‘Not yet. They will. He’s the one you’re really afraid of, isn’t he?’
Billy didn’t answer and Mirabelle didn’t wait. There was no point in having a discussion. She’d told him, that was enough. She stepped away and made her way down the side of the drive.
The street was lined with cars. A huddle of chauffeurs smoked cigarettes, leaning against a smart-looking Bentley. Mirabelle turned so they couldn’t see her face. The panic hadn’t spread this far yet, all sight of the fire obscured by the main house. However, when it did, she didn’t want anyone to be able to furnish a description. She was glad now about the unmemorable navy suit. Behind her, the front door opened and two women, speckled in dress jewellery, rushed out, clutching each other. One hailed a driver and he snapped to attention, almost sprinting towards his car.
As she made her way along the leafy street, Mirabelle listened as the sounds of panic emanating from Hastings Hall receded until there was only the click of her heels on the paving stones in the otherwise silent darkness. It was too late to catch a bus and out here there were no taxis. Goodness knows where the nearest telephone box was. She had been thrown on her own resources and, apart from anything else, she felt angry with McGregor for dismissing her so lightly and leaving her so he could go off with his friends. She’d given him the information he needed and, still, he’d cut her out. But the night wasn’t over yet and she wasn’t prepared to let them just get on with it. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 30
Never befriend a man who is not better than yourself
People were creatures of habit and men in particular, or, Mirabelle considered, they were creatures of motive at least. Once you understood what was important to them, you knew what they would do. McGregor and his friends had a car so she was at least half an hour behind them. There was no point in going to the infirmary, that much was certain. What she needed was to anticipate their move after that. One step ahead. McGregor couldn’t return to the Arundel with Marcus Fox in tow, and he couldn’t take the boy in without a confession. Both Gleeson and Fourcade were married men. The safest place to take any kind of action at this time of night was Hove Cars.
The superintendent’s face betrayed his distress that she was there, standing on the cobbles when the car drew up. There were four of them in the vehicle, just as she had expected. Behind her, the office was still open. The disabled dispatcher was alone tonight. As the engine cut out, he came to the door.
‘Go home, son.’ Fourcade nodded as he got out of the driver’s seat.
‘What about the calls?’
‘Go home.’ Fourcade glared. ‘You ain’t seen nothing. And I don’t know what you think you’re doing here.’ He sniffed in Mirabelle’s direction.
The dispatcher closed the office and limped down the lane, peering over his shoulder as he turned the corner. They all waited.
As he disappeared, Mirabelle spoke. ‘Good evening, Mr Fourcade,’ she said. She kept her voice calm. There was something that happened once a man had done violence and Marcus Fox wouldn’t have come easily. McGregor sensed it too. He interposed himself between the two of them.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Mirabelle,’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t have found him without me. You think if I don’t see, I won’t know. Is that it?’
‘So you reckon we should just let this toerag get away with what he did to Helen? Phil’s dead and the police can’t do a thing.’ Fourcade pushed round McGregor. ‘What kind of justice is that? We’ve lost a friend. A good man.’
Mirabelle peered into the back seat of the car. Gleeson sat next to Marcus, who was in handcuffs. Mirabelle wondered if the boy had been crying. It was difficult to tell in the darkness.
‘Did Fred die?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ McGregor said.
Fourcade snorted. ‘Who cares?’ he spat. ‘Some old man. Who bloody cares? We’re going to see to that boy and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
‘We need a confession, Mirabelle,’ McGregor cut in. ‘It’s the only way.’
Mirabelle nodded. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But I’m part of this. I’m going to watch.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t stop you. Three big men. The police aren’t going to do anything – you’re right. But I can be a witness.’
‘Don’t you get it?’ McGregor was losing his temper.
Mirabelle stayed calm. ‘I don’t mean to be a witness in court. And I’m not saying the boy doesn’t deserve it. But I’m going to be here. That’s what I mean.’
Fourcade laughed. ‘We’re the good guys, Miss Bevan.’
