Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  Mirabelle couldn’t smell food over the swirling haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol but, she thought, perhaps there was a private party through there. Still, the main action, it seemed, was here, and her attention was drawn back to the room as a cheer broke out. A woman at the table threw what must have been a winning pair of dice and flung her arms around the man next to her. Money changed hands and the countess appeared to take more of an interest. There was a flurry of cigarettes being lit and two men retreated to the window to have a private conversation, which appeared fraught. Mirabelle stood back just in time as a woman in a pale-blue satin cocktail gown burst through the bedroom door.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, casting her eyes towards the bathroom. ‘Is it clean?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Mirabelle replied. ‘I was only going to change the towels.’

  The woman pushed past brusquely and it struck Mirabelle that she wasn’t normally treated with such disdain when she wasn’t attired in a black dress and a white apron. Two more women came through the door, so tipsy they almost fell over the threshold. They made for the dressing table and began to fumble with their clutch purses without acknowledging Mirabelle’s presence.

  ‘Really, it’s too much!’ one declared, as she applied a thick layer of hot pink to her top lip and then blotted it on to her lower one.

  The second woman counted a small sheaf of five pound notes. ‘I’m so glad the countess came to Brighton. It’s just a bit of fun, Katie.’

  ‘Well, she must be making a fortune,’ Katie said, looking round frantically, as she stuffed the lipstick back into her purse. ‘You,’ she snapped at Mirabelle. ‘Give me one of those.’

  Mirabelle handed her a towel. The woman did not say thank you. Instead, she dabbed her face. ‘Do you think she’ll be much longer?’ the first woman sighed, casting her eyes to the bathroom door. It was a rhetorical question that neither Mirabelle nor the other lady answered. In any case, the door opened a few seconds later and the woman swept back into the fray. From the dressing table, the other lady practically shoved Mirabelle out of the way as she dived in to use the lavatory. Katie didn’t notice these bad manners and instead sniffed a bottle of perfume, which must have belonged to the countess. She sprayed some on to her wrist and then checked her hair. Reluctantly, she removed her earrings – a pair of rubies set in gold – then dusting herself down, she left trailing a cloud of violet and amber scent. As Mirabelle peered after her, she noticed a baize-topped card table had been set up in the main room. Next to it, some of the dice-rolling crowd were playing gin rummy. On the sofa, the woman who had just left the bedroom cosied up to the countess, who suddenly became more animated. The earrings changed hands and the woman returned to the tables. Well, well, Mirabelle thought. The countess has set up a casino right here at the Grand.

  Gambling was illegal. Brighton was famous for its horse racing and the dog track, which attracted thousands of visitors. But they operated within the law. Mirabelle had attended both several times. It was fun to lay a bet now and then. But this was different. And it didn’t make sense – not in terms of her investigation. Billy Randall wouldn’t fit in here. These people were far too smart. They wore evening dress and smoked Sobranie cigarettes. And, she noticed, as the bets were laid, the stakes were high. You could buy and sell a lot of prams for the wagers laid on a single hand at these tables. Billy hadn’t netted his winnings laying bets here.

  The woman emerged from the bathroom and disappeared into the fray. Mirabelle busied herself replacing the towels. Then she slipped unnoticed back through the main room and into the hall where she bundled the dirty laundry into the cupboard. At last, she secreted herself in a doorway further along and waited. It was after eleven o’clock. It struck her as strange that the waiters must know what was going on. All the staff must know and yet no one from the hotel appeared to be concerned that the countess was running an illegal casino on the top floor. But then, the things that went on in hotels were often shady – look at the party at which she’d found herself only a few days before. There was an argument that was more morally reprehensible than a few friends gaming. Feeling slightly stiff after a day of walking, Mirabelle leaned against the door, but gradually she slipped down the frame, succumbing to tiredness. No one went in or came out for what felt like a long time. Surveillance was always tiresome, she thought, as her eyes became heavy. She shifted on the carpet, turning like a child in its sleep as, slowly, she drifted off.

  When Mirabelle woke, she felt disconcerted. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. As she stirred, she realised she couldn’t feel her left arm and her hips were stuck in an uncomfortable position. She rubbed her shoulder and raised her eyes to the man who was bending over her. He sported a waxed moustache and he smelled of stewed tea. As his voice came into focus, she remembered where she was and what she had been up to.

  ‘A chambermaid asleep? At the Grand? I’ve never seen the like. Did Moxon take you on, woman?’

  Mirabelle scrambled to her feet. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

  Behind the man, two waiters loitered, peering at Mirabelle as if she was some kind of curiosity. One of them hazarded a cheeky wink.

  ‘I won’t have it,’ the man continued. ‘In the old days you’d be dismissed on the spot, young lady. Just because staff are hard to come by doesn’t mean that I won’t fire you. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mirabelle repeated. There didn’t appear to be anything else to say.

  This did not appease the fellow. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re doing up here. Service to the rooms started half an hour ago but there’s nothing on this floor at this time of day. Guests in suites invariably don’t rise until later – generally they don’t dress till lunchtime. You should be working on the lower floors, especially if you’re new.’

