remained the basis of all McGuigan & McGuigan’s invoicing and interest calculations. Still, Mirabelle would have to face that a baby might change things that Vesta’s wedding vows had not. She imagined how the office might feel with Vesta’s desk empty, or, she considered suddenly, even filled by someone else. Someone new.
‘Let’s see how you feel,’ she managed as she sipped her drink. ‘There’s masses of time.’
The barman lit another cigarette. He stood under a large mahogany clock and tried to look as if he wasn’t listening. Slowly, he turned over the page of his paper.
‘The thing is,’ Vesta admitted, ‘it’s one thing putting up with people saying things when it’s only me. I can take it. But I’m not sure how I’d feel if they were saying things to my child. Last night I sat at the window and I thought about our neighbours and their kids. They’ve come round to accepting Charlie and me. But we’re always going to be different. People can’t help it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mirabelle said. There was no point in pretending that Vesta wasn’t right.
‘It’s no different in America,’ the girl continued. ‘From what Charlie says. In some places, it’s worse.’ Vesta took a sip. ‘They have different entrances at the cinema.’
‘That’s terrible.’
Vesta shrugged. Her mind dotted between her worries, lighting on bits and pieces of evidence. Her elder brother had gone back to Jamaica a couple of years ago. He always said he couldn’t stand the British weather but Vesta wondered if his decision had been predicated on the fact that their mother was a force of nature. Mrs Churchill expected her children to fall into line. Any dissent caused ructions. Vesta was prepared for the battle – her marriage to Charlie had caused a family fight that was only smoothed over months afterwards. But now it occurred to her, what if Frank hadn’t left London because of the cold or their overbearing mother? What if he’d left because of the stares and the comments? The everyday humiliations of not being served in shops or constantly being asked where you came from.
‘I think you should tell Charlie,’ Mirabelle said. ‘I can’t imagine you keeping quiet about such good news for three whole months. He’s the father after all. It’s something you need to talk about.’
Vesta nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll tell him this weekend.’
‘Do it tonight,’ Mirabelle encouraged her. ‘I’ll get on with this. Don’t worry.’
Chapter 4
Doubt grows with knowledge
The light was just beginning to fade from the sky as Mirabelle approached the side entrance of Bartholomew Square police station where Phil Quinn was still being held despite the best efforts of the solicitor his friends had engaged. Superintendent McGregor had arranged a cloak-and-dagger rendezvous. The desk sergeant owed him one and Mirabelle wanted to meet Phil Quinn. Arrangements had been set for the evening – after Robinson and his team had left and McGregor was safely out of the way.
Mirabelle hovered in the doorway. It was odd how the noises on the street changed at dusk – the heavy swing of a pub door that you’d never notice at midday was somehow impossible to ignore after seven o’clock. Especially at this time of year. It was still too early for the mass of tourists that populated Brighton all summer. There weren’t any buskers yet – no one-man band on the corner at the Kingsway or the fellow who went round the pubs playing his harmonica. No hurdy-gurdy on the corner at
the front. Though the days were mild, the evenings in springtime could be bitter. Mirabelle’s jacket was not thick enough. It had been sunny that morning and she had been optimistic. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait. Sergeant Belton, a grey kind of fellow, recently transferred from Brighton’s other police station at Wellington Road, promptly opened the door and let her through. Inside, he turned, waiting for her to say something.
The passage smelled of bleach. It had been a while since Mirabelle had visited the cells at Bartholomew Square. She had been incarcerated here for a few hours several years ago. For that matter, she’d been holed up in Wellington Road, under Belton’s care too. McGregor referred to both these incidents as mix-ups, but Mirabelle had her suspicions.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Superintendent McGregor told you I was coming.’
‘This way.’ Belton swung a brace of keys on his bent finger. ‘I’ve told the lads to take a break. There’s biscuits in the office. We won’t see anyone.’
‘Busy day?’ Mirabelle enquired.