Mirabelle cast a glance at McGregor. ‘I wish things were that simple,’ she said.
Fourcade opened the car door and took the keys from his pocket. He unlocked the cuffs and hauled Marcus out of the back seat by the scruff of his neck. The boy’s eyes burned. It was patent even in the darkness that he wasn’t contrite or even grieving. The sheen that came off him was one of pure fury. Gleeson slid across the back seat on to the cobbles. He nodded apologetically at Mirabelle. ‘Miss Bevan,’ he said.
‘Well, this is a fix,’ Fourcade snapped at McGregor. ‘Can’t you do something with her?’
McGregor shrugged. ‘You better take him inside,’ he said. ‘The local bobby will be doing his rounds. We don’t want things to get more complicated.’
Gleeson nudged Marcus towards the closed garage doors. Fox leered at Mirabelle as he passed. ‘Dad wanted to fuck you. He’d wanted to fuck you for years,’ he sneered.
Mirabelle’s eyes were still. ‘He was proud of you. God knows why.’
‘I’d do it again. We always get what we want,’ he spat.
Fourcade hit the boy squarely on the jaw and Marcus reeled, falling to one side. He laughed as Gleeson hauled him to his feet and into the garage. Some people just didn’t crack, Mirabelle thought. These men didn’t seem to know that. But the kind of bloke who laughed when you hit him so hard he fell over was probably going to be a tough nut. Marcus Fox wasn’t afraid of anything. Not pain and not death either. Fourcade pulled the door almost shut so that there was a gap – a strip of light reflected on the cobbles.
McGregor turned towards her. ‘The world isn’t ideal. We can’t make everything right. We just have to do our best.’
‘This is your best?’
From inside the garage, there was a stifled shriek. Gleeson and Fourcade weren’t holding back. McGregor looked over his shoulder. ‘And this is for Helen,’ they heard one of them spit.
‘Doesn’t sound much like an interrogation,’ Mirabelle pointed out. ‘You better make sure there aren’t too many marks on him. And really, one of you ought to ask him a question, don’t you think?’
McGregor nodded. There was another shriek. ‘I don’t want you to see it,’ he said.
‘I know what goes on. I don’t think you should be doing this.’
‘Phil was my friend, Mirabelle.’
McGregor peered at the garage door. He wanted to get in there. Mirabelle stepped forward and together they opened it. They’d tied Fox up. Gleeson was standing in front of him with a knife in his hand.
‘No,’ McGregor shouted, as he realised the man’s intention, but he was too late. Gleeson stabbed like a piston three or four times. Once in the boy’s stomach and then into his heart. Fourcade stepped forward and twisted the boy’s neck.
A sharp crack sounded on the chill air.
‘This isn’t what we agreed.’ McGregor launched himself at Fourcade. The big man held him off, but McGregor laid a couple of punches.
‘You thought we’d let him walk out of here? After what he did?’ Fourcade was furious. ‘They don’t want charges to stick. No matter what. You know that, McGregor.’
‘Sorry,’ Gleeson said. ‘But there was no other way, Alan.’
‘I should arrest you for this,’ McGregor spat.
‘I’d happily go down. Happily.’ Fourcade’s eyes were burning.
Mirabelle just star
ed.
‘You think this is my fault.’ McGregor turned on her.
‘Don’t blame me. I said it was a bad idea.’
‘The thing is you didn’t see service, did you, McGregor?’ Fourcade was getting into his stride. He had a knack for a soft piece of flesh, Mirabelle realised. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to fight alongside a man. To have a comrade in arms. Phil’s life was ruined over nothing. He said you’d not seen service, you know. That it made you different from the rest of us.’
‘Well.’ Gleeson cleaned the knife on a white handkerchief he withdrew from the pocket of his dinner jacket. Ruthie had probably ironed it for him. ‘Are you going to take us in? Or are we going to bury the body?’
The men waited. McGregor’s eyes were frantic. ‘You’re going to bury him,’ Mirabelle’s voice said. ‘You have to. Otherwise, everyone has to go down. You too.’ she turned to McGregor.