  There was no natural light in the hall, the windows being dedicated to the rooms. Mirabelle cast her eyes to the carpet, glancing at her watch as she did so. It was shortly after eight o’clock. She ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘I’ll go down straight away,’ she said.

  ‘Sir,’ the man hissed emphatically.

  ‘Yes. Sir. Sorry. Sir.’

  ‘Second floor. Go and help Florence.’

  She stumbled towards the lift, only remembering at the last moment to continue to the service stairs. Behind the swing door, she peeked back as the man disappeared inside the countess’s suite with the waiters. One of them wedged the door open and the sound of glasses clinking cut into the still air. They were clearing the room so it would be ready for use when the countess woke. The Grand looked after its guests – illicit and otherwise. Good hotels, unlike good guest houses, didn’t pass judgement. Mirabelle shifted, realising she must have slept through the countess’s guests as they left in the middle of the night. God knows what time that had happened.

  Turning, she began down the stairs, snatches of the night before appearing in her mind’s eye. The smell of the countess’s perfume. The little stacks of money changing hands. That woman’s ruby earrings. Running through it, she continued to the basement, looking left and right, exiting in the direction of the kitchens. There were more people around this morning – sous chefs and laundry girls. Making sure the coast was clear, she made her exit step by step. She briefly considered checking to see if Charlie was about, but decided there was no point in disturbing him. It was more important to figure out how Billy Randall was connected to this. Was he an enforcer? Did he do her job, or at least, McGuigan & McGuigan’s – a kind of upmarket debt collector? She pictured him trying to threaten her in his back garden and realised he was too slight. When tempers were up, life’s enforcers didn’t just push you into the bushes. So what was Billy Randall up to? By the time she came to her senses, she was outside, and the door had closed behind her. A seagull perched beside a rubbish bin and looked up slowly, its elegant neck pulsing as it choked down something it had eaten off the concrete. It was only then she realised that she was wearing a uniform and her clothes were still ins
ide, hanging in the staff changing room.

  Chapter 23

  The savage is never quite eradicated

  McGregor couldn’t help resenting Robinson, who was drinking tea and joking with one of the sergeants on the other side of the main office. At his desk, behind the glass, he tried to concentrate on George Forgie’s service record. The file was impressive. Quite besides the amount of missions he’d flown, in 1943 the Flight Lieutenant had been shot down in France and made it home in an impressive nine weeks. Between the lines, McGregor spotted references to heavy drinking and two occasions when Forgie had been absent without official leave. Once he had been found with a married woman in a local hotel and the second time he turned up at the Grand National where it transpired he had pawned a recently acquired medal in order to lay a bet, which he subsequently won. Like many pilots, Forgie had sundry car accidents, one of which, a doctor’s report revealed, he should not have survived. He’d been afforded a good deal of leeway – his skills were too valuable to the war effort to take a harsh line.

  McGregor sat back. Robinson was reading the newspaper now. The superintendent clenched his teeth. He was about to go out and give the inspector something to do (though not what he should have been doing – clearing Phil Quinn’s name) when the figure of the chief constable appeared at his door. The chief hadn’t been down here in a long time. Not that the superintendent could remember anyway.

  ‘Alan.’ He shook McGregor’s hand and took a seat. ‘Flight Lieutenant Forgie? How are you getting on?’

  ‘There are unanswered questions, sir.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Why the body was moved and where he killed himself.’

  ‘Do you know why he did it?’

  McGregor’s hand sought out the file. ‘He was a daredevil, sir. High spirits and low spirits, I expect. He’s outdone the cat’s nine lives – dodged the bullet over several years. It was a matter of time, I expect, before he died one way or another.’

  ‘And it’s suicide?’

  ‘Seems that way. A bullet in the gullet and powder on his fingers.’

  ‘I see. Do you think the hotel where he was staying panicked?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’d been missing for thirty-six hours when he killed himself. Forgie was a gambler, sir. If he was in Brighton it’s probable he was playing cards for high stakes somewhere. That’s my real interest, I suppose.’

  The chief rubbed his palms together. He licked his lips. ‘My feeling is that it doesn’t matter, if you get my drift.’

  McGregor paused. ‘It doesn’t matter, sir?’

  The chief’s eyes bulged very slightly. ‘No. The poor chap killed himself and it’s a tragedy – war hero and all that. But it doesn’t matter where he did it or what he was up to. In fact, I’m not sure it matters why his body was moved. Not really.’

  McGregor nodded slowly. The chief had received a phone call, that much was clear. ‘But someone moved the body – I mean, they didn’t report it,’ he pointed out. ‘And if Forgie was gaming—’

  ‘A tragedy, as I said,’ the chief cut in. ‘But you’re going to close the case, McGregor. Mr Forgie’s profile requires discretion. He knew what he was doing. He made his choice. We must leave him in peace. Investigating what happened isn’t going to do anyone any good.’ The chief’s forehead was clammy now.

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ McGregor said. ‘I’ll send the file back to Whitehall.’

  ‘Capital.’ The old man got up to leave.