Belton’s grey eyes didn’t flicker. ‘Our busy time is the summer. Lost children. Pickpockets. Misdemeanours. The murders are more regular. One at a time. But you know that, Miss Bevan.’
He’d never liked her. Mirabelle had become inured to the catty comments of McGregor’s colleagues. When the superintendent got the ins and outs of a case wrong he took it on the chin, but most policemen didn’t like being shown up, especially by a woman. The ironic thing, it struck her, was that being right didn’t always help. The victim was still dead. The damage could never be made up in any meaningful way. The most you could hope for was that someone would be punished, and that that person was the one who had perpetrated the crime.
Belton stopped at a closed door. ‘Are you sure you want to see him?’
‘Of course.’
The line of male cells felt oppressive. They were darker and smaller than the female ones. The sergeant slid back the cover on the viewing square and peered inside. ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he said. ‘A friend of your wife.’
Belton couldn’t help but make a dig. Women weren’t supposed to count, and, when they did, it made him uncomfortable. Smirking now, he picked out a key and opened the door. A slow creak filled the hallway. Inside, against the painted bricks, Phil Quinn was sitting on the edge of his bed. Looking surprisingly dapper, he wore a pair of trousers with a crease down the front and a shirt that was highly starched, as if he was about to set out for a night on the town. Beside him there was a tray – sausage and mash and a mug of tea. Long cold, a ring of grease had congealed around the rim of the plate. As he looked up, he turned his head away, which made it difficult for Mirabelle to get the measure of him. However, it was immediately evident that, though his clothes were pristine, his spirit was in tatters. His eyes, where she caught a glance, were bloodshot and his nose was swollen. He had picked the skin on his fingers till it was dotted with dried blood. Mirabelle felt suddenly as if she’d intruded: as if she was only adding to his humiliation, never mind Belton.
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ she said.
Belton stepped back as she moved forwards, as if the two of them were conjoined in this small conspiracy, like figures on a clock tower. Mirabelle listened as his footsteps retreated down the corridor.
‘How do you know Helen?’ Quinn’s Scottish accent was stronger than McGregor’s – his vowels bent out of shape. It made him sound aggressive, but perhaps that didn’t mean anything – it was only the way he spoke.
Mirabelle suppressed the feeling of pity that washed over her. Other people’s grief only reminded her of her own despair when Jack had died all those years ago. The poor man, she thought. He was still talking about his wife in the present tense. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Sergeant Belton’s idea of a joke. Alan McGregor sent me.’
A dismissive noise escaped Quinn’s lips. ‘Can’t make it himself?’
‘He isn’t allowed. He wanted to take your case but because of your long-standing connection . . . you were at school together, weren’t you?’
‘Primary. Alan went to the grammar after the eleven-plus. I was the thick one. Can’t you tell?’
‘Well, he’s asked me to look into things. Inspector Robinson . . .’
‘That idiot!’ Quinn burst out. ‘I said to him, every minute you spend asking me stupid questions is a minute less you’re finding out who killed my wife.’
‘Who do you think did it, Mr Quinn?’
The man’s eyes burned with helpless fury. ‘I have no idea. Helen was wonderful. Everyone loved her. Don’t you think I’ve been going over and over it? She must have been in agony and I was just lying there. Jesus.’
‘The police believe the gin you were drinking was drugged. I wondered if you know who might have had access to do that?’
‘Access?’
‘To the gin? And to the right kind of drugs, whatever they were?’
‘They don’t even know that then? Great. I felt groggy this morning. I thought it was a hangover and the shock. I don’t know who could have done what you’re talking about – drugging a bottle of gin. Stabbing my wife in the stomach. What kind of monster . . . ? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Mirabelle reined him in. She needed information and, to get it, he would have to focus. ‘When did you last drink from that bottle?’
‘The night before.’
‘So it must have been tampered with some time on Wednesday? Can you think of who might have visited your house on Wednesday? Was your wife in all day?’
‘I don’t know. I was at work. We’re like everyone else – we leave our door open. Helen’s friendly with the neighbours. The women, anyway. They come in and out.’