The superintendent’s eyes were focused on something in the distance, as if he was running through everything that had happened, trying to understand where it went wrong.
‘We should all go down,’ he said. ‘But, even then, they probably wouldn’t let it come out.’
Fourcade began to loosen the knot on the rope that was holding Marcus Fox’s corpse in place. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘We’ve a couple of spades in the cupboard.’
Mirabelle looked away. It was the right thing to do, but that this had come out of a close bond – a friendship – felt twisted.
‘I can take you home,’ McGregor offered, but she shook her head.
Too many people had died today. Mirabelle wondered which, if any of them, might be missed. Who really cared about Fred or Ernie Davidson or Marcus? They were all bad men, in their way.
‘On the Downs?’ she checked.
‘Have you done this before?’ Fourcade lit a cigarette. ‘You want to watch that too, do you?’
She rounded on him. ‘It’s not a joke. It’s not some schoolboy prank. You’ve murdered someone. He had a father who loved him more than anything in the world.’
‘He had a knife. He had a vicious bloody knife,’ Fourcade spat back at her. ‘And he used it on a defenceless woman. And because he worked for someone with money, someone who had his back, he’d never have paid for it. And worse, he’d have done it again.’
Mirabelle exclaimed in frustration – a sound that came from deep inside. ‘You bury him with dignity,’ she said. ‘You make sure you do.’
It was four o’clock when she finally got home. She sat on the end of the bed and kicked off her heels. She’d never sleep, she realised. Not now. No matter how tired she was. MI6 had done worse. MI5 too. MI9 for that matter, but there was something about this case – the death of Helen Quinn – that Mirabelle realised would stay with her for a long time. She’d never held any operation against Jack, no matter what he’d had to do, but now she had two things she was holding against McGregor. It seemed impossible they could even be friends.
Chapter 31
Every earth is fit for burial
Ignoring the reflection that appeared in the mirror in the hallway, Mirabelle mounted the stairs at McGuigan & McGuigan Debt Recovery later that morning. First in the office, she sat in her chair and tried to figure out if matters looked any different from Brills Lane. When Vesta arrived, it felt like an intrusion.
‘Did McGregor get hold of you?’ the girl asked cheerily, as she filled the kettle. ‘They said he’d been at a funeral.’
‘It was fine,’ Mirabelle found herself saying. ‘Though Phil Quinn died.’
‘Oh no.’ Vesta peered across her desk, concern lighting her expression.
Mirabelle turned over the newspaper. The headline told the story of a man who had caught a large sea trout from Palace Pier. She pushed it away.
‘He died in custody. He killed himself.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Vesta said, as the office door opened. Mirabelle looked up to see Marlene standing, in tears in the frame.
‘What is it?’ Vesta went to comfort her friend, distracted immediately from the news.
‘He was a rat.’ Marlene sniffed. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘A rat?’
‘Marcus. I saw him yesterday with one of the Ward Twelve girls. He was—’ she struggled to find the word ‘—canoodling.’
‘Oh goodness. Marlene, I’m sorry.’
‘I thought he was the one.’ The girl slumped into a chair and pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve. ’I can’t believe it.’
Mirabelle looked away.
‘His father died last night and I thought he might want to talk about it, but he’s just disappeared. He’s ashamed of himself, I suppose.’
‘Well, you could go and find him.’
‘I don’t even know where he lives. And then I thought, I wonder how many other girls he’s got. Flashing around drinks at the Grand like that. I can’t believe I fell for it.’
Mirabelle got to her feet. She reached for her jacket. ‘I’m just going to pop up the road,’ she said.
Outside, she strode up to Bartholomew Square police station and stood regarding the smooth, classical columns. It seemed too clean. Too peaceful. From an office on the first floor, Robinson peered out of the window and then turned away. She walked on, up the hill. What was wrong with the world? At the top, she stared at the lane where Fred had worked and then she turned down, towards the sea, settling on one of the benches on the front. It was too early in the season for the click-click girls, but down on the pebbles a man was shooting Cine film of his daughter – a child of about three years, who was trying to catch the waves as they broke on the shore.
