‘Sorry I’m late. I wanted to catch up,’ Mirabelle said, raising a finger to call the waiter and indicate she’d have another round of whatever the girls were drinking.
‘This is Lisa. She’s new.’ Jinty introduced her friend, whose high cheekbones looked as if they could slice paper. Between the cheekbones and the jaunty ponytail, Mirabelle found herself imagining the execution of some kind of circus trick. ‘Belle is considering joining us,’ Jinty said. ‘You are still considering it, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know if it’s for me,’ Mirabelle admitted, sliding into the seat. ‘What made you think of it, Lisa? As a career?’
Lisa shrugged. When she spoke her accent was, in contrast to her looks, rather homely. She was from Yorkshire, Mirabelle guessed. ‘How else is a girl to make a living?’ she said, sounding out of place in the lush surroundings. The truth was, girls like Lisa were generally serving the drinks, but then, that rather made her point.
‘Did you work like this before? Up north, I mean?’
‘I like to move round,’ she said enigmatically.
‘Regulars.’ Jinty settled into her seat. ‘They can be a pain. After a while it’s easier to ship out.’
Lisa nodded. ‘They get obsessed, some of them.’
‘It can happen to anybody,’ Jinty cut in.
‘Who’s your best regular?’ Mirabelle asked, going fishing. ‘I mean, one you like most?’
‘That would be telling. You make me think you fancy the thrill, Belle. You make me think that you are still considering.’
The waiter arrived with the drinks on a chrome tray. The glasses were frosted, their contents cloudy with lemon juice. The women fell silent. Jinty pushed an empty glass away and the waiter lingered, wiping the table unnecessarily. The girl sighed and stared pointedly at him till he walked away.
‘Considering? Yes, that’s why I asked.’ Mirabelle smiled, resuming the conversation seamlessly. She sipped her drink. It was perfect. ‘I wonder about the men,’ she said. ‘That’s why I asked. I mean, do you prefer the private clients – the more upmarket ones? Or do you like the regular, local boys? It must be very different in Brighton during the summer. There are so many tourists once the season starts. You must see all sorts.’
‘Well, you can’t be choosy,’ Jinty said. ‘But I feel safe with doctors. They’re usually adventurous. They have nice hands. Come to that, I like policemen because they know the score.’
‘Policemen?’ Mirabelle hadn’t thought of it. ‘You mean bobbies? Brighton bobbies?’ The idea of Bill Turpin, as he had been, or Sergeant Belton, for that matter, visiting Ernie Davidson’s house in Tongdean – the notion shocked her. It felt too close to home.
‘Oh, they can’t afford . . . the guys on the beat must make other arrangements. There are plenty of girls who work out of flats off Old Steine.’ Jinty wrinkled her nose. ‘But some of the detectives. Higher up. Police pay isn’t bad, you know. Tommy Robinson drops into Tongdean. He’s a dish and, believe you me, they aren’t all oil paintings. He took me to London once, out on the town.’
‘Inspector Robinson?’
‘Do you know him? He’s a nice bloke. You’d think more of them would get married, but it’s the job, isn’t it? A call girl and a copper – it’s a good combination. We’ve seen it all, between us.’
This was unexpected. Things seemed to be running away with Mirabelle today. The idea of Phil Quinn being one of Jinty’s customers was just part of the case, but if Robinson was a customer, well, she couldn’t help wondering who else might visit Tongdean Avenue. Her fingertips tingled. She ran one down the cool cocktail glass, following its curve as her heart pounded. She couldn’t stop herself asking, though she tried to sound nonchalant. ‘I met someone who worked with Inspector Robinson. A Scottish guy. Greying hair and grey eyes. On the tall side.’
‘Always wears a blue woollen scarf? Light blue. Unusual.’
Mirabelle’s heart jumped. She’d given McGregor that scarf a couple of years ago at Christmas. She’d picked it out at Hanningtons.
‘His name’s McGregor,’ Jinty hooted.
Mirabelle set her jaw, determined not to show the horror that was creeping over her. ‘Yes. I think that’s him.’ She tried to sound unsure, light, as if it didn’t matter.