‘Do you suspect your neighbours?’
‘Of course not. I don’t know who to suspect. You’d have to be some kind of phantom. Helen never hurt a soul. It’s just evil.’
‘Evil?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘Is your door usually left unlocked at night?’
‘Yes. God help me.’
‘Did the gin taste strange, Mr Quinn?’
He shook his head. ‘We were drunk already. The both of us. I got home around six. We had beer with dinner and then we were dancing.’ He stifled a sob. ‘Helen loved to dance. And to sing along. She was just a kid – a sweet kid.’
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘Ten, I think. Maybe earlier. We were exhausted. Robinson said she died between one and two in the morning. But I was right next to her. We went to sleep as usual.’ Quinn stared at his hand, turning over the palm. ‘I was there,’ he repeated.
‘The way she died . . .’ It was difficult for Mirabelle to find the words. ‘I mean, you’re right. The stabbing was vicious – evil, you called it . . . Have you any idea why someone might have killed her like that? I mean, that way in particular?’
‘Jesus, no.’
‘Mr Quinn, was your wife pregnant?’
Quinn heaved a sob and his voice broke as he answered. ‘No. I mean, she didn’t say. God, you can’t think that.’
‘There’s no indication. I’m sorry. I only wondered. Why stab her in the stomach?’
‘I don’t know. Why stab her at all? In the heart? At the throat? What difference does it make?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mirabelle didn’t explain, but how Phil Quinn’s wife died did make a difference. Of course it did. ‘And you can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to see her dead?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to see you suffer, Mr Quinn?’
‘By murdering Helen? Look, I’ve told them upstairs. There have been people who have been unpleasant. At work, I mean. We have the odd complaint. A car arriving late or going to the wrong address. It’s my job to negotiate contracts for the garage. Fuel. Insurance. That kind of thing. I cut a good deal. You get the odd guy being chippy about being caught overcharging. But nothing has ever turned nasty.’
‘An
d there’s nothing else?’
‘You think I’d forget a situation horrible enough to cause someone to drug me and my wife and then stab her to death? I didn’t do it and I don’t know who did. I certainly don’t know why. Some use I am. I’ve been sitting here going over what happened and none of it makes sense. We’re just ordinary people, Helen and I. All I can come up with is, maybe there isn’t a reason. Maybe the person who killed Helen is just mad.’
Mirabelle paused. Murder could be random. Just not usually. But now a picture was emerging and it raised a question she hadn’t yet considered. ‘Do you think, Mr Quinn, it’s odd they killed Helen and they didn’t kill you?’
‘I wish they had.’
Mirabelle didn’t doubt it, but it was important he answered the question properly. ‘Please. It might be key. They went to the trouble to drug both of you, you see. Doesn’t it seem odd they only killed her?’
‘They’d have had to drug both of us. I mean, we’d have fought. I’d have fought. I’d have killed the bastard who was trying to kill Helen. And she was no shrinking violet. Helen would have tried to kill any bastard who was trying to kill me.’
Mirabelle sighed. Maybe this was the best someone could come up with to torture Phil Quinn. If it was, it was working. He looked terrible. He clearly hadn’t eaten and he wouldn’t sleep either. The poor guy didn’t know a thing.
‘My solicitor had these clothes sent in,’ he said, as he picked at his pristine shirt. ‘He said it’s important I look respectable.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll do my best,’ Mirabelle said and banged on the door to summon Belton.
At length, the sergeant appeared and opened up with a flourish as if the cell was the entrance to the Ritz.
‘Goodbye,’ Mirabelle said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of it.’
Phil Quinn didn’t reply. The sound of the cell being locked sent an odd reverberation down the corridor as if the door might never open again. Belton turned to lead Mirabelle out. At the entrance, he motioned her to wait as the clatter of footsteps in the office above suddenly became louder. As the noise tailed off, he pulled back the snib and pushed the door wide.
Russian Roulette Page 4
