Still, that had been in the capital. In Brighton it would be more difficult. During the summer there was a steady stream of call girls who arrived from out of town and hung around the bars and hotels on the front. One year, when Mirabelle first started working at McGuigan & McGuigan, she had helped one of them to get away. It was too early in the season for those women to have hit the promenade in any numbers. There weren’t enough tourists to make it worth their while. Besides, Mirabelle thought, she wanted to find regular users of Hove Cars, which meant her target was some kind of call-out service – yes, that’s what she was looking for. Something regular, based in Brighton all year round. ‘Come along,’ she said, reaching for her coat, ‘I have an idea.’
Mirabelle had never introduced Vesta to her friend, Fred, who undertook a healthy trade in contraband from a cottage on one of the laneways near the office. As they set off up East Street, it struck her that she wasn’t sure why she had neglected to do so. Over the last few years, she had bought several presents for Vesta from Fred’s extensive stock. Still, now she felt uncomfortable as she led the girl up the hill, through the maze of little streets and on to the run-down, muddy lane that ran to Fred’s door. The ground was potholed. Hardly anyone came down here – the entranceway was so slim it was easy to miss. Sometimes at night men were dragged down the lane and beaten up. Once, when Mirabelle had arrived, there had been a disconcerting smear of blood along the brick wall that ran down one side. Now there was only a filthy tramp asleep, a thick slick of moss above his head. As the women passed, they caught a whiff of stale alcohol and urine. Mirabelle couldn’t help think this wasn’t the sort of place she ought to bring a pregnant woman. She found herself considering what Vesta had said the day before – about poor treatment being all right for yourself, but expecting a child to bear the same thing being more difficult. She’d become so fond of Vesta that the prospect of her facing day-to-day difficulties offended her. Perhaps, she thought, she should find the girl something else to do.
Vesta beamed. ‘What’s down here?’ she asked.
Mirabelle stopped in front of the cottage door and tentatively knocked on the peeling paintwork. To her right, part of the gutter had come away from the slated roof and bowed over the window, which was spattered with dried mud. At least it wasn’t raining today. Every time Mirabelle came here the place was in a worse state. There was the sound of a lock being pulled back, then the door juddered as it opened and Fred peered out.
‘Ah. Miss Bevan.’
It was immediately apparent that Fred was ill. Mirabelle had never seen him under the weather. During the war, he’d survived bombing raids as well as prolonged and difficult journeys by sea. He’d been starved in a holding camp from which he’d escaped. On another mission, he’d had to fight his way out of a tricky situation in Spain – a country that remained neutral for the duration of the conflict and, as such, was a hotbed of spies and a natural, if dangerous, route for those who wanted to escape. Despite all that, on none of the occasions Fred had arrived to be debriefed in London had he ever looked as bad as he did today. His shirt was open at the neck and a thin towel was draped around his shoulders. His nose was blocked and his eyes watery. He sneezed and, when he did so, he looked suddenly old.
‘Oh hell,’ he said, wheezing. ‘Maybe you’d best not come in, Miss Bevan. I don’t want to give you this.’
‘What happened?’
‘I got hung out to dry, to tell the truth. I ended up on the Downs by myself. The so-and-sos I was doing a deal with took me out but didn’t bring me back. I had to walk all the way in the pitch dark. Got soaked to the skin. I’m getting too old for this game. Who’s your friend?’
Vesta put out her hand and Fred shook it. ‘Vesta Lewis,’ she said.
‘Very pleased to meet you,’ Fred managed and then coughed because it had taken some effort. Mirabelle noticed his five o’clock shadow was completely white and his neck seemed thin and loose. Old men went ragged at the edges – it was always sudden and strange when it happened – as if the strong men they had been shrunk in the wash of life and they emerged misshapen and devoid of colour in the process. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Bevan?’ he asked, as he recovered his breath.
Mirabelle looked over her shoulder. There was nobody around, or at least nobody conscious, but still. She tipped her head to indicate that she would like to go inside.