Mirabelle sat down and watched them. When McGregor appeared, she half stiffened and half relaxed. He tipped his hat and took the seat next to her. Mirabelle noticed he had a file rolled up in his pocket. She caught the words ‘Forgie’ on the side. But all that was useless now.
‘Robinson said he saw you in the street, heading in this direction,’ McGregor said. ‘At least he’s useful for something.’
‘I don’t think I’m ever going to forgive you, Alan.’
‘I hope you can.’ His voice was low, the tone contrite. He reached out and stroked her hair where it curled around her ear.
‘Would you do it differently?’ she asked.
McGregor shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Yes, of course. But . . . ’
Mirabelle felt her heart sink. She had lost something now. Yes, it had definitely gone.
‘Did you tell Vesta?’ he asked.
She shook her head. How could she ruin the faith the girl had in the world? She was pregnant after all. ‘Did you tell Irene?’ she snapped at him, struggling to keep calm.
‘Irene?’ McGregor sounded mystified.
‘At Tongdean Avenue? I expect the poor girl is in a fix this morning. Ernie Davidson is gone.’
‘Yes. I saw the report. Robinson’s dealing with it. He has a lead. For once I’m glad he’s the one who got the case. If there’s anything guaranteed it’s that Robinson will get nowhere with it.’
Mirabelle’s jaw tightened. ‘There really isn’t any justice, is there?’
‘Not always. No.’
‘And if they come for me?’
‘I don’t think they will, Mirabelle. They’re more likely to come for me. I told Roberts I was a policeman. He’ll remember that.’
‘And you’re not going to admit to the girl? Irene?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘At Tongdean Avenue, Alan. The youngest girl in Ernie Davidson’s house.’
He looked concerned for a moment. ‘You mean Rene?’ he said. ‘What about her?’
‘What about her?’ Mirabelle thought she might cry.
McGregor waited. The penny dropped slowly. ‘You think I slept with Rene.’ He said it as a matter of fact.
‘You visited her.’
‘Yes. Now and then.’
‘Are you saying she’s an informant?’
McGre
gor’s gaze was steady. ‘I have nothing to be ashamed of, Belle. Not in that regard. And if I don’t tell you everywhere I go and everyone I speak to, it’s only to protect you. But it seems you won’t accept any protection. None at all. I wish you hadn’t come last night. You being there didn’t change anything that happened, and look at us. I’ve made you an accessory to murder. It’s the last thing I wanted.’
Mirabelle shrugged. When it came down to it, she didn’t trust him any more. There was no point in arguing. He kissed her cheek gently, but she didn’t turn towards him.
‘Damn you,’ she said quietly. ‘How could I have stayed away?’ She was at least as involved as he was and now he was trying to make this terrible mess her fault because she had been present. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen someone die. He was treating her like some kind of rookie.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘If you need me, you know where I am. George Forgie’s second cousin is coming from Crewe to positively identify the body. And then I can sign it off.’
He got to his feet and she watched him walk away. As he rounded the corner, she caught a glimpse of his face. His cheeks were wet. Down on the pebbles, the little girl fell over and giggled. Mirabelle stood up. She didn’t want to feel powerless like this. She walked along the front and stopped at a telephone box. She hauled open the heavy door, pausing before she lifted the handset. She had to do something. When she’d finally made up her mind, she called the operator and asked for Mayfair 7662. The man who answered did so smartly.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You don’t know me. I don’t have a keyword any more.’
‘Madam. You must have the wrong number.’
‘I don’t think so. Just listen.’
The voice didn’t object.
‘Hastings Hall in Brighton is owned by a white Russian woman. She calls herself a countess. I don’t think she is. This woman has infiltrated the British establishment. She has an address book that takes her to the heart of Whitehall. She runs a gambling operation and I think you’ll find she has connections back in Russia. Do you understand me?’
‘Who is this?’
Russian Roulette Page 27