‘He’s been to the house a few times. He’s a bit older but dishy. He pops in for a whisky and a chat with Davidson about whatever he’s investigating. I don’t know what they talk about – policemen can use us, can’t they? Superintendent McGregor, he is, I think.’
‘And has he stayed? I mean . . . ’
‘He’s a straight kind of guy. Though sometimes those are the ones, aren’t they? With the irregular requests.’
Lisa nodded, as if Jinty had said something profound. Mirabelle felt her chest constrict. Suddenly, she found it difficult to breath.
‘So he’s a customer?’ It occurred to her she must be blushing and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Not one of mine. I don’t know what the superintendent gets up to. Ernie can be very discreet. McGregor’s probably got some boring Scottish wife at home. Calvinists, aren’t they, the Jocks? I’d say he might be married. He has that look. He only ever sees Irene, I think.’
Lisa rolled her eyes.
‘Irene?’ Mirabelle enquired, deciding the bar was too warm.
‘She’s the baby of the house. Little Rene,’ Jinty continued. ‘Eighteen years old and never been kissed. Blonde like a little angel. If I were betting, I’d have reckoned you were more McGregor’s type, Belle.’ She smiled. ‘You’d bring him out of himself. But maybe that’s not what he wants.’
Mirabelle shrugged off the comment. Her jaw was tight. She told herself it was important to keep going, though there was a quivering fury alight in her belly. It was an effort to drag her attention back to the case. ‘McGregor is a friend of Phil Quinn’s,’ she said. ‘You know, the man accused of murdering his wife.’
‘Oh not that again.’ Jinty pulled a cigarette out of the pack in front of her. ‘Anyone would think you were Phil Quinn’s mother. Oh God, you aren’t, are you? His mother, I mean?’
Mirabelle shook her head. It interested her that that kind of connection had occurred to Jinty, while the real connection, the one that mattered, had clearly passed her by. ‘I’m not quite that old,’ she said lightly. ‘I don’t have any children. I just think it’s a mystery.’
‘Oh yes. The man who killed his wife.’ Lisa leaned in, taking an interest.
Mirabelle nodded. ‘He was one of Jinty’s customers. Before he got married. Did you know him?’
‘Not him. Just her.’
Mirabelle stopped. There it was. At last. A connection to Helen Quinn. And just in time to take her attention away from McGregor’s indiscretion. ‘You knew her?’ she asked.
‘Only in passing. I like to swim. She was a swimmer too.’
‘In Brighton?’
‘Hold your horses. I only got here on Friday. In London. I recognised her in the newspaper – the picture when she died. That’s where she went, I thought. To Brighton. To marry a man who killed her.’ Lisa’s tone implied that any man you married might kill you, that it was only to be expected.
‘So you knew Helen Quinn from London?’ Mirabelle pushed.
‘Yeah. From the pool in Chelsea.’
Mirabelle sipped her cocktail – she needed refreshment. The conversation had been more of a roller coaster than she had anticipated. It looked as if Lisa had operated in a mixed area of town on the fringes of Belgravia. ‘Did she live round there, do you know?’ Mirabelle enquired.
‘I don’t think so. She worked in one of the shops along the King’s Road. A clothes shop, I think. She always had a bag from there – what was it called? A bloke’s name? Anyway, she’d go for a swim after work and I like to swim before.’ Lisa had a gleam in her eye. ‘I like to be clean.’ She spelled it out. ‘At the start, anyway.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Only once
or twice. “Nice day”, that kind of thing. Very English. “Sorry” in the showers. Then one day she didn’t turn up. I didn’t think anything of it. I suppose she met the fellow – the one who killed her. Love’s young dream.’
‘Belle doesn’t think he did it.’ Jinty’s tone was dismissive, as if Mirabelle was a child, ignorant in the ways of the world.
‘It doesn’t make any sense, that’s why,’ Mirabelle objected. ‘I mean, if Phil Quinn meant to get away with his wife’s murder, the way he killed her, well, it was a terrible plan. And besides, he seems to have loved her.’
‘Oh those are the ones.’ Lisa wagged a finger. ‘Those are the worst ones.’