‘If you’re sure you want to enter the house of suffering,’ Fred said cheerily.
On the other side of the peeling front door, the dilapidation continued. Two rough wooden cages, each containing a cockerel, were placed at either end of the counter. The birds made clucking noises that sounded threatening and, here and there, a quivering, feathered limb stuck through the bars. Mirabelle didn’t like to think what Fred was up to. That kind of thing had been banned for a long time, but then, the forbidden was his stock in trade. Behind the cages, tea chests were stacked tidily against the wall and in front of the counter Fred had pulled out a grubby old armchair. There was a small pot of Vicks perched perilously on one arm and a yellowing cotton handkerchief crumpled on the other. On the floor, a dusty kettle was plugged into the wall, the spout emanating a thin wisp of steam.
‘For my chest,’ he said.
Mirabelle couldn’t help but think that this was not the best accommodation for a man with a chest complaint. The cottage was damp and it felt colder inside than out.
‘Maybe you should go home,’ she said.
‘And give it to the missus? It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, maybe she wouldn’t love me any more if I wasn’t my usual, handsome self.’
‘Perhaps she’d want to look after you,’ Mirabelle rejoined.
‘You don’t know my missus.’ Fred grinned gamely and a sparkle lit his eyes. Mirabelle felt relieved to see him look more like the man she knew. ‘So, how can I help you ladies? I’ve got spices somewhere.’ He nodded at Vesta. ‘If you like that kind of thing.’
‘Oh. I don’t really cook . . .’
‘Vesta’s husband is the chef.’
‘Well, maybe he’d like some pimento. And there’s olive oil. The Italians like all that. I wasn’t sure when I first got it in but it’s selling like hot cakes.’
‘I’ll ask my husband. Thank you.’
‘The thing is, Fred,’ Mirabelle cut in, ‘Vesta and I are looking for a particular kind of service. The sort of service some gentlemen require. Somewhere in Brighton that does call-outs – to the Grand, certainly, and to private houses.’
It momentarily sounded as if Fred had contracted whooping cough and it took him a minute to regain his equilibrium. Between laughing and struggling for breath, tears dotted his cheeks. ‘Oh, I never know what to expect from you, Miss Bevan. I suppose I should just be grateful you don’t want another gun because that day you had me worried.’
Vesta eyed Mirabelle. It seemed pushy of her to ask, but now and then when things came up, she found herself mesmerised by the things Mirabelle got up to when they weren’t together. The things she knew about were tantalising enough. Mirabelle ignored Fred’s comment.
‘It’s the death of that woman, you see. Up in Portslade. Did you read about it? Helen Quinn?’
‘You don’t want to get involved in that sort of thing.’
‘We were asked to look into it by the superintendent,’ Mirabelle said blithely.
‘And you think this woman was on the game?’
‘Goodness, no. There’s no evidence of that. The thing is, her husband runs a taxi firm. Hove Cars. And our first line of inquiry is that the murder is some kind of revenge killing. The firm cooperates regularly with the police, that is to say the drivers provide information from time to time. It struck me that Mrs Quinn’s death might be something to do with his business more generally, and then it struck me . . .’
‘That if the murderer was taking revenge for being grassed up or there was something dodgy going on in the company, that hookers might be a way to find out about it?’
‘They’re
mobile. I don’t mean like cars. I mean with people. Most people only have contact with a small circle. But prostitutes . . . well, people talk to women like that. And they’re savvy. I listened in at the hired car office, Fred, and it seems several of the firm’s calls in the evenings are ferrying around women. You know. Women on their own.’
‘You ain’t lost any of your smarts, Miss Bevan. I’ll never forget that time you got me out of—’
‘Please,’ Mirabelle cut in, casting her eyes towards Vesta, who had settled on a carver chair with her legs elegantly crossed. ‘You signed the Official Secrets Act. Remember?’