  McGregor watched as the chief stopped to shake Robinson’s hand on his way out of the office. The snake. Keeping his eyes on their exchange, McGregor picked up the phone and dialled the typing pool. ‘Betty,’ he said, ‘I’m sending a file back to London, but I’d like you to copy it first.’

  Chapter 24

  The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory

  Walking towards the office, Mirabelle practically creaked. Her limbs were stiff and, catching sight of herself in a run of polished glass as she passed the first of the shops, she realised how ill-fitting the maid’s outfit was and that the dark bags under her eyes were even more pronounced than they had been the night before. She felt like a marionette, as she made her way along the front, wondering if she ought to turn back and reclaim her clothes. But the thought of the manager at the penthouse put her off and, besides, it was busy today on the service floor. It seemed unlikely she would get away without being questioned about what she was doing, especially as it would look as if she was arriving part-way through a shift. No, she decided, it was too much of a risk. People were so rude to maids, almost as if they weren’t really people. She found herself thinking of the maid at Tongdean Avenue. She hoped she hadn’t been as unpleasant to the old dear as the women had been to her the night before. Her shoulder ached. She must have leaned against the door frame for a good six hours as she slept and she was still exhausted.

  She passed a bakery and considered buying breakfast, but realised she had no money – not a penny. Her clutch purse was hidden under her skirt at the hotel. Suddenly, she felt terribly alone. For years after Jack died the feeling hadn’t bothered her. If anything it had been a comfort, but now, in only a couple of days, the people she’d come to trust seemed suddenly absent. Would Vesta quit the office and give herself over to motherhood? One way or another, this baby was going to change things. You couldn’t bring a pregnant woman or even a young mother on investigations. And as for McGregor. She felt an ache in her stomach, like hunger. She had no idea what might quell it.

  Rolling her shoulder now to ease the pain, she turned up East Street and it took her a moment to recognise the superintendent’s figure approaching the office from the opposite direction. He raised a hand breezily as he came down the hill. When he leaned in to kiss her cheek, he smelled clean and his skin felt smooth. He’d slept in a bed the night before. But which bed? Normally, she’d be delighted to run into him, but now Mirabelle couldn’t stop thinking about his visits to Tongdean Avenue. She pictured him in the chair in front of Ernie Davidson’s desk. Who was Irene? Had the girl been upstairs the day Mirabelle visited? She stiffened as McGregor touched her arm. He was wearing the blue scarf Jinty had described. It was tucked into the collar of his jacket.

  ‘I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. How did you get on finding out about Helen Quinn?’ he said cheerily. ‘And why are you dressed like that?’

  Mirabelle shrugged. She fumbled in her pocket and took out her SOE lock picks. The key to the office was in her handbag back at the Grand – along with everything else. McGregor followed her into the hallway. She wanted to shout at him, but instead she remained silent. The sound of them climbing the stairs echoed. At the top, Mirabelle made short work of the office door and took a mental note to get Vesta to have a lock fitted that would be trickier to crack.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ McGregor removed his hat and pulled out a chair. ‘You’re right of course, if nobody knows about Helen Quinn’s background maybe she kept it secret for a reason.’

  Mirabelle shook her head. ‘I looked into it. She was Helen Lindley. Her maiden name, I mean. She lived just off Cremorne Gardens, in Chelsea. If she was hiding anything it was probably out of shame – it’s a very poor area. A slum really.’ Mirabelle pursed her lips. She found she could trust herself to express matters of fact, but she didn’t want to hazard an opinion or her anger might tumble out. She hadn’t realised how cross she was. How hurt.

  Oblivious, McGregor nodded, taking in the information. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty rough in that part of town. Maybe she left someone behind, or thought she had.’

  ‘That occurred to me too, but she seems to have kept to herself while she lived there, which was wise, I should say. She had no family. She worked in a dress shop.’

  ‘Well, that’s progress, isn’t it? At least we know where she came from.’ His tone grated. She decided not to mention Billy Randall’s trip to London or their conversation in the back garden at Mill Lane. ‘So, are we back at Hove
Cars? Anything come up there?’

  ‘Only what I mentioned before.’ Mirabelle found her hand was quivering. She stuck it behind her back. ‘Hove Cars ferries prostitutes around the city. You said I shouldn’t look into it, but . . .’

  ‘I’ll put out some feelers. I’ve been caught up on another case. A suicide whose body was moved and I don’t know why.’ McGregor’s tone was matter of fact. ‘Anyway, leave this to me

  – I’ll follow it up. I don’t want you getting caught up in that kind of place, Belle. It’s nasty.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Her stomach turned.

  ‘It’s not for a lady. My lady.’ His grin was charming. But, she knew he’d been there. She knew he’d stayed. She felt anger rise, hot in her belly. How dare he?

  ‘It’ll be warm today. You won’t need that scarf,’ she said.

  McGregor pulled it off and stuck it in his pocket. ‘I suppose it’s almost summer, isn’t it? I better get back to work.’

  She turned to fill the kettle so that he wouldn’t kiss her cheek again. She wanted to put as much distance and as many obstacles between them as she could – a sink, a kettle, a million miles. What had she been thinking? It seemed crazy. McGregor didn’t notice the change – he hadn’t noticed anything.