‘So you worked in Chelsea?’
‘Mostly. Kensington too. I had enough, though. Solicitors. Accountants. Weirdos. Brighton is a fresh start. I’m a history buff. I went to see the Pavilion and the Pier yesterday. Next week I’m going to Mrs Fitzherbert’s house.’
‘It’s a hostel now,’ Jinty laughed. ‘The most famous whore in Brighton and her house is a hostel. YMCA.’
‘Fresh start,’ Mirabelle repeated. The Randalls had hoped for that in Brighton too.
‘Yes. Fresh,’ Lisa confirmed.
‘And you don’t think London will follow you? It’s not so far away.’
Lisa shrugged. ‘I’ll let Ernie deal with that,’ she said without spelling out whatever it was. ‘Meantime, who knows? Maybe I’ll swim in the sea here, come the summer.’
‘I went to a new club the other evening.’ Mirabelle decided to share.
‘Did a fellow take you?’ Jinty leaned in, curious about what Mirabelle got up to between their meetings.
Mirabelle didn’t answer. The thought of McGregor laying his arm on her shoulder was uncomfortable now. She tried not to think about what they had done back at his place afterwards. ‘It’s new, just off Queen’s Road. Quite cosmopolitan. If you’re ever missing Mayfair, Lisa . . .’
Lisa grinned. ‘We’ll see how much I miss it. Not so far.’
Jinty regarded Mirabelle with fresh eyes. ‘I’ve never heard of anywhere like that off Queen’s Road,’ she said, surprised that such a thing could happen – a woman in her forties who knew about a smart new bar that had eluded her.
‘You should try it,’ Mirabelle enthused. ‘I think they have a singer some evenings. We called it the Boite – as in the French – but it doesn’t have a name.’
‘A bar without a name,’ Jinty said. ‘I like that. It’s Soho, but smarter.’
Later, the girls called a car to take them home. They hovered in the hallway, waiting. Mirabelle felt the front desk seemed rather deserted without the Countess Marianna Iritsin and her luggage. For a slim lady she had filled a very large space. The desk clerk was filling in a ledger in what now seemed like a tremendously peaceful moment, the countess presumably dispatched to the best suite on his books.
‘Do you want a lift? The driver won’t mind a detour,’ Jinty offered, but Mirabelle elected to walk. She didn’t want the girls knowing where she lived and, quite apart from that, she needed to clear her head.
‘I’m fine,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll make my own way.’
‘Car, ladies?’ The doorman came to fetch them.
‘Thanks, Bob,’ Jinty said, taking Lisa by the arm.
Mirabelle followed the girls outside and watched as the car whisked them away. She felt a kind of fondness for Jinty and her worldly wise. Some women, she knew, would blame these women for their lovers’ indiscretions, but she knew better. It was down to the men. She remembered the offers she’d received in the suite down the coast. The possibilities had confirmed that it was McGregor she really wanted. Had he been sneaking off to Tongdean all this time? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Madam?’ Bob enquired.
‘I’m fine,’ Mirabelle assured him.
On the front, instead of turning towards the Lawns she took the long way round. The bars were closing and, as she passed the Boite, she realised that the door to the stair was closed. Perhaps things were even slower on Sunday nights than they had been on Saturday. Everything seemed closed or in the process of closing. People needed a night off, she told herself. Taking the hill briskly, she thought Mrs Ambrose had got Helen Quinn spot on – she was a shop girl from London just as the wise old bird had said. Then she found herself wondering about poor Vi Randall, her husband out for the second night in a row. She hoped this time the poor woman wouldn’t be too frantic – after all, by now, she must have returned from her mother’s house and, after a sleepless night and in her condition, she would be exhausted. Then, Mirabelle realised, quite suddenly, that she was tired herself. She wondered if she’d manage to get any sleep, with all this battering back and forth inside her brain. Vi and Helen and their men. McGregor in conversation with Ernie Davidson, picking up some little blonde. Someone younger. Someone more compliant. Jinty didn’t know, she told herself. She couldn’t be sure. She mustn’t jump to conclusions. But still, the vision of McGregor removing his tie while the youngest girl in the brothel sat on the edge of her bed, wouldn’t go away. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath of sea air and speeded up. At this pace, home was only fifteen minutes off. And tomorrow she knew what she had to do.