Fred considered this. ‘We’re among friends,’ he said in his defence. ‘Look, I don’t know about individual girls. Being a married man. Them days are over. But, now I think on it, there’s a bloke who runs the kind of racket you’re talking about. Girls, I mean. He isn’t pleasant. Well, you wouldn’t expect that, would you? He’s got a place in Hove – a nice old house. Davidson’s his name. Ernie Davidson. He has a few girls regular like. And he runs a poker game. It’s an upmarket operation – not Mayfair or anything but still. Don’t be fooled. He’s a tough customer. He bought a lot of port off me. And whisky too, back when you couldn’t get it easily. He drives a hard bargain. I don’t know if he uses Hove Cars. In London, in the old days, those guys had their own drivers to ferry the girls about. Bodyguards, really. But he’d be a good place to start. I bet he keeps his finger on the pulse and you’re right, of course – brasses hear everything. Maybe the superintendent isn’t half as daft as he seems, putting you two on the case. I don’t suppose you’d get a police officer in that house, but two nice-looking women...’
‘What’s the address?’ Mirabelle asked, deciding not to divulge that the superintendent had specifically warned her off this kind of inquiry.
‘Tongdean Avenue, up near the golf course. I’ve delivered there. Nice houses on that side of town.’
Mirabelle nodded. The name was familiar from the night before. The first call-out she’d heard was to Tongdean.
Fred scrambled behind the counter. ‘I’ll write it down,’ he said. ‘Here, if you want, you could get a taxi. There’s a telephone box outside the pub. I’ve got a number for Hove Cars and all.’
‘Very funny.’ Mirabelle removed the slip of paper and popped it into her purse as Fred heaved and hooted. Vesta slipped off the chair. ‘Please, look after yourself,’ Mirabelle said, as she ushered the girl outside. The tramp, she noticed, had shifted slightly, which meant the poor man was alive, at least.
‘You don’t have to worry about me, Miss Bevan,’ Fred called after the women cheerily. ‘I’ll be fine. Always am.’
Chapter 6
I cannot but give way to music and women
Tongdean Avenue was part of a stretch of comfortable suburban streets two miles inland. Developed before the war, the plots were evenly spaced, each containing a single detached property, some of which had been designed in the Tudor style with oak half-timbers between plaques of wattle and daub, and others which were more modern. These last looked like white ocean-going liners, so smooth and white that Mirabelle wondered if the occupants ever woke with tousled hair and crushed night clothes. Between the houses, the gardens were vivid green, each building surrounded by its own grounds and now, some years on from the initial development, the trees were coming into their own and at this time of year there was a profusion of blossom.
Vesta had not been pleased that Mirabelle did not want her company on the expedition. ‘Think of your condition,’ Mirabelle had said when they got back to the office. ‘I can’t bring you to a brothel.’ Fred’s hovel had felt bad enough.
‘Why not?’ Vesta objected. ‘The houses are lovely at Tongdean. It doesn’t look dangerous.’
‘Those kinds of places seldom do,’ Mirabelle replied drily. That wasn’t entirely true. Downmarket, dens of iniquity looked exactly what they were, but upmarket, things were gilded and dressed so that even if matters weren’t entirely hidden, they might easily be glossed over. But what might happen beneath that gloss was uncertain and Mirabelle didn’t want to take the risk. ‘It was the telephone that revolutionised how the business worked,’ she observed, slipping the pencil in her hand through her slim fingers and bouncing it off her notepad as she distracted the girl.
‘What telephone?’ Vesta asked, taking the bait.
‘The telephone. I mean, before that women had to go out to make their arrangements. Or a man had to call to a specific place. Or send a note. Can you imagine – a telegram. But once it was possible to telephone . . .’
A smile played on Vesta’s lips. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘So somewhere more out of the way, all you’d need is a telephone and you’d be in business.’
‘Well, a telephone and a way to get about. That’s the point, isn’t it? Hove Cars.’
In the end, Vesta agreed to mind the office as long as she could look into the nature of the sedative used to drug the Quinns. She had a friend on the nursing staff at the Royal. Mirabelle thought it would be good for the girl to speak to someone medical. Perhaps it would help her find a way to tell Charlie.