Chapter 18
No one ever became wicked suddenly
Davidson welcomed McGregor enthusiastically as the old maid showed him into the study. It was late, but that wasn’t unusual – the superintendent popped in at all hours. Tonight, the house at Tongdean was quiet. The girls tended to go out on Sunday evenings. Davidson closed the ledger in which he had been writing and turned to the drinks cabinet.
‘I have a couple of nice malts,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘I expect you could do with one.’
McGregor took a seat. ‘Thanks. It’s been a long day.’
Davidson poured two generous measures and topped them with a splash of soda.
‘It’s an investigation.’ McGregor took his first sip and let a sigh emanate from his lips.
‘I don’t expect to see you any other time – though you’re welcome, of course. Unless you’ve come to book me, that is?’ Davidson’s tone was jocular, but he knew that if he wanted to the superintendent could.
‘You know our policy, Ernie,’ McGregor reassured him. ‘The girls are safer here than they would be on the street. And besides, you’re cooperative.’
‘How can I cooperate this evening?’
McGregor pulled out the gambling chips he’d found in Flight Lieutenant Forgie’s jacket. ‘I wondered if there was a new game in town? High stakes?’
Ernie paused.
‘You don’t run to fifty guinea chips here, do you?’
‘A little poker now and then . . .’
‘Which is illegal if you’re playing house.’
‘Just a few friends,’ Davidson said vaguely.
McGregor allowed him. There was no point pursuing that. There were larger fish to fry. ‘I wondered if one of your friends was an RAF officer. Highly decorated. Quite the war hero. He wintered in Monaco this year. Likes to gamble. Early forties. Small moustache. Name of George Forgie.’
‘Georgie Porgie?’
‘He’s dead,’ McGregor said flatly. ‘It’s not a casual enquiry.’
Ernie Davidson raised his hands in surrender. ‘He’s not one of mine. And, for the record, fifty guinea stakes is too rich for my blood and, I imagine, for the blood of my friends. My table stops well short of that.’
McGregor sipped again. Davidson denying knowledge didn’t mean anything. Criminals always said they didn’t know. They had never done it, whatever it was.
‘Would you like me to fetch Irene?’ Davidson asked.
McGregor smiled. If Davidson was trying to distract him from the inquiry, it meant he was on to something. ‘Not tonight. It’s not a murder inquiry, Ernie. The poor bloke topped himself. But I do need what you know about him.’
Davidson was visibly relieved. He relented. ‘He’s a gambler,’ he said.
‘Evidently.’
‘He’s a well-known gambler. A good one. I’ve heard of him is all. High stakes like you said, but with a little—’ here he gesticulated ‘—madness, I suppose. I heard he flew over a hundred missions during the war. No one expected him to survive. It left him with . . . ideas about risk. I heard he’d gamble on anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Cards. Backgammon. Horses. But aside from that. Crazy bets. Drunken bets. I don’t know exactly. Who can hold their hand over a flame longest? You know how guys get sometimes.’ His laugh did not sound convincing.
‘Are you sure Forgie didn’t play cards here?’
Ernie shook his head. ‘We don’t get famous gamblers. We don’t get famous anybody. It’s all solicitors. Accountants. Local dignitaries. Business people. But not the big time. This house is safe, Superintendent. Steady. That’s what you like about it, isn’t it? If you want to find the table George Forgie was sitting at, you need to go upmarket.’ He pointed upwards, as if indicating some kind of deity. ‘I wish I had that business, but I don’t.’
‘And in Brighton?’
‘There’s nothing like that. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’
‘If you turn up anything . . .’ McGregor finished his drink. His eyes were dry and tired. ‘Someone moved his body,’ he said. ‘Wherever he died, someone didn’t want him found there.’
Davidson nodded as if he understood. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. Though he didn’t add that the kind of people who ran the sort of game George Forgie took part in were not the kind of people you shopped to the police.
Russian Roulette Page 16