‘There might be a clue in the poison, I suppose. I’ll telephone to Marlene,’ Vesta said, sounding resigned as she eyed the handset on her desk with a new understanding.
Mirabelle left her to it, and half an hour later, as she stepped off the bus on Dyke Road, she could hear children splashing and screeching, out of sight in one of the back gardens. Someone must have a swimming pool, she thought. How nice. It didn’t feel like a working day up here – the place was overwhelmingly domestic. As she turned on to Tongdean Avenue there was a burst of butter-yellow blossom on all sides. Mirabelle eyed the laburnum petals that spilled on to the grass and dripped over the hedges. They made quite a show. Although laburnum was poisonous, its deadly pods wouldn’t have the effect of knocking out Mrs Quinn, Mirabelle thought. Laburnum, in even a small quantity, would kill a person outright. She’d seen what the poison could do first hand only a couple of years ago and it always surprised her that the tree was so commonplace. She wouldn’t choose to plant it in a garden, but perhaps whoever developed Tongdean Avenue had a fondness for yellow.
Mirabelle unfolded the piece of paper Fred had given her. Looking up, she realised that she had stopped outside the right house, a brick-built, five-bedroom on a corner plot. In the front garden some sorry-looking ice-blue irises were poking through the damp earth. The lead-paned windows were shielded by net curtains and the front gate was closed. A privet hedge ran along the low boundary wall. Mirabelle noticed the door furniture was dull. The house looked expressionless, as if it wasn’t paying attention to the outside world.
She took a turn around the perimeter wall. At the rear, more net curtains obscured the windows and there was a long stretch of lawn, a willow tree and a couple of beds of rosebushes. Directly outside the back door a pile of garden furniture lay bundled in tarpaulin. The side gate led to a long garage. It did not have the air of a place where the doors might be routinely left unlocked or where visitors were welcome.
Mirabelle took up a position just past the corner where she calculated she would least likely be noticed from inside. She waited for about half an hour during which time a delivery van deposited two cardboard boxes of groceries at a house across the street. Surveillance always took time. Mirabelle had read the manuals. She’d even helped to compile one or two. Since she came to Brighton she’d had occasion to put her knowledge to good use. Now, she rested against the brick wall, biding her time. At length, a smart-looking car driven by a uniformed chauffeur pulled up – the most interesting thing to happen so far. The man switched off the engine and picked up a newspaper. Within less than a minute, the front door of the house clicked open and a pretty blonde girl, wearing a brown coat and matching hat, marched down the driveway, her heels crunching the stones. Her jewellery was a little showy for the afternoon but apart from that you’d never guess. She spotted Mirabelle and halted at the gate with one ey
e on the car. The chauffeur bundled his newspaper on to the seat and jumped out on to the pavement to hold open the door, but the girl put up a gloved hand and turned in Mirabelle’s direction, her heels clicking as she approached.
‘Look, whoever he is, he isn’t here.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘Your husband, I mean. You’re wasting your time. And even if he was here, it’s hardly our fault.’
Mirabelle faltered. ‘But I’m not married,’ she found herself saying. The girl raised her eyes as if this fact simply annoyed her more. ‘Save me!’ she exclaimed. Then she turned on her heel and hopped into the back seat of the car. The chauffeur raised his eyes apologetically. He started the engine and pulled away. Mirabelle checked her watch. It was after three – about the time these girls would start work, she supposed. It was odd to think that all over Brighton men were planning a stolen afternoon before they went home to their wives. She was glad she had left Vesta in the office.
Further down the street, a postman was making his rounds, slamming the gates behind him. Mirabelle glanced at the house. In the old days, the department had surveilled premises for weeks before taking action, but here, she’d freeze before nightfall, and, besides, there was a limit to the amount of time a woman could hang around on a suburban street without anyone asking why. As the postman neared, she accosted him.
‘Good afternoon. Anything for Mr Davidson?’
Russian Roulette Page 6
